Malum Prohibitum

A long sigh of relief as she sits on the bowl in the end cubicle of the cold, white tiled room and releases a steady stream of hot, yellow urine.

Just as she finishes and the last few drops are dripping into the water below, a company of girls noisily enters with squeals and laughter. She recognises the loudest member of the group instantly, it's Anastasia Montgomery, an upper sixth girl from Magdalene house. Known as the school tart, rumour has it she's slept with two boys already.

Anastasia is the kind of girl every boy wants to be with and every girl just wants to be. Tall, slim, with naturally thick, dark blond hair flowing down past her waist and a permanent bronze tan from frequent foreign holidays, she is absolutely stunning and totally bewitching.

Her wealthy father dotes on his only daughter, ensuring she always has the best of everything. Her looks were clearly inherited from her eastern European mother, who is significantly younger than her husband, twenty years or more. Helen has never actually seen Ana's mother for herself, everything she knows is merely hearsay. Although she hates herself for it, she can't help feeling the sharp stab of envy whenever she sees, hears or even if someone mentions the junoesque Ana.

She doesn't move, but stays stock still and silent on the toilet, praying she isn't noticed and listening to their conversation.

"What about that classics teacher? Buff or what?" says Ana, as bold as brass.

"The professor? Ana, he's old enough to be your father!"

Helen doesn't recognise the second girl's voice, but she knows she doesn't like her.

"That doesn't bother me. I don't care how old he is, I'd still let him do whatever he wants to me. And I mean whatever he wants! A man like that would really know how to treat a girl."

The group dissolves into a chorus of hysterical giggling.

"How dare Anastasia talk about him like that!" she thinks to herself. "It's so disrespectful."

Yet in the back of her mind, she knows the source of her resentment is not Ana's lack of respect, it's jealousy. If anyone could have him, it's Ana and she already has everything a girl could want, why should she get him as well? It's simply not fair. Helen is a realist, she knows she'll never have him herself, but she doesn't want anyone else to either. That spoilt little slut probably feels entitled to him.

She sits and waits for them to finish up and leave. The topic quickly changes to horses, the coming weekend's activities and the usual school girl gossip. Nothing to really interest her, but by listening in she feels part of it too.

It's stupid, petty and shallow, but she'd still love to be part of a group like that. Instead she feels like the perpetual outsider, even when among friends. With one part of her mind, she hates girls like Anastasia and her cohorts, with another, she'd give anything to be one of them. Of course, she'd never admit either of these conflicting feelings to anyone. It wouldn't do to lay her emotions bare like that.

Once she's certain they've all gone, she dries off her damp pussy with tissue, pulls up her panties, yanks the chain and rinses her fingers under the tap. As quickly as she can, she pelts towards the lecture hall. She's going to be late.

Flushed and sweaty, she stops outside the building. Out of breath and heart racing, a minute's repose is needed.

She does her best to straighten and tidy her clothing, conscious of how frumpy she looks in the navy blue blazer. The fit is terrible, too long in the sleeve and too tight around the middle, she leaves it unbuttoned. With its white trim and school badge on the breast pocket, it's far from glamorous.

Why did Sister O'Shaughnessy do this to her? She knows Helen has a thing for the professor, it doesn't make sense for a nun, of all people, to shove them together like this. Surely the daft old bat should be actively trying to keep them apart, not organising time alone with him. Perhaps this is a kind of test, or even some strange idea of a joke.

She lurks in the doorway for a moment or two, watching him tidy his papers. Today he is painfully dapper in grey herringbone, pale blue shirt with half cutaway collar and striped navy and burgundy tie poking out from under his tidy, greying beard. Just wearing waistcoat and trousers, the coat hangs over the back of his chair. Every inch a true English gentleman.

A gentle tap at the door and a slight nervous cough.

"Er... excuse me. Professor Alexander?"

"Ah, there you are. I was starting to think you weren't coming."

Until now she had only heard him whisper a few words in the quiet of the library. Here his voice is deep and strong, almost booming, with the clear, round vowels of proper English RP. To her, he sounds enormously sophisticated and authoritative, the way a properly educated man should. It's slightly intimidating for a young girl who spends most of her time around other young girls and old Irish nuns.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I was held behind by my last teacher." There is something of a tremor in her voice.

