I need to be Professor King's TA next semester. I need it for my grad school application. I've got every requirement for Columbia's program mapped out on a spreadsheet, color-coded, the whole thing. A TA position under Professor King is the one thing that separates me from every other applicant. I've given up parties, sleep, basically any social life I had left. I didn't do all that to leave it up to chance.
I practiced what I'd say to him three times in the mirror this morning. That's embarrassing, but I'd rather be embarrassed alone in my bathroom than stumble over my words in his office.
But maybe showing up on April Fool's Day isn't the smartest move.
Professor King is hot. Not hot in the way professors are usually hot, where you're being generous because they're smart and your standards are in the basement. No. Professor King is genuinely, unfairly, stupidly attractive.
Square jaw. Dark eyes that always look like he's figuring you out. Silver at his temples that has no business working as well as it does. Broad shoulders that fill out his blazer in a way that makes me squeeze my thighs together during lectures.
Which I hate about myself.
I'm not some freshman giggling in the front row. I'm a serious student. I have a 3.94 GPA. I shouldn't be thinking about my professor's hands.
But I do. I think about them all the time.
I think about them at night when my roommate's asleep and I've got my hand between my legs. The way he grips the lectern when he's making a point, knuckles white, forearms tight. I think about what those hands would feel like wrapped around my throat. Grabbing my hips. Shoving my thighs apart. I think about his fingers pushing inside me while he tells me what to do in that low, calm voice.
I've cum so hard thinking about Professor King that I had to shove my face into the pillow so my roommate wouldn't hear me moaning his name. And then I just lie there in the dark feeling gross and ashamed and I tell myself that was the last time.
It's always the last time.
It never is.
I came twice last Thursday imagining him bending me over this exact desk, and I'm not going to think about that right now. I'm here for a professional conversation. My underwear is not already damp. That's just the weather.
"Gabby," he begins.
"It's Gabrielle," I correct him. I hate when people shorten my name.
He doesn't say it again. "I already told Gavin he can be my TA next year. The position is filled."
The floor drops out from under me.
Gavin freaking Park. Gavin, who showed up to the midterm review in basketball shorts and asked if the essay could be bullet points instead. Gavin, whose entire contribution to seminar is repeating what someone else just said but louder. Usually what I just said.
That Gavin gets the position I've been working toward for two semesters.
I blink. My eyes sting. I'm not going to cry in this office. I dig my nails into my palm and hold my face still. I had a plan. A perfect plan. And it just disappeared.
At least it's not Katherine. That thought slides in right behind the disappointment, petty and satisfying. If I can't have it, at least she can't either.
"But there's another option," he continues.
"What?" If I can't be his TA, maybe there's something else. Some other way to pad my transcript.
"You can be my bimbo."
What the fuck?
I stare at him. There's no way he just said that. "What? Are you joking? It's April Fool's Day but this is sick. I'm going to report you to the dean."
My face is burning. Not from embarrassment. From something worse. Because for half a second before the outrage kicked in, my body reacted. A hot pulse between my legs. A clench. Like the word "my" in "my bimbo" hit somewhere deep and stupid that doesn't care about my GPA.
I'm wet and I hate it.
I hate it because this is the man I touch myself to in the dark. The man whose voice I hear in my head when I'm close. And now he's ruined it. He took the fantasy and made it real and ugly and I can't unfeel the way my pussy throbbed when he said that word.
Professor King raises both hands, palms out. The amusement drains right off his face. "I'm sorry, Gabby. That was completely out of line. I don't know what I was thinking." He stands, then sits back down. "I have a terrible sense of humor and today of all days... please. I sincerely apologize. And as a token of apology, how about some extra credit? I can add fourteen points to your last paper."
That would make it an A+. I pause before I can storm out.
And he knows he has me. I don't even correct him about my name.
"Come here and watch me enter it on the computer, Gabby," he murmurs, and his voice is warm now, easy, like we've already moved past the ugliness. He turns the monitor slightly toward the empty space beside his chair. "I want you to see it go in so you know it's real. No tricks. You deserve it after the semester you've had."
I walk around to his side of the desk and look at the screen and it isn't the grade portal. It isn't a spreadsheet. It isn't anything with numbers.
It's a spiral.
A slow, pretty spiral turning on a black screen, white lines curling inward, and my first thought is "that's not the grade book" and my second thought doesn't come.
I should look away. I know I should look away. I just need to figure out what this is first. One more second. I'll look away in one second. I just want to understand what I'm looking at and then I'll—
Something tugs. Not my eyes. Something behind them. Something soft and warm and deep, and the spiral keeps turning and there's a hum. Not from the computer. From inside me. From the blood in my ears and the lights overhead and my own pulse all blending together into one thick, warm throb.
