Dom's Baby

by Melinda Minx

  At eight o’clock on the dot, she comes in. She doesn’t even knock.

  I look up at her, thinking of chiding her for barging in. Then I see her black mini-skirt and her fresh white button-up shirt, barely containing her breasts. Her strawberry blonde hair spills across her shoulders. I look up at the freckles on her nose, and I watch as her eyes lock down onto my tie.

  I bite my bottom lip, as I reach up to adjust my tie, drawing attention to it. I watch as her mouth drops open, her eyes staying enraptured and locked on that pale blue tie.

  “Take a seat, Ms. Faria,” I say.

  I see her cheeks flushed red, and she scrambles awkwardly for the chair. She smooths her skirt and sits down, sliding closer toward me.

  I’ve simply swiveled my own chair around to face her, my desk behind me. She crosses her legs, and I see a large portion of her thigh exposed. I struggle to keep my breathing smooth, to not let her gain the upper hand over me. If I’m to dominate her, I can’t let something as tame as a calf and thigh throw me off balance.

  “Nikki,” she says. “Or Nicole, if you have to. I changed my name because things soured between my father and me...I don’t like Faria anymore.”

  “Of course, Nicole. So I thought we’d go over your syllabus today.”

  The first class is at ten o’clock. I’ll teach it with her present, and starting next week, I’ll be hands-off while she teaches alone. Hands-off with the teaching, at least; hopefully very hands-on with Nicole.

  “Okay,” she says, reaching into her bag. She pulls out a neatly laminated folder and opens it.

  “You made your own?” I ask.

  “I...we didn’t discuss it. I thought I should,” she looks down at it, and I can tell she’s worried she wasted her time.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I didn’t want to force you to use mine as is. I wanted to discuss it now with you so you could make it your own. Let’s compare mine against yours. Let me whip mine out.”

  I give her a small smirk at that comment, and she nods with wide eyes.

  I’ve decided to be both completely professional and completely unprofessional as a challenge to myself. I’ll do the best job possible as her mentor, treating her with the same standards and attention I’d give to any mentee, but I’ll also pursue her with equal force until she submits to me once again.

  Without saying anything, I slide my chair up beside hers and turn to face in the same direction as her. This way we can both look at the syllabi together. I can smell her from here, too, and her arm grazes against my shoulder as she turns the page on my syllabus.

  “You’ve put Steppenwolf on yours,” I say, laughing. “You always liked that one.”

  “You really opened my eyes to it,” she says.

  “Did I?” I ask. “As I recall, you were arguing with me more about it than agreeing with me.”

  She turns toward me and meets my eyes. “That’s how I learn.”

  “Hopefully you won’t have too many students with the same learning style,” I say. “It can be draining.”

  She laughs. “Are you saying I was draining?”

  Only because I couldn’t touch you. Only because I valued my career over you. You drained me because I had to think of you constantly without being able to act. No longer.

  I reach up and stroke at my tie, running my fingers across it. I pretend to do it absently, but it’s very calculated.

  “It’s fine, Nicole,” I say. “You were a good student.”

  She laughs and looks back down at her syllabus.

  The time passes quickly. I lose myself in the combination of work and pleasure. I don’t let her distract me from hammering the two syllabi together, but her presence keeps me awake like no drug could. My blood feels like it’s on fire the whole time, and I decide I need to turn things up a notch sooner rather than later.

  We finalize the syllabus, and I type it all up, then print it.

  “Let’s print fifty of them,” she says.

  “The copy room is three floors down,” I say. “I should show you how to use it.”

  We proceed to the third floor, make the copies, and by the time we are done, it’s nearly time for class. We get into the elevator, where she leans against the rail. She looks up at me with what must be an intentionally seductive glare. Her lips appear almost pouting, and she throws her hair over her shoulder, and then sticks her chest out.

  I pretend not to notice and simply adjust my tie. I notice she almost starts trembling as I touch it.

