Professor Trouble

by May, Soraya

  I extricate myself, drink carefully in hand, while they carry on talking excitedly about Will. He’s definitely not what I’d expected when I came in that first day. And, well, they’re right. He is pretty hot. Quite delicious in fact.

  Ronnie sidles up to me, in a faint cloud of vodka and pink grapefruit juice. It’s not easy to sidle when you’re a 6’ blonde in stilettos, but somehow she does it. “Hey, you see that guy over there?”

  I follow her gaze over to the wall. There’s a guy there, tall and square-jawed, tan sweater, blonde hair in a crewcut, drinking beer from a Solo cup. He catches my eye, and smiles back at me.

  I look back at Ronnie. “What about him?”

  “He was looking at you all the time you were talking to your classmates. You should go and talk to him. He’s cute.”

  I make a face. “Yeah, he is cute, you’re right.” She leans closer.

  “You know what he looks like to me? He looks like a consequence-free mistake, and I think you should go over there and make it while you still can. That’s what I think.”

  Maybe she’s right. I’m graduating soon, and that’s what college life is all about, isn’t it? Meeting cute guys. Not staying in your room reading your Latin textbooks.

  Why am I reading my Latin textbooks all the time?

  “Ron, it’s tempting, but you know what? Right this minute, I’d actually rather just go drink and dance with my Number 1 girl. There are lots of cute guys in the world, but there’s only one of you.”

  She smiles broadly. “You got that right, honey. Okay, don’t you go saying I didn’t try to hook you up with the cute guys, but it’s always more fun when we’re together.”

  “Amen to that. Now what?”

  “Now, hold my glass and follow me. First, I’m going to fix us more drinks, and then we’re going to execute Operation Stereo Hijack With 80s Tunes. These lijntrekkers are going to get a lesson in fun.”

  * * *

  Bang! The door to my room seems extremely narrow after four so-called Cosmos. Rubbing my shoulder, I grip the door-frame for a moment. Behind me, Ronnie giggles and does a little tippetty-tap dance in her vertiginous heels.

  'Oh l'amour...what's a boy in love supposed to do?" Ronnie's singing does not match up to the rest of her uber-cool persona.

  "Em! Come on! Netflix! My room!" Bright-eyed, she lists like a container ship holed below the waterline. "Zombies!" I consider going with her for a second, then decide against it. Her room is just down the hall, and it's not like she isn't going to make it there, even in this state. My feet hurt, and zombies before bedtime isn't exactly the best prescription for good dreams.

  I have got to buy some better shoes.

  "Sorry, Ron. I'm going to be a mess for morning classes, and I'm pretty much, pretty much, pretty much, being held up by the door as it is. Tomorrow, I promise." She protests briefly, but I'm not going anywhere, and eventually she totters down the hall still singing.

  'no emotional ties/ you don't remember my name/

  I lay down and die/ I'm only to blame'

  I step carefully through the door, and close it behind me. The faint strains of Ronnie's warbling are audible through the wall, and I give momentary thanks that it was 80s night at the club, and not Grunge night. Not another rendition of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' with Dutch swearwords mixed in, pleeeeease, ever again.

  My room isn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. Dresses draped over my chair wedged into my shitty desk, shoes distributed evenly across the floor, but otherwise it's fine. If I can get to my bed without cleaning, it's a good conclusion to a good day.

  Picking my way across the minefield of shoes, I dodge my desk, which lunges at me corner-first, make it to the bed, and sink gratefully into my large pillow. The pillow is about the only expensive thing in this room, and it's worth all the money I paid for it. Falling asleep drunk on it is like being slowly drowned in a giant marshmallow, and it's glorious. Rolling over for a second—which is an operation requiring careful planning with this pillow—I see the notebook I found on my desk. Will’s notebook.

  I wonder what he wrote in it? Delicious Will Spencer. What would he write in his notebook?

  Wrestle, wrestle, conscience. It's probably not anything interesting, and if you open it then you have officially graduated from harmless crush territory to creepy stalker territory. Is that what you want? Yeah, maybe not. I guess it's his business.

  Don't you even want to know what his handwriting looks like? That, I am curious about, I admit.

  Okay, just a look to see what his handwriting looks like. That's just curiosity, and curiosity is definitely not creepy stalker territory.

  Shifting a little bit on my glorious pillow, I open the notebook, carefully, so as not to crease it. I'd really rather he didn't find out that I did this. The first couple of pages are blank, and for a moment I think it's empty, until I come to a page with writing on it.

  It starts with a single letter:

  'E'

  What it says next, well, I won't forget that for a while.

  He's writing about his girlfriend, or maybe an old girlfriend. Someone he cares about very much. It's sweet, and devoted, and he's spent a long time looking closely at this girl. I wish I had someone that devoted.

  On the next page, it gets a bit hotter, and he's writing about her figure. Wow, she sounds pretty fucking sexy.

  I think about how it would be to have someone write about me like that, and I realize that I'm wet, and I have been for a while. I keep reading, and imagine his voice in my head, reading the words.

