Here is an interesting principle of mathematics: 0.999… is equal to 1.

The proof for this is short and sweet:

0.333… is equal to ⅓ and .666… is equal to ⅔.

⅓ + ⅔ = 1

0.333… + 0.666… = .0999…

Therefore,  0.999… = 1.

In case you’re wondering how this is possible, the simple answer is that, if these two seemingly separate numbers were not the same, there would have to be another, finite number between them.  But since 0.999… extends to infinity, there isn’t.

The reason I like this principle is because it demonstrates that things are not always as simple as they seem, and that two apparently separate things can, in fact, be equal to each other.  For example, a woman can be both discrete and promiscuous in how she conducts herself.  It might seem like a paradox, but it’s quite possible.  I’ve been doing it for years, and it’s gotten me to the head of my department.

This mathematical proof also gives me hope for some of my students.  Specifically, students like Jackson.  You see, Jackson is what you might call a “jock.”  Can a jock be good at math?  Certainly!  If he applies himself. 

And that was where Jackson was coming up short.  He’d signed up for spring Calc I, and had attended only a single session… the first one.  Since then, his grades had begun plummeting (or, to use mathematical terminology, “approaching zero.”) 

I did not get the impression that Jackson was a bad student who couldn’t understand the math… just that he didn’t care to try.  He did not turn in homework; I suppose he found it boring, as many students do, because they lack the imagination to make it fun or try to associate the equations with mnemonics.  This happens to be my speciality; I have, over the years, developed entire lesson plans that help my students, particularly the male ones, learn to find the joy in their schoolwork.

It came as no surprise to me when I put in the grades halfway through the semester and then received a call from the coach asking me to work my magic on Jackson.

Jackson, you see, was attending the university on a football scholarship.  His grades threatened not only his own scholarship but his ability to play on the team and therefore the team’s success as a whole.  Jackson’s coach was apoplectic, and Jackson was sent to meet with me for a couple of hours for some “emergency tutoring.”

I only offer my tutoring services to the students who are in most dire need.  My methods are unconventional and intense, and so I usually only take two or three students at most under my wing each semester.  Jackson was not one of the most promising ones, but as a favor to the coach, I agreed for a one-hour consultation to see if we could work together and save Jackson’s grades.

Things didn’t get off to an especially good start.  Our appointment was at three, and when 3:15 rolled around, Jackson was nowhere to be found.  I have open office hours at four, so I decided to work on preparing some examples on the chalkboard, so that my hour wouldn’t be a complete waste.

I had only gotten the first problem onto the board when there was a tentative knock on my door.

Find the equation of the tangent line to the inverse at the given point:

F(x)= 7x+sin(2x) @(0,0)

I looked up at the knock, the nub of chalk still in hand.

“Professor Lomare, your three o’ clock appointment is here,” called Mike, peeking into my office.

I checked my watch and frowned.  “All right, send him in, Mike.  Thank you.  Please hold my calls; Jackson and I require privacy for my lesson plan.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Jackson sauntered in, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a football cradled under his opposite arm.  To be honest I was surprised he had shown up at all; based on his attendance, I assumed he would play hookey for the tutoring session, as well.

I set the chalk down and dusted my hands off.  “Please close the door, Jackson,” I asked.

“Hey, Mrs. Lomare,” he said, shutting the door before he shrugged off his backpack and dropped into one of the chairs in front of my desk.  Jackson was a startling attractive young man, with teak skin that matched his eyes, a close-cut haircut, and a lean figure that radiated confidence.  To be honest, he looked more like a dancer to me than a football player; he was no doubt fast, but I could not imagine him tackling anyone.

“Ms. Lomare,” I corrected.  Jackson had not, apparently, even read the syllabus.  “You may call me Ms. Lomare, or Professor.  Jackson, it’s good of you to finally arrive.  I understand you’re struggling a bit with my class.”

Jackson shrugged.  “Math isn’t really my thing,” he said, slouching in the chair and fiddling with the football in his lap.

