Michael Halversun has a hard time recounting his memories, even now that he is safe in the small book laden office of his therapist. The twenty year old is filled with guilt, his voice wavering as he speaks into the tape recorder and his therapist sits across from him, listening to his tale. His upbringing told him that adultery was a great sin, and his masculinity told him that it was his fault. Whether either of those things were true really didn't matter any more to him. Michael had been raped.
It had all begun six months before, when the young college junior had enrolled in an social sciences course at the state university he attended. It was not his usual topic of study and he had found himself quickly drowning in the foreign material and studies. He found it difficult to read and comprehend the philosophical analysis of men three hundred years since gone. How he had longed for the safety of his engineering courses and the scientific step processes which allowed him to logically come to the same conclusions as the pioneers of the field.
The only solution for the newlywed was to sign up for every available office hour. Every day after class he would head to his professor's office to cover the lecture material and reading in a more comfortable environment where he could raise questions on simple things without looking like a fool in front of his classmates. The teacher of the class didn't mind, and she seemed to readily accept and encourage his eagerness to keep up. He had mistakenly interpreted that as devotion to her job.
The professor was actually an associate who did not have tenure and had only recently arrived at the school, from a smaller private institution where some whispers of wrongdoing had led to her dismissal. She was in her tenth year of teaching out of graduate school and had found that college was the perfect place to sate her vast palate of needs and desires. Michael was not her first victim, and he would not be her last.
On the last Friday before the final, Michael had reserved his typical time of office hours and had hurried down the basement stairs to her small sanctuary to try and understand a particularly difficult topic. His professor, Amy Tetrell had greeted him with an open door, a small smile playing across her lips.
She had turned as soon as he had entered the room and walked to her desk where she leaned, her hand extended outward, indicating a seat for him to take. Michael took his seat and began to unpack his notebooks in his lap. His attention momentarily lapsed as he looked to the space in front of him and realized just how short the tweed skirt his professor was wearing was. He glanced immediately back down at his notes, trying to cover up a slight blush on his face. He was happily married, and knew that even thinking about another woman lustfully was considered adulterous. He loved his wife and wanted to maintain a pure relationship in her eyes and in God's. The professor was attractive to be sure, and he did not blame her for having a body that was a temptation for him. She was a person valuable to the Creator and it was his own fault for slipping.
Gulping, he flipped a few more sheets and found the section he was looking for.
"I'm having trouble understanding the notion of implicit and explicit consent. I don't get exactly where we draw the distinction at... It seems like inaction is implicit and any type of action is explicit, but some of the other authors seem to think that action isn't explicit in and of itself. How do I tell which is which?" Michael looked up again, his eyes trying to slip over his teacher's body without stopping to appreciate its features.
She was playing with the top button of her blue blouse, another hand resting on the corner of her desk.
"That's exactly it. Some of the people we are studying disagree on consent theory. There isn't really a one hundred percent right answer. Say for instance, I propositioned you right now. If you said yes, I would have your explicit consent according to Rousseau. If you didn't say anything, I would have your implicit consent."
It had taken Michael a moment to register the word propositioned. At first he had just skipped over the hypothetical to the content, but had done a double take when he realized what she had said.
"Excuse me?"
"There's no need to be coy Michael. I know why you come down here every week. I was just getting to the point. Now where would you like to do it?"
"What?"
"Michael, we're both adults and can make decisions for ourselves. I've seen you eyeing me. And I must admit, I find you quite handsome myself."
"I'm sorry. There must be some mistake," Michael stuttered. "I'm married. I don't want anything from you. Honestly."
"Right. I'm to believe you really need all this extra help. Get your clothes off and fuck me. I'm not in the mood to play around," came her instructive reply.
"I do need the help. I really did. I think maybe I should go," Michael managed. He folded up his notebooks in a rush and accidentally dropped a few sheets of paper to the floor. When he looked back up after collecting them, there was a sinister smile on his professor's otherwise elegant face.
He cocked his head to the side as her hand emerged from behind her, a matte black shape clutched in her palm. He would not register that it was a Taser until she had applied it to his arm, blue sparks arcing onto his skin. His body erupted into uncontrollable shudders as the high voltage coursed into him. One more application of the self defense device, and Michael was unconscious, helpless before his trusted professor.
When he awoke again, his plight had grown distinctly more desperate. His senses first became aware of the room he was in, and his mind finally managed to catch up. As it did, he tried to bolt from the chair he found himself in, but quickly discovered he was tied skillfully across its heavy metal frame. The chair did not budge, apparently chained to the desk, which in turn was bolted to the floor. His breathing grew in rapidity, as he found his captor standing across from him, leaning on one hip as she studied her handiwork.
