It is her that I speak of. A deep, mysterious character masked by all the intrigue and innocence of someone not yet haunted by the world. With eyes the colour of charcoal, and looks that could kill. Such a waste. Her death was just another headline, a page three mystery. Not one person had seen her that night, nor did any believe she was capable of suicide. It was only I who had noticed the intricate scarring on her legs. Cuts that could not have been there for any reason but self-harm. A troubled girl, but certainly I was not convinced by any half-assed possibility that she had killed herself. No. The circumstances were too perfect for that, too planned. Every last detail meticulously calculated. As deliberate as clockwork.

Something in the reports, the photographs and the way people were talking caught my attention. The bruising was explained away by her clumsy nature and love of rough sport; but there was something sinister about the body and its placement. No, it was no ordinary crime. Someone close was involved; I felt it. But no-one was interested in my findings. No-one would believe that a distinguished university lecturer would have an affair with a student and commit such a heinous crime. There were a lot of rumours circulating within the academic community. I had to make up my own mind, I had to satisfy my curiosity, I had to step in, I had to ensure justice was served.

Though some may view my actions as somewhat risqué, I was able to offer this case something the common detectives could not. I was putting myself out there, I was luring my prey like a fisherman does a fish. I was watching him, like a hawk eying a mouse. What I did not expect was the desire that would eventuate between myself and my suspect. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to when I first began my investigations.

Scarred by relationships, I entered my final year of university with the attitude of wanting it all and wanting it now. I began a downhill spiral of drugs, alcohol binges and a string of one night stands with men I wouldn’t generally look twice at. So far gone was my self-esteem that I had all but given up on my degree. It was during this time that the investigations surrounding the girl’s death were put on hold, after endless months of following unsuccessful leads. Rumours had it that the girl was involved in a relationship with a gentleman by the name of David Hershaw. A social taboo as the man was also the girl’s lecturer and advisor. Many rumours surrounded the personal consultations she had booked in for twice a week. No-one had seen a scrap of her work that had been submitted for the class, yet she had managed to receive high distinctions for her efforts. A little bit suspect.

I first began to take notice when I realised the lecturer had never been brought in for questioning over the affair, which was odd considering it had become a large topic of interest for undergraduates and postgraduates alike. I purposely enrolled in one of David’s third year courses. At first unsure of how I was going to get close enough to my subject to find out the truth, I soon realised that getting my subject to talk wasn’t going to be the difficult part of my investigation.

That first day, a musty odour barrelled out through the door as we stood looking at the man who was to educate us on film noir. Some later said that the room smelt the way they would imagine a crime scene some weeks after the incident. Closed to the public – investigation pending. Dingy curtains surrounded the classroom giving it an eerie feel when watching clip after clip of murder scenes and detective investigations. The lights went out and the screen came alight as each student sat watching, transfixed. Not one person moved throughout the entire film screening. The students never missed a class, seemingly enthralled by the vast amount of knowledge brought to the seminars by our tutor in question. Each week he would come with a new story: assault, rape, murder. All of which he knew intricate details to the crimes. Standing back he would laugh at the student’s attentiveness, their shock. Convincing everyone he was a great story teller.

The following week I dressed in my shortest skirt and school-girl tie and sat right at the front of the class. Ensuring that I gave him a coy stare as I entered the room, I made certain that I had caught his attention. He wiped his brow and stammered right through his presentation. The class was perplexed by his lack of enthusiasm. It was at that point that I knew I had him. A man may stumble once and get away with it, but stumble twice and he will be found out. I stroked my leg beneath the table, I ran my hand up my thigh in his plain sight. I stared directly at him, never breaking the intensity. As I moistened my lips with my tongue he turned away. Stuttering about some pressing appointment, he ended the class.

Noisily, students began to depart. One by one they exited, until all that was left was David and me. Carefully packing up my notes, I brushed against the edge of the desk; my skirt rising a little higher giving him a perfect glimpse of my thigh. Reaching forwards I bent over and he shamelessly took in my breasts. I glanced up at him through heavily mascarad eyelashes, giving him a sly grin as I asked whether he had thought over the extension I had previously asked for.

“Follow me,” stated David gruffly.

“And what if I don’t want to?” I replied cheekily.

“Just come. You won’t regret it,” he remarked.

I followed him through the vast corridors, past the classes full of students, past the lecture halls through to his personal office at the end of the building.

The first thing I noticed was the setup he had in his room. A standard desktop computer stood rigid on the corner of the desk, but the desk was long, room enough for a person to lay down flat. The thick dark blinds were already pulled across the windows, hinting that this man held privacy in high regard. Post-it notes hung in various places around the room, signifying attention spans that were far beyond my comprehension. A tall umbrella stood precariously beside the desk, and a neatly ironed shirt hung on the inner side of the door. On the filing cabinet sat a webcam and a digital camera, partially hidden by the photograph of David with his show dogs. I kept a mental note that there was more to this man than first expected. He was a planner; organising his very existence down to the last detail. Whilst I was taking this all in, he stood watching me. Hands twitching against his side.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?” I asked, pointing to the bottle of half emptied vodka on his shelf.

“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” he curtly replied. “You and I both know why you’re here tonight.”

My blood ran cold at the prospect of having been found out. Startled, I looked around the room for an escape. He walked towards me, holding out his hand.

“I just want to touch you,” he whispered.

Unsure of how much he knew, I made a brash move and stepped towards him.

Making use of my school-girl attire he grabbed at my tie, pulling my shirt off and me closer to him in one swift move.

Nuzzling his cheek, my hands rose as I ran my nails across his back, and taking his cue from my actions, he removed his shirt bearing a toned, muscled chest. Placing his hands on my waist, he moved them to my breasts as he left a long trail of kisses from my ear to my neck, nibbling gently; distracting me as he laid me back down onto his desk. With his hand on my right breast he slowly circled around my nipple. Tracing outlines, from breasts, to jaw, to lips.

Wrapping my legs around him I pulled him close, feeling his heart beating heavily beneath his chest. Feeling him rise against me I reached down and unbuttoned his pants, arching my back to give him full view of my breasts beneath him. Beyond hard, he ripped off my skirt, pressed forward. Slowly I began stroking him, moving my other hand to touch myself. Playfully reaching up I kissed him, enticingly inserting my tongue, flicking his tip and grinding my pelvis towards him in perfect synchronisation. Our breathing rising in pace.

For the next few hours we re-enacted every fantasy we ever wanted to play out. Bondage, power-play, tutor/ student relationships, you get the point. I was on top of him, and he was inside of me when I remembered why I was there. Time paused for a moment as I realised that I was not the only one who had been there. Not the only woman to be drawn into his office, to lie back on that desk. This had all transpired before; tiny steps executed like clockwork, all according to one man’s grand design. The man who I was fucking in an office. The man who had seduced and murdered that woman. As if confirming my judgement, one simple word uttered from his lips changed it all. One word and I knew he was responsible. One word. “Emily”.


Brooke Michelle

Joined May 2009

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Artist's Description

“Emily” is the result of a course assessment and supposed love affair with a tutor.

I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed creating.

I will post the accompanying picture as soon as I find it. The central focus is a newspaper headline with “community devastated over student death” and a photograph of the murder victim ‘emily’.

Artwork Comments

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