The office door wasn't locked. The moment I pushed it open, the professor had the female student pinned against the filing cabinet, lips and tongues entangled, breaths wet and heavy. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, catching his trembling fingers and the strap of her shirt slipping off her shoulder. "Senhora Hudson..." His voice was hoarse. "Every time you walk into my classroom, I get so hard it hurts." I didn’t close the door. I turned and went to the library instead. Twenty minutes later, they were kissing again, in the third row between the philosophy shelves. Her back pressed against Nietzsche’s complete works, his knee wedged deep beneath her skirt. The elderly librarian at the front desk adjusted her glasses, then calmly looked back down at her book. I kept walking. Security footage from the stairwell showed her unhooking her bra—lace pooling on the floor—while he sat on the steps, lighting a cigarette. “What do you really want?” he asked. She didn’t answer. Just lifted his chin with the tip of her high heel. The next class, she perched directly on the edge of the podium, legs crossed like a blade drawn from its sheath. The room fell silent. He stood frozen before the blackboard, chalk gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Vocês...” he finally spoke, voice taut as a wire. Students exchanged glances—this was Portuguese. No one understood. Only I knew what it meant: **You should all get out.** He lowered his head, opened his lesson plan, tried to continue. But three minutes later, she leaned down and whispered something in his ear. He snapped his head up. His eyes had changed. In the suffocating silence, he said slowly, deliberately: “Take off your clothes.” She said, “What did you say?” He repeated it, louder: “T-A-K-E O-F-F Y-O-U-R C-L-O-T-H-E-S.” The classroom erupted. Someone raised a hand to report him. Others quietly filmed. She only smirked, grabbed her bag, and walked out. After class, when the administration reviewed the recording, they realized— He hadn’t been speaking Portuguese at all. It was Creole—a nearly forgotten colonial hybrid dialect, unintelligible to almost everyone. And those words, “Take off your clothes,” actually meant: **“The game is over, prey.”** *Dramashorts Original Mini-Series "The Black Podium" now streaming.* Desire goes beyond taboo. Power has only just begun. Download the app to unlock the next episode: Who truly holds the strings?