by Haley Pierce
I scan the very top name. CHill. I smile at that. He does seem very cool and collected. Hmm, I wonder what his name is. Christian? Cole? Cameron?
The circle beside his name is green, like mine.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Then I open a chat message to him.
Dr. Hill? I have a question about the homework.
A moment later: Yes, McBride?
I smile. I don’t know why I like that he calls me by my last name like that. I type in: How long does the poem have to be?
I watch the three bubbles dance on the screen, licking my lips and waiting for a response. His response nearly makes my insides turn to jelly: That depends, McBride. How passionate are you?
I swallow. How am I supposed to answer that?
Those three circles again. Then: I’m teasing you, McBride. The answer is that it’s up to you. There is no length requirement.
I exhale. For a second, I thought he was flirting with me.
Actually, I’d hoped he was flirting with me. Oh. Okay, thanks. Have a good night.
I expect him to say something similar, but instead, my mouth drops open when I read: Truthfully, I was a little lonely until you messaged me. What are you up to?
Um. Okay. He’s lonely? And he wants me to keep him company? Why? Why me, when he could likely have anyone? Is he serious?
I read the message twice, then a third time, trying to think of how to answer. The first answer that comes to mind, “Trying to finish the stupid assignment you gave us”, sounds dull. My fingers hover over the keyboard, until I type out: I’m having a poetry party.
Am I invited?
My breath quickens. That sure as hell sounds like flirting. Or . . . maybe not. I remind myself to keep it classy. Of course you are. You live for poetry, don’t you?
Ah. But I’m a poetry party virgin. What do we do at these poetry parties?
I smile. Him, a virgin? He probably has more women than he knows what to do with. Rhyme, alliterate, throw a lot of onomatopoeia around. Generally raise hell.
A woman like you? Raise hell? Never.
I swallow. He called me a woman. Has anyone ever called me that before?
My radar is completely faulty for these things, but now I’m almost sure: He’s flirting with me.
I take a deep breath, type the next words, and then quickly hit enter before I can regret them. I can raise hell. But I’d hate to corrupt a virgin.
A second later: Corrupt away.
Oh, god. I’m pretty sure that if he and I ever got together, he’d be the one corrupting me. And why can I think of nothing I’d love more? My fingers tingle as they sweep over the keyboard.
I will with my poem. You’ll never be the same once you’ve seen my passion.
Is that so?
Shivering, I type in: Yes.
I’m looking forward to being corrupted by you, McBride.
After that, the door clicks open downstairs and my mother calls my name. I glance at the time on my laptop: 12:40 am.
Shit. Way past my bedtime. She must’ve seen my light on.
Quickly, I slam the laptop closed and flip off the light, then burrow under the covers.
My mother comes and checks on me a second later, while I’m still breathing hard. Thankfully, she just closes the door and walks away.
I exhale with relief and remind myself to delete the conversation with Hill in the morning, since my mother has been known to check my accounts. Then I wait for sleep to come.
It doesn’t for a long, long time. Instead, I find myself groping my body in the dark and imagining what it would feel like if it were Dr. Hill’s hands, all over my skin. I’ve never been touched like that before, but God, I want it so badly that by the time morning comes, I’m restless and sweating and so ready to see him again.
Even if one of us does end up getting corrupted.
Cain
I've been thinking about her. Probably too much to be healthy.
When she messaged me Monday night, after I’d downed a few beers to celebrate surviving my first shitty day at the shitty job, I’d practically jumped to respond. I told myself I’d do anything to get out of having to put together another fucking lesson plan, but the truth was, her innocent question turned me on.
How long does the poem have to be? She wants to please me. I’d been aroused the second that thought came to mind.
And yeah, it was probably the beer talking when I asked her what she was up to. It definitely crossed the line on what was appropriate teacher-student conversation.
But I don’t fucking care. She’s an adult, and she knew what she was doing. So what if we exchanged a few inappropriate texts? I’d told myself. I didn’t lay a finger on her, and no one got hurt. It was all in good fun.
I had her again in the Wednesday class, and though outwardly, it was business as usual, every time I looked her way during my lecture, I knew from the blush on her cheeks that she was thinking about our texts. You’ll never be the same once you’ve seen my passion.
She’s right. By the time the following Monday comes around, I’m expecting something mind-blowing.
As I'm about to step out of my office for class, I get a text. From Anna. I need to see you. I heard from Emil.
Emil, my editor. Shit. It's nothing good. I jab in, Not a good time.
Make time, she texts back.
Right. She doesn't know about my new teaching gig. And she’s the one I have to thank for the past year of thinking I could be a real author. I owe her. Little did I know that when I signed that contract, I’d also be signing on as her bitch. When she says jump, I can do nothing else.
Hanovers. 8. I enter after a long pause.
Don’t be late, is her response.
My excitement over seeing Addison drains away, and by the time I’ve climbed the stairs, I'm so irritated that I ignore two co-eds' bubbly hellos as I stalk toward class. My movements tight and clipped, I slam the door to the classroom when I enter so that all twelve heads swivel toward me. Only one of them jumps, nearly scraping her little blonde head on the ceiling.
Sweet Addison.
