by Gabi Moore
Girls like Michelle have one-trick-pony identities. Getting away with things because she was a hot girl who nobody “understood” just wasn’t going to fly in my class. This wasn’t a game to me. And I didn’t take kindly to girls who submitted nasty diary entries and called it art. Nope, she was going to have to try a lot harder than that.
She flushed a peculiar shade of red and looked as though she was about to argue back with me, but bit her tongue. She quickly took the assignment from me and stuffed it into her bag, then mumbled something and left.
She had beautiful eyes and almost mind-numbingly distracting breasts, it was true. But she was a mediocre writer. If she wanted to impress me, she had to do a hell of a lot better than that.
Chapter 3 - Michelle
I wanted to tear that stupid assignment into a million pieces. The word “common” was still ringing in my ears. I had to be honest: I did not expect that reaction. I mean, I expected he’d want to have a word with me about what I’d written – that was kind of the point – but I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t foresee that he would go on about my tenses or vocab after …well, after all the things I wrote.
I’m not sure why I was compelled, right at that moment, to open my laptop and start writing again. I was dog tired, it was late and I needed to get up early tomorrow for work, but it didn’t matter. I furiously tapped the keyboard.
“The Teacher and the Taught” appeared at the top of the page. Good. What did he know anyway? I’d show him. Not only would I get the technical details perfectly correct, I would make the story even more outrageous. I looked again at the screen. Too obvious. I backspaced it all and wrote instead, “All of Me, Twisted.” There, it had a nice ring to it. I’m no idiot. I know exactly where his eyes had been roaming as we sat alone in the classroom that afternoon, nothing but my filthy piece of writing between us. I know it, and he knows that I know it.
Chapter 4 - Mr. Cain
It might have been my imagination, but there was something different about Michelle by the time the next class rolled around. Her clothing was tighter, and there seemed to be less of it. Or was I just imagining things? Maybe I had been a little too hard on her. Maybe I didn’t need to be quite so brutal with the red pen. She was so young, after all. I have to admit I was curious to see what she would come up with as her second draft.
We sat in our usual circle, and the students settled in. We started, as we did with every lesson every week, by having each person read out loud a section of a piece they were working on. We’d then take turns to weigh in, giving some feedback on flow, on word choice. True, it was sometimes cringe-inducing, but I wanted every student of mine to know that to create art was to be vulnerable, to be exposed. It wasn’t always pleasant to be criticized.
Linda read a paragraph from her Victorian memoir-style piece – a snooze for all involved but she was fairly competent when it came to describing crinolines and provincial dramas, so I couldn’t fault her much. The guy sitting next to her said his piece and the dutiful students took turns offering feedback. Then it was Michelle’s turn.
She opened a folder she had resting on her lap and retrieved a crisp sheet of printed paper. She started to read; it was a short horror story she had started at the beginning of the course, one with a suspiciously sulky heroin and an outbreak of contagion in a small town. As she read, her dark hair fell in a curtain over her eyes, and at the end of each sentence she paused and inhaled, her ample chest rising and falling softly in the slightly-too-small bodice of her black dress.
Should I say I wanted to speak to her again after this class? Why not? She’d have to obey me. I could whip out my red pen again and scribble even more corrections all over it, just because I could, just to see her squirm. I quickly stopped this train of thought. Why was I letting her get to me like this? I’ve made my mistakes in life, sure, but if there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s let girls like this get to me. She had tried to get a rise out of me with that ridiculous story she submitted. Well, if she wanted to play that game…
“Michelle, I think you’ve shown us that you have that piece pretty well-covered.”
She stopped reading and stared at me, a little surprised. A fake garnet ring glistened on her finger.
“Since we don’t have that much time today, why don’t you share that other piece with the class and we can give you feedback on that instead?”
The color seemed to vanish from her already white face as her panicked eyes locked on mine.
“The other piece, you know the one,” I said with careful indifference.
Her lower lip seemed to tremble visibly. Where she had been cocky a moment before, now she seemed smaller, incredibly vulnerable. In a flash, I felt horrible for being so cruel to her …but then again, I had the feeling she didn’t quite mind it.
“Um… which other piece? This is the only one I…” she began but I loudly cut her off, “Yes, the other piece you’re working on, the erotica piece” I said with emphasis.
These words had a powerful effect on the other students, who all turned to her now with a renewed intensity. She swallowed hard, then pulled another sheet of paper from the folder, the look of horror on her face slowly hardening and becoming defiance.
“Ok, sure,” she said, trying to match my casual tone.
For a few moments, the air was as silent and heavy as it had ever been in that room. In a pitiful voice and with all the confidence she could muster, she began reading the opening paragraph of her piece. I sat back in my chair, secretly thrilled that I had dominated her so easily. I hated being manipulated, but if she wanted to play at this game, well, then I would call her bluff.
