My Student My Whore My Masterpiece

I thought about her last night. Again. Lately it’s been happening more and more.

I’d hooked up with this chick from out of town who I just met online. It’s not what I was trying to do, it wasn’t my intent, but this woman looked just like her. Same long dark hair, same big brown eyes, almost the same septum piercing even. Yeah the smile was a little different, and the laugh a bit off, and the way she looked at me wasn’t the same. She was older. But still.

I wasn’t thinking about those things while I was fucking her – I was thinking about Mia. I was thinking about finally making her mine; I was thinking about pounding her brains out and making her cum til she’s stupid. I was thinking about turning her into my own little whore.

Which is a problem, because Mia’s half my age. And my former student.

I felt guilty afterwards. Troubled. Those aren’t the kind of thoughts you’re supposed to have for a girl you mentored, for a young lady you built up time and again when no one else would. My hookup had no idea; she loved it, she just thought I was a rough guy, kinky and intense.

She doesn’t know the fucking half of it.

But now here I am tonight, thinking about her again. Mia.

I should’ve blocked her on social media; I should’ve never let her add me to begin with. Her photos have gotten more risqué, her outfits more revealing. She’s out drunk in the streets almost every night now, kissing a different guy in each video. Last I heard she flunked out of college after only half a semester – and not the art school upstate I worked my ass off to help her get into. No, the local community college she went to instead.

She’s floundering, failing. Crying out for attention. She’s self destructing and there’s nothing I can do but sit here and watch. Fuck.

I set my phone aside, I sip my whiskey and stare into the low-smoldering fireplace.

*There’s nothing I can do. She’s someone else’s problem.*

I keep telling myself that, at least. It can’t be me…it has to be anyone other than me. It can’t be me, because I can’t trust myself around her anymore.

I know it. I know it because the last time I saw her it took damn near everything I had to stop myself. To keep from giving her what she wanted. And god damn…it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I don’t think I could do it again.

*You broke her heart. You broke her heart and you were all she had, and now she’s running wild.*

I scowl, taking another long sip, hoping to chase away that accusing voice with the burn of drink.

I glance back at my phone – she’s posted a new story. It’s a video of herself wandering through dimly-lit Lexington Park, the same park someone got mugged in last week, the same park someone else was stabbed at not too long before. She’s drunk and alone. “Crackd my phon e lolll,” the caption reads, a smattering of random emojis to go along with it.

*God fucking dammit Mia. She’s someone else’s problem. She’s someone else’s goddamn problem. She has to be.*

Except I know she’s not. Her home life is fucked – her parents ditched her long ago, and she lives alone with an aunt who has dementia. She was aloof in school, she didn’t have many close friends. If anyone actually is looking out for her, they’re doing a piss-poor job.

I watch it again. And again.

*There’s gotta be someone else. Anyone else…anyone but me.*

There isn’t.

Fuck. Fucking hell.

I finish my drink, I get my keys and coat. I get in my car and peel out, my pulse racing, my mind wandering back to the last time I saw her – her last day of highschool.

*

It’s not unheard of to have a one-student class, but it is rather rare. AP Art just isn’t that popular, though – most of the students taking art classes are doing it for the easy A.

It’s the ones who are dedicated, the ones who have real blossoming talent who continue on to the AP class. That was Mia.

She’s gifted; so much was obvious from her first assignment as an underclassman. Over the years she took more of my courses, refining her skill, and as a senior she was a natural fit for AP even if others didn’t join.

Throughout that year I pushed her, I nurtured her talent. She drew and painted more and more, developing her own style. The results of which were rather shocking.

She’d always had a gift for the human figure – she can’t touch pen to paper without drawing people and their poses. And she has this innate sensuousness, this deep-seated curiosity about the mysteries between a man and a woman.

But as the weeks wore on, her figures became more specific, her themes more consistent.

I discovered that Mia can’t help but draw beautiful young women and handsome older men, posed together in sensual embrace. I discovered that she’s fascinated with the erotic, with the power disparities between a strong man and a submissive woman.

To say this put me in a difficult situation is an understatement. I had to critique each piece; we literally had to discuss in detail her intense attraction to men my age, her submissive tendencies and how they apply to her art.

But I kept it professional, godammit; I did what a good teacher should. I set boundaries, I stuck to them, I encouraged her. I had her draw more, paint more, I had her really work on her craft. We created a portfolio for her, we got her into art school. It was intense, it was trying, but we did it and never once did I cross the line.

