Chapter 9: McArthur, 2017

"I propose to argue that universities and colleges should not attempt to ban student-faculty relationships. Such bans are a violation of the rights of the people involved, and have a negative impact on the larger university community. My argument is not a defense of such relationships per se. Romantic interactions between students and faculty are invariably complicated and perilous, and should be approached with caution. However, I believe that the decision lies within the realm of personal freedom possessed by those involved."

Mcarthur, N. (2017). Relationships between university professors and students: Should they be banned? Ethics and Education, 12(2), 129–140. doi: 10.1080/17449642.2017.1293922

***

LAYLA

"And then..." The petite blonde girl in front of me can barely finish her sentence through the sobs and hiccups wracking her body. "She told me... she doesn't see the point anymore... and that living is too hard..."

I hold out a box of tissues and she grasps a grateful handful, dabbing at the stream of tears streaking down her cheeks, then soothingly assure her that I'm here, and listening, and that we'll see what we can do to help.

Sometimes I really hate this volunteer role. Supportive listening peer with the campus Mental Health Centre. It feels so futile and inadequate. I can listen to this girl tell me about how her little sister is suicidal, and I can tell her that there are resources available to support her and her family, and I can help her manage the system as best as she can.

But I can't make her sister's depression go away, and I can't make her feel less heartbroken. When she leaves with a bagful of brochures and business cards and resources and a rudimentary plan in place for taking care of herself and supporting her sister, I think she feels a little less helpless, but I'm not sure.

It's times like these when I'm guiltily grateful for being an only child, because it means I don't have to shoulder a sibling's burdens or have such an emotional commitment to them. Maybe that's horrible of me, but it's true.

Especially because I'm so type-A, and think that there's a solution to nearly everything, and believe that most problems can be fixed with the right combination of effort and intelligence and motivation and luck. Which makes me get so... invested in things, I suppose.

I think it's a character trait that'll make me a great clinical psychologist.

Or, maybe a terrible one, but believing myself incapable of something does not fit with my outlook on life.

Everything is possible, within the laws of nature, with enough elbow grease.

Or at least it should be.

***

Saturday afternoon, the day after I met with Dr. Hall about my paper, I open my University of Edmonton inbox to find an email from him. My heart leaps excitedly in my chest at the sight of it.

Subject: More resources
From: Kayden Hall ([email protected])
To: Layla Mitchell ([email protected])

These might help too.

Kayden

Mm. Kayden.

Why does he have to have a really hot name, too?

He sent me links to three other journal articles related to the topic I chose.

A smile plays at the edge of my mouth as I draft a reply, fingers lingering too long on my keyboard.

Hey,

These are great, thank you.

Layla

I chew the inside of my cheek, not hitting send.

My index finger drifts to the backspace button, holds it down.

Thanks, these look amazing.

Will you write my paper for me too?

Layla

Uh... academic integrity, moron?

But he knows I'm teasing.

I click send, and then for the rest of the evening as I'm sitting at my desk typing out an assignment for one of my developmental psych classes, I keep drifting back to refresh my inbox.

Like the stupid girl with a ridiculous crush on her professor that I have apparently turned into.

Maybe twenty minutes later, my pulse quickens at the unread email that appears at the top of the list.

me, Kayden (3)

That would be unprofessional, Layla

Pursing my lips to suppress a knowing grin, I hit reply and type:

My apologies, Dr. Hall. Extremely unprofessional.
Sounds like I need to be disciplined.

Too forward. I'm completely crazy.

I wait about twelve minutes, as long as I can physically force myself to, before my finger slides across the mouse-pad and drags the cursor to the SEND button. Click.

Oops.

I should bring myself to care, I really should. But the adrenaline rush, the heat that streaks down my spine, is too much of a high.

Five minutes later:

Kayden, me (5)

Evidently. Except something tells me that punishment wouldn't be an effective deterrent.

I can think of so many deliciously sinful possible punishments, that involve him and I with few clothes on and me bent over, or on my knees. Maybe my hands trussed together over my head, or a blindfold covering my eyes, my naked chest heaving with every strangled breath.

Yeah, there's definitely something very wrong with me.

I type, Depends what kind of punishment.

My pulse is racing and heat spears through my core when I hit send a couple minutes later.

His eventual reply sends chills down my spine.

Sounds like an intriguing experiment.

So many variables. So many potential hypotheses. The outcomes are endless.

It takes me forever to figure out what to say next.

So intriguing that I'm sure it'll keep me up all night hypothesizing.
Good night, Dr. Hall.

His reply is almost instantaneous.

I'm sure I'll be hypothesizing tonight too.
Night, Layla.

For the rest of the evening, there's a small, impish smile curling at the edge of my mouth and a warm, nagging heat tugging low in my abdomen.

It takes more effort than usual to focus on my work, and by the time I'm done near midnight, I'm restless and uncomfortable and wet.

So, so wet.

I wash my face, brush my teeth, use the washroom, then tug on some underwear and an over-sized t-shirt and crawl beneath the covers of my bed.

Imagining him 'hypothesizing'.

Is he in bed right now? Maybe in just a thin, loose pair of boxers and nothing else, brainstorming all the ways he could discipline me for my misbehaviour.

I wonder if his sexual tastes are reckless and adventurous, if he likes it rough, dirty, depraved.

