I took this art course at the college. Since I wasn’t enrolled I kinda had to sneak in, but the teacher, Miss Fetter, didn’t seem to mind. She liked my stuff. Mostly we did pears and breasts in the studio. That was fun. But we had an assignment to do something Miss Fetter called autobiographical mixed media. I had no idea what that meant, and I doubt anyone else in the class did either. Anyway, I turned in a pencil and pastel sketch called “Dictation.”

Miss Fetter called me into her office. My art was sitting on her desk. “So how is this autobiographical?” she asked. I explained that over the summer I’d had a temp job at law office as a receptionist. One of the partners, Mr. Clapper, wondered if I could take dictation. I told him I didn’t know shorthand. He told me it didn’t matter, he’d teach me everything I needed to know. He locked his office door, dropped his pants, and masturbated.

“How crude,” Miss Fetter said.

“Yeah, but he did have a kind of cute dick,” I said. “But it took him a long time to get off. I didn’t really want to touch him or suck him or anything, but I figured it would be okay to kind of graze his penis with the pen. That did the trick. His cum came walloping out. I blocked most of it with my notebook. Every afternoon that week, he called me in for dictation. I wore shorter and shorter skirts, and blouses I could unbutton or pull down to bare my breasts, the idea being that he’d get off quicker. But he’d never come until I touched his cock with the pen. I got better and better at catching all the jizz on the notebook.”

“I see,” Miss Fetter said. “But how is this mixed media?”

I pointed to my picture, the splotches on my face. “It’s real cum,” I said. “I got Derek from class to jerk off over my sketch. Didn’t have to use the pen, either. Should I give him half credit?”