Page 26 of Dark Ink

Distraught moans came muffled from behind Eithne’s cocoon. I touched her ankle; she wrenched it away. I brushed the soft skin of her thigh and she drew her knees up like a scared child. I sank back onto my heels for a moment and considered whether I was doing something good here. Whether it would have been better to do as Eithne commanded, pled, to let her go. Maybe a better man would have. A man with more control. A man who didn’t love the edge like I did. A man who didn’t miss the falling.

I was not that better man.

“Ms Brady,” I said softly. I repeated her name, “I’d like to show you what I’ve drawn.”

Eithne’s shoulders shook and tears ran down her forearms, collected on her elbows like dewdrops on two blades of grass, fell silently as she sniffled.

“I believe it might help,” I told her.

The formality. The distance. The foolish roleplay of a normal professor and student relationship. As if I wasn’t, at that very moment, longing for the heat of her around me. As if she wasn’t naked on the floor of the auditorium, her clothes spread artfully around her failed attempts to capture the most intimate part of her. As if we could ever be anything like that, anything close to Professor Merrick and Ms Brady.

“I’d like you to learn,” I said when Eithne remained hidden, upset. “Ms Brady? Ms Brady!”

My strict tone echoed off the whitewashed walls, bounced off the high, murky ceiling. Eithne’s sobs ceased. She parted her forearms to blink warily at me. Eyes puffy and red, eyelashes sparkling like iced branches on deadly cold winter mornings. She responded to my strictness. It was something she was comfortable with. Obeying. Following duty. Doing as she was told no matter what.

“Come here,” I told her.

Eithne dragged a hand under her nose. Wiped at her eyes with her arm like a little girl. I wanted her to nestle against me as she scooted obediently toward me. I wanted her cheek on my chest, her still stuttering lungs beneath my palm, her fingertips a little too close to my still hard cock. But Eithne folded her legs beside me like this was indeed class, me the teacher, she the student. Intimacy remained foreign, rules and politeness and being a good pupil well understood.

Her knuckles rested against the wood planks of the floor. There was an innocence to her nakedness now, the exposure of her breasts, the long expanse of her spine, the little patch of dark hair stained wet between her pale thighs. I focused on my drawing to keep myself from reaching over and claiming her with my fingers, with my mouth, with my cock.

“Do you see the difference between what I drew of you and what you drew of you?” I asked in that same professional, restricted tone.

I watched as Eithne drew her eyes to the page. It filled me with pleasure when I saw her pupils widen, heard her breath catch. “It’s…beautiful.”

“Indeed.”

I felt pride in my art that I hadn’t felt for some time. The power to communicate. To reach someone. To bond.

She shook her head. “That’s not me.”

How could she not see? What was it that had blinded her to her beauty, to her sweetness, to herself? It made me mad once more. I wanted to shake Eithne. Slap her. Choke her. Knock sense into her. Peel whatever blinders she had taped across her eyes away without mercy. I sucked in a shaky breath, held it, and exhaled evenly.

“Ms Brady,” I said softly, gently. “I’d like you to touch yourself as I guide you through this piece.”

The revulsion was immediate. She tried to mask it. Tried to hide from me what was so obviously natural, impulsive.

Her voice was small as she replied, “I don’t think that’s necessary, Professor Merrick.”

I took her hand. Warily she watched me from the corner of her eye. I raised her hand to my lips. Pressed the warmth of her fingers against mine. I trailed kisses along each one, soft, fluttering kisses. Eithne watched every press of my lips. She did not stop me as I guided her hand in between her crossed legs, pressed her fingers lightly against her lips as I had mine.

“Good girl,” I murmured even as I felt her stiffen beside me.

I rested the paper across her knee and mine, her pussy spanned the short distance. My fingertip brushed against the rough charcoal.

“Follow along,” I commanded.

I got no response.

“Ms Brady?”

Her eyes were wide, a little frightened, a little excited, as she looked up at me, slightly startled from some reverie. She nodded curtly.

“Yes, Professor Merrick.”

I traced the lines I’d drawn as I explained why I’d drawn them like that, as I explained what I’d seen. I instructed Eithne to find the place on herself, to touch it, to feel it, really feel it as I spoke. At first her fingertips barely skimmed across her lips. I wasn’t even sure that if I were to take her fingers into my mouth that I would be able to taste her wetness. But as I spoke, clearly and calmly, I saw her move without being prompted.

I’d never much enjoyed teaching, never gotten much out of it. I mostly did it for an income to supplement what Mason, Conor and I paid ourselves from Dublin Ink. Also, to give myself a little more of a chance at that old straight and narrow: deadlines, structure, schedules, busy work, people who counted on me. But watching Eithne begin to connect herself with the drawing I’d done of her made me see what joy could be accomplished from teaching. The problem was I was always asked to teach about shite I didn’t care about. I cared about Eithne. I cared deeply about Eithne. I was going to find out that I cared far, far, far too deeply for my little Raglan Road girl.

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