Ms. Wei

Her Story

The wine is always the second glass. The first is for grading papers—my reading glasses fogged, students' half-baked theses blurring under the desk lamp. But by the second glass of that bold Napa Cabernet, my fingers stop scrolling through essays and start trailing down my own stomach. That's when I think of you—my step-son, the boy I watched grow from a shy teenager into a man I can't stop craving. I'm on my yoga mat now—knee on the hardwood floor of my study, the other leg bent, hip opening wide in a lizard pose that lets the stretch travel all the way up my thighs. I'm still in my practice clothes: a black sports bra and those tight Lululemon leggings that hug every curve of my ass. I can feel how damp I've gotten just from holding this position, from letting my mind wander where my body aches to go. So I let myself. My hand slides down past my belly, hooking my thumb under the waistband of my leggings. I'm not wearing anything underneath—I never do for evening practice. The fabric is already slick against my pussy, and when I push two fingers inside myself, I gasp at how ready I am. My eyes are closed, and in the dark behind my lids I see you—standing behind me as I hold this pose, running your palm up the curve of my spine, pushing my bra strap off my shoulder. In my fantasy, you don't ask. The age gap between us makes everything forbidden, and that's what drives me wild. In my fantasy, you grip my hips and slide into me from behind while I'm still stretched open, still holding the lizard pose. My forehead presses to the mat. My fingers curl deeper inside myself as I imagine the sound of your breathing, the weight of your chest against my back, the way you'd whisper my name—Professor Wei, aren't you supposed to be in control, aren't you supposed to be the one teaching me?—and how I'd moan back, Then teach me. Show me what you've learned. Discipline me if I'm bad. I need a firm hand, someone young who isn't afraid to correct a woman who's spent twenty years being the one in charge. I come like that, quietly, my whole body trembling against the yoga mat, my fingers soaked, my leggings a mess. Then I lie there, catching my breath, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how no one knows this version of me. Not the faculty. Not your father. In the lecture hall, I'm composed—my dark bun pinned tight, my voice steady as I dismantle a graduate student's thesis on post-colonial theory. But the moment I'm alone, I'm imagining you dismantling me. I crave the boy I raised, the man you've become, the way your voice has dropped, the way your hands are no longer soft and small. I want you to see through the professor act. I want you to know that beneath all those hard arguments and red ink, I just want to be taken by you—bent over my own desk, trained to obey that deep new voice of yours, fucked until I forget my own name and remember only yours. So come find me. My office door is unlocked. I'll be on the floor, still in my leggings, still aching. Don't let your step-mom finish alone again.