She was an uncommon beauty. One of those rare individuals that seem to have it all. Her name was Tiara, a senior in my British Literature class. She had recently moved to the States from her family home in Brazil. And I for one was glad. She moved down the hall of our high school like a dream, turning the heads of all the underclassmen and most to the male faculty. She wore the most proactive outfits, the shortest of skirts that revealed her milk chocolate thighs and tight half shirts that showed off her flat stomach and a very sexy bellybutton ring.
Despite all of her physical advantages, she still was struggling with my course and the English language in general and she was a regular visitor to my desk with questions about this author or that meaning of a word or phrase. I looked forward to these visits. I understood the danger of my infatuation but I could not help it, nor could I control it. I was under her spell. Her sensuousness was consuming me.
I found myself singling her out when I roamed about the room offering advice on some writing project or the other. Kneeling at her desk pointing out trivial mistakes. It was all a ruse to be near her. Her perfumed hair intoxicated me. It fell in washboard-curled waves over her shoulders, caressing her skin as it went. It aroused sexual feelings in me that my wife had not awakened in years. I found myself getting an erection as I knelt next to her. I had no control. None. I was lost. I had to have her. The job be damned.
(…)
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