Chapter 5 - Michelle
It was as though every inch of my skin had caught fire. I was blushing so hard I thought I might faint – was he really going to make me do this? Why? You know, I can appreciate a good story. I can see the irony – I had wanted to make him a little uncomfortable with this story, to shock him, and now he was throwing it back in my face. Every word, I soon realized, had probably been written with him in mind, and those same words were now coming out my mouth, here, in front of all the other students, and I felt like I wanted to peel off my burning skin and run away from it forever.
How dare he?
I had done the same thing to my High School English teacher. I had submitted a “creative writing” piece dripping with expletives and graphic descriptions of all the many, many ways a tempting young Lolita character could seduce and ruin a married man. I had detailed the maddening allure of her forbidden pussy, the way she teased, asking to be put in her place, half daring, half begging to be disciplined for her behavior. And when I breezily dropped that paper onto his desk, I knew without a doubt that I had him on a string for the rest of the school year. He didn’t need to know that I was still technically a virgin, or that I would never in a million years do anything like that …but the control thrilled me nonetheless.
I had half expected the same easy reaction with Mr. Cain, yet here I was, looking like an idiot. I had always relished the idea of being “punished” …but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind. There was nothing I could do. I had to read it.
I worked my way through the first awkward paragraph. It was, I realized, a very similar story of temptation and debauchery. Maybe I was the predictable one?
“He threw her mercilessly against the bed, standing over her for a moment, making sure she understood that she was completely, utterly at his mercy. Slowly, he pulled off his leather belt, one loop after the other, and stood tall; letting it hang at his feet like a weapon, buckle wrapped firmly in his fist. Every part of her body pulsed with anticipation…”
I looked up, inwardly cringing, every student hanging onto my words with a mix of panic and amused fascination.
“Don’t stop,” Mr. Cain, said. He knew what was coming next in the story. And all at once I understood what was happening. This wasn’t embarrassing to him at all. Oh no. In fact, he liked it. He wanted to see me humiliated and e
xposed like this. I stared at him, disbelieving. I had totally underestimated him. Good move, sir. But now it was my move.
I cleared my throat and returned my gaze to the page, paragraphs crammed full of “cock” and “cunt” and other words that seemed that they would be further gasoline to my burning skin just to utter them. But I flicked my hair from my face, sat up straight and spoke clearly. I barged through the next few lines; not only did I not avoid the filthy parts, but I emphasized them, holding each dirty word a little longer on my tongue, relishing the descriptions, taking my time to describe the heroine’s swollen, glistening hole, the hero’s throbbing cock, the sweaty abs, the moans, the grunts.
Some of the students were giggling under their breath. Others were stunned into silence. The more I read, the more gloriously I felt that I just didn’t give a damn. In the final paragraph, the heroine is roughly bent over a boudoir stool and is begging for mercy, begging the hero to fuck her senseless, or not to, depending on how you interpreted it.
“Two hot, wet tears rolled down each of her cheeks. Her wrists burning in their restraints and her legs spread wide to him, she choked back a sob and pleaded, ‘be gentle.’ But at that moment he took his enormous -”
“Ok, that’s enough, let’s stop there,” Mr. Cain burst in suddenly.
“You want me to stop?” I said, teasingly.
“Yes, I think we’ve heard enough,” he said. The color dropped entirely from his cheeks.
“But I haven’t gotten to the good part yet. The part where he fucks her in the ass.”
His face had the expression of someone who had just been slapped. All eyes were now on him, waiting to see what he could possibly respond to this.
“Ok, but I think we do have some idea now of…”
“No, it’s OK, I want to,” I said easily. “After all, it’s this part that I was having really trouble with.”
With an electrifying realization, I noticed a fat bulge in his pants. Ah, so that’s where all the blood went. I was on a role. I had no idea where I had found the courage, but here I was, turning the tables on him, and it felt fantastic.
“It’s just that I find that writing these kinds of scenes can just be so ...” I flickered my gaze teasingly over his crotch. “So … hard, you know?”
Something like anger was simmering on his face.
“Unless of course the other students don’t want me to continue reading…?” I asked, the biggest hurdle of audacity already overcome. When the class offered only feeble nods and shrugs, I carried on reading, gleefully.
With each word, Mr. Cain grew more visibly shaken. He was holding a notebook on his lap so tightly his knuckles had gone white, but I knew what was going on beneath it. I knew, and I loved it. The heroine in my story was fucked within an inch of her life, and I paced luxuriously through the tale, savoring every last drop and morsel. By the time I reached the end of my sordid tale, my protagonist lying cum-splattered and crumpled over a chair, the mood in the class had completely changed – probably forever.
I spoke the last word, returned the sheet to the folder, closed it gently and crossed my hands over my lap like a good little schoolgirl. There.
The tension in the class had swollen, risen along with the story and was now released, but the students were thoroughly rattled and had turned their shocked faces to Mr. Cain, somehow sensing that more than one line had been crossed today, and wondering what he was going to do about it.
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat awkwardly.
“Yes, well. You see, the trouble with this sort of thing… what you have to remember, Michelle, what you have to keep in mind… it’s kind of a delicate balancing act with the tension, you know… and the tension in this piece…”
He trailed off, the irony of tension not being lost on him or the students. He angrily glanced at his watch. We still had fifteen minutes to go.