Over the months we became closer; I learned more about her home life, I learned how tough she has it. Sometimes I’d buy donuts or pizza “for the class” because I knew she wasn’t always eating all that much. I learned that she wasn’t doing great in her other subjects, that art was the only thing she really excelled in. I learned she didn’t have many friends.

I also learned she was madly in love with me.

I could tell; young ladies aren’t as discreet as they think. It was in the way she watched me – the way her eyes were always on me when I turned around, the way she was always quickly glancing away. The way she lingered when she thought I wouldn’t notice. It was in the way she sat on the edge of her seat whenever I looked over at her, eager for any attention.

And it was in what I found on her easel the last day of class.

She’d worked on the painting over the weekend, and she’d changed it a few times. It wasn’t until most of the way through the last workshop period that I checked in again.

It was a painting of her and I. Nude. Her image staring dreamily into my eyes, mine with a hand held lightly around her throat.

I swallowed hard; she’d looked up, and she was giving me the same look as in the painting.

“Wha…what is this,” I asked slowly, stunned.

“It’s my…it’s my final project. It’s a man and a woman.”

She’d captured the dreaming stare perfectly; the masculine hands, the outstretched fingers around the throat were flawless and lifelike. It was wildly inappropriate – it was also the best work she’d ever done. It was her masterpiece.

I realized my own hands were shaking and I put them behind my back.

I didn’t know what to say – what the fuck was I supposed to do? Nothing prepares you for something like that. So I asked something stupid next, something I regret to this day.

“...which man and woman?”

She stared at me from her seat, her face hot, her breathing heavy.

“...Mr. Baker I just want to please you,” she whispered, almost inaudible. “I just want to…I just want to be your–”

I shook my head, I held up my hand; I didn’t let her finish. I needed no more temptation – I’d already done enough, I’d basically invited her to say as much. I strode back to my desk, furious with myself, desperately fighting the growing arousal gnawing at my guts.

I didn’t allow myself to look at her again; after a half hour she finished the piece and left, running out in tears.

*

I’m not a good guy. I’d be a liar if I told you I hadn’t thought of her.

You see whatever it is that Mia has, that need for the erotic, that craving for sensuality, that fascination for what goes on between men and women…well I have it too.

Only I have it worse.

I keep it to myself, for the most part. I don’t let it intrude on my career, I keep my private life separate…but fuck do I love women. I crave them. I’m fascinated with the female figure, with the way they are. I love them almost too much – I can be obsessive, intense. Controlling, domineering. I know this about myself, I know it and it’s something I have to keep constantly aware of.

And that right there is why it should be anyone else, *anyone* other than me pulling up to Lexington Park in the middle of the night.

I find her after a few minutes sitting under a flickering streetlight, her head down, her chin on her chest. She’s wearing a short plaid skirt and fishnet stockings, with a ripped jean jacket up top. A black choker around her throat. Her phone lies smashed on the ground as I approach.

The sight of her like that – alone, drunk, vulnerable – I can’t really explain, but it pisses me off. I’m mad that she fucked up, after all the work we did. I’m mad at her family and few friends, for not being here.

I’m mad that it’s come to this – that *I* should be the one who has to come get her, a man who shouldn’t be anywhere near.

But mostly I’m mad that I could feel this tempted, even still.

Thus I’m steaming as I stand over her, as she suddenly looks up in startled, fearful surprise.

“Mr…Mr. Baker?” she stammers, stunned. She’s beautiful, somehow even moreso in the flickering half-light of the park. Her half-Japanese, half-Italian features are delicate and graceful, her pretty brown eyes accentuated by the cat’s eye makeup and eyelash extensions she prefers. Her alt outfit and septum piercing speak to the fact that she’s not exactly a good girl.

“Come on,” I say, my voice stern as I take her by the upper arm. “We’re going. Get your phone.”

She stumbles a bit as she picks it up and then I’m steering her back towards the car, warily eyeing the loitering drunks and derelicts who’ve crept closer, who leer at us from the shadows.

I’ve never touched her before, and the feel of her slender body shivering in my grip awakens something unwelcome in me. I do my best to fight it back down.

“Where is your aunt’s place? We’re taking you home.”

Her shoulders shake, her eyes are downcast. I realize she might be crying.

