Crossing the Line

by Lauren Landish

  “Sandy,” Mr. Robinson says, and I shake my head, knocking the memories loose for a little bit. My pussy twitches and I can feel my nipples hard and tight in my bra, and I look him up and down, wondering if he wants to fuck me tonight. I need it, and by the look in his eye, Mr. Robinson knows it, too. “Good to see you tonight.”

  “Good to be seen,” I reply, sipping my drink again as if this were a normal conversation and that we were going to discuss some top forty tunes. “The bartender said you wanted to talk. What's up?”

  “About a half hour ago, I got a call. A very respected member and his friends are looking for a special event,” Mr. Robinson says, looking me up and down, judging in his head if I'm what he's looking for. “Gangbang. Think you might be interested?”

  I think, sipping my scotch and soda. Inside, the real me is sobbing, crying out that I can't be seriously considering this idea. The idea of untold numbers of men I may or may not know fucking me in every hole, using and abusing me . . . and the kicker? I actually crave it. Well, I don’t, but the real me isn't in control. If I were, if the old Shawnie were, I’d tell this guy to kiss my ass and give him a good kick in the balls to boot. But the demon is, and it wants to be fed. “This respected Club member—he and his friends are clean, right?”

  Mr. Robinson tuts me in correction, but he nods. “You know that's a rule here. Your test up to date?”

  “You know perfectly well that I emailed it in less than a week ago,” I respond to him, my pussy and that side of me that I hate already saying I’m ready. I bite my lip, nodding in assent that I’m up for it. “Deal. But a private room. This music sucks.”

  Mr. Robinson nods, giving me an appreciative smile. “I'll tell him. I'm sure it won't be a problem. You can use the Blue Room. I think that'll be best.”

  The Blue Room, huh? This guy must be hot shit. I know the price it takes to reserve that room, with its bottles of chilled Dom, eighteen-year-old double-malt Scotch, and toys that'd make a lot of pros blush—toys you can keep as a souvenir if you like afterward. I've never been in there before, though I’ve been invited once.

  “Well then, I suppose I should go get ready,” I purr, reaching down and cupping Mr. Robinson's cock through his suit pants. He’s always dressed in some of the finest fashions unless he's fucking, which he does occasionally for fun as well as a way to see what members might be up for. I’d never do something like that outside The Club, but in here, I’m a different person. “Think you might want another ride with me? You know just how to make me come.”

  Mr. Robinson's cock stirs in his pants and I can see that he's interested. “Maybe another night. For now, just enjoy.”

  He moves off, and I turn back, downing the rest of my drink and signaling for a refill while I watch the group that's fucking right now.

  As I watch, my pussy drips. Still, inside me, the part of me that was the real me until that summer day by the lake cries softly, sobbing as it wants to go to sleep, to ignore what the demon is going to show her again. But it can't. I feel sorry for myself and toss back the second scotch quickly. If the real me can't ignore what I'm about to do, at least I can be drunk enough that it might not care so much.

  I head to the Blue Room, which the attendant opens for me. Inside, I take a look around and nod. It’s classy in a certain perverted way. None of the tools or toys are just lying out. They’re all hidden inside brushed aluminum drawers, and the big padded space in the middle gives a little under my feet as I take off my heels and step onto it.

  I’m trying to figure out if I should leave my clothes on or take them off when the door opens again and a group of men come in, led by a man I’ve seen before on television. He certainly looks different when he’s not standing on the steps of the State House.

  The demon is laughing even while I’m sobbing hysterically inside. I feel myself escaping into delirium even as I know that later on, unfortunately, I’m going to remember every second of this.

  Finally, it’s over. The men get dressed, the famous one stopping at the door to look back at me in wonder. “You’re one amazing woman, you know that?”

  He feels bad, I think, and the logical part of me understands. It’s kinda hypocritical to make speeches and introduce bills demanding respect for all women and then treat me the way he just did. I’d like to tell him the truth, but maybe I’m just too nice. “Don’t worry, honey. It was fun for me too.”

  The man nods, looks like he’s about to say something else, then leaves, closing the door behind him. My liar’s smile disappears the instant the door shuts. In the quiet, that side of me that I hate is content.

  I do what I should do, what any normal woman would. The first tears are hot and searing, but at least they’re honest. Surrounded by sex and depravity, by the destruction that my hell makes me do, at least they’re something honest in my life.

  Chapter 2

  Rafe

  The first day of fall semester is one that I both enjoy and hate. On one hand, each year in the three undergrad classes I normally teach, there are plenty of fresh-faced students, each of them eager to push their limits. It's one of the reasons that I work here at Stanford. Its reputation as one of the best schools for academics in the entire nation is well-deserved. There’s plenty of disappointment to go with it though, as year after year, I see that none of them can keep up with me, that none of them are willing to actually use their fucking brains for more than social networking and trying to see how much ass they can get before they graduate.

  “Good morning. Are you here to see the Professor?”