“Ok. Well. We don’t have much time left so let’s just call it a day today and I’m sure we’ll all have some feedback for Michelle’s piece next week…”
I had the feeling he was trying to say that it was “common” but with a little triumphant flutter I realized he wouldn’t dare. Not now.
“I do think, Michelle, that you should come and see me after class, though,” he said.
Chapter 6 - Mr. Cain
My entire face was prickling with anger. This whole thing had gone on too far. I should have been the adult in this situation. I should have nipped this whole thing in the bud. Dirty slut, I thought, and instantly regretted it. But there was no denying it. She was sexy, she was talented …and she was absolutely toying with me. I hadn’t for a second believed she would follow my bluff, but she had done it easily, and made me look like a fool in my own classroom.
Without thinking, I had asked to see her after class, but realized with horror that it may have come across as a pleading invitation rather than an admonishment. But was it an invitation? I put the thought out of my mind. Little harlots like Michelle may have the upper hand in shock value, sure, but this wasn’t my first rodeo, and if she was going to be arrogant, well, I had full liberty to penalize her harshly till she understood: I don’t allow girls like her get the best of me. Never.
The class had cleared off, most of them barely waiting till they had reached the door to burst into excited chatter about what the hell they had just witnessed. Inside the class, though, I had bigger problems. Michelle sat in front of me, upright and self satisfied as a queen who’s just laid waste to barbarian lands. She said nothing. She didn’t have to.
“That’s quite the stunt you just pulled,” I said, in my harshest voice.
She feigned a look of surprise.
“Stunt? But you asked me to read that story…”
“Don’t interrupt,” I snapped.
She shrunk back a little.
“That story is absolutely, completely inappropriate for this class. That’s obvious. We’re here as a class to learn about composition, to learn about the mechanics of writing…”
“Was there something wrong with my tenses again?” she asked, in a voice so sickly sweet I wondered if she really thought I was buying it.
“No, no, not at all, the writing’s fine …it’s actually quite good…” I began but then realized I had lost my opportunity to humiliate her by claiming her grammar was faulty.
“So then what’s the problem?” she asked.
Her big wet eyes stared plainly at me, and she clutched her folder to her chest, pressing together her plump, white breasts. Could she see that she was turning me on? The thought made me irrationally angry.
“The problem is your writing …it just lacks pacing. It lacks restraint.” My mind snagged on the word “restraint.” All at once, an image of her flashed into my mind, one where she was the heroine of her own story, tied up, splayed on a chair, legs spread wide open… is that what she wanted? Is that what all of this was about?
“Without any restraint, the story just happens all at once. You need to let things develop slowly. To build tension. And the title. “All of me, twisted” is just… it’s just so clichéd, you know? It sounds like a country song or something. There’s just no building up. You just jump right into the sex, without laying the stage, without setting up the stakes.”
I felt more comfortable now in my old role as know-it-all teacher, patiently asserting my superior knowledge, guiding her out of her amateurish ignorance. The trouble was, it was all bullshit. Her story was remarkably paced, and the tension was perfect. This, too, made me irrationally angry.
“So… there’s not enough tension?” she said, looking a little confused.
“Nope.”
“I need to build things up more slowly?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
She looked away for a while, with eyes that looked as though they were brewing something. She briskly got up from her chair and set the folder to one side. Absentmindedly, as though she was doing nothing more than thinking about what she would have for dinner,
she sauntered over to one corner of the room, where my desk was. Slowly, she put one palm and then the other onto the table surface, then leant backwards, giving her ass a little wiggle.
“So, when my main character is standing like this, waiting, I should make sure the guy just doesn’t come over and fuck her immediately?” her eyes twinkled.
It seemed like she had said “fuck” a million times in the last hour alone, and yet the word still had some electricity in it. I said nothing.
“I guess I should make it so that she really begs for it, really has to wait and wait …and wait…” She arched her back and dropped her head loosely forward, letting her dark soft hair fall softly between her hands.
The air thrummed.
After what seemed like eons she spoke again, “You’re right of course, I guess I get impatient. I see the whole story in my head and I just want it to get to the juicy bits already, you know? But …tension…” she said, now rolling a pen up and down the length of the desk with one coquettish finger.
I couldn’t let her know about the almost painful ache in my pants, and the feeling that if I budged as much as an inch I would explode right there and then. I opened my mouth to speak, to say something smart and reasonable and moderate, something that would let her know that I was still in charge here, and she was just a silly girl playing with things she didn’t really underst--
“Tension!” she said in a theatrical voice, interrupting my thoughts. “In my story, I just want them to have sex, and lots of it. But you’re right, that doesn’t make sense. So, for example, if it was I writing this story,” she gestured loosely to the air between us, “then we would be having sex already. I’d be over there on the table, already halfway to my second orgasm by now. But what do I know? That’s why I’m in your class, right? To be taught…”