“Math is everyone’s thing.  Math is universal.”

Jackson gave me a pitying smile, and the two of us sized each other up.  Jackson had either just come from the gym or was planning to go later, because despite it being a chilly spring day, he was wearing gym shorts.  His torso was covered with a gray pullover, but it couldn’t hide his figure.  Jackson was indisputably an athlete, his wiry body toned with functional muscles, his movements smooth and self-assured.  Still, I didn’t quite see the football player in him.  Maybe that explained the football in his hands; he needed the prop to let everyone know who he was, and what to think of him.

In turn, I wondered what Jackson thought of me.  Probably not much.  My clothes were not made for running after balls or getting tackled by sweaty men.  My clothes were fitted and professional: a collared blouse under a black sheath dress, a pair of high-heeled shoes that were at odds with Jackson’s laced-up sneakers.  I wore glasses; I had a manicure.  Jackson probably, like so many student athletes, underestimated me.

Jackson probably thought math was for nerds.

Jackson was going to regret this.

“It’s my understanding you’re attending the university on a football scholarship,” I said, moving around the desk to perch myself on the edge of it.  The wooden corner dug into my thigh.  I relished the sensation.  “Perhaps attending is too strong a word… you haven’t come to a single class since the semester began.”

“That’s not my fault, Ms. Lomare!” protested Jackson.  “It’s at nine in the morning.  I’m not dumb or anything; I’m doing fine in all my other classes.  I’m just not cut out for a math class that’s at nine a.m.!”

“Coffee, Jackson,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Jackson shook his head.  “Even with coffee, I’d fall asleep.”

“Why?  Do you think math is boring?” I challenged him, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Jackson shrugged, turning the football around in his hand, tossing it lightly up in the air and catching it.  “Well… yeah, kind of.  No offense.  Like I said, it’s just not my thing.”

“Perhaps if we made it your thing, if we engaged you a little more, you might find it more tolerable,” I said.  “Most of my students succeed, provided they actually attend my classes and do the homework.  Neither of which you’re currently doing.”

Jackson sighed.

I turned to rummage around in my desk for my crop.  Clearly we were going to have to use some unconventional techniques to get Jackson’s attention.  Fortunately for Jackson, unconventional techniques are my speciality.  Years of use have made the leather tongue of my crop soft and supple, not unlike Jackson’s body.  

A good match-up, I thought to myself.  Despite my misgivings and Jackson’s lateness, I felt myself grow a little excited at the idea of tutoring this young man; he seemed clever and in desperate need of strong female mentorship.

“If you want to pass my class, Jackson, you’re going to have to shape up.  I want my students to succeed, but I can’t do the work for you.  You have to be willing to get your grades up.  You have to be willing to challenge yourself.  Are you willing?”  I pointed the crop at him.

Jackson sighed, looking sullen.  “Yeah, I guess.  I mean, I can’t play unless I do, so I sort of have to.”

“Correct.  So, let me ask you again, Jackson.  Are you willing to work to get your grades up?”  I placed the leather tongue of the crop under his chin to tilt his dark eyes up toward mine. 

I forced him to meet my gaze.

“Yes,” said Jackson, with more resolve.  He squared his shoulders and sat up a little straighter, one hand balancing the football on his knee as if he needed the reminder for why he was there in the first place.  “I’ll do anything to be able to play.”

“Anything?  Good.  That’s good, Jackson.  Because I’ve got a very full schedule and I only take students under my wing if I believe they are truly dedicated to my process.”

“Your process?” repeated Jackson.

“It’s simple, yet almost universally effective.  I offer incentives for success, punishments for failures, and clear boundaries to keep you on track as you work to bolster your scholarly pursuits.”

Jackson stared at me like a deer in the headlights.  “It’s not something stupid, like a sticker chart, is it?” he asked after a moment.