If he'd call me filthy names and spank me, then take me hard from behind, dragging me to the edge of bliss and then pulling back, over and over until I've been driven mad with desperate desire. Then I'd breathily promise that I've learned my lesson, and he'd finally let me come all over his cock, or his mouth, or his fingers.

Clearly I'm blessed with a vivid imagination.

And cursed with the relentless, dissatisfied ache between my legs.

I flip on the lamp beside my bed, reach down to the bottom drawer of my bedside table, open the little box that's hidden there. I reach for the deep purple vibrator and decide to forgo the lube this time. I'm soaked and just want to feel... friction. So much friction. And hot skin, and muscle. And the smell of sweat, the taste of flesh, the dark, earthy scent of masculinity. God, I want it so bad that I'm driving myself half insane just thinking about it.

I strip off my t-shirt, slip out of my panties, feel the cool sheets sliding across my bare, feverish skin. I spread my thighs and reach between them. A couple fingers stroke through the slick folds of flesh at the center of me. My clit is so swollen with need that even just the faintest scrape of my thumb over it has me trembling.

I press my eyes shut and picture him, standing at the front of the lecture hall, leaning casually against the desk. Tall, strong legs covered in black denim, a plain white T stretching over the lean, solid planes of his chest. Those toned, golden arms, the dark tattoo inked against his left bicep. The taut lines of his neck, the rough dust of stubble coating that strong jaw. Those inviting pink lips that stretch into a devilish smirk, the dark, sinful, brooding sparkle in his amber eyes. His messy, jet-black hair that glints with warm brown where the light hits.

I click the vibrator onto a low, teasing setting and glide the thick silicone tip across my dripping slit, let it linger on the bundle of nerves that twitches and pulses beneath it with need. You're a filthy girl, Layla. His husky, rasping voice with just an edge of wickedness to it.

Will you punish me, Dr. Hall?

I picture those long, deft fingers swiftly unbuckling his belt and tearing the leather from the loops.

How much would the strap sting, if it were whipped across the round flesh of my behind?

With the image of him slowly stripping away each layer of clothing off his gorgeous, tight, muscular body, I sink the shaft of the vibrator into me with a single, savage thrust, a whimper of relief escaping into the silence around me.

The device has a couple prongs on the side that nudge through my folds to massage my clit. I press the button to increase the strength of the vibrations and my back arches, my eyes squeezing shut as I savour the oscillating pressure rumbling inside me.

I should've bought one of these things a long time ago. So much better than my fingers.

Dirty girl. Are you touching yourself, thinking about me? Each word is low and gruff, thick and smoky with desire.

No, sir. I promise I'm a good girl.

Liar.

I give my left nipple a hard pinch, relishing the sting and then the release that follows, then rub my thumb in circles over it so the pleasure courses down to settle between my legs.

His large, calloused hand wrapped around my neck, holding me firmly, just firm enough for me to know that he has control, that I'm at his mercy, that he can do whatever he wants to me. Use me however he wants.

My hand clutches the vibrator tightly, pulling it out and then ramming it back in, almost harshly. Theo was never rough with me. He was gentle, and sweet, and kind.

I guess I'm just not a very sweet person.

I don't last very long at all. The sensations are too much, everything rises quickly and steadily, up and up and up until it all crashes, so sharply and brutally. I come with a strangled cry that I stifle into my palm, imagining it's his big hand clamping over my mouth, stopping everyone from hearing my moans as he fucks me in his office in the middle of the day, disregarding all the rules. My body clenches and ripples around the vibrator's thrumming length until the bliss settles and I'm left panting and sweating, my high quickly fading away.

I fumble with the button, turning it off and pulling the device out of me, mildly ashamed as I fall back to earth and sink into the mattress beneath me.

God, I'm so pathetic.

I stow the toy away and get dressed, reminding myself to look up the policies about sleeping with a professor tomorrow morning. I've been assuming that it's not allowed, that it's completely inappropriate, that I'll have to wait until the end of the semester before I can legitimately consider it. But I might as well double check, to be sure.

***

As it turns out, the U of E's policies regarding sexual relationships between students and professors are completely vague and unregulated. I spend like, an hour nursing my Sunday morning coffee, poring over website after website.

The closest thing I can find is the Conflict of Interest policy, which states that any potential conflict of interest, personal or financial, that impacts the integrity of U of E's academic reputation needs to be disclosed. Which I imagine obviously includes teacher/student relationships.

The Code of Student Conduct also included the following:

The enduring value of university life and of degrees the university confers is also dependent upon the integrity of the teacher-student learning relationship and upon the honesty and soundness of the evaluation process. Conduct by any member of the university community that adversely affects this relationship or process must, therefore, be considered a serious offence.

Which sounds extremely ominous, the more I reflect on it.

I wonder if Kayden received any more specific information about student-instructor relationships, when he signed on as a faculty member.

I wonder if I could ask him. Though that may be a bit presumptuous of me.

And then, I'm perhaps irrationally concerned that confronting our flirtation directly, asking for more, might put an end to the thrill of it, to the forbiddenness of the chase.

I think part of what makes it so delicious is how wrong it is, how taboo and undefined.

Maybe I just haven't been driven crazy enough. Not yet, anyway.

***

A/N:

I promise I'm studying for my exams like a good girl...

XOXO Ami