The Secrets of Sin

Mari

“Miss Sinclair, I’m sure you are aware of the phrase ‘double-edged sword’?” he asks as he walks us further into his large house.

The wall’s wooden planks give the space a natural feel, but I can tell they’re fake. The lighting is really dark and my eyes still haven’t adjusted.

“Yes, sir, I am,” I answer from behind him. His hallway is so long and narrow, I can’t stand beside him; I have to walk behind.

He says nothing else as we creep into a small room tucked behind a set of stairs. Mr. Keats lets me go in first as he waits by the door.

This room, like the hallway, has been left bare and dark. Mr. Keats strolls to the large wooden desk in the middle of the room and takes a seat like a king on his throne.

He looks like a menacing alpha male in his habitat. His cold eyes make me shrink with just one look.

“Life is like a double-edged sword, Miss Sinclair. Everything that happens has repercussions.”

His words seem to cast a spell. I feel locked away here, like I’m being interrogated and sentenced all in one. I nod my head to show him I’m listening.

A long silence falls over us until Mr. Keats clears his throat and tells me to take a seat at the side of his desk instead of in front of it.

Doing what I’m told, I don’t give it a second thought before I hustle to his side.

I focus on my posture. I sit straight and cross my legs at the ankles. I remember all too well that Mr. Keats hates slouchers.

He called me out on it in the middle of class before. I try my hardest to be aware of it now when I’m around him.

“You are failing my class. I have given you opportunity after opportunity to bring this disgusting grade up but you have squandered those chances.

“Now, today, as the generous and thoughtful man that I am, I have dropped one last chance into your lap.

“Your mother has passed away, no father in the picture, and your guardian can’t afford a tutor, correct?”

Mr. Keats nails me right on the head. I have been trying in his class. It’s not like I’m not grasping the material, but it’s like every time I submit my work, I somehow mess up.

My classmates and I haven’t ever been close but I did read Warren’s paper, the kid that sits next to me. I thought mine was way better than his, but he still got a much higher grade.

“Yes sir, that’s correct,” I answer meekly.

“As you said yourself, you need to pass my class or you will not graduate on time. Are you willing to do everything you can?”

I feel a lump in my throat, the glue coating it from his question. “Y-yes sir, I am.” I sound like a guilty kid that got caught dipping into the cookie jar.

My answer makes Mr. Keats's lips tug into a smudged smirk that he replaces with his hardened scowl.

“That’s excellent news, Miss Sinclair. It delights me to hear your dedication to your education.”

Mr. Keats gives me these compliments, but instead of basking in the first one he has ever given me, I feel like I maybe shouldn’t have come here.

I tell myself I don’t have any other options, so I couldn’t have declined his offer.

“My…situation is unique, Miss Sinclair. You understand that every person has their tastes and preferences. Mine happens to be rather specific.

“I’d like to offer you a one-time deal. If you say no, I will fail you. You will not have another chance. Do you understand me?”

His voice sounds so final—like I need to accept whatever it is, no matter what. I have to pass.

“Y-yes, sir,” I answer. I can feel myself shrinking away.

Mr. Keats turns his swivel chair toward me, his hands locked in front of him. “I’m not sure you truly care enough, Miss Sinclair. Convince me.”

He stares blankly. His eyes no longer hold any brown; they look like pieces of black coal instead of eyes at all.

“Mr. Keats, I will do whatever you need. I have to pass. I know you have been kind and have given me second chances, and I messed them up.

“My brother is counting on me, and I can’t be held back another year. He’s already given so much up. Anything at all, and I will make sure it gets done to your liking, sir.

“I swear, I am one hundred percent dedicated to this class, to my education, sir.” I scooch to the edge of my seat and lean on the pads of my toes as I plead with him.

Mr. Keats nods his head slightly, barely even enough for me to notice. He licks his bottom lip with his blush-pink tongue as he scans me with a scrutinizing glare.

I look away, feeling like a bug that he is deciding to crush under the weight of his shoe.

Mr. Keats clears his throat once more and leans into his seat. “Miss Sinclair, I will not accept any form of backtalk, refusal, or failure to do exactly as you’re told. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, feeling like something bad is about to happen.

“Stand up,” he commands.

I jump to my feet, standing stiff and straight.

“Step out of your shoes.” His voice deepens, like light bulbs blowing with no warning, letting the glass shatter and scatter its dangerous shards across the room.

