Thesis on Pleasure - Chapter 3

Friday rolled in with the city feeling suffocating, as if the air itself refused to circulate. The university corridors were more deserted than usual. It was the last class of the morning, with few professors left on campus.

The motion was almost soundless — perfect for those wishing to remain unnoticed.

The name on the carved wooden plaque still shone on the door:

Prof. Dr. D. A. Moretti — Contemporary Literature

The knock on the door was faint.

"Come in," he said, without lifting his gaze.

She held a small notebook and wore an expression too controlled to be innocent.

"I came to clear up a doubt," she stated simply.

"About what?"

"Let's discuss ambiguous language," she began, a slow smile curving her lips. "And the art of double interpretations."

He motioned towards the chair opposite him. With a serene demeanor, she sat down, crossed her legs, and rested the notebook on her lap.

"Speak," he instructed, maintaining a neutral tone, his body seemingly relaxed.

She glanced around before responding, as if taking in the surroundings, absorbing every detail of the place where they were now alone. The door was shut. No windows visible from the outside.

"In certain texts, some words only reveal their true meaning to those with a discerning eye." She looked at him directly. "Do you believe every text harbors a hidden layer?"

"Only the best ones do."

She nibbled on her lower lip, seemingly processing the response.

"And when the author writes specifically for a certain reader?"

He set down his pen. He was weary of this game of euphemisms and metaphors. Or perhaps he was on the brink of capitulation.

"The author gambles," he finally conceded. "Especially when the reader comprehends too much."

She leaned in slightly. Her neckline now more exposed. The perfume — sweet and overpowering — filled the space between them.

"Sometimes, comprehension is inevitable," she whispered. "Even when it's forbidden."

Silence. Time seemed to stretch out, pressing against the two figures.

He reclined in the chair, his gaze locked on her.

"Do you understand boundaries, Luna?"

She blinked slowly. The question sliced through her like a scalpel.

"It depends on who's setting them," she responded, "and how."

The tension between them had thickened, like storm clouds ready to burst. The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room. The table between them seemed symbolic—a physical barrier that no longer maintained the emotional distance.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice now deeper.

"Wondering what you would do... if I crossed some of these boundaries."

She teased him expertly. Nothing sounded desperate or crude. Each word was chosen, calculated, with the grace of a character who knew the author was watching.

He stood up.

He circled the table slowly. His steps echoed like heartbeats.

She followed him with her eyes, but did not move.

He came to a halt beside her. Too close. His breath, warm with a subtle hint of coffee and suppressed longing, was now palpable.

He leaned in slightly, his hand suspended in the air, not making contact.

"You play well. But some games are just too dangerous."

"And too thrilling to resist," she whispered, turning her face towards the sound of his voice.

Their faces were close, mere inches apart. He could see each of her eyelashes, the moist gleam on her lips.

His hand slowly ascended until it reached her chin. With a gentle, yet assertive motion, he lifted her face.

The touch was nearly imperceptible, yet its intensity jolted them both.

"Go," he said, his tone a mix between an order and a plea. "Before I do something irreversible."

She offered no response.

She simply held his gaze for a moment too long. A silence that screamed yes.

And then, she complied.

She stood up gently, adjusted her bag's strap on her shoulder, and walked towards the door.

Before she left, she turned back one last time, leaning against the doorframe:

Just so you know, professor... I don't do things by halves.

He didn't reply. He simply looked at her. Like someone contemplating a line that had already been crossed.

She shut the door behind her. And with it, she seemed to take the entire atmosphere of the office.

That late afternoon, the office seemed to be frozen in time.

The stagnant air, the yellowish lights casting shadows on the walls lined with books. He stood there, hands deep in his dress pants pockets, shoulders tense, jaw set. His gaze was fixed on the chair where, just minutes before, Luna had been sitting, crossing her legs, leaning in, dropping words like bait for something he barely dared to name.

But now, there was no longer any room for disguises.

The gentle fragrance of her perfume still lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of his own body that he barely noticed perspiring. The skin on his index finger—the same one that lightly grazed her chin—still felt as if it were on fire. Such minimal contact, yet the memory was tangible, vibrant, unforgettable.

The words she had left behind echoed in his mind like a softly spoken enchantment:

"It all depends on who's imposing them."

He mentally replayed it, and with each repetition, it sounded increasingly perilous. More enticing. Was it a submission?

A challenge? Or both? Perhaps she knew precisely what to say.

Perhaps she was gauging just how far he would go.

And he remained like that for several minutes. Thinking. Feeling.

He tried, unsuccessfully, to control his breathing.

The silence was only punctuated by the soft ping of a notification.

Across the campus, Luna leaned against her car. The setting sun cast reddish hues on the vehicle, and she stared at her phone screen as if she were composing not a message, but a second chapter.

Her fingers danced across the screen with certainty, without any hesitation.

"Thank you for the consultation. I feel... inspired to continue the study. See you next class."

No emoticon. No name.

She knew he would recognize it.

They knew there was no need to sign their own wish.

They hit "send" and smiled. A small, controlled smile. But there was a fire behind it.

Then they read it again. Their heart pounded — not from surprise, but from confirmation.

She had grasped the rules of the game. And she was all in.

They switched off the screen, reclined in the chair, and shut their eyes.

No more doubts lingered. The tension between them was now merely a preamble.

Be cause, from that moment forward, neither of them would emerge unscathed.