The thrill of crossing a line is a kind of high I’ve become addicted to. It’s not just about the sex—though, god, the way a young, strong body feels pressed against mine, the desperate sounds when a student’s cock is deep inside me, the taste of their come on my lips—it’s about the sheer, delicious wrongness of it all. My authority doesn’t feel like a burden; it’s a tool. It’s the key that unlocks the door to watching them unravel, to feeling their control slip away under my hands and mouth. I want to be the lesson they never forget, the one that leaves them sweating and shaking long after the school day ends. Tonight, my thoughts are on the kind of homework that involves my thighs wrapped around a young man’s waist and my name being moaned into my ear.