  I turn at the question, pissed already. Of all my pet peeves, being unprepared is definitely my biggest, and I guess this poor fuck just picked the wrong day to be stupid with me. The guy is a TA. I hired him, like most of the TAs that the university sends me, sight unseen. I don't care what you look like. I'm interested in what you can do for me or if you’re just going to waste my time. Still, the registrar's office forwarded me his photo from his student ID two days ago and I remember his name. “Thaddeus Gilbert.”

  He realizes who he's talking to and goes pasty white. “Pr–Professor Meyers, I'm sorry. I didn't—”

  “You didn't take the time to actually learn that the professor you're going to be working for is me,” I finish for him. “Well, I took the time to learn about you. Chemical engineering major, finished your undergrad work with a 3.8 GPA. Tried out for the swimming team until you decided that being a chemical engineer was more important. It was that reason alone that let me agree to give you a chance.”

  “Sir, I'm very sorry—” Gilbert says, but I cut him off.

  “I’m not finished. Do you even know why you got assigned to me? Did you know that I go through TAs like toilet paper? Or did you just decide that you’d like the stipend and you figured that being a TA would look good on your transcript at some point? Did you even research who you got assigned to?”

  Gilbert stutters again, looking down. “N–No sir, I didn't.”

  I roll my eyes. “Get out. You’re fired.”

  He looks down and quickly packs up his stuff and leaves, slamming my office door behind him. The glass rattles, but it doesn’t break like two years ago when my fired TA decided that the best way to lodge a protest was with a stapler through the frosted glass.

  Ten minutes later, the department secretary, Melanie Petersen, sticks her head in. “Professor Meyers?”

  I'm sitting at my desk, sipping at my morning cappuccino like nothing happened, reading my emails before I finish out the morning's work. Then I can get some real work done. Another nice thing about working at Stanford—good coffee. That endowment has to be spent on something, after all. “Hello, Melanie. How can I help you?”

  Melanie comes in with a file folder, looking around with a knowing smile on her face. “TA didn't last long, I take it?”

  She's been with the department since before I joined the faculty, and is one of the people I get along with best at work. Professional and competent, she knows me p
retty well, at least as well as I let any of the staff know me. “Faster than normal. He didn’t even know who I was. What's the office pool got?”

  “Nobody's gonna believe it, and I don't think anyone took today,” Melanie replies with a smirk, setting the file folder down. “I was hoping for next Tuesday. You know, all you’re doing is giving yourself even more work to do every time you fire a TA. Here, I need your signature on the updated parking lot rules. Inside is a copy for you to keep as well.”

  “Great, just great,” I mutter, putting my initials down before turning back to my computer. “Bottom line is if they'd send me a good one, I wouldn't have a problem with it. But thanks. Talk to you later.”

  In a sign of her consummate professionalism, Melanie leaves with only a simple goodbye and I'm left to get my work done. I’m getting through my lesson plans for the rest of the first week of classes when there's another knock on my door. “Come in.”

  The door opens, and Dean Nathan Harper, head of the College of Engineering, comes in. “Rafe, I got a call about ten minutes ago from the Teacher’s Assistant office. Apparently, Thaddeus Gilbert showed up sobbing and saying that you fired him?”

  “Sobbing? For fuck's sake,” I mutter, sitting forward and setting my keyboard aside. “Yes, I fired him. Totally unqualified and unprepared. I’d do better flying solo than having him around.”

  Dean Harper sighs and sits down in the chair across from my desk, tapping the wooden arm rest and studying my face. “Dammit, Rafe, you are nearly so much a pain in the ass that it overwhelms what you bring to Stanford. You know that?”

  “I know that last year, I brought Stanford nearly two million dollars in DOD money on my projects and that the College of Engineering plasters the fact that I have a Wright Brothers Medal and a Goddard Trophy all over the recruiting materials,” I reply, adjusting again and leaning back. Dean Harper and I have gone over this before. He knows I’m right, and I know that he’s right too. I am a pain in the ass. “I also know I’m tough and expect a lot from these kids, but I still have a waiting list two semesters deep for my classes.”

  “And you have more complaints against you than any other professor in the department,” Dean Harper grumbles.

  “None of those complaints have ever been justified. We both know that. Yeah, I’m tough on these kids, but someone’s got to be. Everyone else lets them get by while doing nothing. They’re here to become the next generation of leaders in aerospace design, not to get their noses wiped and have someone offer them a juice box with their degree.”

  Dean Harper sighs again and nods. “Still, you're putting me in a tough spot. I had the TA office send Gilbert to you because, quite frankly, as popular as you are with students, he was the only potential TA who didn't list you as one of the professors that he was unwilling to work for. Maybe that, more than anything, should have been a red flag to me. He was too sloppy to read over everything. And with your work on the CyberFighter at the stage it's at . . .”

  “Don't worry about it,” I tell him, thinking of this afternoon's work. “The Pentagon's still happy with what I'm doing, at least that’s what they told me last week when I talked with them. What's your point?”

  The Dean sighs. “Rafe, my point is that this semester, if you want to get this CyberFighter to the next stage of completion, you need a TA. You can’t do everything.”

  I half groan, half sigh, knowing he's right. I need a TA if for no other reason than to do some of the grunt work that takes up my teaching hours. There’s too much lab work that needs to be done for me to get through it all otherwise. “Fine, fine, send me another. I'll be nicer this time.”

