Chasing the Flame

My name's Robert, and I'm a sex addict, caught in a wildfire of desire that's burned since I was a kid. At twelve, I stumbled into the flickering shadows of porn, my hands chasing fleeting highs. By eighteen, I was chasing real flesh, a hungry boy who tasted sugar too soon—my soul forever craving that syrupy rush, like a moth drunk on candlelight. Porn was a cruel mirage, a mirror reflecting women who didn't exist, pleasures that crumbled like ash. It was a poisoned chalice—sweet, but each sip scorched my insides, leaving me hollow yet begging for more.Then came Mrs. Fiorella, my college lecturer, a vision who could stop time. Her skin glowed like a sunset over honey, her curves an hourglass that haunted my dreams. Her presence was a fever I couldn't shake, her full figure a tide pulling my thoughts under. In my mind, I'd painted her a thousand times, my fantasies costing me last semester's grades. This term was no better—she was a distraction I couldn't escape.When she offered private tutoring at her place for $4,000 a month, I saw my chance. I'd been hustling since sixteen, designing websites and trading crypto, bankrolled by my parents' generous seed money. They're comfortable, not filthy rich, and I owe them for my head start. I played the struggling student, begging for help to boost my grades. Mrs. Fiorella agreed, her voice soft as velvet, unaware of the storm in my chest.My parents were stunned. The Robert they knew chased thrills, not study sessions. They didn't know my heart was a wolf, prowling for something far less academic. For three weeks, I wore a saintly mask during our lessons at my house, my body betraying me beneath the table, a pulsing secret I kept hidden. Her presence was a siren's call, and I was barely clinging to restraint.By the fourth week, I was ready to act. It was a Monday, her usual tutoring day. I lingered in the shower, water kissing my skin like a lover's whisper, plotting my move. Fresh out, I stood in my briefs, rubbing body cream into my skin, when her knock echoed. Headphones on, I feigned ignorance, opening the door in underwear that left little to the imagination. Her eyes flickered, caught in my near-nakedness, before she stammered, "I'm sorry for barging in.""No worries," I said, voice smooth as smoke. "Give me a sec." I let her linger in my room, the air thick with unspoken hunger. During the lesson, her eyes darted away, like a deer sensing a hunter. The room hummed with new electricity, a spark ready to ignite.The next day, I couldn't hold back. The living room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner, as Mrs. Fiorella sat across from me, her math textbook open. I pushed it aside. "No lessons today," I said. "Let's talk." She frowned, adjusting her glasses. "About what?" Her voice was guarded, but her eyes flickered with curiosity."About you," I replied, heart pounding. "I've been crushing on you since you started tutoring me." She froze, her pen clattering to the table. "That's… inappropriate," she stammered, her blush betraying her. "I'm older, and I have a boyfriend.""Does that matter?" I asked, leaning closer. "I see how you smile at me." She laughed, deflecting, "You're like a kid to me." But her gaze lingered, intense. The room felt smaller, charged. Our eyes locked, and she leaned in. Our kiss was soft, then urgent, a secret unfolding. Her hand brushed mine, electric. She pulled back, whispering, "We can't do this." Yet her fingers stayed intertwined with mine, the unspoken pull louder than her words, as the world faded.