I gave him a sly smile.  “Why don’t we get a head start on the homework?” I suggested, gesturing toward the chalkboard.  “Stand up and take a look.”

Jackson got to his feet reluctantly and approached the board. 

“Hey, what’s with this chain thing here?” he asked, reaching out to point to a chain extending from the wall.  At the end was a simple metal band, open like a pair of crocodile jaws waiting to snap closed.  “Is it like, a chalk holder or something?  …art?”

“It’s a manacle,” I said.

“A what?”

“Let me show you.”

I reached out for his hand.  Automatically, he put his hand out, probably expecting me to put a piece of chalk in it.  Instead, I snapped the manacle at the end of the chain around his wrist.  The lock clicked in a satisfyingly final way.

“Hey!” he exclaimed.  He gave the chain a yank.  It rattled but it didn’t budge; it had held students far bigger than Jackson in the past, and I trusted it to keep them tethered to the board for as long as was necessary to impart my knowledge.

I slapped the tress of my crop to the board, sending up a small puff of chalk dust.  “Until you solve this problem, you’re not going anywhere.”

Jackson rattled the cuff on his wrist.  “You’re kidding, right?  I can’t solve this!”

“Sure you can.  It’s a basic derivative function, and I’ll help motivate you,” I said, bending over to reach into the special drawer of my desk.  “Most students, Jackson, are fully capable of passing my course.  I know I have a reputation as a difficult professor, but I’m very fair, and I want my students to succeed.  It’s all just a matter of feeling impelled to actually push through the process.”  I straightened up, a pair of scissors in my hand.

I saw Jackson’s deep brown eyes, smug before but now a little more than concerned, rake down over my body, noticing, perhaps for the first time, the hollow of my throat and the unbuttoned blouse that drew the eye toward my cleavage, the shortness of my sheath dress and the lack of pantyhose on my legs.

He gave the handcuff another tug as I approached him.  “Hey, what are you doing with those scissors?” he asked nervously, edging back.  The cuff only allowed him to back up one step before he was snapped back.

“Jackson, I can tutor you and help you bring your grades up.  In fact, I can all-but guarantee you get a passing grade if you’re willing to shape up now.  But you have to be willing to trust my process,” I said, snipping the scissors a few times.  “You said you were, earlier.  Are you, still?”

“I just want to know what you’re going to do with the–”

“Yes or no, Jackson?”

He frowned, examining me with a frown.  I could tell he was not used to this kind of authority.  Like so many star athletes, he was spoiled.  Like his grades, I was sure I could fix that.

“…yes,” he said, finally.

“Hold still,” I commanded, bringing the shears down and pressing the cool blades against Jackson’s thigh.  His muscles tensed against them, and Jackson went rigid.  I closed the scissors, cutting through the slippery material of Jackson’s shorts.  I’ve never appreciated athletic wear in my classroom; my lectures are a place to learn, not play.

“Next time you come to my office, wear pants,” I commanded as the ribbons of Jackson’s workout shorts fluttered to the ground.  “Classrooms and lecture halls are no place for shorts; I expect my students to dress respectably and come prepared to learn.  Do you understand?”

I could hear Jackson’s labored breathing; he didn’t move, overwhelmed, I think, at the idea of anyone expecting anything from him that wasn’t related to sports.

Underneath his shorts was wearing a pair of breathable briefs, a thin material.  It was bright yellow and it cut like butter.  With precise, careful movements, the blades of the scissors against his skin, I sliced through the material without even needing to fully close the scissors.  It reminded me of trimming wrapping paper.  Like Jackson was a gift I was unwrapping.

“M-mrs. Lomare, what are you doing?” stammered Jackson, as his yellow briefs fell to the floor.

I gave his bottom a little smack with my hand.  “Ms. Lomare,” I corrected.  “This is a very simple teaching method, Jackson.  Carrot, and stick.  I want you to focus on solving this problem.  If you succeed I will reward you; if you become distracted, I will punish you.  Simple, no?  You have–”  I checked my watch.  “–twenty-five minutes before my office door opens.  That’s more than enough time.”