  The elevator stops twenty floors before the classroom, and a large group of students with backpacks starts to pile in. I move all the way to the back of the elevator, right next to Nicole.

  It gets so crowded that I can barely see her. I decide that now is the time to start having some fun. I reach across the rail, until I feel Nicole’s skirt brush against my finger.

  I wait just a moment to judge her reaction. She doesn’t move, and I don’t even look over at her. I just stare straight ahead as if it was an accident.

  A second or two later, I feel her body shift, and suddenly the soft fabric of her skirt presses completely over my hand. I feel the thick flesh of her ass completely press onto my hand. It’s warm and soft, and my cock goes rock-hard in nearly an instant. I can feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look over at her.

  I decide, instead, to turn my hand around even as she presses against it. I turn it all the way so that my palm—rather than the back of my hand—is pressed against her ass, and when I hear an audible moan from her over the low drone of the elevator and the hushed conversation of the students, I squeeze.

  I grab the flesh of her cheeks in my hand and I give it a firm squeeze, and then I massage with my fingers and palm. I look up and see that we are only two floors from our destination, so I slide my hand away from her and put it into my pocket, as if I’d done nothing at all.

  The only remaining evidence of our exchange is my raging erection, but my suit jacket is covering it.

  The elevator beeps, the doors open, and the students flood out. I step out with them to avoid being left alone in the elevator with Nicole.

  I want to distance us from what just happened. I want it to be awkward for her to talk about it. Since it just happened, she could easily bring it up to me now and ruin all the fun. She could simply say, “Did you just…?” and it would be painfully clear what she meant.

  If I can wedge the two-hour class between us and what just happened, she’ll have to ask, “Back in the elevator, did you…” and it will become that much harder for her to bring up.

  I don’t want to talk about it; I want to watch her squirm. I want to force her to beg me for it.

  I look back over my shoulder once I’m clear of the elevator, and I see her, red-faced and breathless. She looks up at me with parted lips, and I simply give her a “come on” hand signal. “The classroom is this way.”

  9

  Nikki

  Did he…?

  Of course he did. I can still feel the warmth of his firm hand on my butt cheek. I initiated it, to be fair, but if he had just kept his hand there, that would have been one thing.

  That’s not what happened, though; he turned his hand around and squeezed me. And it felt incredible. So why is he pretending it didn’t happen?

  He knows. I know. We both know that we know, so—

  “The classroom is this way,” he says, sounding impatient. He gives me this “hurry along” motion with his fingers, as if I’m a dog that’s sniffing a bush instead of walking.

  I consider just grabbing him by the arm, holding him still, and waiting for the students to clear out. Then I can just say something to him point-blank.

  But I hear the elevator open again, and more students exit out into the hallway behind us. Many of them are probably my students. Not a great time to be seen holding my boss’s arm in the hallway, looking at him with flushed cheeks and panting breathlessly.

  And my panties are wet, I realize. Jesus, he only touched me for a few moments
, and I’m soaking wet.

  He opens the door to a classroom and holds it for me to pass through. I smile at him as I walk past. My eyes catch on his tie again. Most of my memories from years ago are hazy and muddled. I remember doing certain things in a vague sense, like “I went to class,” but I rarely remember specific details. The night where I confronted Professor Leeds in the garden outside the bar is different. I can remember each slight movement he made. I remember the contours of his veins popping out as he gripped the tie. And the tie—of course—I remember above all else. It’s the same tie I’m looking at now. I’m sure of it. The same shade of light blue, the same white-latticing etched across it in thin lines. What are the chances he just happened to wear that tie, of all ties, today? I believe in fate, not chance.

  I walk past him, and I notice he keeps holding the door rather than walking in with me. More and more students walk in, and Dr. Leeds holds the door for them, too, saying good morning to each of them as they walk in.

  I see some of the girls give each other looks after they pass him, some giggling like idiots.

