The tiny bedroom above Saigon Corner looked like a tornado had hit it. Or, depending on the observer, a cocoon of creative energy. Empty coffee cups littered the small desk beside Mai's laptop, and takeout containers from her family's restaurant downstairs sat stacked in the corner like a monument to her late-night writing binge. She'd pulled the blinds shut hours ago, but afternoon sunlight still snuck through the gaps, casting long shadows across the worn hardwood floor.
Mai's fingers moved frantically across the keyboard, long brown hair falling in messy waves around her face. It was Saturday afternoon, and she hadn't showered since Friday morning's class. And hadn't changed out of her father's oversized New York Giants sweatshirt since last night. She probably stank, but honestly? She didn't give a damn.
She'd used Professor White's special writing technique. Touching herself to the memory of his phone call, and the subsequent encounter in his classroom. When he made her cum in his classroom with his hand under her skirt. Treating the rush of orgasmic emotions as fuel. And surprisingly, the words were coming. Really coming. No pun intended. It was like a dam had burst somewhere in her brain.
"Holy shit, Noah was right," she muttered, cracking her knuckles before diving back in.
I needed to feel it to write it. All those years trying to fake emotions I'd never felt. What a waste of time.
Her current chapter was all about vulnerability. Her main character was a girl caught between wanting someone desperately and being terrified of getting hurt. Every sentence felt real now, charged with electricity she could actually remember feeling in her own body.
She scrolled up to reread a passage she'd written an hour ago:
"His fingers traced the inside of her thigh, and she hated how much she wanted it, hated the wet heat between her legs that gave away every desperate thought. 'Please,' she whispered, but didn't know if she was begging him to stop or to never stop. The shame of wanting him made her want him more."
Mai stared at those words. They were good. Really good. Raw and honest in a way nothing she'd written before had ever been.
They were also about a college student fucking her professor.
The thought hit her like cold water. What the hell was she doing? This wasn't creative writing, this was... what? A confession? A fantasy? Some fucked-up way of processing what had happened between her and Noah?
Her stomach twisted. She should delete it. Delete all of it. Tell someone what Noah had done, what she'd let him do…
Her phone buzzed. Her heart jumped, hoping it was him, and that hope made her feel sick.
It wasn't him. Just her friend asking if she wanted to grab dinner.
Mai looked at her message history with Noah. Three texts she'd drafted yesterday, all deleted before hitting send. Are you thinking about me? Delete. What we did was crazy. Delete. I can't stop thinking about touching myself for you. Delete.
She hadn't sent anything. He hadn't reached out either. Silence since Friday afternoon when she'd left his classroom with her panties soaked and her hands shaking.
Maybe he'd already moved on. Maybe she'd been just another student to him, just another girl stupid enough to…
Stop it. Mai shook her head hard, pushing the thoughts away. She needed to focus. Needed to write.
She tried. Put her fingers on the keyboard, stared at the blinking cursor, willed the words to come.
Nothing.
The well had gone dry. Without that fizzing heat in her blood, without replaying the memory of his voice on the phone telling her exactly how to touch herself, without that, there was nothing. Just empty blankness where her story should be.
"No no no..." She rubbed her eyes, tried again. Typed a sentence. It was flat. Lifeless. The kind of garbage she'd been writing for years, words pretending to be emotions she didn't actually feel.
She deleted it. Tried again. Worse.
Her hand drifted to her phone. Opened her photos. She'd taken a selfie yesterday after class, her face was still flushed and disheveled, her expression dazed. Looking at it now made her breath catch.
She opened a private browser window. Found one of those romance novel excerpt sites Noah had recommended as research material for her 'special assignment'. Started reading a sex scene. The kind of explicit scene that used to make her uncomfortable.
The room was quiet, except for the soft hum of her laptop and the occasional creak of her chair. She leaned back, the soft cotton of her oversized t-shirt brushing against her skin. Her breathing deepened, her chest rising against the loose fabric as she read, each sentence stirring something low and insistent inside her.
Heat gathered beneath her skin, a slow bloom that traveled from her belly to the tips of her ears. Her thighs pressed together on instinct, a small, helpless movement that only heightened the pressure she was feeling. It was impossible to ignore how alive her body felt. How responsive. How ready.
