This story is about two consenting adults: Jamie Woods is a twenty-year old first-year student studying Creative Writing and English Literature at an English university. Poppy Stuart is about six years older than her and has just started her PhD – which this semester includes acting as a Teaching Assistant for an undergrad class (though god knows if English universities actually have TAs). The power imbalance between them is what – to me at least – makes this fiction hot. I’m not condoning people actually sleeping with their university lecturers.
If it wasn’t for the cute TA, Jamie might have switched classes in her first week of uni.
It wasn’t only that the course, Heroic Women in Literature, was being taught be an old, cishet, white guy – though that definitely pissed her off. It was also the overcrowded lecture theatre, because apparently the class had accepted too many students this term. It was that the first thing the lecturer told them that he was assuming that none of them had done any of the required reading for the course “because undergrad students never do.” It was that he constantly told stories about his own life rather than answering his students’ questions.
In fact, she was already planning how she’d convince her advisor of studies that she could switch to a different literature module when the lecturer introduced his Teaching Assistants, who’d be running their tutorials through the semester. The structure of the class was two lectures a week plus tutorial sessions in smaller groups, he went on to explain, but Jamie’s attention was captivated by the tall black girl with an undercut and turquoise quiff. Now she was the kind of person Jamie had hoped would be teaching this class. Guilt fought with arousal: she knew she shouldn’t be perving on the TA, but holy shit she was gorgeous.
Jamie resigned herself to staying in the lecture theatre until she learnt the older girl’s name. Maybe she’d have a chance of running into her elsewhere on campus even if she didn’t stay in this stupid class. Then the lecturer read out a list of which students were in which tutorial groups, and Jamie swallowed her annoyance at the inefficient system when she was listed in the ten students who’d be attending the tutorials run by Poppy Stuart.
Maybe this class wouldn’t be so bad after all.
It was hard flirting with a TA, even a gorgeous one who you’re pretty sure is queer. She was pretty sure that Poppy couldn’t lose her PhD funding if they had sex, but it might be different because she was teaching Jamie. She wondered what it said about her if she thought it might even be hotter to fuck her TA if it wasn’t allowed – which thinking about it that way, it probably wasn’t.
That didn’t stop Jamie from trying. It wasn’t that she wore more exposing clothing to her Heroic Women in Literature tutorials or whispered filthy things to Poppy. It was in discrete touches and unsaid words and outrageous statements that made the rest of the class laugh while she sought Poppy’s eyes to show her that she was deadly serious. Jamie could be subtle – though it’s possible that she wasn’t on the warm autumn day when she wore denim shorts that definitely showed that marks that had been left on her arse the night before (by Jordan Skowronski, non-binary gender-studies third-year student and impressive impact top) when she bent over to pick up a pen, right in front of Poppy.
Jamie could never quite tell if Poppy was flirting back. She encouraged Jamie to participate in the discussions in their seminars and seemed deeply interested in everything Jamie said – but then she did that with everyone in their tutorial group. Once or twice, she caught Poppy’s eyes on her when someone else was speaking, but she could never work out what that little smirk she gave Jamie meant. It felt so good to be on the receiving end of that grin, on the inside of the joke, even if she wasn’t quite sure what the joke was.
It’s not that Jamie was only flirting with Poppy – far from it. Campus was filled with cute queers, and Jamie wasn’t holding back. Lectures and seminars and essays were interspersed with flirting and laughter and beer and kissing and biting and enthusiastic, messy sex. Then, somehow, Jamie was halfway through her first semester at university and had submitted her first round of uni assignments. She celebrated by being tied to the St. Andrew’s cross in the middle of a kink club and letting Jordan use toys that started with a flogger and ended with vampire gloves to make her bleed. It was wonderful.
Jordan had coaxed her to an orgasm before releasing her, and she’d flopped into their arms. She spent the next portion of the evening curled into Jordan, not looking up but letting them narrate the scenes taking place around them while they stroked her hair. They’d come here often enough in the last two months that this aftercare was routine; today though, she sat up instantly when Jordan began describing a dark-skinned femme with a turquoise spiky hair. Fuck, it was the TA who she’d argued with about Tena Stivicic’s representation of feminism with only a couple of hours earlier.
Jamie watched Poppy give an expert spanking – complete with deeply possessive kisses and bending to whisper in a low voice to the girl bent over in front of her – wishing the whole time that she’d look over at her.
“And now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. I wasn’t the one who marked your work, but I’ve added my own comments as well.” It was a week later, and Poppy had cruelly waited until almost the end of the tutorial to hand out their marked essays. Jamie waited, and then tensed as she realised she was the only one who hadn’t received a copy of her own essay back, annotated in red ink with a marks sheet stapled to the front. She raised her hand cautiously.
Poppy didn’t meet her eyes as she addressed her.
“Ah yes, Ms Woods. I’m afraid I have to discuss your essay with you in greater detail before I can return it. Could you stay back after our tutorial today?”
Jamie dropped her hand. Other students asked for specific feedback, and Poppy went over a few general points that they should remember when writing academic essays. Then the class was over and everyone else was filing out, leaving Jamie feeling more uncertain of herself than she ever had in this classroom. She approached Poppy slowly, who still hadn’t looked directly at her.
“Was the essay really that bad?”
Poppy looked up, all glittering eyes and eager expression, and Jamie’s anxiety was replaced by arousal.
“Not exactly. But you need to do something else if you want to get an A – which I’m pretty sure you do, don’t you little slut?”
Poppy’s eyes didn’t leave Jamie’s as sat on the edge of the desk and spread her legs.
“If you want to earn that A, get on your knees.”
Jamie did – far too quickly, unthinkingly. She ran her hands up Poppy’s legs and pushed up her dress. While it had looked like she’d been wearing tights, they were in fact stockings. And she wasn’t wearing panties. Jamie could smell her arousal.
“Get me off, little slut.”
She didn’t need telling twice. Poppy, with a hand tangled in Jamie’s hair, was good at giving directions and kept up a continuous stream of filthy words while Jamie tongued her clit.
“I didn’t even lock the door. And you didn’t think to ask if there is another class coming in to use this room. It’s almost like you want everyone to find out what a slut you are.”
Jamie pulled back for just a second, to nip gently at her right thigh. Above her, Poppy gasped.
“I should spank you for that,” she told the younger girl, but that only made Jamie redouble her efforts, and a few minutes later Poppy was writhing and panting and coming, coming, coming in Jamie’s mouth. Jamie stood up, grinning. Poppy raised an eyebrow and flipped over the paper on the desk next to her. It was Jamie’s essay, an A already written and circled. She gaped.
“Sadistic bitch,” Jamie muttered, but the words had barely left her mouth before Poppy was kissing her, tasting her own wetness on Jamie’s lips.
“The mark on the essay was never in doubt. I just wanted to make sure you got an A in oral too.”
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.