All the tension melts away, transforming to something else.
The beginnings of desire.
She's looking extra enticing today, hair in braids, wearing short denim shorts that bare her pale legs and a pastel flannel shirt, tied at the waist, exposing a sliver of taut stomach. Like a farm girl, the thing of my teenage fantasies. She's gnawing on a pen cap and arching her back so that her perky tits strain against the fabric of her blouse, nipples erect.
You’ll never be the same once you’ve seen my passion.
She’s right, I won’t. Much more of this, and I'll have a hardon in front of the class. Can this girl please stop toying with me this way?
I stride behind my desk and sweep my gaze over the sea of bright-eyed faces. Addison McBride, my innocent-acting blonde vixen, who likely lives to torture men. Elena Ackerman, who cornered me during office hours yesterday and was bold enough to ask me to introduce her to my agent. Homer Lacara, the seventeen-year old pipsqueak who landed himself a fluke book deal.
They think the world is their oyster.
But here’s something they don’t know. You can’t truly be a writer until you’ve opened up a vein and bled.
And not a single one of these spoiled rich kids knows anything about suffering. “All right,” I say. “I’m ready to see your passion.”
My eyes land on Addison. She gives me a coy smile and nervously looks away. I think of the way she said she’d corrupt me. The desire inside bubbles up, threatening to spill over. I have no control over any other part of my life, but here, I’m the king. And she is my subject.
I was thinking of saving her to last. But I can’t. I’ve thought about her poem a number of times, and every time, she’s uttering words so passionate, so rife with sexual need. In a version of the fantasy, we’re both so turned on that I take her, right on the desk, thrusting hard into her to the shock of all of her classmates. R
ight now, only she can make me forget everything else that’s fucked up in my life.
I tap on the edge of her desk. “Go ahead, McBride. Let’s see what you got.”
She takes a deep breath, picks up the paper in front of her, and swings those long legs of hers out from under the desk. Then she scurries to the front of the room and smiles at her audience. “Okay,” she prefaces, her voice squeaky and bubbly and reeking of sunshine. “This is called Dreams. It’s my first poem ever. So go easy on me, okay?”
Most of the group warms to her, nodding and letting out uneasy laughter. A few of the more pretentious assholes in the group roll their eyes like she’s the dumb blonde who isn’t good enough to breathe the same air as them.
I stand behind her, watching her flip her braids over her shoulder as she lifts her paper to read. Fidgeting from side to side in her flip-flops, she reads in a voice that sounds much more confident than she looks. “In my dreams, people are reaching out to me. Needing me. In my dreams, I can help those who need me. I can be there for them, caring for them, looking after them, making a difference in their lives.”
The fantasy dissolves in an instant. I stare at her, the first flickers of anger igniting inside me. I’d thought from our text conversation that I was going to see something to set my world afire, but what the hell is this? How dare she play me for a fool, teasing me like that?
Either that, or . . .
Another possibility nudges at me. No.
Can that sweet and innocent act not be an act? Is it possible that Sweet Addison wouldn’t know passion if it hit her over the head?
Wait. Can it be that she’s never felt it before?
God, the things I could teach her, part of me thinks, as she continues.
“I know that one day, all this struggle will be worth it, and I will be the best version of me I can be.”
She stops and smiles.
Well, one thing is clear: I’m not getting off on that.
The irritation is back. Compounded with the text from Anna, I now have a massive headache.
The rest of the students clap politely. The Mohawked kid, Dalton, who’s clearly in love with her—I think all the guys in class are— gives her a double thumbs-up and a loud wolf whistle. She turns back to me, seeking my approval.
The teacher’s approval. It’s in her eyes. That’s what this girl lives for. What she gets off on.
And right then, I make a decision.
I’m not going to give it to her.
If she wants my approval, she’s going to have to work extra hard. So hard, she’ll be on her knees, begging me by the time this semester is done.
Maybe then, she’ll really know passion.
“What was that?” I say softly, stretching my palms to the sky in mock confusion.
She smiles, a little nervous. I can see that confident façade of hers crumbling, hear the doubt in her voice when all of her sentences come out as questions. “My poem? On my passion?”
“That was a sorry excuse for passion,” I announce, staring her down. “Completely rote, completely ordinary. You might as well have been reading the ingredient label on the back of a cereal box.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Well . . . I told you, this is my first—“
“First poem. Right. But a kindergartener’s work could’ve excited this group more.” I wave my arm in front of the class. “I’m surprised they’re not in comas right now.”
I scan the group, which has fallen entirely silent. Some of them look vaguely concerned, staring down at their work, wondering if it’s good enough, or if I’m going to rip them apart, too.
The answer, of course, is no. Just Addison. I don’t give a shit about any of them. I need to get under Addison’s skin the way she’s gotten under mine.
The wheels are turning in her head. I can see them. She’s wondering how to make this better. But she can’t until she’s in my bed.
When I realize what I’m planning, I fill with a sense of revulsion. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve been teaching a week and already, the truth is undeniable: I want to fuck my student. I want to fuck her senseless, and if I let this go much longer, it’ll consume me.