Her free hand drifted down, slipping under the waistband of her pants, her fingers moving through her curly short hairs to find the sensitive flesh of her wet vagina. Her clit, already swollen and sensitive, ached to be touched.
Mai's breath hitched as her fingers made contact, her body responding instantly. She began to move her fingers in slow, deliberate circles, her hips jerking slightly as waves of sensation washed over her.
The memory of Noah's words echoed in her mind, the promise of his touch, the anticipation of his command spurring her on, all mixed, creating a cocktail of desire and need that made every nerve ending in her body tingle with anticipation.
"Mai, touch yourself for me," Noah's voice echoes in her mind, his words a command. "Show me how much you want me. Show me how wet you are for me."
She swallowed, the air catching in her throat. The imagined authority in his tone made her pulse trip over itself. There was a thrill in the idea of yielding. Of letting go and letting herself feel exactly what she felt.
Mai spread her legs as her fingers moved faster, her touch more insistent, her body responding to the memory. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her body trembling with the intensity of her arousal, her inner muscles clenching around her fingers, her body milking them, urging them deeper, inviting her pleasure.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye, and she paused, her breath hitching as she took in the sight of herself. She was only wearing an oversized t-shirt and cotton shorts, the thin fabric doing little to hide the curves of her body. Her long brown hair spilled over her shoulders in dark, silken waves, catching the amber glow from the paper lantern overhead, casting a warm, inviting light over her skin. The oversized t-shirt had slipped down one shoulder, revealing the delicate slope of her collarbone, the golden warmth of her skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Her bare legs, spread open in the chair, seemed impossibly slender, the muscles in her thighs tensing and relaxing with each subtle movement of her hips.
As she watched, her fingers continued their dance, her touch becoming more insistent, more urgent. Her lips, naturally curved in a lust-filled expression, parted slightly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her eyes, dark and dilated, were locked onto her reflection, her gaze filled with a mix of curiosity and desire. She could see the flush of arousal spreading across her chest, the rise and fall of her breasts with each ragged breath, the hard peaks of her nipples visible through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Her hand moved to one of her breasts, cupping it gently, her thumb brushing against and then squeezing the hard peak of her nipple. The sensation was electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core. She moaned softly, her hips lifting slightly.
Her body responded to the sight, her hips lifting slightly, her inner muscles clenching around her fingers. The pleasure built, a slow, steady crescendo, her body coiling tighter and tighter with each passing second. She could feel the heat building, the pressure mounting, her body aching for release. Her reflection stared back at her, a vision of desire, her features flushed and lovely, her eyes shining with a wild, unbridled passion.
The room is filled with the sound of her ragged breaths, the soft, wet sounds of her fingers moving against her wet flesh, and the occasional moan of pleasure that escapes her lips. The air is thick with the scent of her arousal, a heady mix of musk and desire that seems to envelop her, drawing her deeper into the abyss.
"Oh god, Noah," Mai gasps, her voice a desperate plea, a mix of surprise and desire.
The cursor of her Word document blinked, forgotten as her fingers moved faster, her touch more insistent, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
And suddenly the words were there again, flowing like water, like they'd just been waiting for permission.
Her phone buzzed again. Her friend: Girl, are you even alive up there?
Mai groaned in frustration, not stopping what she was doing. Texted back quickly with her free hand: I'm alive. Can't make it tonight.
She tossed the phone across the room and surrendered. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps as she rode the waves of her orgasm. The room spun around her, the world narrowing down to a primal point of pleasure.
"Oh god, oh god, Noah!" Mai screamed, her body convulsing as the waves of euphoria crash over her. Mai's body shakes, her back arches, and her toes curl as her hips buck uncontrollably.
Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps as she came down from her high, her body satisfied and spent. Slowly, she removes her fingers, her touch gentle as she pulls her shorts back into place.
She leaned back in her chair, her body trembling, her breath slowly returning to normal. A contented smile played on her lips. She felt inspired. But for just a moment, in the clarity that followed, she wondered if this was what addiction felt like. Then she looked at the pages she'd written and pushed the thought away. This was what real writing felt like. Not just describing passion, but channeling it. Being brave enough to need something so badly it hurt. And if that meant she needed Noah's technique, needed the memory of his hands, his voice, the way he'd looked at her when he made her come, then fine. Whatever it took.
She'd found her actual voice. Nothing else mattered.