“She’s…she’s in a home now. I had to…I had to move out but I…I can’t afford it…”

“Are you telling me you have nowhere to go?”

She doesn’t say anything, she just nods. A menacing heat starts to bubble in my gut. I try to ignore it.

We get to the car and I have no plan; there’s an obvious answer but I’m doing my best to avoid it.

*Maybe I can put her up in a hotel room. Maybe she’ll keep out of trouble, maybe…*

No. No that’s not gonna work. I let out a long shuddering sigh, crack my knuckles in apprehension and open the passenger door.

“Get in.”

“Wh…where are we going?”

“My place.”

She gives me a long look, nods and gets in; I have to steady my breathing before sitting in the driver’s seat.

*She’s all yours now.*

I almost growl out loud; I tense up, fighting that tempting, taunting voice in my head.

It’s a fight I don’t think I can win.

I flip a U-turn, I take off, the wheel clenched in my grip as I speed through the darkened streets. She watches me from the passenger seat, her sultry eyes big and wondering.

It’s the same look as before.

When I glance over, she doesn’t look away like she used to. She just keeps staring and starts to chew her lip.

*

I march her into my house, my grip firm on her arm, my heart hammering in my chest. The whole place rattles as I slam the door behind us – it’s a rickety old rundown Victorian, the best I can afford on teacher’s pay.

She turns to face me as soon as we’re through the door, brushing her long dark brown hair behind her ear, her lowered eyes looking up at me expectantly.

It’s a dangerous look she gives – the kind that can turn a man into a monster. I haven’t calmed down in the slightest, and now that she’s alone with me in the house things have only gotten worse.

“Come here,” I command, doing my best not to look at her, not to be taken in by her submissive stare. I lead her into the kitchen where I busy myself with bandaging the cuts on her arms and hands. She’s scraped up; she must’ve fallen, drunk.

She won’t stop looking at me as I work. I’m scarcely able to concentrate – and that voice in my head just won’t shut the fuck up.

*This is what she wants. She’s the same as you – she’s the same, you’ve seen it. She wants to be yours. She needs to.*

I grit my teeth, at war with myself. I was her goddamn teacher, I’m her only role model. I can’t allow anything to happen between us…

Even still, I can feel my defenses being battered down just from being near. I have this wall within, this barrier I’ve built to block away all my untoward desires, all my raging wants and needs. I try to keep them cooped up and under control – otherwise I’d run wild, I’d indulge every single one.

And right now that wall is dangerously close to crumbling.

“I knew you cared,” she says quietly. I don’t look at her. I can’t.

“I knew...and I knew you were the only one. I’m sorry I chased you away, Mr. Baker. I’m so sorry, I– I’ve missed you so much.”

I look up finally; I look at her and take a deep, shuddering breath. She’s so goddamn pretty, on the verge of tears and looking like some sort of fallen denim angel.

*She needs it. She needs structure. She needs to be taught. She needs what only you can give.*

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t I shouldn’t I shouldn’t…

*You have to. You’re all she has.*

I chew my cheek until I taste blood, my whole body tense. It’s a long moment before I can mutter a response.

“You didn’t…chase me away. I was – I am…I’m trying to protect you.”

She watches me, sad and still, the question in her eyes.

“I’m trying to…Mia, don’t you understand? I’m trying to protect you from *me*.”

She shakes her head, her eyes glittering and wet. “Mr. Baker I...I don’t want you to do that. That’s not what I want at all.”

I swallow hard as she looks back down again, timidly turning my hand and running her fingertips across my open palm. She gives me that look again, and the sensation of her skin on mine shakes me to my core.

“Mr. Baker, I want…I want to be–”

I shake my head, I close my hand around hers to cut her off, again. I’m fucking trembling. I’m so close to losing control, and I swear to god I can feel that wall in me cracking the hell apart.

“Mia I, I need you to know something,” I say, frantic, almost fearful of what I feel coming, of what this conversation is doing.

“With me it’s…it’s all or nothing. I want to help you, I do. I always have. I care for you. But I’m…I’m afraid of how things might go. You see once I start I don’t know if I can stop. I’m…I’m like you in some ways. Sometimes I just…lose control. Sometimes I go too far. You see it couldn’t be halfway, it would have to be…it would have to be everything. Mia if I’m gonna help you…you’d have to be Mine. Completely. And I just can’t ask something like that of you.”

