A Poorly Written Essay

A Poorly Written Essay
by David Cain

She shuffled through the stack of papers as she wandered among the desks, pulling out a particular sheet as she passed each student, careful to keep a grip on the expanding fan of essays. Mark caught her eye as she searched for his and at once felt her disappointment. She folded the sheet slightly as she passed his essay to him and continued through the maze of seats.

Mark turned over the assignment they had completed during the last class session. There were two red marks in the title alone, vicious circles around his apostrophical errors of “A Midsummer’s Nights Dream” and two dozen more cruel strikes in the body of the three paragraphs. It had been a simple exercise, so there was no grade, but at the bottom of the piece were the words, “See me after class!”

After a few comments on the varied use of rhyme in the comedic romance, Miss Porter turned their attention to Othello.

Mark watched as she spoke, intrigued by the twinge of color in her cheek as she read Iago’s speech, outlining his malicious scheme. Her dark blue eyes seemed to rage as she read, a fierce gaze that stirred Mark’s interest. She closed the book and dismissed the students. He could feel his heart beat as he stood and approached the front of the classroom.

Liza dashed to Miss Porter and began pouring out her thoughts on the Moor and his lily-white mistress. Mark sat back on one of the front desks and stifled a yawn. Miss Porter nodded and nodded until Liza, finally satisfied that she had proven her knowledge to the English teacher, picked up her books and left. Miss Porter rolled her eyes as she looked at Mark.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“Mark. Could you drop by my office this afternoon? I want to discuss your paper with you.”

“Sure. What time?”

“After two. Before five.” Miss Porter smiled to show her concern for her student. Mark nodded.

He arrived at the tiny office in the belly of Wells Hall just after two. Miss Porter gestured him in and continued making marks in a ledger, so Mark quietly sat down amidst the stacked volumes of Tennyson and Melville. After a few minutes, she handed him a sheet of paper with twenty sentences on it.

“Put apostrophes where they belong,” she instructed. Mark pulled out a pen and began noting possessions in a steady progression. He handed the sheet back. Picking up her red pen, Miss Porter began to read through the expressions.

“These are perfect,” she said, confused. “So you understand apostrophes?”

“Yeah,” Mark said. “They aren’t very hard.”

“But you consistently used them incorrectly in your paper – twelve mistakes in a single page of writing.”

“I was writing about the lovers,” he said with a blush. “Sitting in class thinking through so many casual affairs got me excited. Grammar kind of goes out the window when I get aroused emotionally.” His heart beat hard as he spoke.

“I know,” she said softly. “I thought you observations were . . . interesting, but the bad grammar took me out of it. You should try to remember that when you’re writing, you’re communicating. I wanted to hear what you had to say, but it was as if your speech was slurred. Remember that you’re talking to someone – to me – and speak clearly.”

“That was the problem. I’m sorry, Miss Porter, but it’s hard to discuss the orgies of Midsummer with such a beautiful woman and keep my diction.” Mark looked at his hands in his lap, wringing nervously. “I mean, you’re only, what, four years older than I am and . . .” He felt a hand on his arm. “. . .so pretty.” His voice trailed. Mark looked up and into Miss Porter’s eyes. The dark azure raged with passion. His breath halted and she kissed him.

He pulled her easily onto his lap as the touch of their hunger expressed the whirlwind of unleashed desire. Miss Porter, Kathy, the pretty young assistant English professor touched him, lifted his shirt to run her hands over his strong chest, through his dark curls and in a moment’s abandon let herself go as she kissed him. Mark kneaded her supple flesh, exploring the curves and swells of her body anxiously, madly, eagerly.

She paused a moment to lift her soft yellow sweater up over her head, and Mark at once suckled the dark nipples of a full naked breast. Kathy sighed and closed her eyes as she held his head hard against the erotic tingling. His hand slipped under her long skirt and held the moist furrow in the palm of his strength and she wantonly pushed herself against the probing until he had found his way beneath the satin shroud. A finger slipped inside her and she gasped.

An echo of footsteps in the hallway sent a shock of fear through the young teacher and she paused to listen. In the moment’s hesitation, Mark pushed his thick cock into the damp pit and Kathy fell back onto her desk with the thrust, sending Joyce and Johnson crashing to the floor. Her hands clutched and crumpled papers as he stroked his prick into her waterfall. A staple in her ledger bit into her ass and as the excitement climbed her precipice, she wondered in a gushing flood of the juice of their orgasm’s release if they would drown good Liza’s all-too-good marks.

She sat up as the wave of heavy breathing left them fading gently. Mark smiled shyly and stole a nervous quick kiss. Kathy held her arms out to hold him and drew him into her embrace. The sound of laughter down the halls interrupted their sweet pause and Mark tucked in his shirt as Kathy smoothed her skirt and picked Ulysses off the floor.

“Yes,” she said in a murmur, “Yes.”

As she pulled her sweater on again, a knock came at the office door. Liza slowly peered inside.

“I’ll do better on the next essay,” said Mark, collecting his books.

“Hmmm,” said Kathy, “grammar isn’t everything, you know.”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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