My face flushed, I leaned heavily against the counter at the school's corner store, my legs trembling. From beneath the till, my math teacher, Mr. Evans, was doing unspeakable things that made my head swim, all while oblivious customers browsed the aisles. Once the last shopper left, Mr. Evans finally emerged from behind the counter, leaning in close, his hot breath caressing my ear. "Like my technique, do we?" he whispered. 1 My name is Scarlett. I'm a dance major, known as the 'Campus Belle' at Rosewood Arts Academy. This summer, I took on a job working at my parents' corner store near the high school, making a hundred bucks a day. It wasn't much, but school was out, so it was pretty chill. Most of the time, I just scrolled on my phone. The Rosewood summer, though, was relentlessly hot and humid. And my parents, trying to save a buck, refused to install air conditioning. Sometimes, when the heat became unbearable, I'd slip behind the cash register, sneak out my personal pleasure device, and find a moment of private comfort to soothe my simmering body. Today was particularly sweltering, the kind of mid-summer day that makes you feel like you're swimming through the air. I'd already secretly shed my bra, but sweat still dripped from every pore, soaking my white tank top and shorts until they clung to me, translucent as wet tissue paper. My soaked tank top clung to my frame, making every curve – especially my fuller chest – unmistakably clear. After a long stretch of no customers, and seeing not a soul outside the store, I couldn't resist. I grabbed my device, retreated behind the counter, and, just like any other day, closed my eyes, letting myself get lost in a haze of private comfort. But just as I was blissfully lost in my own little world, the door chimed. Mr. Evans, my math teacher from junior year, walked in. "Hey, little boss! Got any glue?" I froze, a jolt of shock coursing through me. My body went limp, trembling, and the device slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. By the time I snapped back to reality and dared to look up, I found Mr. Evans staring at me, a look of stunned disbelief mingled with something disturbingly like admiration in his eyes. My face instantly burned scarlet, a wave of mortification washing over me. I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. God, this was beyond embarrassing! But embarrassing or not, I had a customer. I frantically pulled myself together, forcing my voice to stay steady as I stood up. "Mr. Evans, hi... Yes... yes, we do. It's usually... under the counter." My cheeks were on fire, and I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, terrified to meet his eyes. Even though I’d hastily adjusted my clothes, the damp fabric clung to me, outlining every curve as if I were barely dressed, especially without a bra. Mr. Evans, if he wanted, could probably see everything. Sure enough, his breathing grew heavier. I could feel his scorching gaze sweep over me, possessive and knowing. My lip trembled. Was he... was he interested? Was he imagining pressing me down right here on the counter? A sigh of relief escaped me when he didn't say anything, just crouched down and began rummaging under the counter for the glue. I stole a glance at his back, a mix of chagrin and a strange flicker of excitement stirring within me. Actually, with the summer heat and lack of business, my parents had suggested closing the store for a break. But I insisted on staying. I had a secret: I'd had a crush on Mr. Evans for three years. My persistence in keeping the store open was all about creating opportunities to be near him. I loved his tall frame, his refined, handsome face, and the intense focus in his eyes when he stood at the chalkboard, classic wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, lecturing. His long, slender fingers, holding a piece of chalk, seemed to stir something in my heart with every stroke. But through three years of high school, I was just a student in the next classroom over. On top of that, my parents were incredibly strict, forbidding any teenage romance, let alone something as scandalous as a teacher-student affair. While my friends were exploring intimacy at friends' houses, whispering tales of secret hookups and amazing experiences, I had to suppress my inner turmoil, my restlessness, and my envy. My feelings for Mr. Evans remained buried deep. That's why I'd developed this bad habit of self-soothing—a way to vent my frustrations and my silent longing for Mr. Evans. But I never imagined my first real interaction with him would be him catching me in the act. Thinking about it, I felt like crying. Oh God, why me? How could I be so unlucky? Mr. Evans might not have said anything, but he must surely think I'm a loose, reckless girl, right? Still, judging by his reaction just now, he seemed… to like it? 2 "Little boss, are you sure the glue is here?" After a moment, Mr. Evans hadn't found any glue. He stood up, looking puzzled, and asked me again. I suddenly remembered: we'd sold out of glue a few days ago. I was about to explain when his gaze paused. He seemed to spot something on the floor, then bent down and picked up a pink, oval-shaped object. There was wet residue on it. Mr. Evans brought a finger to his nose, a curious expression on his face. "What kind of glue is this?" he mused. "Smells... unusual. But it's certainly sticky." I peered at the pink object in his hand, and a wave of fresh panic crashed over me. It was my personal pleasure device, the one I'd fumbled and dropped! I instantly realized what the "liquid" was. My face turned crimson, and I quickly averted my eyes, utterly speechless. This was beyond mortifying. To my surprise, seeing my reaction, Mr. Evans paused. Then, as if understanding dawned on him, he didn't show an ounce of disgust. In fact, he gave a wry, almost fond smile, and spoke gently to reassure me. "Ah, I see... that kind of stickiness!" he said. "Little boss, there's nothing to be ashamed of! It's perfectly natural. To be honest, sometimes when I'm alone in my apartment, I find myself needing to... unwind. It's a normal human thing." He paused again, then looked at me expectantly. "By the way, what's your name? What should I call you?" My mind went blank. I couldn't believe Mr. Evans, the cool and refined teacher, was openly sharing such a personal secret to comfort me. He did that too? And he was asking for my name? Was he trying to get closer to me? My heart pounded with a mix of excitement and nerves. God knew how many lonely nights I'd whispered his name to myself as I drifted off to sleep. How long had I waited for this moment? I had to seize this chance! A sudden idea sparked in my mind. I took a deep breath, gathered my courage, and met his gentle gaze. "Hi, Mr. Evans," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm Scarlett. But you can call me Scar." I quickly added, "Mr. Evans, we sold out of glue two days ago. How about this: let's exchange numbers, and when the new stock arrives tomorrow, I can personally bring it to your place?" A girl offering to come to a guy's house? Even an idiot would get that hint. I waited, heart hammering, for his answer, secretly vowing that if he agreed, I would pull out all the stops. Even if I had to physically make a move, I'd make him mine. But what happened next was beyond anything I could have imagined. Mr. Evans apparently couldn't wait until tomorrow for the glue. He seemed quite urgent. "Scar," he said, his voice laced with concern, "I can't wait until tomorrow. I have some urgent documents that need to be glued right away." He frowned. "And I don't know where else to find any at this hour." He then looked down at his finger, still bearing the wet residue from my device, and then back at me. A strange look crossed his face, as if he’d just made a decision. He glanced quickly outside the empty store, then turned back to me, an embarrassed but persistent plea in his eyes. "Scarlett... could you... maybe help me find something similar to that? Something... sticky, to help with this?" ... I was stunned. I never expected Mr. Evans to make such an outlandish request. My face flushed, my ears burning, as I instantly understood his meaning. If anyone else had suggested such a thing, I would have called the police on the spot. But this was Mr. Evans, the man I’d secretly adored for years. My heart didn't hold a single ounce of reluctance; in fact, I had only one thought: I had to help him. Under Mr. Evans' expectant gaze, my body trembled. I took a deep breath and nodded firmly. His eyes lit up with delight, and he quickly extended his hand, holding out my pink device. Just then, my phone suddenly rang.
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