Your Term Paper

Hello, Melissa,

I just finished grading your semester theme paper. I am sorry to say that it just isn't good enough to pass my English class.

Melissa, I also know that you have problematic thoughts. I have known pupils like you. I know the kinds of terrible things that go through their minds. Through your mind. Thoughts that you try to dispel, but which return again and again, each time stronger. You don't know where they come from, and you can't control them. But you know they are wrong, and so do I. I can see into your mind, and I am very concerned about you.

I know you think about me. They were abstract, inchoate thoughts at first. Then the thoughts became a bit clearer. Now they come to you with such detail and clarity that you can see, hear, smell, and taste them, so real that you sometimes forget they are only in your mind.

You think about finding me in my office after school. In your mind, you picture me distractedly letting you in. I then sit behind my big mahogany desk, and gesture for you to sit in the chair facing me across the dark, glossy surface. You make sure, out of habit, that the skirt of your uniform covers your thighs, and you pull your knees together tightly. You hold your books against your chest, and cast your eyes downward.

"Yes?"

You force yourself to look me in the eye. You hope I can't tell that you are trembling. You struggle to find words, as the maelstrom in your mind makes words impossible. I grow impatient, and you feel yourself blushing hard. Your cheeks feel hot. Tears well up in your eyes. You try to fight against crying, but your mouth, dry, tastes metallic as the tears begin to stream down your face.

I frown. I know I won't be able to get back to work until you leave. I sigh, rise from my chair, and approach you from around the desk. As I stand beside you, I put a hand on your shoulder. This small gesture of kindness, which you know you don't deserve, causes you to sob. You cannot look up at me. With blurred vision, you look at your black, patent leather shoes, and at my dark brown wingtips partly hidden by my the cuff of my wool trousers. Your feet look so small beside mine.

Eventually, your sobs subside. I offer you a handkerchief from my breast pocket, and you hesitate--it is so clean, so soft, and is embroidered with my initials. But you need to use it; by now you have no choice. You don't know what to do with the handkerchief afterward, holding it out, and are grateful when I simply take it from your hand and stuff it into my trouser pocket.

Finally, you bring yourself to look up at me. Your mouth opens to speak, but the power of speech has deserted you, and you feel so foolish. You look into my eyes, hoping for some signal, some hint about what to do. You can't quite read my eyes, though. You simply haven't had enough experience to understand what a man's eyes are telling you. But something feels strange. You are acutely aware of my large, heavy hand on your shoulder. Everything feels hyper-real. You feel something below that confuses you, embarrasses you. You have had this feeling before, and you have prayed for it to go away, but it hasn't, and you feel it more strongly than ever. Why now? You are so ashamed.

You wonder if the other girls--the juniors and seniors--would know what to do. You admire them and fear them. They know things. They have secrets. You feel so lost and confused, wishing you knew what they knew.

Your shame deepens as you feel your nipples contract into hard nubs. You hope I can't tell through your blouse.

Then the strangest thing happens. Your right hand, seemingly of its own volition, slowly rises, and touches the top button of your blouse. Why? What is happening? Looking into my inscrutable eyes, your fingers undo the first button. It's so slow. You feel as though you are watching yourself in a movie.

I do nothing; I say nothing.

With no sense of what I want you to do, you are compelled to continue. You undo another button, then another. It takes agonizing minutes to reach the last one. You slowly pull your blouse open. You know that I can see your bra--your first. Is it too plain? Does it look like other girls' bras? My expression doesn't change.

With your left hand, you push the strap off of your right shoulder. Then you do the other side. With two trembling hands, you undo the clasp between the cups of the bra. Your eyes beg me to tell you what to do, but it is so hard to tell. You slowly push the bra open, feeling the cool air of the room on your breasts. You have never felt so naked, so vulnerable, even though you are mostly clothed. You are consumed with anxiety. You think your breasts look nice, but you're so unsure. They don't look like the heavy, prominent breasts of the older girls. You are seized with horror at what you have done, wishing with all your might that you hadn't opened your blouse. You imagine my scorn, imagine me scoffing at your breasts. But my face still tells you nothing, which is even worse. If only I would yell at you, slap you, spank you for being so terrible. But I still stand there beside you with a hand on your shoulder, which, you just now notice, has slipped underneath the open blouse and rests warmly on your bare shoulder beneath. Your mind is fiercely willing my hand to slide down to your breast; you don't know why, but you feel you'll die if I don't cup your breast in my hand. You imagine my fingers pinching your nipple, a thought so vivid that you feel a fresh flood of dampness between your legs. You can't tell whether I have noticed. Can I see? Can I smell you? Yet my hand remains on your shoulder as I peer down at you.

You avert your eyes, ashamed. But you see a slight bulge in the front of my trousers. You think you know what this means, but you don't know for sure, having only heard confusing bits of whispered tales in the dorm hallways. You can't bear to look up, so you continue to gaze straight at the trousers. With trepidation, your hand begins to reach. It touches the rough wool, feeling the spring of my stiffening cock beneath. You gasp, and feel another flood of moisture beneath you, although you cannot fathom the connection.

