Detention Part One: French Profanity

I got myself in detention. Ms Vespoli kept me after class. She said I talked too much. All I did was call French class what it is—dead air. Now I sit here staring at a clock while the second hand drags itself around the face. Dana walks between the desks in heels that click louder than the ticking. She stops at my shoulder. Her skirt rides up. A glint of bare thigh. I think about the principal, Ms DeArmond, hiring her. I picture Dana on her knees, DeArmond’s hand fisted in her hair, mouth slick on DeArmond’s cunt until they both shake. The thought makes my own cunt wet against the wooden seat. Dana slaps the ruler on my desk, wood on wood, loud. “Eyes on your work.” I obey, but my mind drifts anyway. She yanks my chair back and tells me to bend. The ruler taps the curve of my ass once, twice. Then her breath is hot on the cleft, tongue flicking slow and deliberate like she’s tasting something expensive. I hear the ruler creak in her grip. She asks me, low, if I want her tongue deeper. The clock keeps ticking. My homework stays blank.