fucking, make her scream my name and beg for my cock.
Is that so different, really?
I feel like I’m degrading her somehow …
I mean, it’s one thing to degrade a woman for her pleasure in a BDSM scene, and I’ve certainly never had trouble with that. But this isn’t a scene, it’s a financial transaction.
I’m basically paying my best student, whom I also illicitly desire, to get me off.
There’s something about that that just doesn’t seem right …
Ah, she’s just come out of the bathroom.
“Ms. Lytton, I-”
She looks at me, her expression withering in its distance, as is her body language - she’s heading straight for the door, keeping away from me as far as possible.
“Goodbye, Dr. Morland. See you in class. No, please don’t walk me out, I’m fine, thank you.”
And just like that, she’s slipped out. My adorable sylph. Fuck. My one ray of sunshine in academia.
Because I can’t say I ever really wanted particularly to teach. I mean, I get decent reviews, although half of them go on and on about my looks, which is tiresome and embarrassing to say the least …
That said, I don’t think I’m a bad teacher, quite on the contrary. But teaching was always something I just fell into - or rather was nudged into by dad, who was an academic through and through.
He was always a bit of an eccentric, more or less gave up his inheritance to do what he loved, which was teaching and writing about English literature - granddad wanted him to take over the family firm, but he wasn’t interested, though he’d have made far more that way.
I don’t think granddad ever quite forgave him for that, even though they eventually got back on speaking terms - he was bypassed in granddad’s will, though I was taken care of in a separate trust fund.
But he never cared about that sort of thing. Neither did mom, who was also a professor, albeit in the psychology department.
And so I grew up in academia, drifted into working on a PhD, during which years I wrote my novel as well.
Then I did what all of my classmates were doing, went to the MLA conference, sent out resumés, got offers from a couple of places.
Three days later I got an offer from an agent as well, and that was pretty much it for my writing career.
I hadn’t thought the book would be that big, and that instantaneous a success, but it was, and after that the creative writing department offered me a joint appointment as well.
Dad was overjoyed, I think he thought that that somehow legitimised my fiction writing, which I suspect has never seemed entirely respectable to him.
Such an irony, given his love of literature.
I suppose anything written after the guys who were big in the 1960s isn’t really literature for him any more, critics be damned … especially if it sells, like my book did, ha!
But I’ve always thought it says it all that I haven’t written anything substantial, just the occasional short story for the New Yorker, ever since I started teaching.
At least, not until I met her …
She was so charming. I have to admit I didn’t notice her the first day of class, except in a generalised way: OK, so Paige Lytton is the little blonde, serious-looking, the only one of the girls who’s not making eyes at me. Excellent .
Then she started answering questions in class, and it became obvious that unlike most of her peers she actually had a more than adequate grasp of the material, that she was someone who actually had ideas .
Good ideas, at that.
I started noticing her, saw how her eyes would shine when she was talking about something she cared about. She wasn’t just taking the class for a requirement, or just to gawk at me, she was actually interested in the books she was studying.
By the time she turned in her first assignment (so well-written, so original, so witty), I was utterly smitten.
Around that time she started showing up at office hours a lot, at first I was under the impression she wanted to talk about books with
Is that so different, really?
I feel like I’m degrading her somehow …
I mean, it’s one thing to degrade a woman for her pleasure in a BDSM scene, and I’ve certainly never had trouble with that. But this isn’t a scene, it’s a financial transaction.
I’m basically paying my best student, whom I also illicitly desire, to get me off.
There’s something about that that just doesn’t seem right …
Ah, she’s just come out of the bathroom.
“Ms. Lytton, I-”
She looks at me, her expression withering in its distance, as is her body language - she’s heading straight for the door, keeping away from me as far as possible.
“Goodbye, Dr. Morland. See you in class. No, please don’t walk me out, I’m fine, thank you.”
And just like that, she’s slipped out. My adorable sylph. Fuck. My one ray of sunshine in academia.
Because I can’t say I ever really wanted particularly to teach. I mean, I get decent reviews, although half of them go on and on about my looks, which is tiresome and embarrassing to say the least …
That said, I don’t think I’m a bad teacher, quite on the contrary. But teaching was always something I just fell into - or rather was nudged into by dad, who was an academic through and through.
He was always a bit of an eccentric, more or less gave up his inheritance to do what he loved, which was teaching and writing about English literature - granddad wanted him to take over the family firm, but he wasn’t interested, though he’d have made far more that way.
I don’t think granddad ever quite forgave him for that, even though they eventually got back on speaking terms - he was bypassed in granddad’s will, though I was taken care of in a separate trust fund.
But he never cared about that sort of thing. Neither did mom, who was also a professor, albeit in the psychology department.
And so I grew up in academia, drifted into working on a PhD, during which years I wrote my novel as well.
Then I did what all of my classmates were doing, went to the MLA conference, sent out resumés, got offers from a couple of places.
Three days later I got an offer from an agent as well, and that was pretty much it for my writing career.
I hadn’t thought the book would be that big, and that instantaneous a success, but it was, and after that the creative writing department offered me a joint appointment as well.
Dad was overjoyed, I think he thought that that somehow legitimised my fiction writing, which I suspect has never seemed entirely respectable to him.
Such an irony, given his love of literature.
I suppose anything written after the guys who were big in the 1960s isn’t really literature for him any more, critics be damned … especially if it sells, like my book did, ha!
But I’ve always thought it says it all that I haven’t written anything substantial, just the occasional short story for the New Yorker, ever since I started teaching.
At least, not until I met her …
She was so charming. I have to admit I didn’t notice her the first day of class, except in a generalised way: OK, so Paige Lytton is the little blonde, serious-looking, the only one of the girls who’s not making eyes at me. Excellent .
Then she started answering questions in class, and it became obvious that unlike most of her peers she actually had a more than adequate grasp of the material, that she was someone who actually had ideas .
Good ideas, at that.
I started noticing her, saw how her eyes would shine when she was talking about something she cared about. She wasn’t just taking the class for a requirement, or just to gawk at me, she was actually interested in the books she was studying.
By the time she turned in her first assignment (so well-written, so original, so witty), I was utterly smitten.
Around that time she started showing up at office hours a lot, at first I was under the impression she wanted to talk about books with
Similar Books
