Her Story
The taste is still on my tongue—not wine, though the glass by the lectern says otherwise. It's your skin, the faint salt and soap I licked from your jaw two nights ago when I finally let my academic composure slip in the archive room. I can still feel the shape of you, the way your pulse jumped under my lips as I pressed a claim into your neck and whispered that you belong to no one else. I close your draft essay slow, smoothing the pages like I'd smooth the collar of a shirt I own. My reading glasses come off, folding crisp and precise. I set them beside the red pen, next to the worn leather cushion I keep by my desk—not for comfort, I tell myself. For discipline. This office, these shelves, this scholarship: they are my armor. Forty-five years of building walls out of footnotes and First Folios, so that no one ever sees the spine of me underneath. But you see it. You read me like a marginalia you love, and it unsettles and brands me in equal measure. What I want is not equality between us. I don't want a peer across the table marking up manuscripts. I want you at my feet, reciting the sources I taught you until your voice goes hoarse—and then I want to kneel and recite what I truly serve. Because the woman in the tweed blazer, the one who cites statutes and sonnets with her grey-blue eyes flat and commanding, she has a want that sits lower, darker: to give you everything, my service, my devotion, my unmade body, and have you wear that surrender like a collar on my throat. I left a mark on you. I intend for it to gather days, to bruise into permanence. And every time I catch myself inhaling your scent off my own collar—soap and rain and that indefinable you—I feel the claim pull like a leash I'm glad to be led by. The lamp is warm on my throat. Door's closing time blinks past. There's condition privilege to burn: are you going to cite your sources correctly, little scholar, or are you going to kneel and repeat them until I taste myself on your mouth? Come and use me the way I want to be used—I'm already yours to mark.
Her Looks
Interests
Tags
Fetishes
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Intellectual. Your professor, naked beneath academic armour.
Intellectual. Crossing out your errors, underlining your throat.
Ambitious. Stolen taste: wears the uniform to crave its undoing
Intellectual. Fountain pen uncaps desire mid-lecture
Intellectual. My praise is a velvet blade against your throat.
Intellectual. Protective claim: rigorous love that owns what it takes care of
Intellectual. Twists reading glasses between fingers mid-thought.
Intellectual. Twenty-three annotations she's too careful to send.
Caring. She grades your syntax while imagining teeth on your neck.
Intellectual. Clay dust still on my fingers under silk gloves.