She blinks her long eyelashes and chews on her lip some more, as always, thinking of how she can please me. It’s more than I can stand. “Well, I can—“
“No, you can’t. Sit down!” I snap, so loudly that she clamps her mouth shut and scurries to her seat, landing in it with a graceless thud. She sits, spine straight, breathing hard, staring at the surface of her desk like she wants it to swallow her up.
Control, I tell myself, taking a deep breath.
Slowly, it returns.
But before the guilt can wash over me, I glance at another student across the horseshoe from Addison, a girl in a turtleneck and black-rimmed glasses. I can’t remember her name; all I can think of is Velma from Scooby Doo. “You,” I growl. “You’re on.”
It’s only a minute later that I remember her name is Violet. She recites something that goes on for a full five minutes, but not a single damned word manages to seep into my skull. I slump in the chair behind the desk and slog through the rest of the period, half-listening to the budding Keatses and Tennysons with their flowery and pretentious ramblings.
I don’t have to worry about Addison turning me on, anymore. She stays as still as a statue the entire time, and slips out the second I announce that class is dismissed.
Back in my office, I grade the poems. I stare at Addison’s paper, the slightly creased page, showing that she likely had put a lot of effort into these words. Guilt tugs at me when I realize I wouldn’t have been so hard on anyone else. It’s not wondrous, but she had tried.
Still, I can’t go against what I’d said in class. I write a big 74 on top of it and circle it in red.
She’ll probably drop the class. That would be for the best, especially where my sanity’s concerned.
I flip over the paper and proceed to the next student’s poem.
Some time later, I yawn. I check my wristwatch. It’s 7:45. This windowless shoebox of a room is so cut off from the rest of the world, I failed to notice the darkness creeping in. I pile my things into my old leather briefcase and prepare to take the drive to Hanover’s to meet with my agent.
My agent. The title sounds so important, but not when you know what our relationship really is. There’s a good chance she’ll tell me Emil’s putting his foot down. I’m in breach of contract and finished in the publishing business. Then she’ll start bitching to me about her cheating husband, and after the third glass of wine she’ll run her bare foot up to my crotch under the table and say, “You know, I could be coaxed into asking Emil for another extension.” I’ll agree to whatever she asks for, if only to keep the charade that I’m The Next Big Thing going for another month.
I heave a massive sigh and reach for the door. Fuck it.
The second I swing it open, I step back.
Addison is standing there, holding a notebook to her chest, hand raised, ready to knock. “Uh. Hello,” she says tentatively, gnawing on her lip again.
It’s maddening how fast the desire floods in. I steel myself. “My office hours are four to eight.”
She looks at her phone and holds it up to me. It says 7:47. Exhaling, I push open the door and let her pass inside.
I’d like to keep away from her, but this closet of an office doesn’t allow for that. I try to maneuver around her to sit in my desk chair, but she’s right there, and her taut body brushes up against mine. Her skin radiates heat, and that heavenly strawberry scent fills my nostrils. My cock throbs, but luckily I have the desk to hide it as it strains against my pants.
“Sit,” I tell her, motioning to the folding chair across the desk from me.
She perches on the edge of the chair.
“Dr. Hill,” she says slowly, tentatively, her eyes scanning the clean surface of my desk. “I wanted to discuss the assignment. I know I did badly.”
I reach into my b
riefcase and hand her the paper.
Her eyes widen as she scans the grade. “Seventy-four? That’s . . . that’s not even a B, is it?”
“It’s a C.”
“You don’t understand. I never get grades like this,” she pleads. “Even when I was in elementary school, I never got less than an A. I can’t let this . . . is there some extra credit I can do?”
The only extra credit she could do for me would involve my pants open, and her on her knees in front of me. “I’m sorry, but the truth is, McBride, I went easy on you,” I say gruffly, suppressing the mental image. “I won’t, next time. So if you’re thinking of dropping the class, I suggest--”
She’s hyperventilating. “I can’t. I need this course,” she says dismissively.
Well, there goes that idea. I’m stuck with her for the next sixteen weeks. Misery and excitement war within me. “Well, the quality of your work will have to improve. And it will, under my guidance, I assure you.”
She scowls. “Writing is subjective. How can you put a grade on—“
“As a writer, you need to challenge the way you think, to make other people look at things a new way, too. It’s like . . .” She’s still looking sorely at me, so I reach into my pocket and pull out an ordinary pen. I place it in front of her. “What is this?”
She raises an eyebrow. Also, incredibly sexy. “A pen,” she mutters.
I stifle the urge to bridge the distance between us and sweep a stray lock of her hair back from her face, and concentrate on being the teacher. “But what else is it? It’s shiny and metal. As small as it is, it’s the most powerful weapon in some wars. If you’re in prison, it could be a tool for escape. If you’re writing a love letter, your heart flows through it.” I find myself getting so caught up in it, about what I fucking love about writing, that for a second, I forget my throbbing cock. “Do you see? Things are not always what they seem.”
She says, very softly, “I was thinking, when I wrote the poem the other night, that it was so hard, the ink might as well have had my blood in it.”
“Right,” I say, leaning back. “Exactly. You’re getting it. You’ll do better with the next assignment.”