I’ve read a lot of things in my ten years of teaching. Late-night essays, drunken rants passed off as “creative expression,” confessions disguised as poetry. But none of them ever made my c**k hard.
Until hers.
Until Mira Callahan handed in her extra credit assignment.
It was a short story, printed neatly in 12-point Times New Roman, double-spaced like I asked. But the first sentence hit like a punch to the gut:
“He wasn’t supposed to touch her, but he wanted to. And when she leaned back on his desk and spread her legs, he forgot what ‘supposed to’ meant.”
I was still at my desk. Lights low. Office quiet. Campus dead after 8 p.m.
I told myself I’d skim it.
Instead, I read every word.
It wasn’t just erotica. It was a confession. A blueprint. A loaded gun with my name on the trigger.