"It's no matter, you're here now. Have you telephoned your parents? They need to know you're going to be late home. You're not a boarder, I trust." The gravitas and confidence of his voice a stark contrast to her timidity.

"Oh no, I live at home. I'll just text them, they'll hardly notice I'm gone."

Of the four hundred or so girls at the school, about three hundred are boarders, living there during term time and returning home for the school holidays. Being a Catholic school, many are Irish, some even have houses in Dublin or the Irish countryside. Others come from further afield, Spain, Italy, South America, even India and the Philippines. Helen's family live relatively close by, but it's still a fairly long train journey every morning and a bus ride from the station too. It takes about an hour and a half, which means she needs to leave the house very early to be at school by half past eight. She longs to be able to board. As a day girl she always feels like she's missing out on the full experience of the school. Not to mention, the commute is exhausting.

Her parents are both hard working teachers, not at independents like hers, but at local state schools. Her mother teaches primary children of six and seven years old, while her father teaches History at an all boys comprehensive. Since she leaves the house early and usually spends evenings studying in her bedroom, they only see each other briefly most weekdays. She often doesn't even have dinner with them, preferring to eat a little later and on her own. That way she avoids the thinly veiled criticisms regarding her weight, a common feature of most meals with her family. It's highly likely she won't be missed for a while, whether she texts them or not.

"Have you got all your things?" he asks, putting on his jacket and closing his briefcase. "We'll go to my house, my papers are in my study."

She follows him out of the building to his car, without protest or thought for how she'll get home later. She doesn't even ask where he lives. It could be miles and miles in the opposite direction from her house and the school is far enough as it is.

He opens the door for her, closing it again once she's safely ensconced within the vehicle. He climbs into the driver's seat and fastens his seatbelt, she's already wearing hers. A turn of the key and the engine roars to life. A glance at the rear-view mirror, a shift of the gear stick and they're away.

Sitting so close to him makes her nervous. She tries to take up as little space as possible on the leather seat. Not an easy task with her substantial posterior. It's quite a large car and was once very luxurious, but now it's old and wears the patina of its age. Patches of leather are worn and scuffed here and there, but it has been well maintained, no cracks or rusty panels like you often see on old cars. It also has a peculiar smell, not unpleasant, just different. There's no air freshener hanging from the mirror or attached to the vents. It's a natural smell, acquired over years of use. The smell of aged leather, stale cigar tobacco and him.

In these close confines, his aldehydic scent is noticeable to the point of being obtrusive. It's warm, spicy and earthy, like black pepper. There's also a distinct sweet, woody character, like American Bourbon or French Armagnac. She can't distinguish what part of it is aftershave and which his own musk. It's the scent of a man, a real man, not overly concerned with grooming, but knows how to take care of himself.

With his hands on the steering wheel she notices a gold band on his left ring finger. He's married. A confusing mix of disappointment and excitement rise up in her stomach. The knowledge that he's taken makes him even more desirable and that desire even more hopeless.

She can't help but think back to the book of Matthew.

"But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart."

She knows from her religious studies that it applies just as much to women as it does to men, if not more so. Boys are expected to be a little lustful, that's the way God made them, but young girls should be pure in thought and deed. Surely her sin will be forgiven if she goes to confession and repents. She wonders how many Hail Marys this one will earn her, the traditional three doesn't seem anywhere near enough.

Prayer isn't the problem though. She has already spent many hours on her knees before the altar and next to her bed, no doubt she'll spend many more in the future. Her predicament is that repentant is far from what she's feeling and she can't be forgiven if she cannot feel true remorse in her heart.

A little panic sets in. Is she going to meet his wife? Suddenly that's the worst thing she can imagine. What would she say to her? How could she even look her in the eye?

She squirms awkwardly in her seat for the rest of the thirty five minute journey, her body racked with the physical manifestations of these uncomfortable thoughts.

*****

His house is fairly nondescript, located in a quiet residential area. It's not particularly large, but definitely somewhat bigger than her parents' house.