  "..and her ass under that little polka-dot skirt.."

  What? I flick back to the previous page, then I look at the skirt I was wearing on Monday, draped over my desk.

  It's me. He's writing about me. The 'E' at the start is for Emily. Fuuuck.

  My nipples are hard, and without thinking about it, I slip my hand down my stomach and into my panties. I can't believe I'm doing this.

  His writing gets more explicit. He talks about what he'd like to do to me, and whether I was wearing stockings that day I fell over. I should have worn stockings. I'm soaking wet by now, and the thought of having him put his hands on me, slipping them up my skirt, makes me wild.

  I slide my fingers over my clit, and trace circles around it as I stare at the words on the page. Every circle brings a charge, a sensation through my stomach and up into my chest. I think about his fingers doing the same thing, stroking me, faster and faster, and what it would feel like to give myself to him, to see the lust in his eyes. I think about unzipping those fitted pants of his, unbuckling his belt, and putting my hands on his cock.

  Oh, God, his cock. What it would feel like, look like, taste like.

  I shiver as I as I feel my orgasm approaching, imagining the smell of his sweat and male musk, and the feeling his fingers leave inside me. My climax sweeps through me, outward from my pussy, across my body, leaving me weak and clinging to my pillow.

  I can't believe he wants me this much.

  10

  I turn the notebook over and over again in my fingers, staring at the cover. Did he turn it over just like this? Did he think about me, and then touch himself? And what the hell do I do with it?

  "Hey, gorgeous." Ronnie pushes my door open with her foot, not bothering to knock, although her arms are full of books, so I guess I can't blame her. "Ready for the gym? Get your gear and let's go."

  She dumps her books on my table, and the stack wobbles precariously. "Can I leave these here? I need to get them back today, or I'll get a huuuge fine, and I'll just mix them up with my own if they're in my room."

  I nod, still not taking my eyes off the notebook. "Sure, Ron. Whatever."

  "What's that, hon?" She's noticed the notebook, and I'm immediately nervous. Lovely as she is, Ronnie's not famous for her subtlety or her discretion. "You're taking up writing poetry? Lemme see."

  I remove it swiftly from her reach. "No, it's not really poetry. Just notes for class." Her eyes
narrow.

  "Not really poetry, but also class notes? Which is it?" If I let her think there's something hidden here, she'll never let me leave the room, and that would be baaaad. "It's notes for class. Not poetry at all. Are we going to the gym?"

  She stares pointedly at my very-much-not-gym-appropriate outfit—shorts with holes in them, and a faded t-shirt. "Well, I am. Are you going to change, or what?"

  "Look, it's the crappy Lowell College gym, not Milan Fashion Week. The black mold on the walls isn’t going to mind that I’m not wearing Lululemon. But, yeah, I will change.”

  Ronnie looks at me steadily. She’s evidently expecting me to go and actually do it. I think she thinks she’s doing me a favor.

  “Hey, you go on, and I'll get my stuff together and be ten minutes behind you." I make indeterminate packing motions with my hands, and that seems to mollify her. "Go on, I'll see you in ten, I promise."

  Once she's out the door, I look at the notebook one last time, and reach for my laptop. I'm torn between the idea of getting it back to him, and keeping it for myself. I can't let him know that I've read it—no way can I do that—but I shouldn't keep it, even if just flicking through the pages makes me want to touch myself again right now.

  Okay. Maybe he is attracted to me, but the second I open my mouth, he's going to remember his responsibilities. He'd be crazy to try and act on it, and I know that.

  I stroke the keys for a few minutes, and play with the lid. Open, close, open, close. It doesn't help. Finally, I curse quietly, and write an email.

  Dear Professor Spencer,

  I hope you are well. I think I found a piece of your property in class last week. Let me know a suitable time to return it to you.

  Regards, Emily Masterson

  11

  Pacing back and forth would have been a lot easier if I'd bothered to unpack. As it is, I'm walking not so much back and forth, as I am going in a sort of figure-eight around the piles of boxes. It doesn't improve my mood much. One week in and I'm about to get in trouble for inappropriate conduct. This must be a record even by my standards.

  I perch on one of the unassembled flat-pack bookshelves and consider my options. Deny that it's mine? That's a possibility.

  Just don't reply to the email? Also possible, but she seems like a persistent little thing.

  Abandon my career and get the next flight to Chile, then hike into the Atacama Desert, where presumably there is no Internet access? Effective, but maybe a little bit extreme.

  Get a grip, Will. First thing, she may not have looked in it. Second thing, even if she has, she isn't going to know that it's her you're writing about. You don't name her or anything. It's fine.

  Best to write a noncommittal email, and watch her to see what kind of mood she's in when she turns up. If she's in an imma-get-your-ass-fired mood, then it's not mine and I've got no idea what she's talking about. Right.

  Back to my desk, I pick out an email with a lot of pauses between sentences.

  Dear Emily,

  I'm not sure I've lost anything, but thanks anyway. I'll be in my office this afternoon until five.

  Regards,

  William Spencer

  At least this is neutral, and will give me a chance to gauge her mood when she comes in.

