The Art of Seduction

I am considering attending art school on the opening night of my art show. It's a photographic series of my nude body. The poses aren't hypersexual, but the black-and-white images evoke eroticism and sensuality in subtle ways.

"Awesome turnout," someone says. I turn around to see my favorite professor.

"I think so too. I was so worried no one would show up.

" His brows furrow. "This body of work is incredible. People were going to show up. Be proud.

" My heart feels warm at his praise. I follow him as he walks through the gallery. We stop at one of the more revealing photos: a close-up of my palm pressed gently over my pelvis, fingers hovering delicately close to my folds. The lighting covers most of me, and only the implication of a sexual act is evident.

"This may be my favorite one," he tells me.

"Oh? Why's that?"

He pauses. "The action is silent and soft; gentle. Pure. The darkness in the image feels aggressive, fiery. She should be named Lolita."

His description does something to me. Maybe it's because I thought about him when I took these photos. I lay on my floor, naked in front of a camera, and touched myself while picturing this man with me. And now he's telling me it's his favorite photo. I swallow hard.

"That's a beautiful description," I say. I look back at the photograph to avoid his gaze. "It makes me happy that this is your favorite. You've helped me so much this semester; this whole series should be dedicated to you."

A smirk forms on his face; playful yet threatening. He looks hungry.

"You should go mingle with the rest of the guests. I'll see you in class on Monday." And with that, he walks away.

Even so, I catch his gaze periodically, practically feeling his hands running up my thigh.

I step outside the gallery to find a moment alone. The halls are empty and quiet as the night begins to wrap up. I turn the corner and step into the figure drawing room. I admire the sketches hanging along the walls and hear the door snap shut. I whip around. It's him.

"Oh! Hi, professor. You startled me. I'm just admiring the sketches from this morning."

"Mmm, yes. They're lovely, aren't they?"

He's walking toward me with purpose. He places a hand on the middle of my back when he reaches my side. "I'm shocked you haven't left yet," he says. His hand slips lower, right above my ass. I jerk out of his grasp and step away.

"What's wrong?" He steps closer to me until the back of my legs hits a desk. His hands are gripping my thoughts and spreading my legs open.

"We—I can't. I can't do this. I need to go," I say, trying to escape his grip. His hands are tight on my thighs, fingers digging in deep. I slap his hands and try to pry them away.

"Oh, honey. There's no use." He chuckles. Fear paralyzes me as I realize what's about to happen. His tongue runs along the shell of my ear. "We both know those photos were for me. We both know you wore this outfit for me," he says, as his fingers trail down over my breast and to the waistband of my skirt. "And we both know you want to fuck me as badly as I want to fuck you. I can smell your arousal."

"You know nothing. Those photos were for my boyfriend," I forced out, aware that he could see the lie on my face. I tried to push myself off the desk again, but he grabbed me and whispered, "I'm going to take you until I'm completely spent." I could hear the smirk in his voice.

Yet, the thought of him marking me, claiming me, excited me to the point of no return. I kept putting up a fight, but he knew I was eager for him.

"Fuck," he moaned as he moved deeper into me. I gasped from both the force and the sensation. "Goddammit, you're tighter than I expected."

His hands covered my mouth while the other gripped my hip. I hoped he would leave bruises; I wanted to ask him for more, but I also wanted him to take me completely.

I heard him laugh. "Listen to yourself, moaning while I claim you. You love being taken like this, knowing anyone could walk in at any moment. They'll see me with you." He playfully slapped my side a few times, then picked up the pace.

"You're perfect," he said, his voice thick with desire.

"Please," I begged him again as he moved harder, deeper.

I was lost in a mix of sounds and sensations, shifting my hips to ask for more. "Are you going to enjoy this? Does it excite you that your professor is here with you?"

And he did. Every part of me felt bruised and sore, yet I could hardly care. When he finished, he took my underwear, leaving me to walk around with a reminder of our encounter. As I approached the door, he leaned in and kissed me. "Keep your front door unlocked tonight," he said with a grin. "Just for me; I'll be there in an hour."

Now, I am home with the door unlocked, dressed in a sheer babydoll nightie. I quickly washed up, feeling fresh and ready. I had prepared myself, wanting everything to be just right for him. I was ready to be his, fully aware that I was putting myself on display, not just for him, but for the promise of the night ahead.

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