by Gabi Moore
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 exposed 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.
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…”
I sat mute, watching. She seemed to be enjoying herself. She was tiptoeing a very, very fine line and knew it. She really was a master of pacing, I thought, and inwardly thanked myself for creating such a competent student.
“Instead, I have to think of a way to introduce more tension. To show the reader what the stakes really are. They want it, but they can’t have it,” she said dreamily, talking to some distant point outside the window. “The characters in my story, I mean, not you and I,” she smiled, flashing a teasing glance at me.
She turned away from the desk and sidled over to me. In the same way that honey pours from the jar almost unbearably slowly in the beginning, but then falls all at once in one heavy, luscious blob, she slid up to me slowly and then all at once was standing close, really close, so close that I swear I could hear the silky rasp of her breathing.
“So I’ll change my story. I’ll have them get close to it, you know. Really close. But they won’t fuck this time.” The word zinged again; something about the way it sat in her little mouth meant it never grew stale, always sounded shocking, unexpected. Her heavy eyes were even darker close up, and so liquid they seemed to reflect every last scrap of light in the room. Her hair smelled musky; the tiny links of a silver chain rolled over her delicate collarbones as she spoke. She had an almost old fashioned build; the kind of over-the-top feminine hourglass that made old-school cartoon characters turn into wolves with tongues that unroll to the floor. Her breasts really were uncommonly full and heavy, and seemed all the sexier for being paired with a sweet, innocent face that seemed unaware of the effect of all the voluptuousness below. Why was she hiding such a beautiful body in such ghastly clothing?
“Maybe the girl will lean in really close, like this…” she began, moving her face right up to mine. She parted her lips. I could hear her breathing stop, along with everything else in the universe, except the throbbing in my lap.
“…And she could do something like take his hand like this…” she reached haltingly to my lap and grasped my hand. Almost hypnotized, I didn’t resist. Gently, she closed her fingers around my wrist and pulled the hand closer to her.
“…And he could touch her, you know? Just a little. Just to build the…” here, she cautiously placed my hand between her legs, nothing but the thin black cotton of her dress between my fingertips. She paused it there, waiting to see the effect this would have on me, her deep eyes still fixed staring at mine.
“Just to build the uh… the tension,” she exhaled and pressed my fingertips further against her body. “And he’d want to touch her so badly, you know? He’d be just dying to really touch her. By this point she’s soaking wet …but he doesn’t know that yet.” She smiled. “He’s wondering if she’ll let him… let him…”
My head was spinning. This was wrong. Disgusting, even. At any point, any one of the other students could come barging in and I was sitting here, rock hard with one hand on my student’s crotch. There was no coming back from this now. She was tiny, easily half my size; I could grab her right now, and fling her onto the table, and fuck her so hard she would never think of teasing me like this again. So what was stopping me? Was she really so sure I wouldn’t?
Suddenly, she stepped back and tossed my hand aside. Her entire attitude changed. “But nope, they won’t do anything. Not yet. Nope. Because of tension.”
I was stunned. She pretended to pick some lint off her skirt and cracked her neck from side to side like a villain in a mafia movie. She grabbed her folder from the chair and gave me a glancing look before moving for the door. “You’re a good teacher you know,” she tossed her hair flippantly, “You’ve taught me so much already. Later!”
Before I knew it she had left, slamming the door behind her. My dick throbbed in my pants. Bitch. I was going to teach her a lesson, all right.
Michelle
I had never felt so turned on in all my life. I raced home, drunk on my own brazenness, feeling sure that the people I passed in the street could see straight into my depraved soul, could somehow sense how soaking wet my panties were and how fast my thoughts were flickering from one dirty possibility to the next.
What had I done?
I hate being challenged. I hate when people underestimate me. Let’s call it a character flaw. But I was in hot water now. Now, I was committed. As I walked through my front door, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks: this was going to happen. Soon. Somewhere in my future I was going to let my Creative Writing teacher do very, very bad things to me. And now it was just a matter of time, a matter of playing it cool in these intervening moments.
Should I submit another story? Would he ask to see me again? Did the other students think I was a raging slut? I realized that their disapproval only seemed to add to the thrill of it. It was glorious. No longer was I just writing about these things, I was living them. He was right – words do have power. And the body can speak. And mine was saying, “more.”
The next class, I felt close to fainting, like some kind of maiden with a heaving bosom in a bodice-ripper. Mr. Cain acted like nothing had even happened. He was so bland and dismissive I almost doubted my entire memory of the class before. This, together with how painfully boring Linda’s piece was (even by her standards) and I was starting to lose hope as the end of the class approached. Maybe I had just embarrassed myself. Had I worn this tight little skirt for nothing? Had I agonized over which exact bra to wear just to go home and take it off again?
When it was my turn, I carried on with a reading from my short horror story, which seemed uninteresting to the other students in comparison to what had already passed; I couldn’t drum up any enthusiasm for it either. But as the hour petered out and everyone started to pack away their books and disperse, Mr. Cain cleared his throat and said to nobody in particular, “Michelle, could you please stay after class for a moment, pleas
e?”
In that split second, my entire body pulsed with an “oh god yes!” but on the surface, I tried to feign indifference and only muttered, “sure,” also to nobody in particular. He nodded once and the other students floated off.
As the last student left the classroom, he still had his back to me, fussing with some papers on the desk – that desk that I couldn’t look at anymore without my mind wandering. I sat deathly still in my chair, trying to will my heartbeat to calm down. Clasped in my lap was a new and updated story, longer by 2000 words and overflowing with tension, among other things.
Late into the night before, I had slaved on a new version of the story, one where the girl teases, and teases, and teases… She pushes too far, and she gets “punished”, her young body bearing the brunt of her sexual hubris, like some whore-ish character in a Greek tragedy. In other words, it was an amateurish hot mess. But, as they say, know your audience. I wanted Mr. Cain to read himself in those pages. And me. I loved the feeling of control I had over him, how I had immobilized him in his seat with just a look, just a suggestion. It was a power I was just feeling out the corners of; a power I did not intend to use wisely that day.
But something about the way he kept his back to me now was making me nervous. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, waiting. What was he doing? Should I say something?
“You’ve written another draft of your story?” he said, still not turning to face me.
I waited as long as I could before replying. “Yes.”
“Read it to me.”
The force in his voice sent happy tingles all over my body.
I waited again, not wanting to lose this moment yet, this sweet moment where anything could happen. I examined my fingernails with feigned boredom.
