1
Secrets are sometimes good and sometimes bad. It depends on what they are and what they mean. I am a professor at a mediocre university that has a long history but a history without any important distinctions. But it is in a good location, one that is attractive to young people looking to get away from home and have some fun while getting their education. About a third of them are international students, some of whom struggle with their new home, with its strange foods, unfamiliar customs and, of course, learning a new language.
I prefer to teach first year students, even though most senior faculty opt for the easier work of small boutique classes in their areas of expertise. Although I could take this easy path, the tried-and-true path of too much privilege, I prefer to teach the big classes because I love what I do.
My introductory-level class is large and in a tiered class, the kind with theatre seats. Students clustered together with their friends or sat on their own. Most of them opened their computers or tablets to take notes. A few cruised social media or gamed during class. Others fiddled on their phones. A handful of old school students took notes on paper, a throwback to an earlier generation of students. The students moved between being attentive and distracted throughout my lecture. If I captured their gaze, some would nod to indicate that they understood or were interested. Others quickly looked away. One of the keys to teaching was to scan the class with your eyes, making these brief moments of contact with the students. It is a simple key to better teaching evaluations, and positive reviews from students were necessary if I was going to have a career here.
I noticed her on the first day because she sat in the front row. She was obviously Chinese, wore a short skirt, white knee socks and black shoes. She had delicate features and long black hair. I went over the course material with the entire class, the mundane details of what we do during the term. Some of the students asked questions. A few stopped by my podium at the end to ask questions. I looked past them to the Chinese beauty. Her clothes were expensive, and her makeup was perfect. She probably came from a small city and her family probably had some money. I watched as she slid out of her seat, opening her legs slightly to reveal the white alabaster of her inner thigh.
The next class was two days later. I am always well-dressed when I teach and I move around a lot to make my points. She sat in the middle of the front row, taking notes. Occasionally she would look up from her laptop and would always catch my eye. She knew I had noticed her. She was, perhaps 18 or 19. I learned her name, Miaomiao Zhang. Over the next few weeks, I continued to notice her and she noticed my interest. While other students began to come to class in their sweat pants and flip-flops, looking like they just rolled out of their narrow residence bed to get to my class, she obviously took the time to carefully put her outfit together. While other women tied their hair up with elastics, leaving unkempt strands to frame their faces, her hair framed her face perfectly.
Students sometimes come together to do group work in class and I circulate among them. I bend over to discuss something with them, sit next to them, or kneel in front of their desk. When I came to her group, I knelt directly in front of her. As another student asked a question, Ms. Zhang looked directly at me and her tongue slowly darted out from between her lips, which were always red. She knew she had my attention. As I made my move to go to another group, she adjusted herself in her seat. Her legs parted, widely this time, revealing red lace panties underneath. I looked directly at her and smiled. The flirtation was intoxicating and I finished my rounds, thinking of her at every stop.
The class only meets twice a week and I found myself finishing class on Wednesday and looking forward to Monday and seeing her again. It was gentle but sustained throughout the term. Ms. Zhang always wore bright panties that attracted my eye as she opened and closed her legs, adjusting herself discreetly throughout the class but clearly providing me with a show. She struggled with some of the writing assignments and I encouraged her to seek extra help. She did not come to see me. I did not think much of this, since most of my students do not like to visit their professor's office and prefer to go to the writing centre, where they can get help with the technicalities of writing.
The day of the midterm, I arrived to a full class room. Ms. Zhang took her customary place in the front row. She was wearing a white blouse, very short skirt and boots with nice heels. I passed out the exam and the answer booklets. I walked among the students, answering questions. I then returned to the front of the class, to sit at the desk and check my phone.
Ms. Zhang was looking directly at me. She put her pen in her mouth and swirled her tongue around the end, her gaze never leaving my eyes. I looked away, to ensure other students were not observing our shared intimacy. I looked back and her short skirt riding up and her legs were crossed. Her boots gleamed and the caught my eye as she uncrossed her legs. Her thighs spread wide. And this time she was not wearing panties. She smiled at me.
The exam ended and students filed out. Ms. Zhang waited, filling out her exam. When everyone else had left, she walked slowly up to me and, wordlessly, passed in her exam. There were only a few marks on it. But there was a message. "I would like some special attention. I will come and see you."
2
My office is in an old stone building that looks like it came out of a movie about universities. It gives the place a sense of seriousness that it really does not deserve. But it looks good in the promotional brochures. The late-afternoon light streamed in my west-facing window and onto my desk. It was the end of the day and people were making their way down the hall. The perfunctory good nights and nods were sent in my general direction, but I barely looked up. I was reading a new book and deep in thought when she cleared her throat and meekly said "hello professor".
I looked up but I already knew who it was. Ms. Zhang stood in the door. Her skirt was short, her stockings tall, and she wore heels that made her seem taller.
"Come in Ms. Zhang" I said, inviting her to sit at the round table. My office is large, the result of years of hard work and an outstanding reputation. I stepped from behind my desk and began to move toward the table. "How may I help you?"
She pulled out a chair and sat down, her eyes fixed on mine. There were four chairs and I selected one that was next to her. I often sat at this table when I met with students. It put them at ease. But Ms. Zhang seemed nervous, biting her lower lip. "I am here for my special attention," she said.
The words hung in the air. I thought about them and whether they were the product of an unfamiliar language or whether they had been carefully selected. Everything about her seemed to be carefully put together.
I took it all in. Her perfume was delicate and subtle. Her outfit was stylish and highlighted her body. Her black hair framed her perfect skin and her dark eyes locked on mine from below her well-cropped bangs. And, of course, her lips with their usual shade of red and looked as if they were always wet.
"I am sure I can help you," I said. "Where do you want to start?"
"We can look at my writing together?" she asked, as a few people continued to walk by the still-open office door.
"Of course," I said. She pulled her chair a little closer, tucking one leg underneath her small frame, which had the effect of exposing her thigh. We went over the technicalities of her writing and I noted that many of her mistakes were common among students from China.