Once inside she instinctively removes her sensible brown loafers, afraid she'll tread something into the pristine, light beige carpet. He hangs up his suit coat on a hat stand by the front door before taking her blazer and placing it there also.

"This way," he says, directing her up the staircase ahead of himself. "My study is the first door on the right."

She treads lightly, feeling the plush floor covering through her socks. It's always an odd sensation to tread on an unfamiliar surface, especially when you aren't wearing shoes.

As she reaches the first floor landing, with him following close behind, she notices the bedroom door has been left ajar. She doesn't see much, besides a glimpse of the bed, dressed in white sheets, and the corner of a wooden chest of drawers. She feels a powerful urge to go in and snoop around, rifle through all his belongings and find out everything she can about his private world. The impulse is suppressed and she bears right into the small, dark room which acts as his office and library.

There are an awful lot of books in here. The two longest walls are lined from end to end with floor to ceiling bookcases, each shelf fully stocked with volumes of all descriptions. Hardbacks and paperbacks, some pristine and leather bound, others well thumbed and falling apart, old books and new books, from thin pamphlets to great, hefty encyclopaedia. There are so many books the shelving is insufficient to house them all so some are stacked in piles on the floor.

There is no desk, but a table, large enough to comfortably seat four, occupies the middle of the room with corresponding chairs placed around. The table too carries its fair share of books and files.

He flicks the switch on a shaded lamp, illuminating the space. Hurriedly he makes more room by transferring several stacks of books onto the carpet below.

"It's rather cluttered in here, I'm afraid," he explains. "I shall have to get rid of a lot and move the rest into storage, but they all need to be catalogued first and I simply haven't the time."

Pulling a chair out for her, he invites her to sit down and make herself comfortable. Once seated, she takes a moment to notice that it's not the usual Ikea furniture she's used to at home, this is very different. It's much more substantial and sturdy, made from oak or mahogany, she can't tell what the wood is exactly, but she knows it's old. It clearly wasn't made from a flat pack in the past few years, but assembled by a craftsman at least a generation ago and built to last. It's comparable to the furniture you find in churches or town halls, old buildings of that nature.

It's also not very comfortable and she would like something a little softer to sit on. As if reading her mind, he offers her a cushion. She readily accepts and places it under her bottom, before reaching into her school satchel to retrieve her omnipresent notebook and pencil. They're with her at all times, ready to jot down some useful snippet of information or interesting factoid.

He dumps a load of papers from his briefcase onto the table in front of her and pushes over several large, thick tomes. All have a great many post-its covered in handwritten notes sticking out here and there. It's a disorganised mess.

He explains her task. Nothing difficult, but it is tedious. She is to go through the papers and cross reference the annotated sections with relevant passages from the books. She doesn't complain, but sets about it with enthusiasm, working away diligently.

Greek Myths and Legends of the Archaic and Classical periods - Forward and translations by Dr. Alexander Asmodeus, reads the cover of one of the books she's been given to use. The name jumps out at her immediately. Alexander Asmodeus, could that be his full name? Perhaps he is the author. Someone who has so many books is bound to have written at least a couple himself.

If it is him, how strange that he uses his first name when teaching at her school. She had assumed Alexander was his surname. Using the Christian names of teachers is a level of informality she's not used to or entirely comfortable with.

"Did you write this one?" she can't resist asking.

"No, those stories were written long ago. I merely provided the translations and an introductory essay. Would you like a cup of coffee?" he adds, seamlessly changing the subject.

"Coffee?...Er...yes...please. Coffee! I like coffee. Thank you," she replies awkwardly.

He raises a sceptical eyebrow, but says nothing.

She doesn't usually drink coffee. In fact, she hates it, but felt it would be rude to refuse. She feels like she couldn't refuse him anything. It's obvious he knows she lied to him and she feels silly.

He seems to spend a long time in the kitchen, much longer than it would usually take to make a couple of cups of coffee. She doesn't question it, nor does she go to see what's keeping him. She stays in her chair and assiduously gets on with the job at hand. When he finally returns, he brings with him a tray and the unmistakable smell of chocolate.

