Page 13

Extracurricular Activities

T he gothic windows in Professor Austin's classroom let in a lot of afternoon sunlight, which casts long shadows on the desks that aren't being used. Everyone else has already left for their next class or whatever they think of as freedom at Shark Bay, but I stay behind and act like I'm getting my things together. As he moves papers around on his desk, I can feel his eyes on me. He looks at me briefly when he doesn't think I'm watching. Men, even the ones who act like they're above it all, are so easy to guess. Every move I make is meant to catch his eye. The air in the classroom smells of chalk dust and expensive cologne. It smells like power and school. His hands pause over the stack of papers, hesitating just long enough to confirm what I already know.

"Miss Queen." His voice breaks the silence. "A word about your recent performance?"

I turn slowly, letting my uniform skirt swish against my thighs. "Of course, Professor." The title rolls off my tongue like honey, sweet and dangerous. "Is there a problem?" I look into his eyes with practiced innocence while I watch the tension in his face. The afternoon light hits his wire-rimmed glasses and briefly hides his eyes. But I can tell he's nervous because of how his fingers are gripping the edge of his desk.

He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. The gesture is meant to project authority, but it doesn't work well because his hands shake ever so slightly. "Your grades have been… concerning. And your behavior in class?—"

"My behavior?" I step closer, trailing my fingers along the edge of his desk. The wood is smooth beneath my touch, polished by generations of privileged hands. "I thought I was participating quite actively."

"That's not—" He breaks off as I round the corner of his desk, closing the distance between us. His cologne is subtle, academic—nothing like the expensive designer scents the boys here bathe in. "Miss Queen, this is inappropriate."

"Is it?" I perch on the edge of his desk, letting my skirt ride up just enough to be distracting. "I thought we were discussing my academic performance."

He looks quickly at the door and then back at me. The conflict between his wants and his duty as a professor shows up all over his face. He tries to be a good man and is working hard to stay away from temptation, but he's weak. I've seen him watch me in class. His eyes stay on me for a little too long when I cross my legs or lean forward to take notes. He's not as noble as he pretends to be. None of them are.

"Your academic performance is… adequate," he manages, voice strained. "But your attitude?—"

I slide off the desk and lean in, trapping him between the solid wood of his chair behind him and my body. His pupils dilate. "My attitude? Maybe that's because I understand better than most how this world works. The things we do for power, for control…" I trail off, letting him fill in the blanks.

"Luna." The use of my first name is a crack in his armor. "Whatever you're going through, there are better ways?—"

"Better than what?" I lean forward, invading his personal space. "Better than using what I have to get what I want? Isn't that what everyone does here?"

His breath catches as I trace a finger down his tie. The silk is expensive—probably a gift from some grateful parent whose child needed a grade boost. "This isn't appropriate," he repeats, but he doesn't move away.

"Nothing about this place is appropriate." I grip his tie, pulling him closer. "But we all play our parts, don't we? The dedicated professor, the troubled student… it's all just theater."

"Stop." But his hands find my waist, fingers digging into the fabric of my uniform. "We can't?—"

"Can't what?" I press against him, feeling the evidence of his desire. "Can't admit that you want this? That you've thought about it?"

His resolve crumbles like wet paper. When his mouth crashes into mine, it tastes like victory and expensive coffee. His kiss is desperate, hungry—all that carefully maintained control finally snapping. I let him push me back against the desk, papers scattering to the floor. His hands are everywhere, greedy and demanding, and I give him exactly what he expects: soft moans, arched back, the perfect picture of youthful submission.

But we both know who's really in control here.

I break the kiss, pushing him back into his chair. He watches with wide eyes as I sink to my knees, maintaining eye contact as I reach for his belt. "Miss Queen—Luna—we shouldn't?—"

"Shh." I silence him with another kiss, quick and brutal. "Let me show you how much I want to improve my grade."

My fingers find his belt buckle, smooth and expensive. I take my time opening it, a sharp contrast to the rest of this rushed encounter. Desperation rolls off him in waves. Men are so easy to control, so eager to lose themselves in lust.

