I am considering attending art school on my art show's opening night. 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. It’s 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 fucking 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, 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 to 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.
“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.”