Chapter 3
ARE OFFICE HOURS SUPPOSED TO BE FUN?
LIAM
The office smells of dust and oiled wood, the kind of funk that never quite leaves old college buildings.
I’m meant to be grading, but the student paper on my desk has become an accidental screen saver—a pale blue rectangle obscured by a stack of unread essays and my own filth.
Sunlight slices through the half-closed blinds, smearing the room with afternoon honey and making the air look viscous, like it could trap a man if he moved too slow.
My cock is half-hard again, fighting for territory beneath the waistband of my trousers.
I think about the last time I jerked off—four hours ago, in the staff restroom, biting the knuckle of my thumb until I tasted blood to keep from grunting her name out loud.
It doesn’t matter. The need always comes back.
I replay her in my mind: Simone’s knees sprawled wide in the back row, the flash of wet pink, her eyes locked on mine as she inserted that pencil into her pink pussy, never breaking eye contact.
The way she dragged the eraser over her taut asshole, slowly, teasingly, licking her glossy lips.
The big blue eyes, wide and innocent while staring at me, even as she did the most unspeakable things to herself.
It’s pornographic, it’s criminal, and I’d pay for the privilege of being haunted by it.
She knows what she did. I know she knows.
The doorknob clicks. I snap upright, smooth my tie, and force myself to stop touching my groin. I can feel the sweat at my collar. I imagine her on the other side of the door, and I’m right—because when it swings open, she steps in, a vision calculated to liquefy the bones of any man with a pulse.
She’s wearing a skirt that isn’t so much “short” as “absent,” a white top that cups her tits and barely contains them.
Her hair is in a high ponytail, the ends curling in a way that’s either accidental or so intentional it loops back to natural.
There’s a bubble of chewing gum in her mouth, which she pops before walking the three steps from the threshold to the chair.
Her perfume comes in first, a sweet and floral venom that blooms in the small space and settles in my mouth.
“Hi, Professor Thomas,” she says, and she puts the tiniest lilt on the “Professor,” so it sounds both mocking and deferential at once.
“Ms. McCall,” I say, and my voice cracks. I swallow. “Please, have a seat.”
She sits, crossing her legs so slowly it’s a PowerPoint animation. The skirt rides up her thigh, flashing a demure white band of panties before she tugs the hem back down. It’s a pantomime of modesty, performed for my benefit.
I stare at the pile of essays, but every neuron in my body is redlining. “How are you?” I ask, as if small talk could cauterize the situation.
She tilts her head. “Oh, I’m good. Super good.” Her voice is thick honey. “Just trying to keep my head above water, you know?”
“College can be a challenge,” I say, and immediately hate myself.
Her lips—painted a glossy pink—curve up. She blows another bubble, bites it off, and lets the gum linger between her teeth as she speaks. “It’s harder than I thought. Some classes are…” She glances at the wall of diplomas behind me. “A lot harder than others.”
She leans back, arms crossed under her breasts, which only pushes them higher. Oh shit what cup size is she? D? Double D? F? I try to keep my gaze on her eyes, but the angle makes it impossible; she wants me to look. She wants me to drown.
I clear my throat, then pull her file from the stack.
“You’re failing, Ms. McCall,” I say. I have to say it quick, before I lose the nerve.
“I looked into the system, and it’s not just my class.
All of them, but especially this one. You’ve missed three assignments, and you haven’t submitted the midterm essay. ”
She pouts, a masterwork of faux regret. “I know. I’m so, so sorry.” Her tone is so sweet it gives me whiplash. “I’ve just had a lot going on. It’s not an excuse, but…” She shrugs, and the top sags, showing more of her cleavage.
I wait. The silence between us vibrates, charged and sexual. I force myself to stay in my chair, to keep my hands flat on the desk, not to fidget or adjust or let on that my balls are screaming.
“You’re in danger of losing your scholarship,” I say. “I saw that in the system too.”
She nods, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. I know. The registrar’s already sent me a letter. And my roommate, she’s like, ‘You’re smart. You can do it.’ But I can’t.”
I stare at her. “Yes, you can, Ms. McCall. I’m sure of it.”
She blushes a little and then leans forward, blue eyes wide. “I really want to do better. But I don’t even know where to start, Professor Thomas. I open the book and the words just…” She gestures, as if shooing away a swarm of gnats. “I think maybe I’m just not cut out for Melville.”