I finally finish undoing his belt and unzip his slacks. It's still not too late for him to stop me, to pull away and reestablish the fiction of respectability between us. But he doesn't. Instead, he spreads his knees and pulls his chair close enough to grant access.

I flash a smile that's all teeth and no warmth. "Relax, Professor. I'll make it worth your time."

His protests die in his throat as I free his cock, already rock hard and ready. They always are. They never see the knife until it's far too late, and even then, they never learn.

"Your hands," he whispers, eyes hooded with desire. "Use your hands."

Gentler now, I wrap my fingers around his length and stroke him slowly. He rests his hands on the armrests of his chair, tension rippling beneath his pristine clothes. He's playing a part, and we both know it—distant and commanding, the archetype of authority. But the truth is written in the flush spreading down his neck, the clenching of his jaw as I tease his length. He may play the role of dominant, but we both know it's just another facade. Another illusion. Another performance in the endless cavalcade of theater that is life at Shark Bay.

"Like this?" My voice is steady, despite the erratic beating of my heart.

Professor Austin swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Like that. Keep going."

The rhythm is instinctual now. The familiarity of male anatomy, the soft leather beneath my palms, the sounds they make when we do this—the same mewls, the same groans, the same fucking stupid expressions.

I maintain steady eye contact as I speed up the pace. There's a soft shakiness to his breathing now, a twitch in his left brow. He's close. I slide one hand beneath the fabric of his boxers and cup his balls in a gentle but firm grip. As he exhales, I wrap the other hand around his shaft and tighten the hold, jerking his cock in short, quick strokes. The look on his face is absolutely gorgeous as the pressure builds within him, muscles quivering on the edge of release.

"Use your mouth now," he says, but it's not an order, not anymore. This game has slipped out of his hands, and all that's left is pleasure and release. My power and his submission.

Without breaking eye contact, I bend down and fit as much of him as I can into my mouth, cheeks hollowed, head bobbing slowly. His head falls back against the chair, mouth hanging slightly open. I keep the pace slow and steady, languorous almost, drawing out the anticipation until it's almost unbearable for him. Then, without warning, I sweep my tongue against the underside of his length and suck harder. It's his undoing, but not in the way I expected it.

Professor Austin buries his fingers into my hair, holding me still as he bucks his hips upward in a movement that might have been desperate and fast, but is somewhat awkward. I don't pull away, letting him spend himself in my mouth, filling it up until all I can taste is bitterness. He barely restrains his moan, low and guttural, the noise sending shivers through me. One, two, three pumps, and he keeps going.

He has more stamina than I expected.

Then again, most men do when they fuck like animals. There's something raw and animalistic about the whole act, primal and wild. I shouldn't have underestimated him. He might look like an academic stereotype, but there's something dark beneath the surface. The thought should scare me, but it makes the room feel hotter somehow.

That dangerous, almost instinctual part of my brain goes on high alert when he doesn't stop, his hands still fisting my hair as he pumps deep. The tip of his cock grazes the back of my throat, making me retch. What the actual fuck? A sense of panic spikes through me, and I push at his stomach. Despite the situation, there's a tiny smile dancing on the edges of his lips, and all I want to do is slap him for trying to take over.

Finally, I decide to take back control. In one final, solid motion, I slam the heels of my hands on his inner thighs, pushing his legs apart and forcing him to remove his hands from my hair. Once that's done, I use all the muscles in my head and neck to drive forward. With no hands guiding my movements, it's less about skill and more about determination. Within seconds, he can't take it anymore, and I tilt my head downward, pressing his cock to the back of my throat—but this time I'm in charge—and I squeeze the base of his shaft hard in my hand. That's when he comes undone, fully unleashing his masculinity with primal noises that fill me with disgust. His squirming becomes frenzied, and I'm forced to use my hands to steady him, my fingers splayed on his thighs. He finally lets out a low moan, and his body relaxes.

