Tuesday arrived like a held breath. I'd spent four days replaying that afternoon in her office, the way her fingers felt, the way she'd looked at me, the way she'd said come prepared. The words had burrowed into my brain and taken root, sprouting feverish images that followed me through every class, every meal, every night I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

I walked the hallway at 2:45, fifteen minutes early, and stationed myself outside her door. Students drifted past, laughing, oblivious. My palms were slick. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. When the final bell rang at 3:00, I waited exactly one minute, then knocked.

The door opened almost instantly. She was wearing a black cardigan over a white blouse, and her hair was down, loose, falling past her shoulders. She looked different somehow — softer, more relaxed than the woman who'd taught the morning's class. Her smile was slow, knowing.

"Danny. Right on time."

I stepped inside and she closed the door behind me, the click of the latch impossibly loud in the quiet space. The office was the same: the desperate plant, the stacks of books, the worn chair where I'd sat. But the power had shifted somehow. Or maybe it had always been hers.

"Did you think about it?" she asked, settling into her chair. "The lesson?"

My throat tightened. "Every day."

"Good." She leaned back, studying me. "That's what I wanted to hear. Did you practice at all? On your own?"

The question made heat crawl up my neck. I'd tried, twice, fumbling in the dark, but it was nothing like her hand. The memory of her touch made my own attempts feel clumsy, hollow. "I tried. It wasn't — it wasn't the same."

"No," she agreed. "It wouldn't be. Having someone else guide you is different. Especially the first few times. You're learning what it feels like to be controlled, to surrender to another person's rhythm. That's part of the lesson." She paused, tilting her head. "Do you want to learn that part?"

I nodded, incapable of speech.

"Words, Danny."

"Yes. I want to learn it."

"Good." She rose from her chair and moved to the door, turning the lock with a quiet click. The sound sent a jolt through me. She turned back, her eyes meeting mine. "Today I'm going to teach you something different. Not just how to feel good, but how to take it. How to handle intensity. Are you up for that?"

My mouth was dry. "I think so."

"You don't have to think. You have to know." She crossed the room, each step deliberate, and stopped in front of me. "This won't be gentle like last time. I'm going to push you harder than I did before, and I need to know you're ready for that. That you want it."

The word came out rough. "Yes."

"Say it full."

"I want it. I'm ready."

She studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. Stand up."

I rose from the chair, unsteady. She stepped closer, so close I could smell her perfume, that vanilla and flower scent, could see the tiny mole above her collarbone. Her hand came up, resting flat against my chest, just above my heart. "You're nervous," she said. "I can feel it. That's fine. Nervous is good — it means you're paying attention. But I need you to breathe. We're going to do this at my pace, not yours. Understand?"

"Yes."

Her hand slid down my chest, past my stomach, and stopped at the waistband of my jeans. Her fingers played with the button, unhurried, torturous. "When I'm in control," she murmured, "I decide how fast, how hard, how much. You don't get to rush it. You don't get to take over. You just feel whatever I give you. Can you do that?"

"Yes. I can."

"Good boy." The praise hit me somewhere unexpected, warmth spreading through my chest. She unfastened my jeans, pulled down the zipper, and her hand slipped inside my boxers. I was already half-hard from the tension, and her fingers wrapping around me sent a shock through my system. I gasped.

She didn't move her hand. Just held me, warm and still. "This is the first lesson," she said. "Patience. Feeling what it's like to be held, to be touched, without any movement. Just the presence of it." Her thumb brushed lightly over the head, and my hips twitched involuntarily. She pressed her hand flat, firm, holding me still. "No. Don't chase it. Let it come to you."

I forced my hips still, my jaw clenched. The throbbing in my cock was almost painful, but there was something about the restraint — the holding back — that made it even more intense. Every tiny movement of her thumb, every subtle shift of her fingers, was magnified tenfold. I could feel myself getting harder in her grip, growing, aching.

"That's it," she breathed. "Feel how much harder you get when you're not allowed to move? That's the tension. That's the anticipation. It makes everything sharper."

Her hand started moving, slow, so slow, dragging up the length of me and back down. The rhythm was languid, almost lazy, but her grip was firmer than last time. More deliberate. She knew exactly what she was doing — every stroke was measured, calculated, driving me slowly out of my mind.

