Page 10 of Office Hours
I reach for the coffee on my desk, but it’s cold and bitter. I gulp anyway, hoping the shock will kill the hard-on. It doesn’t. Nothing will.
My whole body is an angry chord—part terror, part awe, part a hunger so deep it feels like my marrow has liquefied. I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself to think. I tell myself this is fixable, that I can right the ship.
But as I sit here, my palm throbbing from the death grip I had on that Bic, I know it’s already too late.
I try to grade the next paper in my stack, but the words swim. Every sentence is a memory of Simone: her perfume, the sliver of panty, the way her lips curled when she said “I have nothing yet, Professor Thomas. Can you help me?” The way she bared herself in class and dared me to do a damn thing about it.
I look at the clock. Still twenty minutes until my next appointment.
Fuck it.
I lock the door, draw the blinds, and push my chair back. For a moment I just sit there, heart hammering, breath shallow, hand already drifting down. My skin feels electric, every toucha live wire. I imagine Simone kneeling under my desk, looking up with those big, blue eyes as she opens her mouth, letting her bubblegum pink tongue curl around the head of my cock. I picture her on the desk, legs thrown wide, skirt bunched at her waist, panties shucked aside and her wet little pussy begging for my fingers. I picture her turning, presenting her ass, the memory of that pencil tracing her puckered star until she moans for it.
I grip my cock, the pressure almost painful, and bite my own knuckle again to keep the sound in. The orgasm builds fast, a blood-hot rush, as I come into a wad of Kleenex, gasping Simone’s name into the desk’s hollow. My whole body shudders, then slumps, the weight of it heavy and rotten and so fucking necessary.
I sag there, post-nut clarity like a thunderbolt to the skull. I’m an idiot, a pervert, a walking lawsuit. I’d flush myself down the campus toilets if I thought it would matter.
Instead, I clean up, toss the tissues in the trash, and unbolt the office door.
There’s a knock almost immediately.
It’s not Simone—of course not. But I still half expect her, or maybe hope for it.
It’s the Dean’s assistant, a soft-spoken woman in a pantsuit and sensible shoes. She glances at me over the rim of her clipboard. “Dr. Thomas? The department head meeting’s been moved up. Ten minutes from now. Conference room B.”
“Thank you,” I say, careful to keep my voice level. “I’ll be there.”
She nods and leaves.
I stand, my knees weak, and fix my tie in the reflection of the glass case above my diplomas. For a moment I look at myself, really look: black hair too long, blue eyes too pale, the cut of my jaw a little more menacing than academic. I look like the villain in a student’s revenge fantasy, the kind of man who fucks and ruins and leaves. Maybe I am.
I pack up my legal pad, slip it into my satchel, and head to the meeting.
The conference room is a humid cell block of misery. Ten professors hunched over a table, sipping bad coffee and pretending to care about the agenda. I take my spot and try to focus as the Department Head drones on about tenure, budgets, and plagiarism.
But I can’t stop thinking about Simone.
Her next essay, due in three days. Our next class, in two. The next time she walks into my office.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, the phantom tingle of a new email.
I glance at it under the table.
It’s from Simone.
Subject: “Thank you!”
Body: “You’re the best, Professor Thomas. I’ll work super hard and turn in something by Sunday. If I get stuck, can I email you?”
I hesitate, then reply, all business:
“Of course, Simone. I’m here to help. Let me know if you need more direction.”
But then I add, almost against my will:
“If you’d like extra time to review your draft, I’m available for additional office hours Saturday afternoon. In fact, if you prefer, we can meet somewhere quieter to discuss your writing.”
I hit send before my courage can evaporate.
