Assignment One

The exit door on the second floor tended to stick and not lock properly. The young woman had snuck into the school that way before. Her satchel rested heavy on her back as she climbed the stairs, even though it only contained some nice linen paper and an ink pen that her Aunt had given her on her Birthday. His instructions added the weight. During every step she took, words whispered to her in his rich voice. “Go to a nice prim writing desk.”

She padded down the hall, looking for the room that she needed. If she were lucky, the janitor would be down in the basement smoking weed like normal. The classroom she wanted had only one window to the outside. Sometimes it was used for counseling, but most of the time it wasn’t formally occupied by a specific teacher.

When she pushed the door open, her lie was on her lips. On the off chance that someone was there, she was ready. It would be easy enough to say that she had left something behind. Blessedly, the room was empty, and she gratefully slid into its twilight. She shut the door behind her and locked it.

There were only about six student desks in the room, crowded together as if they really didn’t belong. The shade over the room’s one window was yellowed and water stained. Bookshelves lined the room and there was a thick braided rug under the teacher’s desk and the leather chair behind it. The room smelled dusty, and she felt the papery taste of old books on her tongue. With a shrug of her shoulders she lowered her satchel to the speckled floor. She reached up and pulled the door window’s curtain closed. The color of the fabric had faded over the years to a nondescript gray brown. She took a step back and decided, maybe wedging a chair under the door wouldn’t be a bad idea. She knew she was delaying, but she got the chair and walked it over anyway, settling it firmly under the door handle. She took a deep breath. It really wasn’t that big a deal. She told herself. She reached for her satchel and headed to the nearly empty desk at the front of the room.

The surface was polished oak, nicked and worn with time. The blotter looked unused and the black phone was dated and over practical. A cup saying number one teacher was half full of short pencils and chewed pens. A silver letter opener with a polished round handle lay abandoned. She pushed all of it to the side of the desk, making room for her task. If she hurried, she could be done and gone in no time. She gave a little shudder as she placed her satchel in the chair.

The paper perfectly lined up with the top of the desk, her black ink pen uncapped and waiting. She found herself staring at the surface of the desk. She could do this. The door was locked. No one would know. “Just do it, and get out of here.” She whispered to herself, “You can do it.” She reached under her gray uniform skirt and shimmied her panties down her thighs. It had been hard to think in class today. Images of laying over his lap had flickered in the back of her mind, distracting her in American Literature. Focus had been impossible.

He’d said, “Take off your wet panties and set them by the paper.” She stepped out of the silk of her panties and placed them on the desk next to the crisp clean paper. The lump of twisted silk looked obscene to her next to the tidy paper. Touching her fingertips to her forehead she squeezed her thighs together. The wide wooden desk beckoned. She took a step forward and the rounded corner of the desk nestled to her thighs. A glance to the closed door, and she pulled up the front of her skirt. Her fingers slid over her belly and down between her thighs across her heated sex. She was liquid silk against her fingers. To be lit. She shivered.

The wooden desk wasn’t as cold on her belly as she had thought it would be. With a soft moan she wriggled against the unyielding wood, the corner of the desk nestled against her mons. She drew the paper toward her and lifted the pen. He’d whispered in her ear, his hand possessively on the curve of her bottom. “Write about how your skin feels lit." She pulled up the back of her skirt to her waist, exposing herself to the empty room. Air from the vent blew cold across her naked skin.

The tip of her pen, pressed to the paper, a round black mark bled out as she paused eyes closed. With a sigh, she began to write:

“I feel lit, when your breath passes across my skin. When everything in my self is focused on the places that you touch me. Light fingers at the back of my neck feel electric. I feel like I spark. Blue fire anticipation rolls and dances across every nerve as you make me wait. When I am lit, there is no other world except for the one you shape for us. And I can barely breath, waiting for your next touch.”

The scent of her own arousal taunted her. The tangled panties were a reminder of him and how he touched her. Her hips rocked to the desk, pressing into the wood, sliding against it. She rested her cheek on the polished wood and saw the rounded silver handle of the letter opener. Her mind whispered, “He’s going to take you that way. He’s already told you that when he takes you, he is going to take you that way.” She reached out and rolled it on the desk, feeling the cold metal, thinking about how it felt when he leaned over her, his hand sharply striking her hip.

She lifted the cold smooth handle and rolled it against her thigh, across her bottom. His smile, the way he looked at her when she touched him. She slid the cool metal across her wet sex and it was so cold, so deliciously cold. Wet, the metal was slippery, harder to hold. When she slid the small rounded end against the tight ring of her anus, it slid easily into her. Groaning she pressed it deeper, rocking against the wood. She thought about what it would be like when he took her, sliding the handle in and out of her body. She rocked roughly against the desk. In her mind she could imagine him bending over her speaking into her ear, “When Master touches you here, you will come.” And she did, hot and molten, bucking into the air.

The back of her shirt clung to the sweat damp small of her back, as she furtively washed the cold metal handle in the corner sink. She hadn’t been quiet, and she was afraid of what she might find on the other side of the door. The scent of lilacs from the hand soap was almost overpowering. She wiped her thighs, and across herself as if she were hiding evidence. Her cheeks burned, and her nipples were so hard that they hurt, scraping against the starched cotton of her uniform shirt with each breath she took. Wadding the harsh paper towels together she left them in the trash.

She placed the paper, and the pen back in her satchel. She hesitated only briefly and placed the letter opener in there as well. With her panties she wiped the corner edge of the table. All the objects she placed back in position as best she could. She stuffed the wet panties into the front pocket of the satchel. She stepped back, taking a guilty look at the desk. Biting her lip, she turned and made her escape, into the empty hall, and out into the cool of the night.