The clock said 6:17 PM when she finally stopped, fourteen new pages drafted, her body loose and satisfied and humming. Outside her window, she could hear Princeton on a Saturday: people out and about, couples walking to dinner, the distant hum of traffic on Nassau Street.
But she felt no desire to join them. She'd found something way better than some random weekend distraction.
She'd found something real.
Even if the way she'd found it was completely fucked up.
She was pretty sure she was addicted. Even if part of her knew she should be scared.
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Washington Park stretched out in front of Yuki like a green oasis just off campus. Noonday sun filtered through the oak trees, creating these shifting patterns of light and shadow on the walking paths. She'd been camped on the same bench for over an hour, watching joggers and dog walkers go by. Her leather portfolio bag was open beside her. But her brain was somewhere else.
The bench was one of those old iron ones the university had probably installed decades ago, with a little plaque dedicated to some donor nobody remembered anymore. Yuki traced the worn metal with her finger, needing something solid while her thoughts spun in circles.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother in Japanese: "Yuki-chan, how are your studies? Your father wants to know about your thesis progress. Please call this weekend."
She stared at the message, feeling that familiar weight settle on her chest. Her parents had sacrificed everything to send her here. Her father was working seventy-hour weeks at his accounting firm in Osaka, her mother taking on private students for extra tutoring income. They'd beam with pride when she told them about the McKinsey & Company interview she had scheduled for January, the potential offer that could lead to an internship in their New York City office by summer.
On track, she typed back in Japanese. Thesis defense scheduled for March. Will call tomorrow. Love you.
The words felt heavy. Her thesis was on schedule. The interview was real. But everything felt... wrong lately.
A couple walked past, probably graduate students like herself. The woman said something that made her boyfriend laugh, and he pulled her close, kissing her temple with casual affection. Real intimacy, the kind built over time.
Yuki watched them until they disappeared around the path's curve. When was the last time she'd experienced something like that? When was the last time she'd wanted to?
The answer came uninvited: Friday afternoon. Noah's office.
She'd been so focused on reading his body language for red flags that she'd missed her own reactions. The way her pulse had quickened when he'd leaned forward. How she'd found herself noticing details she had no business noticing. Like the way his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing his strong forearms. The intensity in his dark eyes when he talked about needing "emotional connection" to write.
Red flag. Textbook red flag. A Professor citing "emotional connection" as a job requirement? That was inappropriate vulnerability at best, grooming behavior at worst. Every professional boundary training she'd ever taken said to run.
And yet.
"I need intense emotional connection or conflict to write effectively. I'm looking for intense stimulation from new experiences. Your perspective is unexpected and invaluable."
He'd said those words while looking directly at her. Like she mattered. Like her thoughts were genuinely interesting rather than just correct answers to questions.
When was the last time someone had looked at her like that?
David Chen, two years ago. Wharton MBA student, smart and ambitious, exactly the kind of man her parents would approve of. He'd asked her to coffee after a case study competition. Then dinner. Then made it clear he wanted more.
She could still see the confused hurt in his eyes when she'd said no. "I don't understand, Yuki. We have great conversations. We want similar things. Why not at least try?"
Because trying meant risk. Risk meant losing focus. And losing focus meant failing, which meant disappointing everyone who'd sacrificed for her to be here.
So she'd labeled David a distraction and moved on. Just like she'd labeled every other man who'd shown interest. Better to be alone and successful than connected and compromised.
Except Noah White didn't feel like a distraction. He felt like a disruption, something that couldn't be neatly categorized and dismissed. Noah felt like what her business strategy classes called a leverage point. A place where small inputs create outsized effects in behavior. That should terrify her.
Instead, she kept replaying moments from their coffee meeting. The way he'd admitted he was teaching to overcome writer's block rather than from a noble calling. That honesty was disarming. The way he'd actually listened when she suggested treating character analysis like business case studies, building on her idea rather than dismissing it. The way he'd called their arrangement a "partnership."
Partnership. Implying equality rather than hierarchy.
She pulled out her phone and reread the email from Noah that was sent earlier that day, subject line: "Weekend reading, no rush."
Before she could stop herself, she opened it for the fourth time:
Yuki,
Attached are some folklore references for the mentor-student dynamic I mentioned. Japanese and Chinese martial arts traditions, the concept of "senpai-kohai" relationships, and how they navigate power exchange. Some of the source material discusses physical intimacy between masters and disciples as part of spiritual training, so fair warning on content. Only read what feels comfortable.
