Preview

s 1

The late afternoon sun slanted across the campus quad, turning everything golden and making my backpack feel like it weighed a thousand pounds. I was twenty, a sophomore barely scraping by, and Lit 301 was already trying to bury me. That first big paper on Shakespeare? D-minus. Red ink everywhere. I stared at the grade until my eyes burned, then made the decision I’d been avoiding for weeks: office hours. Professor Rebecca Lawson’s office hours.

I wasn’t going for her body. Okay, maybe a little. From the very first day of class she’d walked in wearing this fitted navy blouse that hugged her 36DD chest like it was painted on, the fabric stretching just enough over her full breasts to make my mouth go dry. The knee-length pencil skirt had clung to her wide hips, swaying with every step on those black heels that clicked like a metronome counting down my self-control. I’d sat in the back row pretending to take notes while my brain short-circuited. But it wasn’t just the body. Her voice—low, warm, passionate—made even iambic pentameter sound filthy. I just sucked at translating that passion onto paper.

My life outside class was nothing special. A cheap off-campus apartment with roommates who blasted music until 3 a.m., a part-time coffee-shop gig slinging overpriced lattes to freshmen who tipped like shit, and no real girlfriend since high school. A couple fumbling hookups that left me more embarrassed than satisfied. I was the quiet guy, the one who noticed everything but said nothing. And now I was about to say something to the one woman on campus who made me feel like a horny teenager again.

My heart hammered as I climbed the stairs to the third floor of the humanities building. The hallway smelled like old paper and floor wax. I’d never done office hours before. What if she thought I was wasting her time? What if she saw the way I looked at her and laughed? I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and stopped outside her door. It was slightly ajar. I could hear the soft scratch of a pen inside.

I knocked.

“Come in,” she called, voice like warm honey.

I pushed the door open and stepped into her world. The office was small, book-lined on every wall—leather-bound classics, dog-eared paperbacks, a few modern theory volumes stacked like towers. Late sunlight slanted through the single window, catching dust motes that danced like tiny stars. On the corner of her desk sat a framed photo: Rebecca smiling beside two teenagers—a boy with her auburn hair and a girl with her eyes—while a distant-looking man in a suit stood slightly apart. Her husband. The wedding ring on her left hand glinted as she set her pen down.

She looked up. Black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, loose auburn hair falling over one shoulder in soft waves. Soft pale skin with the faintest spray of freckles across the swell of her chest. Full lips painted a delicate pink. Her cream blouse today hugged every curve, buttons straining just enough to reveal a teasing hint of white lace bra underneath. The fabric pulled taut over her breasts when she leaned forward, and I caught the soft press of her belly against the desk edge.

“Alex, right?” She smiled, warm and genuine. “Come in, close the door.”

I did, the click echoing too loud in my ears. The air smelled like vanilla perfume and old books, something sweet and scholarly that made my pulse spike. She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. I sat, backpack sliding to the floor with a thud.

She picked up my paper, flipping through the marked pages. When she leaned in to read, her cleavage deepened, the lace edge of her bra peeking out, and her soft belly pressed against the wood. I forced my eyes to the page, but my brain was already cataloging every detail: the way her wedding ring caught the light again as she turned a page, the faint freckles disappearing into the shadow between her breasts, the soft pink of her lips moving as she murmured notes to herself.

“You have some really interesting ideas here, Alex,” she said, looking up. Her eyes were a deep hazel behind the glasses. “The connection between Hamlet’s indecision and modern anxiety? Fresh. But the structure’s a mess and the textual evidence is thin.”

I laughed nervously. “Yeah, I kind of winged the whole ‘evidence’ part. Shakespeare and I aren’t exactly best friends.”

She laughed too—a low, throaty sound that made something low in my stomach tighten. “Most students feel that way at first. You’re not alone.” She tapped the paper. “But you’ve got a voice. Real potential. I’d hate to lose a student like you.”

We talked longer than I expected. Ten minutes stretched into twenty, then thirty. She shared a tiny detail about her week—”My husband’s away again, some conference up north. Grading marathons get lonely when the house is empty”—and her eyes lit up when I mentioned my favorite book, a battered copy of The Tempest I’d read three times. She recommended another, scribbling the title on a sticky note. Her handwriting was elegant, looping.

Every time she moved, her heels clicked softly against the floor. The wedding ring flashed again when she reached for a book on the shelf behind her—twice I caught myself staring at it, a cold reminder that she was married, off-limits, someone’s wife and mother. But my mind kept drifting filthy anyway: what that lace bra looked like underneath, how her skin might taste if I ever got close enough, the way her hips would feel under that skirt.

She slid my paper back across the desk with handwritten notes in the margins—tight, encouraging loops. Then she handed me a business card, office hours highlighted in yellow. “Come back anytime, Alex. Really. I’m here to help.”

I stood on shaky legs, thanked her, and slipped out. The hallway felt cooler, the campus sounds—distant laughter, a mower somewhere—rushing back in. But my head was still in that office, replaying the vanilla scent that had clung to my shirt when she leaned close, the way her breasts shifted when she laughed, the soft press of her belly against the desk.

By the time I reached my apartment the sun had dipped low, painting everything orange. I dropped my backpack, locked the door, and collapsed onto my cheap twin bed. My cock had been half-hard the entire walk home, aching now with every replay. I closed my eyes and let it all flood back.

The way her blouse strained. The freckles on her chest. The glint of that wedding ring while she smiled at me like I mattered. I shoved my jeans down, wrapped my hand around myself, and started stroking slow. In my head she was still leaning forward, cleavage spilling, lips parted as she read my terrible paper. I imagined the click of her heels if she’d stood and walked around the desk. The smell of vanilla on her skin.

“Professor Lawson,” I whispered, voice cracking. My strokes sped up, thumb brushing the head, pre-cum slicking everything. Guilt twisted in my gut—she’s married, she has kids, she’s your professor—but the guilt only made it hotter. I pictured her glasses fogging slightly, that soft pink mouth opening wider. My hips bucked off the bed.

I came hard, groaning her name under my breath, ropes spilling over my fist and onto my stomach. The release left me trembling, chest heaving, the room spinning.

I lay there catching my breath, staring at the ceiling. The business card sat on my nightstand, yellow highlight glowing in the dying light.

I knew I had to go back. Even if it was dangerous.