He puts the tray down on the table. It contains a cafetière full of black coffee, two saucers, two spoons and two cups. One empty, presumably to be filled with coffee once it's brewed. The other is full of molten chocolate. From the first glance she can tell it isn't thin like normal drinking chocolate. It's much denser, the consistency of custard. Her eyes grow wide with anticipation.

"I made you some Cioccolata Calda. I suspect you may prefer it to coffee," he says, placing it in front her.

"Ohhh... Thank you!" she says, never taking her eyes off the cup. "I think I will prefer this to coffee. It's very kind of you."

The luscious aroma stimulates her olfactory receptors, releasing a rush dopamine as she holds the cup under her nose and inhales with closed eyes. The intense roasty cocoa scent promises much of the oral pleasures to come. It's a mug filled to the brim with pure love.

With the first sip, the thick, creamy elixir spreads its intense, bitter-sweet flavour over her tongue. It's like no other chocolate drink she has ever tried. She swallows and her pleasure neurons all seem to fire at once. The phenylethylamine acts quickly, causing a rush of serotonin from her Raphe nuclei and a flood of endorphins through her brain. The euphoria is instantaneous, it's like a hug from the inside, wrapping her mind in a fuzzy, hazy warmth. In the finish there is a subtle, lingering, spiciness. Why would anyone drink coffee when they could have this? Why would you ever drink anything else at all? It's liquid bliss.

She is happy sitting quietly and leisurely savouring every drop of this epicurean ambrosia sent from heaven. It's so gooey and luxuriant she elects to use a spoon rather than sipping it from the cup. He watches her while he drinks his coffee. When she comes to the end, she wears a grin from ear to ear, despite the slight pang of despondency that it's finished.

"I can see you enjoyed that," he says.

She can sense he's looking at her nose and quickly realises why. On her first sip it touched the rim of the mug, but she was far too enamoured by the deliciousness to notice and she has been sitting here this entire time with a good splodge on her face.

Ashamed, she wipes it off quickly. He presses his fingers to his lips, stifling laughter. He's pleased she took such joy in the little delicacy he prepared.

"What was it exactly?" she enquires.

"Italian hot chocolate. I discovered it while I was in Italy, writing my PHD thesis. It's simply dark chocolate and milk, sweetened with a little sugar and thickened with cornflour. I like to add a tiny whisper of cinnamon as well."

"It's probably the most wonderful thing I've ever tasted."

"I'm very glad you liked it."

They return to their work in silence. The chocolate high still buzzing in her head, the satisfaction of bringing a young girl pleasure in his.

"Is this Greek?" she eventually asks, breaking the silence and pointing to a section of text in strange hieroglyphs.

"Archaic Greek, to be precise. The language of Homer. That particular passage is from the Iliad, 8th century B.C." he explains, a natural pedagogue.

"But, you don't seem old enough to speak ancient Greek!"

Realising the foolishness of her comment the moment it passes her lips, her cheeks flush scarlet.

"That's not what I meant," she adds, trying to salvage her dignity.

The corners of his mouth twitch wryly.

"I don't speak it, only read it," he says, not looking up from his papers or acknowledging her blunder. "You know your name is Greek, don't you?"

"It's not, is it?"

"You've heard of Helen of Troy?"

"Oh my gosh, from the Iliad! I'd never thought of it before. You must think I'm very ignorant."

Her cheeks glow and she casts her eyes downward.

He comes up close behind her. She breathes him in, that scent of wood, tobacco smoke and spice even more intoxicating than the cioccolata calda. His essence seems to fill not just her nose, but her entire head. It completely engulfs her brain fogging her thought. She wants nothing else, nothing more than to smell this man forever, to be near him, with him, under him.

He strokes the back of her hand lightly and her chest tightens. His fingertips, smooth for a man his age, but hard on her silken, unblemished skin. Sliding the notebook from under her fingers and leaning over her shoulder, he marks out five Greek characters on a blank page. Ἑ-λ-έ-ν-η.

"Helénē, the personification of ideal beauty." He pauses. "Yet, I doubt even she was half as beautiful as you."