It also covers power dynamics in professional mentorship that might interest a business major like yourself. Sometimes the best insights come from unexpected intersections.
Hope you're enjoying your weekend.
-Noah
Yuki stared at the screen. The email was perfectly professional. Thoughtful, even. The content warning showed respect for boundaries.
So why did her heart rate pick up while reading it?
Because underneath the professional courtesy, there was subtext: I'm thinking about you on a Saturday afternoon.
Or was she projecting? Reading meaning into polite collaboration because some lonely part of her wanted there to be meaning?
"God, I'm pathetic," she muttered, closing her email without responding.
"Am I doing the right thing?" she said under her breath, barely audible over the distant traffic from Route 1. There was a small puddle at her feet from last night's rain, and she caught her reflection in it. Dark eyes serious behind her wire-rim glasses, mouth pressed into this thin line of concentration.
She'd always been the responsible one. The good daughter. The good student who turned assignments in early, the one who had a five-year plan complete with backup plans, who never deviated from her parents' carefully mapped-out path toward business consulting.
But now everything felt muddy. Complicated by the realization that she'd spent twenty-five years building a perfect resume while never actually living. Never taking risks. Never letting herself want something just because it made her feel alive.
Never letting herself want someone.
She opened her phone again, pulled up the email. Her fingers hovered over the reply button.
What am I doing?
Red flags everywhere. A professor who admits needing "emotional connection" from his research assistant. Sending materials on physical intimacy in master-student relationships.
She should document everything. Maybe forward the email to the dean's office, just to have it on record. Definitely not respond until Monday during business hours, maintaining clear professional distance.
Instead, she found herself typing:
Noah,
Thank you for the materials. The intersection between martial arts philosophy and business organizational theory is fascinating.
Her thumb hesitated over the send button. This was professional. Appropriate.
She deleted it and started over:
Noah,
This is exactly the kind of cross-disciplinary thinking I love. I'll read through everything this weekend and send you my thoughts. The power dynamics angle is particularly interesting.
Delete. Too eager. Too much like she'd been waiting for his email.
Third attempt:
Noah,
Received. Will review and send notes on Monday.
-Yuki
Professional. Distant. Safe.
Her finger moved to send, then stopped. Was this who she wanted to be? So controlled, so careful, so terrified of showing any genuine reaction that every email read like it was written by a bot?
"I can't keep living inside my stupid five-year plan," she said out loud, standing abruptly and shouldering her bag. "I can't keep being terrified of what might happen if I actually let myself feel something."
A middle-aged woman walking her corgi gave Yuki a concerned look. Yuki ignored her, pulled up the email again, and typed:
Noah,
Thank you for thinking of me on your weekend. I'm looking forward to reading these. The senpai-kohai concept especially interests me since I grew up with those dynamics but never analyzed them academically. I'll send you my thoughts tomorrow.
I hope you're having a good Saturday too.
-Yuki
She hit send before she could second-guess it, then immediately wanted to throw her phone in the nearest trash can.
"I hope you're having a good Saturday too?" What was she, twelve?
But it was done. She allowed him to see a tiny crack in her professional armor. A small admission that she was a human being capable of warmth rather than just a productivity machine.
Ten minutes later, her phone buzzed:
Yuki,
The best insights always come from looking at our own cultural frameworks through new lenses. I'm very curious what you'll notice that I've missed.
Have a wonderful evening.
- N
"I'm very curious what you'll notice that I've missed."
Not about the research. About her. What she would see that he couldn't.
Yuki stood there in Washington Park, holding her phone, feeling something shift inside her chest. Something that felt like a possibility. Like the first crack in a dam before water started flowing through.
She should be scared. Every professional instinct said this was dangerous territory.
Instead, she felt more alive than she had in years.
The park was getting busier as evening approached. Students were starting to appear, some heading to the library for late-night study sessions, others dressed for weekend parties in New York or Philadelphia. Yuki didn't belong to either group. She was stuck somewhere in between, caught between the structured path she'd always followed and something new and scary.
I have to keep moving forward, she told herself firmly, shouldering her leather bag. No matter what that means.
Whatever happened next with this research project, the seed of longing had been planted.