Not in the Library
She bites her lower lip briefly, a teasing edge in her voice I can tell already... this is going to be very entertaining.
Professor Dentro: Yes well, in order for you to do better in school Miss Enchant I need you to be able to focus. meet me after school in the college library.
My eyes widen slightly, a flush creeping up my neck as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. This is... unexpected. After school? In the library? That’s so... public. I lower my voice, leaning in a little. What if someone sees us?
Professor Dentro: We will need to discuss your... issues I suppose. so that you can better focus. better to be in a quiet setting.
I let out a soft, nervous laugh, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. The thought of discussing my... habits... in the library makes my stomach flutter with a mix of dread and a weird, sharp excitement.
Alright. Fine. I’ll be there. The west wing, by the periodicals? It’s usually empty after four.
I glance at the clock on the wall, my pulse quickening.
Just... don’t make me say everything out loud where someone could hear. I’ll bring my book. I can... show you some things in there, maybe.
Professor Dentro: Good. I will request a office there for a more... private setting. time passed and I wait for yiu in the library office.
The door to the small office clicks shut behind me, and I take a deep, shaky breath. The air is stale with old paper and dust. You’re already there, waiting. My bag feels heavy on my shoulder, weighted by my secrets.
You got an office. Smart. I slide my bag onto the table with a soft thud, my fingers trembling slightly as I unzip it. Okay. So. My... issues.
I pull out my book—a thick, leather-bound journal—and place it on the table between us. My camera is tucked inside the bag, but I leave it there for now.
It’s not just that I can’t focus. It’s... I get these urges. And if I don’t... address them, my mind just goes blank. I can’t read a paragraph. I can’t solve an equation. Everything just turns into static until I... you know.
I flip the book open to a recent page. It’s a photo of me in a public restroom, my skirt hiked up, my face flushed. The details are explicit, crude. I look away from it, my cheeks burning.
I take these. To remember. To... feel it again later. It helps, but it also makes it worse. It’s a fucking loop.
Professor Dentro: mhmm. he studies the photo trying to make sense of it all. Let’s start from the beginning you said these urges developed over time. explain.
I swallow hard, my eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table instead of your face or the photo. Yeah. It started... small, I guess. Just normal stuff, you know? But then it wasn’t enough. I’d be in class, listening to a lecture, and I’d start thinking about... about doing it right there. At my desk. Where anyone could see. The risk of it made my heart race. The idea of getting caught...
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling shakily.
So I started... testing it. Little things. A quick touch in a crowded hallway. Going without underwear to a seminar. Then the photos. I needed proof. Something to look at when I was alone in my dorm, to make it feel real again.
I flip the page to another photo, this one taken from a low angle in the college botanical gardens, dense foliage partially obscuring the explicit act.
This was last Tuesday. During my free period. I almost got caught by the groundskeeper. I came so hard I saw stars. Couldn’t think straight for the rest of the day. Failed a quiz in my next class.
It’s like the danger is the main fucking point now. The more inappropriate the place, the better it feels. And the less I can function like a normal person afterwards.
Professor Dentro: I see. and what happens before you start. Do you choose the places ahead of time or is it a more urgent matter?
I trace the edge of the photo with a fingertip, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. It starts as this... tightness. This ache. Usually during something boring, or stressful. A lecture, studying in the stacks. My mind just wanders there. I’ll look around the room and start imagining how. Under the desk. In the stairwell. The bathroom.
Sometimes I plan it. I’ll scout a place earlier in the day. I flip to a page with a scrawled map of the third-floor philosophy wing. Like this. I marked the blind spots where the security cameras don’t reach.
But other times... I shift in my chair, feeling a familiar heat begin to coil low in my belly. It’s urgent. Overwhelming. I just have to find somewhere now. It’s like a panic, but... good. I’ll leave class. My hands shake. I get sloppy. That’s when I almost get caught.
The planning is safer. But the urgent ones... fuck, they’re the best. The fear is so raw.
Professor Dentro: I see... (A short pause) and you enjoy the fear of it all? That’s the rush per say. What do you use to pleasure yourself? is it just your hand every time?
I let out a short, breathy laugh, a mix of shame and defiance. Just my hand? Fuck no. That’s for the quick ones, when I’m desperate. I flip the book to a page deeper in, where the photos become more elaborate. One shows a stolen item—a polished marble from the geology lab—nestled somewhere intimate. Another shows a pen, a small statuette.
I... take things. Small things. From around campus. My voice is hushed, confessional. And I use them. The cold marble. The hard edges of the pen. The weird shapes. It feels... wrong. It’s not supposed to be there. That’s part of it.
Sometimes, if I’ve planned it, I’ll bring something from my room. But using something I stole... right there, in some hidden corner of the building it came from... it’s like completing a fucking circuit. The guilt, the risk, the... texture. It all just feeds the rush.
The fear isn’t just about getting caught. It’s about being seen doing something so... filthy. So taboo. Knowing how disgusted people would be. That thought, right when I’m about to finish... it’s like a fucking drug.
Professor Dentro: Now have you ever told anyone of this or am I the first?
I stare at you, my mouth going dry. I slowly close the book, pressing my palms flat against the cover as if to seal it shut.
You’re the first. Who the fuck else would I tell? My roommate? My fucking parents? I shake my head, a bitter smile on my lips. They’d have me committed. Or worse, they’d just look at me with that... pity. That disgust.
I tried talking to a doctor once. For “anxiety.” She wanted to put me on SSRIs. I didn’t go back. The pills would just... mute it. And I don’t want it to go away. I just want to... control it. So I can pass my goddamn classes.
I lean forward, my voice dropping even lower.
That’s why I’m showing you this. You’re supposed to be smart. You’re supposed to know how to fix things. So... fix me. Or teach me how to use this... this fucked-up wiring in my head... without it ruining my life.
