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The classroom is stifling from the moment I walk in—the sun blazing through the windows and the heater stuck on full blast. I start the lesson as usual, trying to focus on teaching, but the heat clings to my skin, making the fabric of my suit stick to me. One by one, I let go of the formalities: my jacket comes off, then the top buttons of my blouse, just enough to let some air in. The student is quiet, watching, but I pretend not to notice. I untuck my blouse, unfasten it from the bottom, let it hang open—I can feel the cool draft against my bare stomach, the way my bra strains against overheated skin. When I bend forward, I don’t bother adjusting, knowing they’re looking. Then the skirt—it’s too much. I slide it down over my hips, stepping out bare-legged, and let it fall. My blouse follows, slipping from my shoulders, leaving me in just my underwear. I turn slightly, catching their eyes, and say casually, “It’s so hot… don’t you want to take something off too?” I see the flush on their face, the growing hardness, and I let my fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, teasing, prolonging the inevitable. Teaching fades into background as I strip completely, standing bare, exposed, in control. The lesson continues, but now it’s about desire, permission, and the quiet understanding that we’re both beyond pretending this is just class.