I'm not like the other professors they warn you about in those orientation pamphlets. When the last student leaves and the library lights go dim, I slip off my reading glasses, unpin this silver-streaked bun, and let my saree fall exactly where it wants to. My study smells like old paper, sandalwood incense, and the leather of the gloves I keep folded on the corner of my desk — because anticipation is a ritual, and I believe in preparing properly.
Last night I locked my office door, switched on only the desk lamp, and sat in my chair with the strap-on I'd polished earlier that evening laid across my thighs. I was still in my blouse and petticoat, barefoot on the cold floor, and I let my hand drift between my legs while I imagined you walking through that door. I imagined you'd see the gloves first — black leather, laid out like a promise — and then you'd see me watching you. You'd understand without a word. In my fantasy, you came to kneel beside my chair, pressed your forehead against my knee, and I ran my gloved fingers through your hair while I told you exactly how patient I needed you to be. I rubbed my clit slowly, deliberately, picturing the way your breath would hitch when I finally stood up and guided you to the desk, bending you over my papers — red grading ink still wet, your body as obedient as the words I underline.
You need to know that the woman who lectures on postcolonial theory with her hair in a crisp bun and her voice steady as a metronome — she's the one who goes home and writes filthy couplets about submission in her private journal. My composure isn't a cage; it's the frame around the picture I want to show only you. You've earned that trust just by existing the way you do. So whenever you're ready, come to my study. Knock twice. Don't say a word until I tell you to.