How strange and fleeting it must be to experience such ecstasy. The act is so much more empowering than the actual climax. I'm in total control, he obeys my every whim and gasp, and the most overwhelming payoff is him being fully drained and vulnerable. A thin line of saliva hangs between his tip and my lips as I sit up, letting his fluids linger on the surface of my tongue.

I swallow the salty and sour liquid and sit back on my haunches, waiting for him to speak. But he's silent, limp in his chair. There's shame lingering in his expression, so I decide to spare him.

I get back to my feet and slide his cock back in his briefs. I pick up his belt and delicately rest it around his hips. Snapping it in place against his button, I lean in and whisper.

"Well, Professor. Was it worth my effort to get my grade back on track?"

He can't quite meet my eyes as he fixes his clothing. "Luna, I?—"

"Professor." I cut him off, voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Let's not pretend this was anything but a transaction. You get what you want; I get what I need. Isn't that how things work at Shark Bay?"

Shame and desire war on his face. "This can't happen again."

"Of course not." I straighten my uniform, smoothing away any evidence of what just happened. "But if my grades don't improve, well… I'm sure we can find another opportunity to discuss my academic progress. Maybe with Mrs. Harpsons."

Professor Austin tenses at the mention of the dean's name. The scandal alone would discredit him, even if I refuse to let the details leak. We both know this moment will haunt him—after every class, in every moment of self-reflection.

I don't wait for his response. My heels click against the marble floor as I walk away, each step an echo of power. Let him stew in his guilt, his conflicted desires. He's just another piece on my chessboard, another way to ensure my survival in this gilded cage.

The hallway outside is empty, the afternoon sun painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. I check my reflection in a window, fixing my lipstick and adjusting my hair. The girl staring back at me is perfect—not a hair out of place, not a crack in her armor. No one would guess what just happened in that classroom, what I'm willing to do to maintain control.

But as I walk toward my next class, Erik's words from yesterday echo in my mind: You don't have to handle everything alone. Sweet, na?ve Erik, who thinks he can save me from myself. He sees the world through a lens of simple morality, of right and wrong, good and evil. He can't comprehend the shades of gray that color every interaction at Shark Bay, the subtle power plays that make up our daily existence. He doesn't understand that I'm not the one who needs saving—I'm the predator, not the prey. Every seduction, every manipulation, every careful move is just another way to ensure my survival.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. Another photo of Alex, this one showing him laughing with a pretty redhead. The message below is simple: "Enjoying your extracurricular activities?"

Ice floods my veins. They're watching, always watching. The weight of unseen eyes presses against my skin, a constant reminder that every move I make is being evaluated, measured, and judged. Even here, in this supposed sanctuary, their eyes follow my every move. The photo disappears after thirty seconds—they're getting smarter about leaving evidence—but the message is clear: Nothing I do goes unnoticed.

Fine. Let them watch. Let them see the perfect student, the calculated smiles, the flawless performance. Let them think they understand the game I'm playing while missing all the moves that matter. They taught me well, after all—how to use my body as a weapon, how to turn desire into power. But they never realized they were creating their own destruction. Every lesson in manipulation, every party where I had to smile and play my part, it was all leading to this. To a chessboard where only one player holds the pieces. To a revolution staged behind designer armor and perfect smiles.

Professor Austin is just the beginning. By the time I'm done, everyone at Shark Bay will learn what happens when you back a Queen into a corner. Because that's the thing about chess—the queen may look decorative, but she's the most dangerous piece on the board.

And I've been playing this game my whole life.

I push open the door to my next class, letting my mask settle back into place. Time to be the perfect student again, the ice queen everyone loves to hate. Let them whisper, let them judge. They have no idea what it takes to survive in this world of monsters and masks. And by the time they figure it out, it'll be too late. Because the only rule in this poisonous paradise is that the game never stops. Survival doesn't end, not ever.

Because for people like me, playing the game is the only chance we have at winning.

And maybe, just maybe, winning means surviving a little longer.

I'll do whatever it takes to win.

Even if it means becoming the monster they always wanted me to be.