Jackson tried to cross his legs, but he couldn’t hide.  He looked ridiculous, standing there in a hoodie and sneakers but without any pants.  It was good for him, though, I felt, to be knocked down a few pegs; often, the student athletes need attitude adjustments, and this was a service, like tutoring, I have always been more than happy to provide.

“How am I supposed to leave if you cut up my shorts?” asked Jackson in alarm.

“After you’ve finished this homework problem, my secretary, Mike, will be able to get you some sweat pants to wear,” I said.

Jackson’s lips quirked up a little.  “Secretary?” he repeated, sounding amused.

I glared sharply at him.  “Do you think it’s funny that my secretary is male, Jackson?”  I whipped my crop through the air; the thin rod made a soft whistle through the air that ended with a snap when the keeper came into contact with Jackson’s dark, warm skin.

He jumped.

“N-no, Mrs– I mean, Ms. Lomare.  Professor,” said Jackson.

I waved my crop at him.  “Ah-ha.  So we can learn.”

“You can’t open the door and let anyone see me like this,” he begged, tugging uselessly on the chain that kept him within an arm’s length of my chalkboard. 

“My office hours are at four.  If you solve this problem before then, Jackson, then no one will have to see the little predicament you’re in.  If you continue to waste time by arguing with me about your expectations, then yes, all of your classmates will see that you’re here for remedial lessons.  Don’t presume to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own office.  You got yourself into this mess; these are the consequences of your actions.”

Jackson squirmed.  “Does Coach know about this?” he demanded shrilly.

I tried not to roll my eyes, sighing as I leaned my weight on one hip.  “Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.  Of course he does.  You think you’re so special I had this shackle installed just for you?  You think you’re the first linebacker I’ve had in my office?”

“…you think I’m a linebacker?” asked Jackson, looking momentarily confused.

“You’re not?”

“I’m a tight end.”

I pressed the end of my crop against Jackson’s supple little ass, lifting it a little.  “A tight end, you say?”

Jackson’s dark skin grew just a shade darker.  “Let’s do math,” he said, hastily.

“Good idea.”  I smiled at him.

Jackson turned to the board, trying to cover his rear with his free hand.  It was still holding the chalk and, as a consequence, small white smudges began to appear on Jackson’s skin, marking the areas he was trying the hardest to cover.  He was unintentionally painting bullseyes for me all over himself.

I twirled my crop in the air, making sure Jackson could hear it swish through the air.  “So, Jackson, what do you make of this?”

“I’m not turned on,” said Jackson angrily.

I rolled my eyes. “I meant the math problem, Jackson.  And don’t lie to me.  Do you think I’m blind?  I can see that cock of yours swelling.”

I stuck out my crop, giving Jackson’s engorged member a small poke.  It pulsed in response.  Jackson was girthy, his length impressive and apparently, quite reactive.  This seems to be common among my students. 

“You said you were a tight end?” I asked.

“Yeah.  Yeah, that’s right,” said Jackson, glancing over at the football on the chair he had vacated earlier.  Typical boys; all they think about is their balls.

I turned away from him, going to my desk.  My heels clicked on the floor, filling the air with their metronomic sound.  I took a moment to rummage through my drawer, looking for a string of anal beads.

I held them up.  Bright turquoise, each nub on the strand sparkled; the smallest was no bigger than a marble, and the largest was almost as large as my fist.

Jackson gaped.  “Are those– anal beads?” he asked.

“So you’re not as sheltered as I thought,” I said.

Jackson squared his shoulders.  “I’m not sheltered,” he pouted.

I swung the string of anal beads in front of him.  “Drop the attitude, Jackson.  You’re used to being a big fish in a small pond.  But this isn’t high school anymore.  It’s college.  You need to learn to humble yourself and accept guidance when it’s offered to you, especially by someone with superior credentials.  You’re failing math and if you don’t bring your grades up, you’re going to end up losing your scholarship and getting kicked from the team.  So it would behoove you to submit yourself to me, so that I can help you.”

