A chapter from a novel in progress...

To be taught by Reyna is to be patronised and bored and insulted. It is to be taught how to use an apostrophe, the difference between their, there and they're, and the importance of double-spacing, paragraphs and referencing all sources, or else be exposed as an eternal sinner, or, in fewer words, a plagiarist.

But to be taught by Reyna is also to be slowly and subtly - though not unwittingly - seduced. Slowly, because she is not at all natural enough to befriend anyone quickly - and because she hopes to maintain a sense of professionalism in her work; subtly because it is the kind of seduction that is broad and casual enough to escape the observations of anyone in particular, to escape accusations of attention towards anyone in particular; and it is not unwitting because you happen to be a sucker for, a) an American accent corrupted by years of studying and teaching in England, b) a firm buttocks in tight jeans - and she always wears tight jeans - and c) a woman whose vocal cadence speaks down to you.

The last point is sexy only because you know it is insincere, a pretence, a guard against her repressed desire to rip off your shirt, to smother you on the lips, to take of your jeans and suck your cock hard and slow - though not really hard and really slow, because she doesn't know you well enough to let her head go back and forth with the kind of aggression that has her teeth dig into your sensitive bits, and isn't confident enough to take things slowly. In fact, she isn't confident enough to do much of anything, and as quick as she begun to blow you, she's stopped and, in a flooding panic, is crying in your arms, crying with tears, and crying that she'll lose her job, that she's confused, that she doesn't know what she's doing or why she's doing it.

And, as you realise the absurdity of the situation, you sitting there with your jeans round your ankles, her head on your shoulder, you realise all of her apostrophes and spellings and false intellectual vigour are gone, and that all that remains is a dying need to not so much make love, but have love made to her, from the one who dares to speak out in class, to challenge her ideas - for they were only regurgitations of people he never admired anyway - and to e-mail her several times to question why on earth she marked him down for saying 'masturbation' in a perfectly acceptable context, saying that the 'swearing really wasn't necessarily'.

And so, taking these tears to be a sort of apology, youassure her everything is going to be alright, and you suggest meeting up, off campus, after hours, outside this grey, dreary office, perhaps her house sometime, wherever that may be - and preferably sometime soon. And, sometime soon, in the enclosed privacy of her house, after hours, far away from the grey dreariness of her office, you're both naked, and that firm buttocks in jeans is now out of jeans and in your hands, as your cock slides into her from behind, her breasts hanging without any intellectual pretence at all, palms down and gripping the sheets, her face in the pillow, with muffled groans of forbidden pleasure chiming in rhythm with the thrusts of your hips.