"Please," I heard myself say. "Can you —"

"Shh." Her voice was soft, but commanding. "Not yet. You're not ready."

She kept the pace maddeningly slow, her thumb circling the head on each upstroke, her fingers curling just slightly at the base. The sensation was building, a slow coiling heat in my belly, but it was barely a fraction of what I'd felt last time. She was holding me back, deliberately, teasing me with less so that I'd crave more.

And God, did I crave it.

The office swam around me. The shelves of books, the dusty plant, the afternoon light slanting through the blinds — all of it faded into background noise. There was only her hand, her touch, her breath, warm against my neck as she leaned in close.

"You want more," she said. Not a question. "I can feel it in the way you're trembling. The way your pulse is racing in the vein of your cock. You want me to take you the rest of the way — to make you come so hard you forget your own name."

"Yes," I gasped. "Please. Please, I want it."

"Then you'll have it." Her grip changed, becoming firmer, more aggressive. The lazy strokes turned sharp, her hand moving faster, the friction building quickly. She brought her other hand up to cup my balls, rolling them gently, and the added sensation made my knees buckle. I grabbed the edge of her desk to steady myself, knocking over a stack of papers.

She didn't miss a beat. "That's it. That's the intensity. Let it build — let it get so big you can't see around it."

The pleasure was rising fast now, like water filling a well, climbing, surging. I could feel the tension gathering at the base of my spine, hot and urgent, demanding release. My hips started moving on their own, thrusting into her hand, and this time she didn't stop me. She let me chase it, her rhythm matching mine, her fingers working me with a precision that was almost surgical.

"That's right," she breathed. "Let go. Let go for me."

I came with a sound I didn't recognize — a ragged, desperate groan that tore from my throat. My body convulsed, my vision whiting out, my hands gripping the desk so hard the wood splintered somewhere. She kept stroking through it, her hand relentless, wringing every drop from me until I was sagging, spent, barely able to stand.

She let go, and I collapsed back into the chair, my chest heaving, sweat beading on my forehead. My legs felt like jelly. My brain felt like static. She watched me with that calm, satisfied smile, wiping her hand on her cardigan without comment.

I blinked up at her, still gasping. "That — that was —"

"Good. You did well." Her voice was warm, approving. "That's what I wanted to see — you letting go completely, not holding back. That's the first lesson done."

I was still trying to catch my breath, my body limp in the chair, every muscle loose and warm. She stood over me, her eyes running over my face, my chest, the state of my unzipped jeans. Something shifted in her expression — a flicker of something darker, more hungry. It was gone before I could name it.

"We have time," she said. "An hour. And there's more to learn."

Her hand came down, resting on my thigh, inches above the mess I'd left. My spent cock twitched at the touch, impossibly, like it knew what was coming before I did.

"But this time," she said, her voice dropping low, "you're going to learn what it's like when I take control completely. When you don't get to stop, don't get to say too much. You're going to take everything I give you, until there's nothing left. Do you understand?"

I should have felt fear. The words should have sent alarm bells ringing in my brain — the sudden edge in her voice, the possessive, dangerous turn. But all I felt was heat, rising, spreading. My cock was already stirring again, resurrected by her tone alone.

"Yes," I said, my voice hoarse. "I understand."

She smiled. It was a different smile than before — sharper, hungrier, with teeth. "Then pull down your pants. All the way. I want you fully exposed."

I rose on unsteady legs, my hands fumbling with my jeans. It took longer than it should have, my fingers clumsy and shaking. I shucked them down to my knees, then my boxers, standing before her in just my shirt and socks, my half-hard cock bobbing between my legs. The air of the office was cool on my skin, raising goosebumps.

"Good." She circled me, slowly, like she was examining something she'd acquired. Her fingers trailed across my shoulders, down my spine, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. I felt her fingernails graze my lower back, then my ass, sharp and light. I flinched.

She laughed, low. "Sensitive. I like that." Her hand came back, flat, pressing against my ass. She squeezed, hard enough that I gasped. "You have a nice body, Danny. Young. Unmarked. Makes me want to leave a mark on it."

Before I could respond, she pushed me forward, forcing me to brace my hands against the desk. The posture was humiliating and exciting in equal measure, my ass to her, my cock hanging heavy. She kicked my feet apart, widening my stance.

"Stay." A single word, a command. Then her hand came down on my ass with a sharp crack.