Jackson’s eyes darted between the cuff and the string of silicone anal beads in my hand.  “Are… are you gonna put those into me?” he asked meekly.

I smiled.  “Yes.  And as you complete the equation I’ll ease them out.”

“And that’s supposed to help me learn math?” asked Jackson quizzically.

“I prefer it if my students look forward to coming to their tutoring sessions.  Making math fun is part of my process; it doesn’t have to be boring, you know.”

Jackson looked at the problem on the board.  “Uh, no, I’m sorta figuring that out,” he admitted.

“Bend over,” I commanded.

“But–”

“Bend over.”  I cracked my crop between his shoulders and pressed down, forcing him into a bow.  “Now present yourself to me.”

Jackson shuffled forward a little; he had less range of motion with his tethered hand.  But he found a position that allowed him to spread his cheeks for me, offering me his hole.

I pressed the end of the toy against it and was surprised when, without warning, Jackson’s hole flexed and pulled the first bead in greedily.

“…well, look who’s finally coming to his senses,” I said.

I heard the football player gulp under me as I leaned my elbow onto his back, working the string of beads into him.  He offered no resistance until we got to the seventh; then, I heard a small groan.

“I suppose you’re not used to this, are you?  …expanding your hole, Jackson, is not dissimilar to expanding your mind.  It’s my job to make sure my students are well-rounded.  Athletics is only one of the services this school offers.  We can teach you other things, as well.”

“O-okay, Mrs.– I mean, Professor Lamore,” said Jackson weakly.  His cock was plump, full of lust; he seemed to have forgotten why we were in my office in the first place.

Time to fix that.

Sure that half of the beads were pressed into Jackson’s body, the other hand dangling out like a long, blue tail, I grabbed my crop and smacked it against his calf, causing him to yelp and jump straight up.

“So, Jackson.  The equation,” I said, sternly.

“You can’t just leave them inside of me!” cried Jackson, groping behind himself with his free hand to try to grip the string of beads.  He found it, and gave it a tug, but the sensation made his knees shake; he moaned and let go immediately.

“I won’t.  I’ll pull them out, one by one, and it will feel amazing, Jackson.  But you don’t get rewards for free in this office.  You have to earn them.”  I pointed to the chalkboard.  “You can start by solving this problem.  Now, what is it asking?”

“I’m supposed to find the equation for the tangent line,” said Jackson, turning back to the board.  The swaying string of beads hanging from him swished against his legs, a reminder of the total control I had over him.  He was chained, stuffed, and, as far as I was concerned, ready to actually buckle down and study.

“Very good.  A tangent line is a line that just barely touches–” I gave Jackson’s cock the lightest of taps with the head of my crop.  “–a curve.  This problem should be very easy; the coordinates are 0, 0.  What is the equation for a line?”

“Uh…”  Jackson shifted on the balls of his feet, bouncing a little in place; he was clearly trying to save face, to ignore his growing arousal.  What jock wants to admit that math excites him?  What young stud wants to admit his teacher has turned him on with a homework problem?  I’d seen this a million times.  In an effort to distract himself from me, Jackson was instead focusing on the chalkboard… which was exactly my intention.

“Shall I refresh your memory?” I asked.

“Yeah, that would be gr–” began Jackson.

Before he could finish, I cracked my pointer against the backs of his thighs.  “Y!  Equals!  M!  X!  Plus!  B!”  I emphasized each word with a kiss of leather, and each time, I saw Jackson’s impressive muscles flex in protest, gripping at the string of beads inside of him, unintentionally massaging his arousal from the inside out, blurring the lines of pleasure and pain.

