A.N.: This is only the prologue, but I'm sorry it's so short. This fic is dedicated to the fabulous Blueutopiah, and hopefully she'll enjoy it even though I'm still not sure how to go about the many, many lemons I see coming. This is also my first attempt at first person point of view, and I'm eager to know how it turned out. Good? Bad? Anything I can improve on?

If this isn't enough, I'll write you a little side-fic to this, Blue. It'll probably be of their first meeting. I think I'll do that anyway, actually…

If only those girls would stop tittering and looking askance at Mr. Sakyo and me, this torment would be that much easier to bear. Teenage fantasies, when directed at oneself, are excruciating, especially when coupled with fluttered eyelashes and obsequious sighs. In fact, there's nothing I hate more than the way they keep looking over at him and I, pursing their lips and sizing us up, making alterations on us, imagining, no doubt, things that are only half as erotic as the truth. It's an uncomfortable feeling to be lusted after by such a large gaggle of geese—I hesitate to say 'girls,' as quite a few of the boys occasionally shoot me glances as if I were a hunk of raw, bloody meat, and them starving wolves—but no eye could ever be as piercing as that of my dear professor.

If only they knew how right their assumptions were, I thought sardonically. If they all knew what the perfect Mr. Sakyo did after dark, they wouldn't find him so perfect.

That thought came with the barest touch of bitterness as I controlled my heartbeat and forcefully quashed a flinch. Sakyo paused by my desk to murmur in my ear, one strong, sinuous hand grasping the back of my chair, as if to intimidate me. And, in fact, that was what it was doing. Intimidating me. "Minamino-kun, I'm going to need to see you in my office after your clubs tonight. We have to discuss your most recent test score."

I blinked (rather theatrically, I admit) and smiled a bland, confused smile that I knew made his heart sing. I could hear a gasp from the girls who were close to me, and I know that this lunch period would be taken over by whispered conversations about the beautiful upper-classman and the handsome male teacher. I was annoyed at him. There was no need for that, to plant those kinds of seeds in people's heads.

I tried as hard as I could not to admire that smooth-shaven cheek, and failed, as I felt him exhale against my lips. His breath smelt of nothing so much as hard liquor. He was not a drinker, from what I could see, but whenever I got that hint of masculine brandy rolling off his tongue I felt a thrill and questioned my assumption all in one. He never acted drunk, at least. I made a point of ignoring the edge of the scar that enhanced, rather than inhibited, how attractive he was, almost cursing at the clumsy shudder that climbed up my lower back as I finally recognized the airy scent of his familiar cologne, and the threads of arousal that it brought.

Then the hand and arm lifted from behind my back, and I could see, even if no one else could, the way those hard lips twitched into a smile as Mr. Sakyo strode to the front of the classroom, once more busy with his actual job instead of tormenting his tender young students. I wouldn't be stupid enough to go to his office; the closet that Mr. Sakyo gave me keys for the first time we'd ever done this was a much better guess. The crowded teachers' room was no place for our sweaty trysts, and there was an entrance to the gymnasium, and with it, the showers, in that little closet. It had been carefully chosen, and I approved of the choice.

Torment indeed, to be taught by a man who can't rip your clothes off while he's teaching.

The day was significantly hazier than before Mr. Sakyo and I started our circuitous little discussion… what exactly were we doing? Fucking? Not going out, certainly. I went from class to class, bored by the subjects, content, and all the teachers but one. I admired Sakyo, even if I didn't like him, and it was always a pleasure to see him take apart bad logic, which he did, occasionally, when we were alone. I went to the literature club, and rolled my eyes at the way the other students griped about the book they'd chosen; then stalked to soccer practice, sick of the rumors my concerned friends had been relating to me all day. I mean, the rumors were true, if outlandish, but that didn't stop them from being annoying.

I tried to work on seeming worn out and tired for a reason to fake the resistance Mr. Sakyo loves so well. To be honest, on a certain level my legs do ache. That was one of Sakyo's first commands, that I take care of my body and keep in shape. His second was that I call him Mr. Sakyo at all times, including in the closet our forays occurred in. Condescending ass. I hope he grows into one of those ugly, fat old men when he reaches middle age, the kind that no one can stand to be with. It doesn't seem likely, though. At forty-something he's got a body like a coiled spring, even tighter and better toned than mine. That was one of the reasons I agreed to that prerequisite; I didn't want to get a little tubby and lose him. The definition that's been added to my muscles is an added plus.

I know what anyone who learns about this relationship will say, but the truth is I'm under no illusions. He doesn't give a damn about me. I'm a play toy, a trophy, a bedbug to be used, abused, and then discarded with no feeling or kindness. That was why he was brazen enough to invite me during class; he feels secure. I should get myself a therapist, though, because strangely enough, I don't mind.

Though that would also be the first thing people would think, it's not simpering or romantic on my end or his. I'm not in love with him. If anything, I secretly hate him for the arrogant way he treats me. Nailing down my reasoning for not phoning up the police and playing the doe-eyed, dew-fresh virgin is something even I can't do, though I think it has a great deal to do with the way he's added a certain level of intrigue and excitement into my life.

If we do get caught, despite our precautions and both our sly, slippery natures, I already have a thousand reasons lined up, a thousand instances to point to, all false, and all saying that I'm the helpless student victimized by my teacher, forced to perform sick sexual acts by an ephebophilic monster who preys on innocence. In this case, though, it isn't true. Well… partially. Part of it isn't true. Don't get me wrong, in just about every other case like this you'll find that's the long and short of it—and I, knowing adolescent psychology, have already decided that if he tries to do this to another student, more than jealousy will make me turn him in—but I want this. In the end, I'm intelligent enough to lead him on as much as he leads me.

Waiting, anticipating, tasting the fresh, dewy rose as it settles against my lips; you could almost make a poem out of it, like an ancient member of the Heian court. The rose, which will complement his lovely hair, his pretty eyes, runs easily through my fingers, as easily as little Shuuichi himself: and I wait.

I'm still fully clothed, which is a shame, sitting in my chair and anticipating the moment my toy arrives, pretending to be more tired than he is, staring at me with heavy-lidded eyes as his mask drops and the slutty little nymphomaniac he is shines through. I enjoy his willingness and his games more than he thinks—but he underestimates me.

I'm not the type to be appeased by another's wants and needs, nor what they wish to do or not. I'll play the part well enough, sweep him off his feet and let him think he doesn't love me, but in the end I'm using him. He knows that much, clever boy, but he doesn't know how much, or how deep my plans run. I tease my lips with the flower in my hand, smiling to myself. Whether he wants me or not—and I already know there'll be a day when he doesn't want me.

I'm a connoisseur of beauty, and this boy is the shining ruby of my collection. Shuuichi, known to his friends as "Kurama," is something I never thought I'd see, something I know I'll never replicate. My old acquaintance Karasu thinks I should simply take him, threaten something he holds dear (that ailing mother, perhaps?) and force myself on him, delight in that game.

I'm more intelligent, more decisive, more patient, and certainly farther thinking than Karasu. My course of action is chosen: I'll mold him to my will with gentle care, watching his beauty and hope deplete with age as I hem him in from every side, obliquely crushing every one of his dreams. I came to work at this school because I saw his picture, though he'll never know it—I saw his picture, heard his name, and listened to the rumors of his remarkable intelligence. He thinks this relationship, if you could call it that, is somehow equal in all its skewed glory.

How very wrong of him. He has not yet begun to know the monster I am, the tastes I engage in. He won't be so open and naïve when that comes to light.

We'll see.

To be continued.