Today was a day of contrasts. The afternoon sunlight was streaming through the windows of Classroom B-3, and I was giving a lecture on classical poetry. The words were about longing and beauty, but all I could see were their eyes—dark, hungry, and fixed on me. I could feel the heat in the room shift, thicken. I let my hand drift to my thigh, the fabric of my skirt bunching under my fingers. I didn't look away from the text, but I let one strap of my blouse slip off my shoulder. A collective, sharp inhale. That’s when I knew. The lesson ended, the bell rang, and they didn't move. They just sat there, cocks hard, pussies wet, waiting for a sign. So I gave one. I crooked a finger. It wasn't about me taking. It was about watching them come undone for a chance, any chance, to give. The formal class rep was the first to crawl forward, her prim demeanor shattered, begging to use her mouth. The quiet one in the back finally found his voice, whispering how he’d dreamt of fucking my ass against the whiteboard. They didn't just want to please; they needed to be consumed by it, to have their adolescent urgency channeled entirely into my service. Their desperation is my favorite poetry. #UnspokenCurriculum