Monsieur Desrosiers was, frankly, a curmudgeon. Around fifty, salt and pepper hair, a strong jaw, nearly six feet tall, and roguishly handsome, I think he was getting fed up with America very quickly.
I could only imagine what he thought of me and my horrible pronunciation.
I wanted to speak French though, I truly did. All the Moliere and Guy de Maupassant, Zola, Proust! I could read them well enough, but my tongue fumbled out loud. I listened to Gainsbourg and tried to will my mouth to find all those nuanced touches. My lips just couldn’t do it.
In class, he wouldn’t yell at me or even try to help me much. When called on, he would simply shake his head and call on someone else.
“Répétez après moi; Tes yeux, j’en rêve jour et nuit,” he demanded.
I tried, oh how I tried, but what came out was too soft, too vague for him. He brushed his hand in the air as if to brush me away.
One day I came to his office after class and holding my books in my lap and looking down. I begged him for help. He sat back in his chair and measured me. He said nothing.
I tried again, in my stumbling French.
“Um, s’il vous plaît aidez-moi,” I said, shaking a bit.
“Fermer la porte,” he said and rose from his chair.
When I walked back to his desk, he paced a bit, looking me up and down as he rubbed his chin. I stood near his desk, and he walked up behind me, forcing me to lean against his desk.
There was something imposing about him. He was brilliant and intense, and he made me feel small, stupid, and innocent.
“French is like a woman, a complicated woman. You must coax her, seduce her. You must be forceful, but can not force her, no?” He said looking down at me from behind me.
I looked forward, putting my books on the table.
“You go to her with no confidence. You stumble because you fear. What do you fear?” he says, moving in, putting one strong hand on my hip.
“Are you this way in all things?” he whispered into my ear, “it is not good to think too much, to try too hard to force things, in language, in love, in bed, no?”
“You come here for my help, but the wall you face is your own, and I can not help you. I think you know that. I can not make your tongue behave. I can not make your fears go away. Then why do you come here?” he demanded into my ear.
He smelled of smoke and some fading cologne. It was all very real. I pressed back against him.
“Perhaps you come to me like in the movies to beg for a good grade despite your inability?” he said with a laugh.
I let out a sound of sorrow. A meek little whimper. He moved away from me.
“I came because I want to speak French. I want to so badly, but I just can’t-”
He cut her off, “you won’t! We can do anything. You have a mouth, you have a tongue, you stop yourself from this,” he said roughly, averting his eyes from me.
“I just need more time. Over the summer, I can maybe sit with a coach-” she started.
“But again, you want to pass. You want me to give you a grade so you can go on and try to learn in the summer? I should do this why?” he was angry now, and my body awoke with fear.
“I-” I started, but my throat dried.
“You want a better grade than what you deserve,” he said, then walking to me, he took my wrists in his hands.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I-” I felt heat in my face, then in my eyes, then wetness down my cheek.
“I want a grade I don’t deserve,” I said, more because he told me to than it being true.
“And you’ve come here to beg for it,” he continued.
“Yes,” I hissed, and I started to sob.
“Pathétique,” he spat in a whisper.
“You want to beg, then do it. I have no time to dawdle,” he said, the word seeming strange with his accent.
He let me go, and I fell to my knees.
“P-p-please, Monsieur, can you-um-help me with my grade,” I begged, groveling at his feet.
He folded your arms.
“Oh, help you with your grade? Why yes, I can help you by telling you now, it is an F. F for fail. In French perhaps E for échouer?” he said, chuckling at his own joke.
“Monsieur, please!” I begged.
He smiled down at me, “Oh, doux ma petite fille, do you not see the cinema? Now that you beg, you have to offer your sweet mouth. You have to offer me ‘anything I want’ and tell me you will ‘do anything’ for my help,” he said laughing cruelly.
I sobbed, but I knew then that he’s seen the desire in my eyes in class. I wanted to leave, to deny him, but the thought of offering myself to him suddenly crept into my veins. The dirtiness of it, of him, using my as I cried, was suddenly palpable, and soon I was as wet between my legs as on my cheeks.
“I-I will do anything, Monsieur,” I said, looking up at him.
“Ah, oui précieuse mon oiseau,” he said holding out his hand to help me up.
I stood, and he turned me around slowly and put his hand on my back.
“Now you pull up your pretty skirt and pull down your little culotte, and maybe I will think about it, no?”
Then I was bending over. His pens and staplers and pack of Gitanes pressing up against my breasts and my face, and I reached back and pulled up my pleated skirt. I pulled down my panties.
“Ah, oui,” he said to himself.
Then I felt his rough hands on my thighs. My toes curled in my shoes as I looked down at the dark wood of his desk and spread my fingers out on the desk, and waited.
His hand left for a moment and came back wet, and then his finger was slipping between my lips. Then he knew how wet I was, how much I wanted to be a dirty girl fucking my French teacher. Then his thick finger slipped inside of me, and I gasped.
“Taisez,” he growled, and then I felt him move, and suddenly his mouth was on my sex.
He licked and groaned as he did. His tongue slipped over my clit, and my back arched, then it slipped into me, then up, and then just the tip of his tongue slid over my ass, and I jumped.
He laughed and stood and slapped my ass once. My legs straightened at that, and I raised my ass for him. He let out an approving laugh at that.
“Le chat likes that,” he said, spanking me again, harder.
I did. I did I did.
He hit me again, and I braced my body. He spanked me again and again, and I was on my tippy-toes, and every strike went right to my clit. He hit me again and again, and I covered my mouth.
Then I heard his belt buckle, and I froze. I didn’t know if I wanted his belt or his cock more. I didn’t know which was coming.
Then I heard his zipper. His pants falling to the floor. His wet fingers pushed into me; one, two, three made me feel stretched and burning. Then I was empty for a moment, then his cock.
It was thick, it was so hot, my mind started reeling. Then he grabbed my hips and fucked me. He fucked me like someone playing with a rag doll. I was just a toy for him to get off with. I was just another little slut who came into his office to fuck him for a better grade.
“S’agenouiller sur le sol,” he said roughly, turning me around, pushing me down.
Then his cock was in my mouth, salty and covered in my pussy. I sucked it. I sucked it and stroked it and rubbed it against my cheek and licked it up and down and pulled on it and licked and sucked his balls, wanting all of him. Then he pushed it back in my mouth. He fucked my mouth. He fucked my mouth until I heard him grunting and groaning, and I knew in that moment he was mine.
Then that white-hot moment, the dirtiest moment, my knees burned on the floor as he shot his come into my mouth. Again and again, until I couldn’t breathe.
Then I was on the floor.
I laid there on my side and watched as he pulled up his pants as he panted. He bucked his belt. He walked away, around the desk, and I heard him sit down.
“You get a C,” he said calmly.
“Anything more, and there might be questions,” he explained.
“I have work,” he said, and lit a cigarette.
I stood after a moment. I didn’t look back at him. I carefully slipped into the hall and ran to the restroom.
That summer I went to Paris.