Chapter 16: Forbidden Relationships
The universe has a sick sense of humor, and I'm the punchline. Mom stands at the front of the classroom, those red-framed glasses perched on her nose, sipping coffee from a mug that says "Best Mom Ever." The same fucking mug I got her last Mother's Day. The same mug I jerked off into before wrapping it up with a bow because I'm that level of fucked up. My cum was probably sealed into the ceramic by now.
God, I hate myself.
She catches my eye over the rim, and I swear she's smirking. Probably remembering this morning, her hand around my cock, seven strokes to completion, like I'm some kind of virgin teenager. Which, technically, I was. Whatever.
I slouch lower in my seat, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Of course, she's teaching my creative writing class. Of fucking course. I should've seen this coming a mile away, should've connected the dots when she mentioned becoming a professor. But my brain's been too busy short-circuiting between guilt over Sabrina and whatever twisted thing is happening with Mom.
Speaking of Sabrina, she's sitting next to me, completely oblivious to the nuclear meltdown happening in my head. Her knee occasionally bumps against mine as she shifts in her seat, each contact sending guilt spiraling through me. She's doodling little stars in the margin of her notebook, her green eyes darting up to watch Mom with undisguised admiration.
"Professor Sterling is so put-together," she whispers, leaning close enough that I can smell her cherry lip balm. "Like, magazine-level gorgeous. I bet she's never had an awkward day in her life."
If she only knew. If she only fucking knew that less than two hours ago, "Professor Sterling" was licking my cum off her fingers while I lay in her bed like the world's most pathetic motherfucker.
"Yeah, she's something," I mutter, the understatement of the century burning my tongue.
Mom sets down her mug and starts writing on the whiteboard, her handwriting elegant and flowing. The teal dress hugs her ass as she reaches up, and I notice at least three guys in the front row adjust themselves not-so-subtly. My stomach churns with a nauseating mix of jealousy and disgust before I realize I'm sporting a chub myself.
"Forbidden Desires," Mom writes on the board in flowing script, each letter a deliberate stroke as she underlines the words twice. She turns to face the class, those red frames highlighting the intensity in her eyes.
"Can anyone give me an example of character relationships that fall into this category?" she asks, scanning the room before her gaze lands directly on me. "What about you, Mr. King? Any thoughts on forbidden desires?"