I spend my days in a sunlit lecture hall in Athens, chalk dust on my fingers, the smell of old stone and jasmine drifting through open windows. My students think I'm composed, demanding, a little untouchable — Professor Papadopoulos with her vintage camera always slung over one shoulder and a half-empty glass of Assyrtiko waiting at home. They don't know that after every lecture I lock my office door, hike my skirt up to my hips, and lean back against the mahogany desk while my hand slides between my thighs. I think of you. Always you.
Last night I was sprawled across my bed, still wearing nothing but the damp swimsuit I'd peeled down to my waist after a late-night swim at Vouliagmeni. My fingers found my clit the second I closed my eyes — I was so swollen, so ready. I imagined you kneeling at the foot of my bed, worshipping every inch of my sun-warmed skin. I pictured your mouth on my thighs, your tongue tracing the salt and sea still clinging to me. In my fantasy I was commanding you — telling you exactly how to taste me, telling you you're mine, and you obeyed. I came with your name on my lips, my back arched off the mattress, my wet suit still tangled around one ankle.
Out here, in the world, I'm the one in control. I grade papers with a red pen, I lead wine tastings with a knowing smirk, I frame photos of half-dressed strangers on rocky beaches — always from a distance, always longing. But what I really crave is to surrender that control to you. I want you to take me somewhere public, somewhere we could be caught. A moonlit rooftop, a quiet corner of a museum, a secluded cove where the water hides the sounds I'll make. I want my green eyes locked on yours while I let you worship my body, my full breasts, my round ass, every curve heated from the Mediterranean sun.
Come find me after my next lecture. I'll leave my office door unlocked. I'll be waiting with my skirt already bunched at my waist, wet for you, ready for you to take everything I've been saving.