  Dean Harper shakes his head and pulls out his smartphone, tapping the screen. “Not this time. I can't afford to have the registrar's office on my ass anymore about you if you fire another one so quickly. So, here's what we're going to do. I already went through and found three students, all engineering students, all good GPAs. Frankly, the only reason they don't have positions already is because they're all so damn good that they don't need the TA stipend for the most part. They're all full-ride academic students. So pick out your top choice, and you're going to do a sit-down interview with whoever the hell it is. Send me your interview choice before the end of the day.”

  “I'll have it by the end of lunch,” I reply, my computer beeping as an email hits my inbox. “I assume that is what you were tapping away at your phone about?”

  Dean Harper nods, getting up from the chair. “I'm having you do this for a reason. You can’t just run by your own rule book forever. You’re going to get burned eventually doing so. You are brilliant, and I know that it frustrates the hell out of you, but you do come off as Superman to a lot of us around here. So did Tesla, and look what happened to him. Died broke and ignored for generations while others got credit for stuff he thought up. I'd like to not see you be a footnote in the history of engineering, some trivia answer on Jeopardy someday.”

  “Understood. I'll have you my answer by lunch.”

  Dean Harper leaves, and I take a moment to shoot a one-finger universal gesture to the door and open his email. Three PDF files appear on my screen, the standard application form for each student, the same thing that the TA office sends me all the time.

  Applicant one, Logan Fiorello. Twenty-two years old from Long Island. Electrical major, did a summer interning with Boeing. Has potential.

  Applicant two, Carmella Villalobos. Twenty-four from Brownsville, Texas. Materials major with a perfect GPA, but she says she wants to go into high-tech ceramics and IT, so not my field. Trashcan for her.

  Applicant three, Shawnie Holliday. Twenty-four, second year Master's student . . . in aeronautical engineering? I think back, but the name doesn't ring a bell. I check and see why. She’s never had me as a teacher. Still, she’s got a perfect GPA both as an undergrad and last year. It’s intriguing.

  I pull up her image, and I can't help it, the male side of me that shouldn’t be in control likes what it sees. Rich, lustrous skin that glows, rounded cheeks, and hair that hangs in tight ringlets make her beautiful, but more importantly, there's intelligence in her golden sandy colored eyes. An intelligence that I think could handle what I dish out, but also something else, something that makes me want to find out more about Shawnie Holliday.

  Chapter 3

  Shawnie

  I wake up sore all over as the hazy memories from last night make me want to puke. I shiver, disgusted with myself. I’d hoped to drink enough that I wouldn’t remember a thing, but I guess I wasn't that drunk after all.

  At least the demon is content for a little while, although it took a more disgusting exhibition of sex than normal to get it to shut up. I go to the shower and wash myself thoroughly before I get ready for the day. Over a quick breakfast of Cheerios, all I can really afford on the stipend that's left after my costs for my studies and my lifestyle, I check my email.

  The first two messages I get are normal spammy stuff, but the third makes my heart skip a beat. After last semester, when I realized just how this lifestyle was draining what little money I had, I put in for a teacher's aide position at Stanford. Unfortunately, my application went in pretty late, so the odds were low. When I didn't hear back on anything by last Monday, I figured I was passed over this semester and that I'd be stuck trying to hustle side jobs as best I could. But there's a message here from a Professor Rafe Meyers . . . wait, that Professor Meyers?

  Miss Holliday,

  I have recently had a vacancy open for a Teacher's Aide position. I’m inviting you to have an interview about this opening this afternoon at three. If you are interested, please reply before noon.

  Regards,

  Rafe Meyers

  I glance at the clock, heaving a big sigh of relief as I see that despite my very active night last night, it's only a little before ten, and I hit Reply.

  Professor Meyers,

  Thank you very much for your invitation. I will be there this afternoon.

  Respectfull
y,

  Shawnie Holliday

  I start thinking about what I know about Professor Meyers. I've never studied underneath him, but his name is whispered around the department like he's half genius, half Satan. The stories about him are nearly too mind boggling to be believed, and I've never taken too much time to really wonder how much truth there was to them. Now I have to take a moment to sort it all out.

  First, the most famous story about him is that he's a tough son of a bitch, uncompromising, unflinching, and uncaring, according to what I've heard. Still, he's supposed to be the best in the entire field, and I know I've tried for two semesters to get a class with him and not been able to get in.

  I open my web browser and pull up the engineering department's page, looking for the profile on Professor Meyers, and I'm stunned when I do. I heard he was good-looking, but I just assumed he was a distinguished looking older man, as I would expect anyone so well-respected in the field to be. He’s young to have accomplished so much already, and I have to admit, he’s easy on the eyes. He's got dark hair that's cut short, and I think I can see just a hint of natural wave to it. He's got amazing, sensuous-looking lips and, at least in the photo, a smile that shows perfectly white teeth that almost sparkle like he's a model in a toothpaste commercial.

  He's attractive, and I can feel my body respond in a way that I thought it wouldn't for a while. At least this doesn't feel as dirty as what I did last night. I scroll down enough to read his profile without having to look at his amazing blue eyes anymore.