  Jealousy flashes through me. What if...what if he’s just messing with me now? Stringing me along. What if he only really likes young girls, and I’m not young enough for him anymore? I was a freshman six years ago, wasn’t I?

  “And he didn’t touch you because of it,” I tell myself. It’s different now, isn’t it?

  I consider finding a seat to sit down, then I realize with an awkward jolt that I’m the damn teacher. I’m supposed to go up to the front of the class...I should have stayed with Dr. Leeds and said good morning to everyone. Instead, I’m standing awkwardly in the middle of the class.

  It’s too late to go back to the door, so I just go all the way to the front of the class and put my bag down on the teacher’s desk. I don’t stand in front of the podium, though. That would imply that I’m about to speak, and…

  Damn it. With all of the discussion we had about the syllabus, we never ironed out who was doing what today. Surely, Dr. Leeds is going to come up and introduce me to the class, right?

  I watch nervously as he loiters and lingers near the door. Even as the students are trickling slowly in—only a few per minute—he stays at the door. I watch as the time hits 10:02, and I realize it’s been a full minute since another student entered.

  Dr. Leeds lazily lets the door shut, and he walks in. I sigh in relief, as I wait for him to take the podium.

  Instead, he stops at a desk near the middle row and sits down.

  I look at him with slight panic, but he just holds his hand out, palm upturned, and gestures for me to begin.

  That asshole. He must be doing this intentionally. Some cruel “sink or swim” initiation. Does he do this with all of his TAs, or just me?

  I smile a little realizing that it might be special treatment, and if it is, I want to swim instead of sink.

  I walk confidently up to the podium and introduce myself to the forty-plus students slouching and yawning up at me. Though I do notice that some of the boys are looking at me with a certain glare, one even smiles at me.

  “I’m Nicole Weissman,” I say. “I’ll be your TA for this class. How many of you are lit majors?”

  Two or three people near the front of the class raise their hands.

  “And how many of you just wanted an easy gen ed credit?”

  Dozens of hands shoot up as the students laugh.

  “Dr. Leeds,” I say, pointing toward him, “was my Intro to German Lit professor. I was in it for an easy gen ed requirement, too, but now here I am, pursuing my Ph.D. in the subject.”

  “Give us Dr. Leeds then!” a girl shouts from the back. More girls laugh and giggle in his direction.

  I grit my teeth. “He’ll be—”

  Dr. Leeds stands up and straightens his jacket. “I will be here. From time to time. Miss Weissman was my student, and I trust her abilities. I’ll teach this first week, and from then on, I’ll be available during my office hours. Though, please, do not underestimate Miss Far—Miss Weissman. She may not look it, but she’s as knowledgeable about Hermann Hesse and Goethe as any stiff old man.”

  He saunters up to the podium, puts his hand on the small of my back, and slides it down to my ass. He squeezes, looks me right in the eye, and says, “Good Day, Ms. Weissman.”

  I try not to look visibly shaken as he lets go of me. There’s no way anyone could have seen what he just did, but the brazenness of doing it right there in front of all of our students astounds me!

  Adrenaline is surging through me, and it’s all I can do but nod demurely and walk away from the podium. I grab a seat in the front row and sit down, my ears still ringing from what he did.

  I watch as Dr. Leeds lectures, and suddenly I feel like a freshman at Oxford again. The tie, having me sit down while he teaches, telling me “Good day,” it seems like he’s intentionally trying to trigger something in my memories. As if seeing him again didn’t do that strongly enough already.

  Still, he must know that I’m ready and willing for him to take me, so why is he drawing it out so long? Back in his office, had he ordered me to do something, I’d have done it. If he had simply taken what he wanted, I’d have leaned back—or forward—and let him take it.

  He must get some kind of thrill out of teasing and testing me. Could he be waiting for a certain response? He’s touched me twice now in the space of an hour, and I realize I’ve done little but act dumbfounded and shocked. Does he want me to react that way, or does he want me to turn it up on him?