You again look up at me, yet still cannot tell what I want you to do. But you know what you want to do, even though you know it is wrong. You awkwardly reach for the zipper, and pull it down, struggling when it sometimes catches on the zipper's teeth. The bulge in my underpants is more prominent, now free from the thicker material of the trousers. You reach through the fly, at last touching my cock. It surprises you how warm it feels, how smooth, how dry. You wonder how it can feel so stiff, yet with such soft skin upon it. Held in your small hand, it looks huge to you, bigger than you thought they could be. The thought of one of these pushing into you, into such a narrow and mysterious channel between your legs, is terrifying. What you heard about men and women just can't be right.

I finally move, startling you. With one hand still on your shoulder, I put my other hand upon your shoulder blade, and gently push you forward off the chair. You have no idea what I want, what I am trying to make you do, but you yield to my touch as I guide you down to your knees.

You are so ashamed to find your hand still holding my cock as I turn fully to face you, even more embarrassed when I gently take your hand away. You knew it was wrong to touch me there. What is the matter with you?

I move my left hand from your shoulder and softly place it on your right cheek. You know I can feel the burning skin of your blush. My other hand lifts away from your shoulder blade; you feel me place it gently, very gently, behind your left ear, cradling your jaw. My hand feels warm, big, so certain.

I begin to pull your face toward my cock. You panic, not knowing what is supposed to happen. You flinch, and involuntarily try to pull away, though you do not want to displease me or anger me. But my hands are strong, and pull you gently, firmly toward my cock, standing stiffly away from my body through the fly of my trousers.

I tilt your head upward as I pull it toward me, so your lips lightly brush the underside of my cock. It feels smooth against your lips. It smells slightly musky. You have no idea if this is the wrong thing to do, but you purse your lips and kiss the underside of my cock, just below the head. I don't object. You do it again.

Holding your face firmly, I pull at you a bit more forcefully. The head of my cock pushes against your lips. As I pull your face harder, my cock has nowhere to go but in, and your lips open, yielding. My cock slides over your tongue, just a couple of inches, and withdraws just a bit. I pull your face toward me again, and my cock slips a bit farther into your mouth. You can't remember how to breathe. You don't know what this means. Even in the schoolyard, you have heard about nothing like this.

Both of my hands now are gripping your head, fingers in your hair, palms upon either side of your jaw, thumbs upward on your cheekbones. I begin to push and pull your head over my cock, occasionally pushing far enough back that you gag, but even then, I do not stop. By now I am grunting, a muted, guttural noise you have never heard.

You can't think of where to put your hands. They flail about briefly, then land on the front of my thighs. But you dare not push away.

My pace had been slow and methodical, as if I were relishing the warm wetness of your mouth, but now my pace quickens. You begin to feel irrelevant, as if you were no longer a person at all, but just a mouth, just lips and tongue, an instrument I use upon my cock. My groans deepen, and I pull you harder against me, my hips stationary, masturbating with your mouth.

After some time, the rhythm becomes urgent, frenetic. You don't know how long this will take, or what will happen. But then I make a terrifying noise, growling like a wild canine, and, without warning, I begin to shoot spurt after thick spurt into the back of your mouth, holding your head perfectly still, forcing you to swallow as the salty ejaculate floods your throat. It seems to take minutes. Your eyes are watering. Your jaw aches. Your knees hurt.

After an eternity, I pull your face away, panting, and my softening cock drops from your mouth. You know what you have done is wrong, but you cannot help but hope that I am pleased. You look up at me for a sign. I don't look at you. Instead, I reach down, pull up my trousers, and slide the zipper up. I turn away and walk around the desk back to my chair, and sit down. Putting on my reading glasses, I pull a student paper off a stack of them, place it on the desk before me, pick up a pen, and begin to read.

You are bewildered and lost. Again, you begin to cry, only softly this time. You stand up and awkwardly refasten the clasp of your bra, then button your blouse, looking down in shame. You do your best to straighten your hair, though you have neither brush nor mirror, and you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You glance up at me once more, but I continue my work, without the least acknowledgment. You turn, walk to the door, open it, and slip out. With your head spinning, you softly close the door behind you, and walk aimlessly down the hall.

Melissa, I also know that when you think about these terrible things, you touch yourself. You try to hide, in the girls' room or beneath the comforter of your bed, but you know that you cannot hide your secrets from me.

Yes, Melissa, I know everything you think. You know it is wrong. I pity you. And I know how angry the Dean of Students will be if she finds out that you not only failed English, but have slid into such debasement, thinking filthy thoughts.

All is not lost, Melissa. I care about you. I know that you work hard, and you want me to be proud of you. You will always do your best. I want to help you. Do you want me to help you? Will you trust me to help you?

Please come to my office after school tomorrow, Melissa, and I will make everything o.k.

Sincerely yours,

Professor G*******