Correpetition

My teacher made me hang back once the last kid slammed the door. Empty classroom, just us. Said I needed catch-up lessons. Bull. The second the latch clicked he dropped to his knees and pressed his nose to the tops of my knee-high white socks, breathing like they were fresh cookies. He kissed the fabric right over my ankle, hot, wet, and went right on inhaling like he was trying to fill a paper bag in reverse. Both hands gripped my calves, thumbs dragging up the thin cotton, squeezing, twisting. Every sniff came louder, needier, then he was cradling my foot in both palms, peppering the sole with quick open-mouth kisses through the sock, licking stripes up the underside until the cotton was spit-dark. Kept muttering dirty little nothings into my toes—how sweet they smelled, how tight they hugged my foot—while his fingers poked and tested, pinching the ribbed cuffs that stopped just below my knee. The whole time the classroom clock ticked and my heartbeat matched it. Lesson plan, right.