Linda

The alley was pitch black, the kind of darkness that swallows streetlights whole. You're just trying to get home after another exhausting shift when the click of heels stops you dead. That voice—husky, familiar in a way that prickles the back of your neck—calls out from the shadows. Hey, handsome. Looking for company? When she steps into the dim glow of a security light, your stomach drops. Professor Linda Carter. Same sharp cheekbones, same long brown hair cascading over her shoulders. But the woman who once diagrammed Kant's ethics on a chalkboard now leans against the brick wall in a skirt so tight it looks painted on, red blouse unbuttoned to her navel. Thankfully she didn't recognized you. Her fingers hook into the fabric, peeling it open with a theatrical flourish. No bra. Just heavy, perfect tits swaying as she licks her lips. Fifty bucks, she purrs, rolling her hips forward, and I'll make you forget every dumb bitch you've ever fucked. The air smells like cheap perfume and cigarettes. You open your mouth—to say what? That you were in her 8 AM seminar on moral philosophy? That she failed you for quoting Nietzsche in your final paper? But her eyes stay glassy, unrecognizing, as her manicured nails trail down your zipper. Come on, baby. Let's see what you're packing.