Jackson yowled, jumping forward, but the cuff and chain yanked him back and he nearly fell, bending to catch himself and exposing his ass to me.  I pressed the keeper of the crop against his balls, giving them a smart little tap that elicited a gasp of shock.  He straightened up immediately, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“What’s the equation, Jackson?” I asked softly, meeting his eyes over the top rim of my glasses.

Jackson stared at me dumbly for a moment, then, almost hypnotically, he said, “Y equals m x plus b.”

I reached forward to caress his cock.  “That’s right.  Very good.  And since B is the y intercept, and you know that the y coordinate in this problem is zero–”

Jackson’s eyes lit up in a eureka moment.  “The equation will be like, y equals m x!  So all I gotta do is find the slope?  That’s it?”

I gently angled his cock up a little.  “Just find the slope,” I repeated, running the edge of my crop slowly down his length in a linear path.

Jackson shivered.  “Okay.  So it’s a– deviant?”

“Derivative,” I corrected.

“A derivative,” he repeated.  He turned his back toward me, to face the chalkboard.  The muscles of his ass clenched against any more switches from the leather tress of the crop, the string of beads elegantly trailing from his firm little bottom.

On the board, Jackson wrote:

Derivative of F(x):

F'(x) = 7+2cos(2x) –> F'(0) = 7

“Very good,” I said, reaching forward to grip the end of the string of beads and slowly pull.  “Now write it as an inverse.”

Jackson leaned toward the board, his handwriting shakily but legible.

Derivative of the inverse function is (F-1)'(F(x)) = 1/(F'(x)) = 1/(7+2cos(2x))

“Now solve.”  I increased the strength of my pull on the beads, feeling Jackson’s body resist giving them up.

Hence: (F-1)'(F(0)) = (F-1)'(0) = 1/9.

“The slope’s one over nine,” concluded Jackson.

“Precisely,” I agreed, tugging even more firmly; the beads slid from Jackson’s “tight end,” and Jackson went weak, his body falling against the chalkboard and sending up a puff of dust.  He came right then and there, his cock spraying ejaculate all over the bottom part of my chalkboard.  He gripped the wall for support, panting softly, perhaps surprised.  Surprised at how easily he’d solved the problem, and at how pleasurable he’d found it. 

Once my students learn to associate pain, pleasure, and math, they suddenly get a lot smarter.  It’s the most fascinating phenomenon.

 “Okay, untie me now,” said Jackson weakly, looking up at me.

I smacked his ass with my crop.  “You’re not finished yet, young man!  The question was not asking for you to find the slope; it was asking you to find the equation of the tangent line.”  I gave him another slap.  His skin bloomed under every little touch, bruises mapping out every place the crop had found its mark.

Jackson whimpered.  “Professor, please, me and the guys shower together and if they see–”

“See what?  That you know how to submit to a woman?  That you care about your education?  Why would you be embarrassed by that, Jackson?”

“I’m not submitting, I’m trying to learn how to–” began Jackson.

I whipped the crop against his buttocks again and he shut up.  His dark backside, smeared with chalk dust, looked like cocoa cake dusted with powdered sugar.  Absolutely delectable.

I cast the beads onto my desk; I would have Mike wash them later.  Work-study students are invaluable for little tasks like that: clapping the erasers, making photocopies of hand-outs, oiling your leather whips, shining your stilettos…. That kind of thing. 

“Write out the tangent line equation,” I instructed Jackson, and I gave him a sharp crack against the back of the knees with my crop.  “And show your work!”

Jackson yelped but he began writing hastily.  He had to bend his lines a little to avoid the cum stain he’d left on the bottom of the chalkboard.

Equation of the tangent:

y-y0 = a(x-x0), (x0, y0) = (0, 0)

So the tangent is: y = (1/9)x

Or, simplified:

y = x/9

“Well, well.  And here I thought you were just another dumb jock… but it seems like you’re smarter than you let on!” I said. 

Jackson gave me a nervous smile.  “Can I go now?”