  I remember the way he held that tie. He’s into BDSM, surely, and he’s one hundred percent dom. He wants to be in charge. He probably just wants me to surrender myself to him. Does that mean I should keep quiet and see what he does, or should I say something to him outright? Speak my intention to submit, or submit silently? There’s no way for me to really know. The best I can do is feel out the situation and take my best guess. All I know is that I want to please him.

  I lean back and watch Dr. Leeds lecture to the students. I listen to his deep voice, his accent that drives me crazy with want, and his beautiful way with words. I try to take in every detail about him. His dark hair, his sharp cheekbones, the way he always smiles with his eyes. It’s not like I can really find the answer to my questions by just staring and listening as closely as I can to him, but maybe it’s worth trying. Or maybe he’ll drop some clue for me in his lecture. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Internal and external conflict…” Dr. Leeds says, sounding somewhat exasperated. “Easy, basic stuff guys. Anyone?”

  I bite my tongue. I doubt he wants his TA to chime in here when he’s trying to get the students talking.

  “Forget German Lit,” he says. “You all know Romeo and Juliet, right? What is the main conflict there?”

  No students raise their hands. Typical for a freshman course like this. It’s not “cool” to answer questions, and most of these students still have a high school mentality.

  Dr. Leeds waves his finger around and jabs it toward a student in back. “You. Main conflict in Romeo and Juliet. Lay it on me.”

  “Uhh,” the guy stammers. “Me?”

  “You!” Dr. Leeds says, pointing again for emphasis.

  “I guess,” he mumbles, “like, uh, they can’t be together.”

  “Why?” Dr. Leeds ask.

  “Cause they die and shit?” he says, laughing.

  There are some stifled giggles from the other students, but Dr. Leeds doesn’t laugh.

  “What shit happens before that?” Dr. Leeds asks. “The conflict is what drives the plot. They die at the end. Their dying isn’t the conflict, because their deaths end the conflict and the story itself.”

  “I guess,” the student says, “it’s that their families don’t want them to be together.”

  “Right,” Dr. Leeds says. “So, would you consider that an internal problem, or an external one?”

  The student’s forehead wrinkles up, and he squints. It looks
like considering this question is using up all the available processing power in his brain. “External?”

  “Why?” Dr. Leeds asks. “Give me your reasoning. You’re right, but you had a fifty percent chance of guessing right.”

  “Because like,” the student says, “what their families want is just like some outside thing. If it was just the two of them, they’d be together, no problem.”

  “Would that make for a good story?” Dr. Leeds asks. “The play starts, they are in love, and we have three acts of them being happy together with no problems?”

  “I guess not,” the student says.

  “Good job,” Dr. Leeds says. “You’re not nearly as dumb as you want to sound. Name?”

  “Greg,” he says.

  Dr. Leeds moves his finger across the lecture hall, and I watch the students tense up nervously as if he was aiming a gun.

  “You!” Leeds says, pointing at a girl who I can clearly see is texting and not paying attention.

  “Me?” she asks, her voice squeaking.

  “Yes, what’s your name?”

  “Uh, Tiffany?” Her voice squeaks up like a mouse on the last syllable.

  “Why does that sound like a question?” Dr. Leeds says, grinning.

  “Tiffany,” she says, slowly sliding her phone into her purse and finally looking up, focused.

  I realize that it’s going to be really hard to teach this class. The students seem to know stuff when they are pressed, but I will have to press hard. I’d imagined everyone just automatically becoming fully engaged and discussing everything nearly unprompted. I’d imagined students arguing with each other. I need to watch Dr. Leeds to see how he gets them to open up. A semester of students clammed up like this would be a nightmare.

  “Tiffany,” he says. “Pretend that Romeo’s and Juliet’s families are totally fine with them being together. There is no feud between the Montagues and the Capulets—”