Teach me to desire
My student.
He is sitting in the back, his head down, staring at his laptop screen. He looks different from the wild, desperate boy from last night. He is wearing a simple, dark hoodie, his hair slightly unkempt. The change in his appearance is a small thing, but it’s a desperate attempt to hide the raw, primal energy I know he possesses. The memory of his trembling hands, the perfect shape of his lips, the way he moaned my name as he came… it all rushes back. I feel a hot, possessive wave of desire wash over me. I am a professional. I am a professor. I can’t want him.
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