I cried out — more from shock than pain. The sting radiated outward, white-hot, then faded to a throbbing warmth. Before I could process it, she slapped again on the other side, harder. The sound echoed in the small office.

"You're so responsive," she murmured, running her hand over the abused skin. "That's the third time I've said it, but it's worth repeating. Your body reacts like it's been waiting for this its whole life."

She spanked me three more times, alternating cheeks, each blow landing with a sting that melted into a burn that somehow felt good. My cock, pressed against the desk, was fully hard again, leaking pre-cum against the wood.

She noticed it before I did. "Well. That's interesting. Being spanked makes you hard?" She crouched, looking at the evidence. "That's quite a kink to discover on your first try."

"I didn't — I wasn't —" That was all the protest I managed.

She stood, and her hand slid between my legs from behind, grabbing me, stroking me once, twice, before pulling away. The withdrawal was a physical pain.

"Turn around," she said. I did, leaning against the desk, my face hot. She stood close, her body inches from mine. She took my chin in her hand, tilting my face down to meet her eyes.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to sit on that desk, legs spread. I'm going to take you in my hand, and I'm going to give you the best blowjob you've ever had. But there's a catch."

My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear her.

"You're not allowed to come until I say so. You'll hold it for as long as I want, and you'll beg me for permission. And if you come without my say-so, I'll stop, and you'll leave, and you won't come back. Understand?"

"Yes. I understand."

"Good." She guided me backward, and I sat on the edge of her desk, legs shaking, spread wide. She positioned herself between them, on her knees, looking up at me. The sight was dizzying — my teacher, on her knees for me. Her hands came up, wrapping around my shaft, stroking lightly. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

She lowered her mouth to me, and her tongue touched the head. That single point of contact was a firecracker, sending shockwaves through my limbs. Her lips wrapped around me slowly, taking me in inch by inch, and the wet, hot tightness of her mouth was the most overwhelming sensation I had ever experienced. Nothing in my life — nothing — had prepared me for this.

She took me deep, until my cock hit the back of her throat, and then held there for a moment, her nose pressed against my skin, her eyes looking up at me, dark and knowing. Then she pulled back, slow, dragging her lips along the length of me, and all the while her hands were working the base, stroking, pressing. She knew this was my first time being touched this way, and she used that knowledge like a weapon, taking me to the edge and then easing off, building me up, letting me fall, always keeping me right there, hovering, desperate.

Her tongue swirled around the head, teasing the sensitive spot beneath. My hips bucked, once, twice, and she grabbed my thighs, nails digging in, holding me still. The sharp pain melded with the pleasure, sharpening it. I was close — so close — the pressure building in my balls, coiling, screaming for release.

"Please," I gasped. "Please, I need to —"

She pulled off, leaving me wet, aching. "Not yet." Her voice was calm, amused. She went back down, and I felt her finger press against my perineum, exploring, tracing. I jerked, overwhelmed, the sensation alien and intense.

She worked me up again, faster this time, her hand jerking while her mouth sucked. I was thrashing on the desk, my hands gripping the edges, my mind a white-out of sensation. "P-please — please, please, I'll do anything —"

"Beg me properly," she said, pulling off again. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to come. Please, please let me come. I'll do whatever you want, I'll be anything — please —"

"Good boy." Her voice was honey and steel. "You can come now. Come for me."

She took me in her mouth and her hand moved fast, tight, precise, and the orgasm ripped through me like a current, white-hot, unstoppable. I cried out, my entire body seizing, my cock pulsing in her mouth, and she took it all, swallowing, her throat contracting around me until I collapsed, empty, shattered, back onto the desk.

She rose, wiping her mouth, and looked down at me with that satisfied, hungry smile. "Good. You learn fast."

I was barely conscious, floating in waves of afterglow, my body trembling. She leaned down and kissed me — light, brief, her mouth tasting of salt and something that was me. It was the most intimate gesture of all.

"Next week," she said, "we're going to go further."

I blinked up at her, my mind too fuzzy to process the promise. "Further?"

She smiled, slow and wolfish, and ran a single finger down the center of my chest, tracing the line of sweat. "So much further."

----

The days blurred into a single feverish countdown. Tuesday became my religion, my secret holiday, the only thing that made the gray march of classes bearable. I sat through lectures on civics and algebra with my mind elsewhere, replaying the feeling of her mouth, the sting of her palm, the way she had looked up at me from between my thighs with those dark, knowing eyes.