“Everyone struggles at first,” I say. My mouth is dry. “But you haven’t even attempted the paper. I can’t help you if you don’t try.”
She looks at her lap, then at me, then back at her lap. “I know. I just…” Her voice goes quiet, real for the first time. “I feel stupid, sometimes. Like, if I try and still fail, then it means I really can’t do it.”
I see the crack in her armor. Or maybe she put it there for me to see.
“Simone,” I say, and it’s the first time I’ve used her first name. It lands heavy in the space between us. “You’re not stupid. You’re…sharp. When you want to be.”
She meets my eyes, and the charge between us is molten.
“I’ll try,” she says, softer now. “But I don’t even have a rough draft. I’m completely blank.” She bites her lower lip, then lets go. “Maybe you could help me? I mean—show me how to start?”
It’s the oldest trap in the book. The student who’s too lost to begin. The professor who wants to rescue her.
I know exactly how this story ends, and I want to tell her, but my tongue is glued to my teeth.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go through it together. Here. Now.”
She brightens. “Really? That would be amazing.”
I drag a legal pad across the desk and uncap a pen.
My hands tremble as I try to find a clean page.
Simone leans in, her knees brushing the underside of my desk, the scent of her hair closing the distance.
I gesture for her to join me at my side, and she stands, the skirt barely covering her ass as she circles the desk.
When she sits beside me, our arms are almost touching.
I can feel the heat radiating from her. Her thigh tenses as she crosses her legs the other way, and the movement hikes the skirt higher.
I risk a glance; her panties are visible for half a heartbeat—white, cotton.
I catch myself staring and snap my attention back to the blank yellow page.
“Let’s start with your thesis,” I say, the words thick in my throat. “What did you want to argue about Moby Dick?”
She chews her gum, thinking. “That obsession is, like, its own kind of madness. But also a kind of freedom.”
“That’s a good angle,” I say. “So write that at the top.”
She takes the pen, and the way she holds it—long fingers, neat nails, slow, deliberate script—makes me dizzy.
She writes: “Obsession is both madness and freedom.”
She looks at me, waiting for approval.
“Good,” I say. “Now, what makes you think that?”
She thinks for a second, then shrugs. “Ahab is crazy, but he’s also the only one who really lives. Everyone else is just, like, along for the ride.”
I nod. “So that’s your argument. Next, you need evidence.”
She beams, like a puppy getting a treat. “You’re really good at this, Professor.”
“I’m just doing my job,” I say, and the words come out too quick, too hungry.
She lets the compliment hang. “Can you show me more? Like, what comes next?”
She uncrosses and recrosses her legs. The flash of white comes again, and I almost lose it. The tips of her fingers brush her inner thigh as she smooths the skirt down. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.
I walk her through a quick outline. Point, evidence, analysis.
She pretends to be bad at it, but she’s not.
She’s playing a different game. When I ask her to write a topic sentence, she does it with ease.
But she makes a show of getting stuck on the next line, leaning in so our shoulders touch, looking up through her lashes for rescue.
“My brain is empty,” she says. “Seriously. Help?”
I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive, or this doomed. I want to take her by the wrist, flip her over the desk, and fuck her until neither of us can think. I want to save her, destroy her, be destroyed by her.
I settle for this: I take the pen from her hand, and our fingers brush. Electricity. “Try it this way,” I say, and I write a model sentence on the pad. She reads it, then looks at me, and for a moment, we’re the only two people in the world.
“Thank you, Professor Thomas,” she says, and her voice is low, almost a whisper. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”
I’m not supposed to be hard. I’m not supposed to have a fucking erection that could break wood. But here we are.
She stands, and her ass is right at eye level, a perfect curve under the micro-skirt. She lingers, gathering her bag from the chair, bending at the waist instead of the knee. I think she’s about to leave, but she turns and faces me, eyes shining.
“I’ll turn in the essay this weekend,” she says. “I promise.”
“You’d better,” I say, trying to sound stern, but failing.
She grins. “See you in class, Professor.” Then she’s out the door, the scent of her perfume still rattling around the office.
I sit perfectly still, my erection a steel rod under the desk, my hands trembling.
I want to believe I’m in control. I want to believe I can fix this before it’s too late.
But as I watch her walk away, hips swaying like she’s the last survivor of some apocalypse, I know exactly how this story ends.
And I’m already writing the next chapter.