INIQUITOUS

CHAPTER XI

Today was Taco Tuesday. Better known as inflamed asshole day. No sooner had I finished two tacos with my own home-brought ranch dressing, did I feel my stomach making a noise, a disturbed groan, a warning to get my ass on a toilet seat. I scrambled out of the cafeteria, speeding down the hallways, reaching a toilet and bursting in, barely managing to lock the cubicle in time and pull my jeans down before I exploded. It was gruesome. I was disgusted with myself. If I were writing about this very specific moment, I'd avoid details so not as to put readers off their dinners. I wasn't so it felt like a surge of hot waste down a chute. It was gross. 

Footsteps sounded on the floor nearing the toilets, I froze, eyes wide, spine bent over, trying to be quiet. "Fuck," I mouthed, the doors opened, someone strolled in. They stopped, didn't do or say anything. I thought about my predicament and then decided to lose all my fucks: who cared if I was having a poop? Shits natural (sorry, I couldn't help myself), I shouldn't feel embarrassed.

I relaxed.

What happened next almost gave me a heart attack: something landed in my lap. I was so confused for a minute, I just stared, thinking what the... Oh, my fucking – I screamed in horror, leaping to my feet. The heart had felt slimy and wet against my skin and was now on the floor, a small bloody streak ahead of it, it landed just under the door. My thigh was stained with blood. I felt dizzy. It had to be a pig's heart, I refused to believe otherwise. Probably taken from the science labs. It had a hundred small cuts in the left and right atriums and there were faint blue vein-like scratches on the ventricles.

Whoever it was ran out. "HEY, FUCKER!" I scrambled to wipe myself, tug my jeans on and unlock the door, side-stepping the heart, ready to chase whoever it was and wallop them over the head. I came to a sudden halt. Written on the mirror in a burgundy shade –a lipstick had been discarded in the sink– were the words: MURDERER. The scrawl was different to the nursery rhyme. The strokes were thick and bold.

I had enough; I cleaned myself up thoroughly, and then wiped the mirror clean. I wasn't going to touch the heart not unless someone paid me a billion bucks – who was I kidding, I'd grab it for a Twinkie. I was very cheap. 

I was ill-tempered, I marched out of the toilets, on a furious stampede towards a certain someone. I burst into the classroom like a wife trying to catch her husband creampie-ing a blonde, big-titty assistant (I watch too much pórn). "You motherfucker!"

Frank glanced up, confused and looking at me like I had lost my goddamn mind. He was seated at his desk, ankles crossed, and a coffee cup beside his laptop, fingers pausing on the keyboard. He raised his eyebrows, and then dropped them, frowning crossly. "What's the matter, Cleo?"

I smacked my fist on the blackboard (role reversal), and yelled irritably. "Oh, shut up. OK, sir? Let's not pretend you don't know what's going on. You followed me to the girls' toilets which is downright creepy, and then you threw a pig's heart over the stall. Imagine if it landed between my legs, it would've splashed in the water. My feces would've hit my ass. I would've had to burn my skin off. If that's not enough to traumatise me, you wrote the M word on the mirror. What is your problem?"

"M word?" His brilliant forest-green squinted with feigned innocence. "I don't suppose you'll clue me in as to what that is, Cleo?"

"Motherfucker–"

"Why would I write that on the mirror?"

I screwed my expression up in frustration. "No, I'm addressing you as motherfucker. You wrote murderer. You've been playing mind games with me since you've arrived. I have nothing to do with what my brother did and ..." I faltered, he had got to his feet, strolled past me and locked the door. He turned back, intense gaze caressing the length of my body, mouth twitching into an amused smile although it felt insincere. His anger radiated off him.

"Finish your sentence, Cleo." He threatened lowly, challenging.

"And you need to find another hobby to get hard over, this has gone on for long enough. Quit the chase and get straight to the point. What do you want from me?" I was on the edge, fed up and red-blooded.

He stood so close it felt intimate, his head inclined, a hand on my hip, gaze hooded and heavy. My limbs felt immobilized, uncertain, eyes fixed on his lips as he spoke softly. "I already told you, Calla, I don't play childlike games with you." My ass met the side of the desk, his hand reached to touch my jaw, touch gentle as he pushed my head up. "What I want to do is to hurt you for talking to me in such a way and for not listening to me the first goddamn time when I told you that's not my signature." His teeth were gritted, eyes ablaze.

I tried pushing him away, he refused to budge. He wrapped a hand around the back of my throat, pulling me close to him. "What do you want from me, Cleo?" his whisper was a temptation from the devil, seductive and alluring.

"I don't–"

He squeezed my cheeks rather painfully. "Don't lie to me."

I didn't want to say anything in fear of saying the wrong thing. Was it weird that I was feeling hot under the collar?

His thumb grazed against my bottom lip. "Do you want me to kiss you? I've seen the way you stare at me, you're conflicted between hating me and losing yourself in a lustful haze. Is that what you want? Should I bend you over this desk and fuck you? I'll wrap my tie around your neck and choke you, you'll quiver under me and I'll stuff your panties – oh, they're silk, my favourite kind – into your mouth to stifle your moans." His hand had slipped under the back of my sweatshirt, feeling the material of my underwear. He suddenly tugged, and I winced, cried out, sonfabitch was giving me a wedgie. His expression was hateful. "You ever come into my classroom and curse at me like that again, I will tear you apart. I'll spread your legs and ram myself into you. I'll treat you like a whore, and make you obey me. You're wet." He stated, slightly surprised, fingers brushing against my sensitive lips. "Shall I make you cúm?"

I don't know how this happened. It was all so sudden, like a snap of fingers. I was like a dog in heat but I was also uncomfortable. He was taunting me, revelling in the power he had over me. I didn't like feeling like prey. This was wrong. He was my teacher and sure, I had fantasies but ...this wasn't right. I furrowed my brow. "No, I ..." My headspace was shot to pieces, I was befuddled. I needed to get my bearings, and fast.

"No?" he repeated, disbelieving my words. His hand pulled out, lingering on my belt loops. He regarded me with contempt.

"No," I parroted firmly, assured of myself, finding my backbone again and sticking it back in place. I pushed him away from me, he took a few steps back. It felt easier to breathe. "I don't want you to – Jesus Christ. What are we doing? We can't do this."

"You'll be frustrated all day," his smile was wicked, he smelled his fingers, sardonic eyes never leaving mine. "Beg for me to touch you."

"I'd rather cut my pússy lips with a jagged knife. I'm going to leave." I announced, about to say more and then deciding to press my lips together. I needed to bathe in holy water, cleanse myself of my sins, and do a clear-up of my thoughts. I was a filthy person. I cleared my throat, brows knitted. "Yeah, I'll uh, go." I cringed. Why was I so awkward?

"I'll see you in an half an hour."

"What?"

"For your lesson."

I cursed god. I forgot about that.

He continued, lips quirking upwards, and opening the door for me. "I'm looking forward to it. Goodbye, Cleo."

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