Free Teach Me by Lola Darling

into hers again and again, burying my
cock so deep in her pussy I can feel every inch of her. She clenches
hard around me again and I angle my hips down so my tip digs into her
G-spot. Her whole body writhes along the desk with her second orgasm,
and with one final thrust and a loud, harsh groan, I come too.
    She
bucks her hips against me, keeping the movement going as I finish,
milking every last drop from me. When I step back, a rush of her wet
juices pour down her legs, which are still trembling around the
knees.
    Gently,
I roll her over to lift her from the desk, smoothing her skirt back
down as I do. I left marks, I notice. A bright red spot on her ass,
and two bruises blooming along her neck, one under her ear and
another at her collarbone.
    I
should feel bad, but instead, it ignites a fierce spark of pleasure.
Harper gazes up at me through half-closed eyes, a soft smile on her
face, and I look from those brands to her soft, angular face and
think, She’s
mine. No one else’s.
    Except
that’s not true. She
can’t be mine. Not a
girl like her, not like this. I wanted to fuck her, and I did. The
beast has been exorcised. Now it needs to stop.
    I
break eye contact and unroll the condom to toss in the trash,
fastening my pants quickly. Then I bend to sweep up the papers we’d
been working on before, which have scattered around the desk. “Finish
the train of thought you were working on earlier, the courtly love
angle.” I drop the
papers on top of her laptop bag. “Write
up your best theory, leave it under my door tonight.”
I snatch a business card, which has the address of my university
housing complex on it, and drop it on top of the files.
    “Where
are you going?” she
asks, sitting up, her arms wrapped around her body to hold her shirt
closed. “I thought
we were going to work on it together.”
The hurt in her voice cuts me, deep. But I can’t
show that. I can’t
have her thinking this was anything more than a one-time deal.
    It’s
better this way. Hurting her now will spare her later.
    “Yes,
well, clearly that’s
not working. And I have a class to teach, so.”
I pause in the doorway. “Get
yourself together.”
I slam the door behind me, so hard the tiny frosted glass panel at
the top rattles.
    Only
once I’m in the
hallway, empty now between classes, do I let myself take a deep
breath, my eyes shut, my chest searing.
    What
have I done?

 

Harper
     
    What
have I done?
    He’s
an asshole. A complete and total asshole.
    An
asshole who made me come harder than anyone I’ve
ever slept with. Derrick could hardly manage to make me finish once every two or three
times we hooked up, and Matt, my sophomore year roommate (oops), left
me to finish myself off every time.
    Jack
is even better at getting me to the finish line than I am.
    I
can still feel the echo of him every time I shift in my seat—that
sweet, deep ache that reminds me of every thrust he gave me.
    I
groan out loud—in
frustration this time—and
let my forehead drop hard onto the stack of papers he left me with.
I’ve been holed up
in my dorm room all night digging through these, along with the
reference pages from Canterbury
Tales that we think
the first part of this poem might allude to.
    Things
I don’t recommend:
Trying to decipher medieval English writing while simultaneously
working on forgetting the hottest fuck of your life.
    My
head aches. I can still see his expression when we first finished,
when I rolled over on the desk and he smoothed down my skirt, pure
pleasure in his eyes, that normally stern face of his relaxed and
open for once—still
handsome, but so much more vulnerable in that moment. I could tell,
right then. He wanted me. He took me. He liked it as much as I did.
    But
he’s my professor.
This is possibly the worst wrong guy I’ve
ever fucked. Even worse than the time I slept with my high school
best friend’s
brother, and she walked in on us in the middle of it.
    Harper,
you are the worst. I
raise my head