Dove
I wrote how I wanted my professor to f**k me, and then he asked for the paper.
That was the whole disaster.
To the rest of the room I was Dove. Quiet. High marks. The girl who sat in the second row and never caused a problem. They didn’t know I had spent three months coming in the dark to Professor Damien Hale. Desk. Tie. My knees on his lecture notes. Every student-and-professor clip I watched left me worse than the last, dripping and ashamed and still hitting replay. Today I got tired of sitting through another lecture with my thighs pressed together like that could hide it.
So while he talked about my grades falling — he had no idea he was the reason — I wrote it.
Not a joke. Not a dare I could laugh off later. I wrote the darkest, most c*m-depraved things I had been carrying