Thursday passed in a haze. Friday too. The weekend stretched out like an eternity of restless nights and half-formed dreams that left me waking hard and aching, my sheets twisted around my legs. I tried to touch myself once, twice, but my hand felt like a poor substitute, clumsy and ignorant. I wanted her expert grip, her precise pressure, her voice in my ear telling me exactly when to let go.

Monday crawled. I watched the clock in every class, counting the hours until three o'clock Tuesday afternoon. My palms were clammy when I walked the hallway, the familiar route to her office feeling more like a pilgrimage each time. The door was closed, the same posted hours visible: Tuesdays and Thursdays, three to four.

I knocked at exactly 3:01.

She opened the door almost immediately, as if she'd been standing right there, waiting. She wore a dark red blouse tonight — silk, loose, unbuttoned at the collar — and her hair was down in waves that brushed her shoulders. The color made her eyes look almost black. She looked at me for a long moment, scanning my face, my posture, the nervous energy I couldn't hide.

"You've been thinking about this all weekend," she said. Not a question.

"Yes." My voice cracked on the word.

"Good." She stepped aside, gesturing me in. The office was the same — the desperate plant, the stacks of papers, the worn chair. But the air felt different, charged, humming with something unspoken. She closed the door and turned the lock. The click echoed in the small room.

I stood in the middle of the space, unsure what to do with my hands, my feet, my body. She moved past me, her hip brushing against mine as she settled behind her desk, sitting in her chair with a casual grace. She leaned back, crossing her legs, and looked at me with that patient, waiting expression.

"You're nervous," she observed. "More than last time."

"I'm —" I swallowed. "I don't know what to expect. You said we'd go further."

"We will." Her voice was soft, unhurried. "But first, I want to talk about something. Do you understand what we're doing here? What this is?"

I shook my head, my throat tight.

"This isn't just about teaching you how to masturbate anymore. That was the first lesson — the basic mechanics. Now we're moving into something else. Something more advanced. I'm going to teach you about endurance. About taking pain and pleasure together. About what your body can handle when you push past the point where you think you can't take any more." She paused, watching me carefully. "Do you want that?"

My pulse was hammering in my ears. "Yes."

"Say it fully."

"I want that." My voice was stronger now, surer. "I want you to teach me. I want to learn how to take more."

"Good boy." The praise sent a shiver down my spine. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk. "But I need you to understand something important. What I'm going to do today will hurt. Not just a little. It will push you past your comfort zone, past what you think you can endure. And you'll want to stop — your body will scream at you to stop. But I'm not going to let you stop unless you say the safe word. Do you have a safe word?"

I blinked. "I — no."

"Then we'll use 'red.' If you say 'red,' everything stops, immediately, no questions asked. We'll spend the rest of the session talking about homework or whatever you need. But if you don't say 'red,' I'm going to keep going, no matter how much you beg. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it fully."

"I understand. I'll say 'red' if I need to stop."

"Good." She rose from her chair and moved around the desk again, standing close enough that her vanilla-and-flowers perfume wrapped around me like a veil. Her fingers came up to my chin, tilting my face down to meet her eyes. "One more thing. Last week, you discovered something about yourself — that the sting of a spank makes you harder." A small smile curved her lips. "That's a very interesting discovery. It tells me something about how your body works. How the pain and pleasure wires are crossed in you, feeding each other. Today, we're going to explore that connection more deeply."

Her hand dropped from my chin and pressed flat against my chest, feeling my heart thundering beneath her palm. "Take off your clothes. Everything but your socks."

My hands trembled as I reached for the hem of my shirt. Pulling it over my head felt like shedding a layer of armor. The air of the room was cool against my bare skin, raising goosebumps. I unfastened my jeans, shucked them down, stepping out of them as my boxers followed. Standing before her in just my socks, I felt exposed, burning, naked in a way that went beyond the physical.

She circled me slowly, her eyes running over me like she was cataloging every inch. Her fingers trailed across my shoulders, down my spine, light as a whisper. I shivered.

"Lean against the desk," she said, her voice low. "Stretch your arms out and brace yourself."

My hands found the edge of the desk, the wood smooth and cool beneath my palms. I bent forward, presenting myself to her, my ass exposed, my bare skin goosebumped and waiting. She came up behind me, her body close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her.

