"Her Trap"
The Student:
It was only a stage.
But I couldn't breathe.
She moved like a storm pretending to be silk,
and every eye followed
but none like mine.
Mine were shackled,
begging.
I sat in the front row,
but it felt like I was kneeling.
As if every line she read
wrapped itself around my ribs,
pulling tighter
with her every glance.
She didn't read the poem
she undressed it.
Let it drip from her lips
with that wicked smile
that promised the unholy.
And she looked at me.
Again.
And again.
Her gaze carved through skin,
through modesty, through fear.
I was certain
I was certain she wanted me ruined.
I pressed my thighs together
like a secret,
but she already knew.
God, she knew.
When she stepped down from the stage,
the air split
and she came for me
like temptation in high heels.
I didn't run.
I stood.
I waited.
Like a girl opening her mouth
for a storm.
The Teacher:
You think this was chance?
That I chose the poem for them?
For the applause?
No.
It was for you.
Every word was sharpened for your ears.
Every movement rehearsed
to pull your innocence taut
until it trembled.
You watched me.
Foolish, unguarded, too new to know
I'd already written you into my hunt.
I saw the way your knees locked
when I said devour.
The way your fingers curled
like you were holding on
to something fragile.
You never stood a chance.
Even now,
you think you made the first move.
That you stood up
because you chose to.
But baby
I read you chapters ago.
I led you here
with a trail of glances
and you followed every single one.
So when we left
when the hall went dark
when your back hit the door of my office
and your breath hitched like a broken rhyme
I didn't ask.
I kissed.
And you opened like poetry
written only for my hands.
You moaned into my mouth,
like you were begging
to be rewritten
no metaphors,
just flesh.
Your legs wrapped around me
and I slid my hand
between your thighs
like a confession
hot, wet, waiting.
And when my fingers pressed in
deep, curling
you clung to my shoulder
like you'd fall apart
without my name.
Then you did.
Right there
With my lips still on your neck,
your moans echoing off the shelves.
And I held you
as you shattered
not gently,
but beautifully.
You still think it was your idea,
don't you?