My pussy clenches.
The throb gets louder. Or not louder. Deeper. 
Like it's sinking into me, past my ears, past the part of me that thinks, settling somewhere underneath all of that. Somewhere hot. And there's something in the hum. Almost a word. Not quite clear enough to hear but I can feel it. Like a voice just below the surface of the sound, whispering something my body understands before my brain does.
My thighs press together.
I'm getting wetter. I can feel it soaking through my panties now, hot and slick, and I don't know why I'm still looking at the screen but looking away feels like it would take so much effort. Like trying to pick up something heavy.
The spiral doesn't ask me to pick up anything. The spiral is just warm and pretty and it keeps turning and the hum keeps pulsing and each pulse sends a slow, wet throb straight through my clit.
I hear myself breathe out. Shaky. Loud in the quiet office.
The almost-word in the hum is getting clearer. Not a sound anymore. A vibration. A shape in my chest. I can almost feel what it means even though I can't quite hear it yet. My hips shift in the chair. My nipples are hard against my shirt and every tiny movement of the fabric sends little sparks down to my pussy and I'm so wet, so stupidly wet, and I still can't look away.
The shape in the hum gets sharper. Closer to the surface. Like something rising up through warm water.
Bimbo.
My stomach drops. No. That's not— I didn't— I'm a serious student. I have a 3.94 GPA and I'm applying to Columbia and I need to look away right now.
I'll look away in one more second.
The spiral turns. The word pulses. And each pulse sends a hot, slippery throb between my legs and I can feel myself clenching around nothing, squeezing, empty, needing, and the word keeps coming.
Bimbo. Bimbo. Bimbo.
It doesn't sound like a word anymore. It sounds like a heartbeat. My heartbeat. Like it was always there and I'm only just now hearing it.
My lips are parted. I can feel air on my tongue. I was going to... I had a thought. Something about... a grade? My GPA is... three point... it's a number. I know it's a number. Numbers are...
The spiral turns and everything is warm and bright and soft and empty.
Bimbo.
I make a sound. Small and breathy and wet. My knees are shaking.
Between my legs I'm soaked, actually dripping now, the insides of my thighs going slick and sticky, and the word keeps pulsing and each pulse makes my clit throb and I can't think. I can't hold onto anything. Every thought I reach for just slides away like I'm trying to grab something with wet fingers.
I'm smart. I graduated top of my class.
The thought is so thin. Tissue paper. And the spiral just keeps turning and the word just keeps pulsing and my pussy just keeps throbbing and the thought gets thinner and thinner and—
Bimbo.
I don't want to hold onto it. Holding on is so hard. The spiral is so easy. The spiral is warm and pretty and it doesn't ask me to think or try or hold onto anything. I want to watch the pretty spiral. I want to be the pretty spiral.
"Bimbo." The word falls out of my mouth. Breathy and slow. It tastes like candy.
Something is happening to my chest.
A tingling that starts deep, right behind my nipples, and spreads outward. Warm. Getting warmer. A heaviness settling in, like my breasts are filling up with something hot and thick. I look down and I can see them swelling against my shirt, the fabric stretching tight, my nipples pushing out hard and obvious through the cotton. They're growing. They're actually growing and I can feel every second of it, this aching, pulling fullness, like they're being inflated from the inside, and it feels—
"Oh."
It feels so good. It feels so, so good. The heaviness keeps building and my titties keep swelling and the tingling is everywhere now, radiating out from my nipples in hot waves that roll straight down to my pussy. My shirt is so tight. My titties are so big and so heavy and so sensitive that the fabric dragging across my nipples makes me whimper.
Then hands. His hands. On my titties, squeezing through the stretched fabric, and I gasp and the gasp turns into a moan I don't recognize because it's high and breathy and dumb. 
He kneads them and they're so full and so tender and every squeeze sends a line of liquid fire straight down to my clit and the spiral is still turning and the word is still pulsing and I'm making sounds. Little whimpery wet sounds. Sloppy sounds.
Bimbo sounds.
"Oh." My hips are rocking. "Oh oh oh." I'm grinding against nothing because my body wants something inside it so bad I can taste the need in the back of my throat like something thick and sweet.
My titties are being squeezed and pulled and it feels like the best thing that has ever happened to me. Better than any grade. Better than any acceptance letter. Better than the plan and the spreadsheet and Colum... Col... the school. Whatever it was called. All of it was so heavy and this is so light.
So light.
"On your knees, Gabby," Master commands, and I sink. My knees hit the floor and it feels right. It feels like the only place I've ever been supposed to be.