The spring semester was winding down, which meant that all sophomore English composition projects must be submitted by the second week of May. There I was, sitting in my home office chair, sorting through undergraduate e-mails and checking off my roster of submitters. As I made my way down to the "T's," my pencil horizontally scanned across to the name listed: "Temptation, Angel." My attention returned to my inbox, where an e-mail with header "final project" and an attachment with her name on it was listed as sender. I pressed the eraser to my chin, hesitantly, for a moment, before double clicking her e-mail and reading the following message:
"Dear Prof. Kassel, I hope you enjoy what is to cum with my final project. XXOO, Angel"
I blinked, as my imagination took off with the word "cum" ostensibly embedded among the crowd of black text on white background. Among this flow of mundane words was an erotic invitation; was it not? After all, I still had the attachment to download and listen to.
Leaning back against my wooden chair, the pencil eraser against my cheek, I waited as the audio file quickly downloaded. Angel was discrete about her final project, and it was, after all, an open-ended narrative—she could write or audibly record whatever she desired.
"Hmm," I thought, "...whatever she desired. This ought to be interesting."
Over the course of the four-month semester, I had maintained my professional and scholarly duties of being civil and engaging with the students, but Angel was an exception. Never before had there been a student who could capture my attention with her exceptional beauty and grace. Oftentimes, I would feel her eyes on my back as I stood in front of the whiteboard, my markered hand guiding the words to some instruction on Aristotle's rhetoric.
When students passed by my classroom desk to drop off their papers, my eyes would follow Angel from the moment she moved out of her seat. I would watch the way her curves swayed as she walked, how her breasts softly swayed within the confines of her shirt, and imagined how much warmth and smoothness was beneath her skirt. Occasionally, she would raise her hand for help—her soft, round breasts highlighted by this motion—and I would approach her desk.
I smiled, politely and helpfully, "Yes, Angel?"
Her infamous giggle resounded in our space, near the back of the classroom, as she proceeded to ask me for help with her paper.
Standing behind her, my eyes had a direct line down from her soft hair, studying the highlights, down her delicate neck and shoulder, to her breasts so full—rising and falling with each breath. Whether it was her voice, the smell of her perfume, or just standing in such proximate space, my senses would stir as did my desire and clit. Her presence aroused me—it was intoxicating—to drink her in with my sight, and breath the spell of her mildly, sweet fragrance—a mix between strawberries and vanilla. I leaned down behind her, my cheek level with her ear—pretending to concentrate and read her written work, thus far. As I was leaning down, she (inadvertently) brushed her soft hair against my right cheek. She giggled and I blushed with a smile then withdrew my position and stood. I asked her to stay after class for more instruction. I looked up at the wall clock and noted the time—class was wrapping up. As I walked back to my desk, I would feel my jeans chafing against my clit—teasing it as it swelled continuously from my brief contact with Angel.
At 2:15 class was dismissed. I nodded to all my students as I watched them exit. Angel was still seated in the back of the room, alone. Our eyes were locked in a silent intensity—it seems we both knew the chemistry and heat between us—our eye contact was a way of validating that, quietly. I sat on the edge of the desk, a slight smile crossing my lips. We remained like that for several minutes; the air in the classroom growing thick, the sexual tension rising.
