Miss Quarrington Gives an A
“Thank you, class. Your submissions will be graded and returned to you next week.”
Our Thursday night creative writing class was packing up. Miss Quarrington stood at the head of the room, watching as the mostly female group tucked papers into purses and zipped away pens. We were writing our way through an adult-education course called “Erotica For Women.” Miss Quarrington had been leading us through the basics, and next week’s assignment was a short piece on a time we had “opened ourselves” to a new idea.
“Um, Miss Quarrington? I wanted to talk to you for a moment, if I could, about my assignment? I’m just having a hard time getting started, and wondered if you had any, um, pointers?”
I clutched my notebook to my chest, feeling a little shy in the face of such a beautiful, intelligent woman. She was tall, curvy, and dressed all in black, a string of pearls looped around her neck with the grace of a truly stylish dresser. Her skin was a deep, warm, brown, and she would have been beautiful – except that her brow was often furrowed in a thoughtful crease, and her smile was usually distracted.
“Well, Flora. Do you have a moment after class? We can go through the assignment together, if you like.”
We waited in silence as the other students filtered past. I gazed around the room; the autumn light filtering through the windows was glowing a pre-sunset gold, and it gave the room a gorgeous, otherworldly quality that lifted it out of its usual cinderblock funk.
When the last student left, Miss Quarrington closed the door behind her. I could hear a faint click – a lock, I guess. When she turned back to me, she wasn’t exactly smiling, but her face was open and lit with the room’s golden light. “Now, what’s the trouble here?”
“My submission…? It’s…I don’t know. I don’t know what to write about.” I felt my face flush, but she smiled: it was a genuine, gentle smile. I started to relax.
“Have a seat,” she said, and I tucked myself back into my desk. I expected her to head over to the blackboard, but she perched on the edge of her desk and looked at me for a second. “Let’s start with the basics, shall we? Some rules to remember as you write? Take notes,” she said, and then winked.
“Now, the first thing to remember is to show, don’t tell. If your character is, for example, sexually aroused, don’t write, ‘Flora is sexually aroused.’ That’s boring, right?” She smiled as I nodded. Her hands started gesture as her passion grew. “Instead, you want to describe the process of arousal: tell your readers about the flush creeping up her chest: what shade pink is she? Like a rose petal? Talk about her innocence: her half-closed eyes, her slightly parted lips. Tell me: how are Flora’s nipples getting hard – maybe it’s like she got out of a cold lake on a summer day, and her wet bathing suit is clinging to her body in a display that’s both chaste and obscene? – or her feeling of excitement. Is it a full-body rush, like the first time she was kissed by a boy? Or by a girl?”
She paused. My pen was hovering above my paper. I hadn’t written a word.
“Shall I go on?”
“Please,” I breathed.
“Excellent. Make sure you stay away from cliches and euphemism. If I had a nickel for every ‘throbbing member’ my students wrote about, I could retire from teaching and buy an island. Make your writing precise!” She hopped off the edge of her desk and wrote NO MORE THROBBING MEMBERS on the blackboard. Underlined it twice. “What is a throbbing member?”
“A penis?” I ventured.
“Correct! Gold star!” We grinned at each other. “In the same vein, your female character has a vagina. Not a ‘flowery wonderland.’ If you can’t remember that, I will have to punish you.”
And with that, she strode briskly to my desk and stood behind me. I craned my neck back to look at her, but she commanded, “Eyes front!” I snapped my gaze back to the blackboard. My heartbeat quickened as she started to run a finger down the nape of my neck.
“Let’s play with the real meaning of the word ‘submission,’ shall we?” she cooed into my ear. Miss Quarrington carefully leaned over my shoulder, lifted my hands from my lap, and place them on the table. She squeezed them gently before letting them go. “Leave them where I can see them,” she whispered.
“Submission can be your writing each week, given to a teacher for review and comment, or it can be a state of mind. Use your imagination – just as almost anything can be used as a gag, almost anything can be fodder for a story.”
With that, she pressed her hand firmly against my mouth. Standing behind me gave her the leverage to keep me silent; I was shocked into calling out, but nothing escaped but a moan. With her other hand, she slowly stroked my shoulder and caressed my earlobe. “Your safeword is Vonnegut,” do you understand?” she asked from behind me. I nodded and closed my eyes. “Bad writing,” she continued, her hand still over my mouth, “will get you punished. You will be ignored by publishers and savaged by critics.
“I would much rather punish my students in the classroom, before their submissions go out into the world.”
Miss Quarrington ran a light hand along my collarbone, leaving a trail of goosebumps in her wake. Her fingers slowly dipped between my breasts; from her vantage point, she had a clear view into my cleavage, and my low-cut fall sweater gave her plenty to see. She reached into my shirt, brushing her fingertip against my nipple as if by accident, but her low chuckle let me know she was working with a lesson plan.
She brushed by the nipple again, and then a third time. I squirmed against her hand and moaned, this time out of frustration. Miss Quarrington’s quick brushes and teasing had created a flood of wetness between my legs. I lifted my hand off the table and gave the other nipple a firm squeeze myself.
Miss Quarrington froze. “I told you to leave your hands on the table,” she murmured, and her tone was a blend of glee and regret. Her hands disappeared off my body in an instant.
“No talking in class.” She took me by the hand and led me to the front of the room. I watched as she unlooped her long string of pearls from around her neck.
She beckoned to me, and as I bent over her desk, she wound her pearls around my wrists and twined it around the heavy handle on the antique desk. I was stuck. My ass was presented towards my teacher, hands caught together, with a firm command to be silent still echoing off the walls.
She positioned herself behind me. Her hands were on my waist and she was sliding them under my sweater, up towards my breasts. She pressed against me as she groped. I panted for breath, and I could smell my own arousal in the room. “People crave a visceral connection to their reading material – make sure you try and give them sometime to remember.” Her hands slipped out from under my sweater. I twisted to look back at her.
“My final note is about editing. Don’t be afraid to go back if you don’t get your point across the first time.” She slipped her hand between my legs, pushing aside my soaking underwear and finding my slick and swollen slit. Her other hand gently slapped my ass; then again, with more force. With each blow, her fingers slipped further inside me, until her hand was buried up to her palm. A fingertip was wisely positioned against my clit.
“Somethings may need revision. Maybe a tighter hand -” I gasped as she moved inside me, putting pressure on my G-spot – “or a better grasp of your subject matter – ” I felt the wave of an orgasm start to build as she delivered another blow across my ass – “or even just more time with a tricky sentence or paragraph. Editing is a writer’s best friend.” I bucked against her, but she firmly held me down and stroked my clit with her fingertips. We both moaned as as I climaxed, her hand moving in time with my body’s rhythms and my wrists straining against her ties. We collapsed together against the desk, our breath echoing off the classroom walls.
The next week, my paper came back: A for your writing, A+ for your submission.