“Look at me. Do not look at anything else in this room,” he growls. The baritone of his voice sends ice water into my blood. Not knowing what he has in store and not wanting to fail, I do as I’m told.

Stepping out of my black sneakers, I keep my eyes trained on his black orbs like a black pit in outer space.

“Let down your hair.” He meets my gaze with every word. I feel sick but follow his order.

Pulling my long chocolate-colored hair out of my ponytail and letting it fall on my shoulders and back, I snuggle the hair tie over my wrist, so I don’t lose it.

Mr. Keats leans back in his chair, letting his long legs stretch out as he fumbles around with the long drawstring of his pants.

Holding back the whimper that fills my throat, I only look at his eyes. Soulless and black, watching me like a hawk.

“Take off your shirt.” The one command makes my heart drop. No one has ever seen me undressed. I’ve never dated or even been walked in on as I was changing.

I’ve just turned eighteen, but still, most girls have at least had a boyfriend by now or shared a first kiss.

And here I am, undressing before my teacher to pass his class before I’ve ever gotten to experience any of that.

Knowing I don’t have a choice, not a real one, I do as I’m told.

I take the hem of my plain pink t-shirt and pull it over my bare skin, exposing my lower stomach, then my belly button, my ribcage, and finally, my chest.

My arms slip out as I pop my head through, then I place my shirt on the chair behind me. My white bra is in full view as my breasts spill over the top.

I’ve known I need new clothes for a while but I couldn’t ask Erik. He shouldn’t have to pay for this stuff.

Mr. Keats sucks in a short and sharp breath at the sight of me and wiggles his sweatpants down to his knees. He shoves a hand into his plaid boxers.

I keep my composure, staring him in the eyes and not daring to look at any other part of his body.

“Unclasp your bra and give it to me.” He sounds like he’s in pain. I can hear the chair squeak from the shaking.

Reaching behind me, I lift my fingers to the soft cotton pad and maneuver the latch, unhooking the clasp. My straps fall and my bra cups fall away from my chest.

Mr. Keats’s eyes trail my movements like he’s eating every inch of my bare flesh. His eyes are hungry and ready to devour me.

Letting my arms slide out of the straps, I pull my bra off in the middle. My breasts fall slightly lower and my nipples harden at the change in temperature.

I lean forward, letting Mr. Keats take my bra from my hands and I watch him bring it to his nose. He inhales deeply, as if my bra smells like fresh-baked cookies.

I want to cover myself. I want to fold my arms around me and block his view but I’m too scared.

“Take off your pants.” His voice shakes along with his whole body. I’ve never seen it but I know what he’s doing. He looks like he’s attacking himself. I didn’t know it has to be done so roughly.

I obey him, popping the button on my jeans and pulling the zipper free. I hold his stare, feeling myself getting sucked into a black hole.

I let my jeans fall to my ankles and shimmy out. I kick them behind me.

My thick thighs seem to win his interest. Mr. Keats bites his bottom lip while beating himself off to me.

Standing before him in nothing but my green and blue polka-dotted panties, he drinks me in.

“Take them off,” he grunts, his face tense and angry. Licking his bottom lip, his eyes crawl all over me. His gaze feels sticky and slimy.

I try to hook my thumbs underneath my panties, but my hands are shaking so much that I can’t do it. My vision starts to blur and I feel tears drop down my cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” he hisses. “Don’t fucking cry!”

The anger in his voice scares me and just makes more tears fall. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I…I…” I stifle back a sob.

Mr. Keats groans with frustration and stops jerking himself. He glares at me, and I’m filled with terror.

“I’m going to walk out of this room and give you two minutes. When I come back, those tears will be gone. Then you will do exactly as I tell you. Understand?”

I can only nod. If I tried to speak, I’d only cry more.

Mr. Keats stands up with a look of disgust, my bra clutched in one fist. He doesn’t even want to look at me. It’s like my tears suddenly turned me into some hideous beast.

After he’s gone, I frantically wipe away my tears. Soon, he will come back and make me take off my panties.

And then... And then, what?

The horror of the situation almost makes my heart stop. I have to get out of here.

I put on my clothes as fast as I can, stumbling because of my fear. He still has my bra but I don’t care. I grab my things and run for the front door.

I’m opening it when I hear him shout from behind me.

“Marcella!” he roars, his footsteps thundering after me.