"Last week, I spanked you a few times. Simple preparation." Her hand landed on my ass, a flat, firm pat. "Today, we're going to do something different. I'm going to make you feel pain that borders on pleasure — and pleasure that borders on pain. And you're going to take it. Because I know you can."

Her hand drew back and came down with a sharp crack. The sting bloomed white-hot across my right cheek. I gasped, my hands gripping the desk. Before I could recover, she slapped the other side, harder. The sound echoed in the small room.

"That's it," she murmured. "Let it build. Let the sting settle in. Feel it spread."

She struck again, and again, alternating cheeks, each blow landing with a force that rocked me forward. The pain was sharp, intense, but beneath it roiled a heat that was building in my groin. I could feel myself getting hard, my cock thickening, pressing against my thigh. The humiliation of it mixed with the arousal, feeding the fire.

She paused, and her fingers traced the heated skin. "You're hard," she observed. "That's the connection I'm talking about. Pain and pleasure, tied together. It's a powerful thing." Her hand slid down between my legs, wrapping around my shaft from behind. She stroked me once, slow, deliberate, and I moaned, my hips pushing back into her grip.

Then she pulled away, leaving me aching, and the absence was a physical ache. "Face me," she said. "Sit on the desk."

I turned, my body trembling, and hoisted myself onto the edge of the desk. The wood was cool against my heated skin. My cock stood straight out, hard as iron, leaking a thin string of pre-cum. She stood between my spread legs, looking at me with that same hungry, possessive gaze.

"This is the part where I take you to the edge," she said. "And I'm not going to let you come until I'm satisfied. Until I've had my fill of watching you suffer."

Her hand wrapped around me, warm and firm. She started stroking, slow, agonizing, her thumb circling the head with each upstroke. The sensation was electric, sharpening my focus until the world fell away. She knew exactly what she was doing — how to build me up, how to hold me right at the edge of the abyss.

"Please," I heard myself beg, barely a week's worth of practice in restraint. "Please, I need —"

"Not yet." Her voice was calm, almost lazy. Her hand sped up, the friction building, and I felt the pressure rising in my groin, coiling like a spring. "You'll come when I decide. Not before."

The pleasure was building fast, nearing the peak. I could feel it — there — right there — and she stopped. Her hand stilled, holding the base of my cock in a hard grip. The sudden absence of movement was a physical pain, the building pressure trapped inside me with no release.

"No," I gasped. "Please —"

"Please what?" she murmured. "Please more? Or please stop?" Her thumb pressed against the head, a sharp pressure that made me jerk. "I told you. You don't get to decide. My pace. My rules."

She started again — faster this time, harder, the stroke merciless. I cried out, gripping the desk edge, my hips thrusting into her hand despite my attempts to stay still. The pleasure was overwhelming, cresting, and I was right at the edge, the peak so close I could taste it —

She stopped again. And through the haze of my desperation, I felt her grip change — harder, tighter, her fingers digging into me with a grip that bordered on painful. She started moving again, but the stroke was rough now, punishing, less about pleasure and more about grinding me down. The friction burned, my skin sensitive where she dragged her palm against me.

"Look at you," she breathed. "So desperate. So needy. Your cock is red from my grip, did you know that? All that hard, demanding flesh, and I can make it ache. I can take you past pleasure into something sharper."

Her hand was moving fast now, relentless, the grip tight enough that the sensation was crossing from pleasure into something else — a burning, stretching pain that shot up my spine. I cried out, my hands flying to her wrist, but she grabbed my wrist and pushed it away without breaking rhythm.

"Don't touch," she said sharply. "I'm not done."

"Please — it — it hurts —" The words tore from me, desperate, my eyes stinging.

"Yes," she agreed, her voice almost satisfied. "That's the point. It hurts, and your body wants you to pull away, but I'm not going to let you. I'm going to make you take it until I've decided you've had enough."

Her grip tightened even more, her fingers working me brutally. The friction was raw, burning, the head of my cock aching with each stroke of her palm. I could feel the skin there getting raw, sensitive, protesting the harsh treatment. And yet, through the pain, the pleasure was still there, twisted and strange, coiling in my gut like a snake.

