Chapter 3 #2
The moment Simone’s footsteps fade down the hall, I collapse back in my chair, fingers still tingling from where her skin brushed mine. My cock is a torture device. I glance at the yellow legal pad—bits of her handwriting, girlish and round, staring up at me like the world’s filthiest ransom note.
I reach for the coffee on my desk, but it’s cold and bitter. I gulp anyway, hoping the shock will kill the hard-on. It doesn’t. Nothing will.
My whole body is an angry chord—part terror, part awe, part a hunger so deep it feels like my marrow has liquefied. I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself to think. I tell myself this is fixable, that I can right the ship.
But as I sit here, my palm throbbing from the death grip I had on that Bic, I know it’s already too late.
I try to grade the next paper in my stack, but the words swim.
Every sentence is a memory of Simone: her perfume, the sliver of panty, the way her lips curled when she said “I have nothing yet, Professor Thomas. Can you help me?” The way she bared herself in class and dared me to do a damn thing about it.
I look at the clock. Still twenty minutes until my next appointment.
Fuck it.
I lock the door, draw the blinds, and push my chair back.
For a moment I just sit there, heart hammering, breath shallow, hand already drifting down.
My skin feels electric, every touch a live wire.
I imagine Simone kneeling under my desk, looking up with those big, blue eyes as she opens her mouth, letting her bubblegum pink tongue curl around the head of my cock.
I picture her on the desk, legs thrown wide, skirt bunched at her waist, panties shucked aside and her wet little pussy begging for my fingers.
I picture her turning, presenting her ass, the memory of that pencil tracing her puckered star until she moans for it.
I grip my cock, the pressure almost painful, and bite my own knuckle again to keep the sound in.
The orgasm builds fast, a blood-hot rush, as I come into a wad of Kleenex, gasping Simone’s name into the desk’s hollow.
My whole body shudders, then slumps, the weight of it heavy and rotten and so fucking necessary.
I sag there, post-nut clarity like a thunderbolt to the skull. I’m an idiot, a pervert, a walking lawsuit. I’d flush myself down the campus toilets if I thought it would matter.
Instead, I clean up, toss the tissues in the trash, and unbolt the office door.
There’s a knock almost immediately.
It’s not Simone—of course not. But I still half expect her, or maybe hope for it.
It’s the Dean’s assistant, a soft-spoken woman in a pantsuit and sensible shoes. She glances at me over the rim of her clipboard. “Dr. Thomas? The department head meeting’s been moved up. Ten minutes from now. Conference room B.”
“Thank you,” I say, careful to keep my voice level. “I’ll be there.”
She nods and leaves.
I stand, my knees weak, and fix my tie in the reflection of the glass case above my diplomas.
For a moment I look at myself, really look: black hair too long, blue eyes too pale, the cut of my jaw a little more menacing than academic.
I look like the villain in a student’s revenge fantasy, the kind of man who fucks and ruins and leaves. Maybe I am.
I pack up my legal pad, slip it into my satchel, and head to the meeting.
The conference room is a humid cell block of misery. Ten professors hunched over a table, sipping bad coffee and pretending to care about the agenda. I take my spot and try to focus as the Department Head drones on about tenure, budgets, and plagiarism.
But I can’t stop thinking about Simone.
Her next essay, due in three days. Our next class, in two. The next time she walks into my office.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, the phantom tingle of a new email.
I glance at it under the table.
It’s from Simone.
Subject: “Thank you!”
Body: “You’re the best, Professor Thomas. I’ll work super hard and turn in something by Sunday. If I get stuck, can I email you?”
I hesitate, then reply, all business:
“Of course, Simone. I’m here to help. Let me know if you need more direction.”
But then I add, almost against my will:
“If you’d like extra time to review your draft, I’m available for additional office hours Saturday afternoon. In fact, if you prefer, we can meet somewhere quieter to discuss your writing.”
I hit send before my courage can evaporate.
The rest of the meeting blurs past. When it ends, I go back to my office, shut the door, and open the window. The air is crisp, the campus oddly silent except for the distant thump of a soccer ball. I watch the quad, searching for her blonde ponytail in the crowd, but she’s gone.
I read over the emails again, tracking the breadcrumbs.
I’m walking into a minefield with my eyes open.
And I can’t fucking wait.
I’m supposed to be writing a letter of recommendation for a grad school candidate, but instead I’m searching “Simone McCall” on every database and social media platform I can think of. It’s pathetic, but here we are.
Her Instagram is private. I stare at the tiny circle of her profile picture—her at a football game, face painted with blue and white stripes, tongue stuck out, arms draped over another girl.
Her Facebook is locked down, but the cover photo shows her with her mother, who is both prettier and harder than I’d imagined. I see now why Simone wears armor.
Her LinkedIn is barren: Century College, English major. There’s no mention of extracurriculars or work experience, but she’s joined the “Women in STEM” group, which I can’t help but find funny.
There are a few forum posts about the school—typical college drama—but one post under a throwaway name stands out.
“Anyone have Thomas for American Lit? Is he as strict as they say?”
Replies range from “He’s hot but an asshole” to “Just write the essays and he leaves you alone.” My favorite: “He has a stare that makes your panties evaporate. True story.”
I wonder if that was Simone.
I get an email notification. It’s from her.
Subject: “Re: Office Hours / Grade Inquiry”
“Professor Thomas—Saturday afternoon is perfect for me. Can you let me know what time, and where to meet? Is it okay if I bring snacks? Just kidding (unless you want me to lol). I’m kind of nervous, so please don’t be scary. See you soon!”
Her tone is different in email—less honey, more nerves. The real girl peeking through the artifice.
I wait an hour before replying, to seem normal.
“Simone—I’m free at 2:00 on Saturday. If you’re comfortable, we can meet at my house; the campus library can be loud and coffee shops are always packed. I’ll send my address if that works for you. And snacks are always welcome.”
I hover on “send,” pulse thudding in my throat.
I click it.
Now there’s no way back.
The next two days are agony.
Every class, I catch her out of the corner of my eye: the flash of leg, the cut of her top, the way she never breaks gaze when I call on her. She’s playing the long game, and she’s winning.
She always sits in the back, but never slouches. She’s straight-backed, bright-eyed, and every time she answers a question, her voice is just a decibel lower than necessary, making everyone lean in. Even the TA is in love with her.
But I watch her for the tiny tells: the way her pencil skips between her lips, the way she bounces her foot under the desk, the way she waits until I look at her to fix her skirt or brush hair from her face.
It’s enough to make me raw.
After class, I try to escape, but she’s already waiting at the door. She walks beside me, matching my stride.
“Hi, Professor Thomas,” she says, as if we haven’t already spoken in private.
“Simone,” I reply, wary.
She leans in, voice private. “Is your house far from campus?”
“Not really. Twenty minutes, if there’s traffic.”
She smiles. “I’ll bring cookies. My roommate bakes when she’s anxious, so we have a mountain of them.”
I try to keep my face blank, but the warmth in my chest is dangerous.
“See you Saturday,” I say, and she peels off, waving over her shoulder.
I want to fuck her in the hallway, right there among the medieval poetry posters and faded fire evacuation maps.
Instead, I go home alone, drink a glass of bourbon, and grade the worst set of freshman papers I’ve seen in years.
Saturday is a heartbeat away.