Dear Professor(16)

I’d be signing over ownership of my body. But was that letter—that fucking letter—worth it?

Yes.

“And what would that mean?” I lifted my chin and looked him straight in the eye. “If I agree. What would it mean?”

He dropped his hand, and a slow, easy smirk trailed across his face. He removed his glasses and set them on his desk before he responded.

“Anything I want,” he said simply. “I want you to fuck yourself with your fingers on camera for me, you do it. I want it in front of me, you do it. I want you to fuck some asshole in front of me? You do that shit, too, Darcy. But rest assured—if you agree, and you will, and you fuck another man in front of me, I’ll be the only man who’ll make you come.”

Lust burned through my veins. “What if I don’t want that?”

He took one step closer to me and grasped my hand. His light tug had me stepping into him. Our bodies slammed together, and he rested his mouth by my ear.

“Then your dirty little secret isn’t a secret. I told you that.”

“Okay,” I exhaled. The word left me on a rush as panic filled my body.

The thought of someone finding out had ultimately been too much. Too scary. I knew that it had been an answer on impulse, but I had done it anyway. I’d agreed anyway.

All he was asking for were things I did for a living.

Hell, he could have asked me to fuck a girl and I would have agreed. It wasn’t like that hadn’t happened before. Not every girl can say that they know what their best friend’s pussy tastes like, after all.

“Okay?” Keaton asked me. The shock in his voice showed in his eyes.

“Okay,” I repeated softly. “Six weeks of being yours. Then you’ll give me that letter. But I want it signed on. I want to make sure that the letter I get is the one I just read.”

“Spoken like a true law undergraduate,” he muttered, smirking. He reached into his drawer once more and pulled out another stack of paper. This one was a few thick, each one stapled together, and from what I saw as he handed it to me, each one already had his signature.#p#分页标题#e#

He had known what I’d ask.

He had known I’d request a legally binding contract.

“Is this negotiable?” I asked, swallowing.

“No,” he responded once more.

He had me in a corner once again. I took a deep breath and read through it. To his credit, nothing deviated from his words. It all made total sense. Nothing was unfair—if you discounted the whole fucking situation, of course—and I had no grounds to reject it, except for my moral one.

And let’s be honest. I was pretty goddamn thin on my moral ground at this point.

Regardless, I accepted every point. Mostly because I had no other choice.

I held my hand out for a pen, and he placed one in my palm almost instantly. I closed my fingers around it and signed on the dotted line. I felt a lot like Ariel signing her voice away to Ursula, and I was sure that was the closest description I could come across.

I was signing away my dreams, my future, my certain grades.

Every one of them now belonged to the asshole in a white shirt in front of me. The very same asshole that was supposed to provide me those grades.

I slammed the pen down on his desk with a vigor that I hadn’t known previously existed. The bang was loud, despite the contract, and I took a sick delight in it.

Yes, pen. You slam like the badass fucker you are. You slam like the fucking badass little ink-filled shit you are.

I saw it for what I was.

My attitude was all I truly owned at this point. And my fuck… I was going to work that bitch into the fucking ground.

Professor Keaton looked up at me. His eyes held the same brightness they had before, except now, they had a glint of ownership. It was thrilling and scary at the same time. The thought that I’d just signed my body over to someone else. That its control was no longer my own.

I had no excuses. I’d read the contract. I knew what I’d done.

And what I’d done was fucked myself.





Dear Professor, I wonder if you have any idea what you’ve done. Xoxo, Darcy.



My journal was my best friend. It was the only thing that had gotten me through Griffin’s death. Writing my emotions down every morning had kept me sane and able to face the day with a semblance of strength. I’d learned in the days following his passing that words had power, and the coping technique that had helped me grieved had become a habit.

I’d gone through seven since I’d started college, and I’d bought a new one in preparation for this. Or maybe I’d bought it because the cover was cute but the timing was right.

I’d just agreed to fuck my professor on a regular basis. I’d just given him everything he wanted.