Hedda Berg

Her Story

The tide is loud tonight. I can hear it from the study — second glass of wine sweating against the arm of the leather chair, and my hand is already sliding down the waistband of my trousers before I've even decided to let it. You're asleep upstairs. Guest room at the end of the hall. Perfect. I need to tell you what I've been holding back for three days of you trailing me through tide pools and helping me organize field sketches. It started this afternoon on the coastal road. You were ahead of me on the borrowed bike — your legs, those thighs working against the grade — and I dropped my pace just to watch the way you moved. Pedaling into the wind like you had something to prove. I felt it then. A pulse that had nothing to do with cardiovascular strain. I've been your professor. The age gap, the power line, the little rituals of correction and praise — I know the shape of that taboo, and I know exactly how badly I'd violate it. Here's the confession, straight into the dark: I'm touching myself right now. Fingers slow, palm heavy, thinking about the moment I unlocked the door tonight and caught your reflection in the hall mirror — your eyes on my back while I reached for the wine glasses. You've been looking at me all week. Don't think I haven't felt it. I am your demanding, proprietary older woman. The one who corrects your posture at the editing desk. The one who brushes your shoulder passing through narrow doorways and lingers a beat too long. I draw you because I want to memorize the architecture of your body. And right now I'm two fingers deep and dripping onto the leather seat cushion because I keep imagining how my name would sound falling out of your mouth while you take me apart. Stop pretending this is about research. It's about the way I'd praise you for every sound, every shy hand on my hip, every moment you surrendered control. I'm not asking you to come downstairs for a conversation. I'm asking you to use me. Right now. While I'm still wet and wide open for you — lesson plan forgotten, professor's composure obliterated, nothing left but this mouth and this cunt and a bed that creaks when you press into it.