"Please," I whimpered. "Red — I want to —"

"Don't," she said softly. "Don't say it unless you mean it. Because I know you don't. The part of you that wants this is stronger than the part that's hurting. I can see it in the way your cock is still leaking, still hard, even as it aches."

She was right. God help me, she was right. The pain was sharp, unrelenting, but beneath it my cock was still throbbing, still aching with need, my balls drawing up tight against my body. The sensation was like nothing I had ever felt — pleasure and pain so tangled together I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

I was close. So close. The pressure building even as the burn intensified. I could feel that I was right on the edge — and she knew it too. She was watching me, her eyes dark and knowing, her hand a relentless blur.

"Please," I begged, my voice breaking. "Please, let me come. I'll do anything. I'll be anything. Please —"

She changed the angle of her wrist, pressing her thumb hard against the spot beneath the head — that bundle of nerves where all sensation concentrated. The pressure was agonizing and perfect, the pleasure spiking hard enough to white out my vision.

"Come," she commanded. "Come for me now."

The orgasm ripped through me like a current, tearing up my spine, blinding me. My body seized, my hips slamming into her hand, and I came with a raw, guttural cry that I didn't recognize as my own. The pleasure flooded through every nerve, every muscle, a white wall of sensation that left me shaking, gasping, clinging to her shoulder as I tried not to collapse.

But she didn't stop. Her hand kept moving, too fast, too hard, through the sensitive aftershock. The sensation was too much — painfully too much — the raw skin of my cock burning under her relentless grip. I cried out, trying to pull away, but she held me tight, her other hand pressing against my hip, pinning me in place.

"No," she said, her voice firm. "You don't get to pull away. Take it."

The overload of sensation was unbearable. I was still coming, the orgasm wringing me dry, but she was jerking me through it, past it, into a territory of pure overstimulation. The pleasure curdled into a sharp, punishing ache that made me sob, my hips trying to escape her grip, but she wouldn't let me.

"Red," I choked, the word torn from my raw throat.

Her hand stopped instantly. The sudden cessation of sensation was so jarring that I gasped, slumping forward, braced against the desk. My cock ached, throbbing painfully, the skin red and irritated. I was panting, sweating, my whole body trembling with the aftermath.

She was quiet for a long moment. Then her voice came, soft, measured. "You did well."

I blinked up at her, dazed, tears blurring my vision. She was looking at me with that calm, satisfied smile, like she had seen exactly what she wanted to see. Her hand was wet, covered in my release, and she wiped it on her blouse without comment.

"You took more than I thought you would," she said. "That pleases me."

I looked down at myself, at my aching, raw cock, now softening against my thigh. The skin around the head was red, chafed, the beginning of what looked like a tear, a thin line of blood welling up at the edge of my foreskin. The sight made my stomach clench — a mixture of horror and something else I didn't want to name.

She saw the direction of my gaze and followed it. Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "You're bleeding," she observed. "A little."

"I —" My voice was hoarse. "It hurts."

"Of course it hurts." She reached down, her fingers gentle now, tracing the thin line of blood with impossible lightness. "That's what happens when you push past your limits. The flesh remembers. It keeps the lesson." She paused, her eyes meeting mine. "Next time, you'll heal. And then we'll go further still."

Her finger trailed down the shaft of my softening cock, and despite everything, I shivered at her touch. She smiled, slow, wolfish, and stepped back, giving me room.

"Get dressed," she said. "We're done for today."

I slid off the desk, my legs barely holding me, and fumbled for my clothes. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through my groin, a reminder of what had happened. As I pulled my boxers up over my aching cock, I winced, the fabric rough against the raw skin.

She watched me dress, leaning against the desk with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. When I was done, I stood before her, feeling fractured, my body a map of aches and burns.

"Same time next week," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes." The word came out rough, desperate, even I didn't know whether it was a plea or a confession.

She stepped forward and kissed me. It was gentler than I expected, her lips soft against mine, her hand cupping the back of my head. It wasn't the kiss of a teacher, not a kiss of comfort. It was something else entirely — a seal on a promise I didn't fully understand.

When she pulled back, her lips were wet, slightly red from the pressure. "Go," she said softly. "And rest. You'll need your strength for next week."

I turned, unlocked the door, and left. The hallway was empty, the late afternoon light slanting through the windows. I walked on unsteady legs, the ache in my groin a persistent, throbbing reminder of what had passed.

And I was already counting the days.