Chapter 10: The Price of Legend
The cracked desk lamp was the only light on, casting long, dramatic shadows that made the tiny office feel like a stage. Outside, the campus was quiet, the last of the afternoon classes finished. Office hours. A sacred academic tradition now thoroughly, irrevocably corrupted.
The first knock was tentative. Nok, a second-year engineering student with a shy smile, asked for clarification on Laplace transforms. Her textbook was pristine, unopened. She leaned over his desk, her blouse gaping just enough, her questions vague and lingering. He explained the concept once, his pointer finger tracing an imaginary graph on the wood. She didn’t leave. She bit her lip, her eyes dropping to his mouth, then lower. The silence stretched, thick and obvious.
“Is there anything else, Nok?”
“I think… I need a private lesson,” she said, the rehearsed line tumbling out. Her cheeks flushed, but her gaze was steady, daring. The rumor mill was ruthlessly efficient. He was no longer Professor Walters. He was the Foreign Professor, the walking, talking seminar they all wanted to audit.
He should have said no. Sent her away. The part of his brain that remembered ethics committees and professional boundaries screamed once, faintly, then was smothered by a heavier, simpler urge. The urge that had been fed and pampered and turned into a deity here. He locked the door. The click was deafening.
It was quick, awkward, and transactional against the edge of the desk. Her school skirt rucked up, her underwear a scrap of lace on the linoleum. She moaned, a high, theatrical sound that echoed in the sterile room. He focused on the framed photo of his ex-girlfriend, Emily, smiling blandly from a hiking trip in the Lake District. He’d turned it face down months ago, but now it was buried under a stack of half-empty condom wrappers and that stupid newspaper clipping Prae had laminated for him as a joke. The Foreign Professor Who Knows No Borders. He finished, and she scrambled to her feet, smoothing her skirt, her shyness replaced by a glittering, victorious look. She left without her textbook.
Ten minutes later, another knock. This one firmer.
Mali from the business faculty. She had a “group project question” but her two teammates were, conspicuously, absent. She was bolder, her hand on his thigh before the door was fully closed again.
By the time the third knock came, Aidan felt a dull, buzzing detachment. The office smelled of sex and patchouli oil from the last girl’s perfume. The glass panel in the door was smeared with a faint, greasy lipstick mark. He opened it to see Fern, a postgraduate he’d seen at a campus cafe. She didn’t bother with a pretext. She just stepped in, turned the lock herself, and dropped to her knees, her fingers already at his belt.
This was the lesson plan now. This was the curriculum.
He was fucking her over the desk, her palms flat on his student evaluations, when the door handle rattled. Then a key scraped in the lock.
Prae walked in. She didn’t startle. She closed the door softly behind her, leaned against it, and watched. Her expression was one of pure, analytical amusement. Fern gasped, tried to pull away, but Aidan, driven by a sudden, perverse defiance, held her hips tighter, kept going. His eyes locked with Prae’s. She raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading. She was the director, and he was performing exactly as scripted.
When he was done, Fern fled, clutching her clothes, not meeting Prae’s gaze. Prae pushed off the door and walked to the desk. She picked up a stray hairpin, set it down. Then she pulled a thick, cream-colored envelope from her bag and tossed it beside the keyboard. It landed with a solid thwap.
“Vit’s down payment,” she said. Her voice was all business. “Party’s confirmed for Saturday. Cars will pick you up at seven.”
Aidan zipped his trousers, the action feeling crude and meaningless. He stared at the envelope. It looked like something containing a legal document, not cash for services rendered.
“He included a note.” Prae gestured with her chin.
Aidan lifted the envelope. A single, heavy sheet of cardstock was clipped to the front. The handwriting was elegant, precise. To our esteemed guest. Your reputation precedes you. We await the demonstration. – V.
Demonstration. The word was cold, clinical. It stripped away any last pretense of mutual desire. He was a specimen.
“I negotiated the fee up,” Prae continued, matter-of-fact. She came around the desk, her hips swaying. “After Jin’s report, and the general… demand, I argued for a premium. He agreed. There’s two hundred thousand baht in there. Half for me, for arranging, managing, sourcing. Half for you.”
“Sourcing?” The word tasted vile.
“The guests,” she said, as if explaining to a child. “Vit has a type, but he wanted variety. I helped curate the list. It’s a better experience for everyone.” She stopped in front of him, her eyes dark and unreadable. “My cut isn’t optional, Aidan. This is a business. I’m your manager.”
She unbuttoned his shirt, her fingers cool. Then she pushed him back into his chair and climbed onto him, settling into his lap, her denim cutoffs rough against his thighs. She guided himself into her with a practiced, devastating ease, sinking down with a soft sigh that was both pleasure and punctuation.
She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that was about control, not passion. Her face was close to his, her breath sweet. “The terms,” she said, her voice barely hitching. “You perform. You are charming, you are generous with your time and your… attention. You do not show fatigue. You do not refuse a guest. You make each one feel like the only woman in the room, even when there are twelve. You finish what you start. Inside. He’s paying for the full, authentic legend. Not a watered-down version.”
Each rule was a brick, walling him in. She rode him harder, her tiny, tight cunt milking him, using the physical response she could so easily trigger as part of the negotiation.
“You get a suite at the villa for the night. Vit’s people will provide anything you need – food, drink, anything. But no outside contact. You’re off the grid until Sunday morning.” Her throaty laugh escaped, a low rumble against his neck. “Think of it as a retreat. A very, very focused retreat.”
He was close, the sensation building despite the churn in his gut. He gripped her hips, trying to reclaim some shred of agency, but the movement just spurred her on.
“And after?” he managed to grit out.
“After?” She leaned back, looking down at where their bodies joined, then back up at him, her smile brilliant and empty. “After, you’ll be a legend with a bank account. And we’ll see what offers come next.”
She sealed the deal with a fierce, consuming kiss, swallowing his groan as he emptied into her, the transaction complete in every possible way. She held him there, inside her, for a long moment, her forehead resting against his.
When she finally climbed off, she straightened her vest, picked up the envelope, and counted out a neat stack of bills. She placed his half on the smudged newspaper clipping. The king’s face stared up from the banknotes.
“Buy yourself something nice,” she said, tucking her share away. She walked to the door, paused, and looked back at him. He was still in the chair, shirt open, exposed. “And get some rest, Professor. Saturday’s a big day. You’ll need your strength.”
The door clicked shut behind her. The office was silent again, just the buzz of the broken lamp. Aidan looked at the money. It was more than a month’s salary. He looked at the face-down photo of Emily. He looked at the lipstick on the glass.
The camouflage, he thought, wasn’t something you wore. It was something you became. And the transformation was almost complete.