I stand there, stunned at the words that just came out of my mouth. I can’t believe what I’ve just said; I can’t believe I’ve just told her the truth.

She nods, never breaking eye contact, never flinching.

“I know, Mr. Baker. I know. But don’t you see? To be Yours is all I’ve ever wanted.”

I feel as if I’ve been struck; her words send a simmering heat coursing through me, setting my mind afire and smoldering in my core, awakening something terrible. A dark part of me ceases its fitful slumber and comes to the fore – the part that needs to dominate, to control, to indulge and conquer. Suddenly, I just can’t take it anymore. Suddenly, my mind is made up.

I snatch her by the throat and push her up against the fridge, making her gasp, making her tremble. Her eyes never leave mine, her breaths short and sharp.

*She’s yours. She’s All Yours.*

I’m shaking; she’s been my secret forbidden desire for so long. To have her now, shivering and in my grasp…it’s indescribable. That fiery sensation sears through me, and I recognize it for what it is: power and the thrill of it, the euphoria that comes with controlling a beautiful woman. It’s the stuff from which tyrants are made, and the force of it in me sends that shattered wall crashing the fuck down.

So I step in and take her mouth in mine, savoring her taste of cheap vodka and lipstick. She whimpers with want as I stick my tongue down her throat, as I push my thigh between her legs and pull her up on it, grinding her against me, tugging that skimpy skirt dangerously high. God damn how she’s tormented me – I’m so fucking hot for her. She clings to me, desperate, and it’s a forlorn moan she makes as I push her back against the fridge, as I hold her there at arms length.

“If you’re mine, Mia, then you’re gonna listen,” I rasp, my chest heaving, my body surging with something electric. “Because I’m gonna take care of you…but there’s some things we gotta work on first. Some things we gotta change. We tried working on you before in school, we tried to help you, but it didn’t take did it? No, it didn’t…so this time, we’re gonna be *thorough*. We’re gonna go farther. This time we’re gonna change you for good. Listen, there’s some shit we need to work on – starting with how you’ve been acting like a little whore, tramping around late at night in these slutty clothes.”

She whines in her throat, she starts to say something but I cut her off with a squeeze, making her brows knit, her mouth fall open. I growl, delirious with power as I tear her skirt down to her knees, as I reveal the tops of her fishnets and the black thong she wears beneath. She yelps into my grip – and fucking christ she looks amazing.

It’s with a heated simmer that I speak next, barely able to restrain myself.

“It’s okay, I understand. You have desires you can’t control, you needed an outlet, you had nowhere else to go. I get all that. But listen: things are different from now on. From now on *I* control your desires. *I’m* your outlet. You got that? From now on it’s *me*, and only me.”

I can feel her pulse racing under my palm, her eyes wide like a frightened fawn as she fervently nods her head. I’m given the impression she’ll agree to just about anything right about now, and the thought of it has me hard as fucking hell.

I step in closer, my other hand gathering up that sensuous silky hair into a ponytail and giving a strong pull, forcing her head back even further as she lets out a low cry.

“So you want to be a little tramp, huh? You need to act out? That’s okay. That’s just fine…but you’re gonna be *my* little tramp. You got that? You’re gonna do whatever the fuck I want – you’re gonna listen to every goddamn thing I have to say. You understand? Tell me.”

I take my hand off her throat just long enough to give her a shuddering gasp, just long enough to let her breathlessly answer. “I’ll be your little tramp Mr. Baker, I’ll be your little, I’ll be your little whore, I’ll be your anything I’ll do anything you want. Oh god, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, absolutely anything–”

“Good girlll,” I growl in my chest and smile, seizing her again to cut her off, dealing her a sharp smack across the face that makes her gasp. “Now let’s make sure you fucking remember.”

I move her with a jerk, steering her a few clumsy steps and bending her across the counter, her skirt about her knees. My mouth waters at the sight of that pert smooth-skinned little ass, clad only in her thin black thong. God *damn* how I’ve thought of this.

I pull her arms behind her back, I pin her down by them and then I just grab that little tush, loving the fleshy bounce of it between my fingers.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Mia. I’m gonna make you better, I’m gonna make you a good one…but the only way that’s gonna happen is if you give yourself over to me. All of you. This little ass, that little pussy, your little whore mouth, your pretty little hands and feet…*all* of it belongs to me.”