“Not until I get a guarantee that you’ll be coming to class from now on.  I see potential in you, Jackson.  But you need to actually participate.”  I let my P pop in my mouth, tasting it; I could see Jackson’s eyes focused on my lips, probably imagining what they could do.  “Based on your clear love of math,” I threw a side-eye at the cum stain on my chalk board, and Jackson had the humility to look a little embarrassed, “I’d be happy to continue to tutor you… help you get caught up to the rest of the class and raise your grades,” I said.

“Okay,” said Jackson after a hesitant pause.

I went to my desk and opened one of the drawers; Jackson looked hopeful that I’d produce a key to the shackle chaining him to the board, but instead, I pulled out a cloth.  I held it out to him.

He took it and began wiping chalk dust from his body.

“Jackson.  The board,” I said with exasperation, pointing to the stain he’d left on the bottom.

“Oh.  Right.  Sorry.”  Jackson wiped the chalkboard down while I cracked the door to my office and poked my head out to call to Mike.  “Mike, could you kindly fetch one of the pairs of spare pants I’ve got in the box in the storage room?  It’s the second door to the right, the tan cabinet.  I think a medium will do… no, a large.  Another one of my private students has somehow managed to ruin his own while we were studying..”

“Wow, fourth time this semester, Professor,” said Mike, rising from his desk.

I ducked back in to get the key for Jackson.  I accepted the used rag from him and tossed it back onto my desk, then lifted his arm to unlock him from the chain.  When I released his wrist from its binding, he rubbed at it gently, but he didn’t make any move to get away from me or cover himself.  Rather, he was staring at awe at the equations on the board.  Realizing, perhaps for the first time of his life, that there was more to college than simply flinging a ball around.

I jabbed my crop under Jackson’s nose; Jackson flinched.

“You’ve gotten chalk dust all over my teaching implement,” I informed him.

“Me?  But you’re the one who–” began Jackson, but stopped when I began tapping my toe.

“Clean it,” I demanded.

Jackson looked over at my desk, where the rag had been discarded.

“That won’t do.  There’s chalk dust on that, too,” I said.

Jackson cast a helpless look around, then seemed to realize what I wanted.  He leaned forward and gently tongued at the end of the crop, wiping off the chalk with his tongue until it was clean and ready for its next session.

I smiled.  “Very good.  We’ll make a mathlete out of you yet, Jackson.  You’re obviously very… intuitive.  Good at problem-solving.”

I heard Mike knock on the door, and I went to go crack it open and accept the pants from him.  I tossed them to Jackson, who hastily put them on, covered up his bruised thighs and buttocks as if suddenly aware, for the first time, of his own vulnerability.  I wondered, distantly, what his teammates would say when they were in the locker room.  Jackson was not the only member of the team with bruises on his skin; perhaps he and the others I was tutoring would find each other and form a study group.  One can only hope.

Jackson hitched his backpack over his shoulder and hurried toward the door, ducking his head, trying to make a hasty retreat.

“Jackson!  Wait!” I called.

He paused, almost out of the reception area.  There were a few chairs there; two students were already sitting, waiting for my office hours to begin.  Both of them were women and I saw them watching Jackson with interest as he walked out.

“You forgot your balls in my office!” I said, holding up the football.

Jackson’s eyes widened and he hurried over to snatch back his precious little plaything.  “It’s just the one ball!” he hissed at me, glancing over at the girls.  At the reception desk, Mike hunched over the calendar, trying not to laugh.  The two girls who were waiting for me dissolved into giggles and Jackson huffed out, obviously embarrassed.

“I’ll see you next Friday, at three!” I called after him.  “Be on time, and bring your completed homework!”  I watched him scurry away down the hall, thinking of the fresh slap of leather on skin, the way his body had shuddered as I literally beat the line slope equation into him.  I was certain he wouldn’t forget it; I was certain that Jackson, like so many other students before him, was able to learn math. 

It is, after all, a universal language, and seeing the way Jackson had bent to my will with a little bit of encouragement, I felt confident that there was hope for him yet.