  * * *

  It's another hour before I hear a gentle tap at the door. I arrange myself for maximum nonchalance, brogues on the desk, leafing through a copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses, before I answer.

  "Come in." The door swings, and she steps in. She's not wearing the skirt this time, but a pair of plain jeans, a little faded and baggy, and a t-shirt. Her breasts are small and high up on her chest, and I almost manage to not look at them.

  "Hello, Emily." I try to be as avuncular as I possibly can. "What seems to be the problem?". She pauses, and with a start I realize that the look in her eyes is nervousness. One of us ought to be nervous, honey, but it ain't you.

  "It's this, professor." A small hand holds out my notebook. "I found it after your class last week, and I thought it might be yours."

  I stare at it, as if I might-or-might-not have seen it before. "Well, I don't recall losing one,"—that's the least convincing lie you've ever told, Will—"but it does look like mine."

  She goes on, quickly, voice wavering. "I-I looked inside it." Oh shit. Now you're for it, my lad. "I probably shouldn't have." She flushes bright red again, and I swallow, running through all of the possible responses in my head and ranking them in descending order of probability-they-will-get-me-fired.

  "Ah. I see." There is a short silence, lasting approximately one-and-a-half million years by my reckoning. Finally, it's her that speaks first.

  "I didn't want to invade your privacy, but your writing was very vivid, and this girl, the character you write about, she was very clearly described." She thinks it's a fictional character. Thank goodness for that.

  Surer of my ground now, I say something, finally. "Well, yes. It was an idea I had a while ago, and I wanted to write it down so I didn't forget it. You know how that is, I'm sure." She brightens for a moment.

  "Oh yes, sure. Absolutely." She's looking at me intently, and I sense she wants to say something more. "The feelings you were describing were very...intense, and I..I found myself wondering how the girl you describe would have felt. If. If she'd known about it."

  The air is thick, and I hear the buzzing of the air-conditioner, loud in my ears. A little voice in my head is saying danger, danger, steer this conversation in another direction, but the force of her eyes on me is pushing all the breath out of my chest.

  I can't do anything except nod. She takes a deep breath, and keeps talking as if she wants to say everything all in one breath. I watch her chest rise, and the shape of her lips as she forms the words. Words I should not be hearing. I should not be sitting here right now.

  "And I think she would have been aroused by it, because, you know, it's so amazing to be desired like that, and she would never have had anyone be like that with her before, and.." She runs out of breath, and the voice in my head is screaming now, but I can't stop myself from talking.

  "Do you think she would?"

  "Uh-huh." Flush in her cheeks again, and I take my legs off the desk, so she can't see how hard I am. I can't stop looking at her, and my voice is almost hoarse when it comes out.

  "What do you think she would have done, if she'd read it?"

  "I think. I think if she'd been aroused, she would have wanted to make herself come. To touch herself."

  Whatever happens, you are not moving from behind this desk, William Spencer. You are not laying a fucking hand on this girl, or it's your job. I don't move from behind the desk, but I keep talking, and that's maybe just as bad.

  "How would you describe what she might do, Ms. Masterson?" She takes a step closer to the desk, and puts one hand on it. The other one drifts up her body, and my eyes are glued to it.

  "I think she might play with her breasts," Her fingers brush her nipples, stiff through the fabric of her t-shirt. "And she might be think about what it would be like to have the writer's hands on her. She might be thinking about the writer putting his hands up her skirt, the one that he likes so much."

  My cock is painfully hard under the desk. "Go on, Ms. Masterson."

  "She might wonder what it would be like to have him touch her in her..." She trails off for a minute, and her breathing quickens. I watch her hand as it slides down beneath the waistband of her jeans. She's panting now, and her words are coming in short bursts.

  "Would she touch herself, Ms. Masterson? Do you think that's a realistic outcome?"

  "Y-yeah, I, ahh," she gasps. I watch, mesmerized, as her other hand lifts off the able and moves to the button. “I think…so.”

  There's a soft 'pop', and a quiet hiss of the zip. Her hand is now all the way inside her jeans, and I hear the wet noise of her fingers on her pussy. I realize that my hand is on my cock, under the desk, and it's been there for some time. Emily is leaning on my de
sk, legs apart, fingers buried in her pussy in front of me, and I can't fucking stop watching her.

  Her hair has come loose from her braid, and it's falling about her face in little strands. Every time she shivers, she hunches over, and her shoulders shake, and I worry that she's going to lose her footing, but I can't stop her. I can't touch her. I mustn't touch her.

  My hand is moving on the shaft of my cock now, and she must know that I'm doing it. "What then, Ms. Masterson? What would she be thinking about—ah—while this was happening?" She's stroking herself rhythmically now, little gasps every time she does it. I think about how much I want to take her, how much I want to grab hold of her and push all the stuff on my desk onto the floor, then throw her over it. How I want to peel off those jeans all the way and taste her. Don't you damn well move, Spencer. Don't you dare.

  "I..she. She'd want the writer to touch her. To fuck her."

  I push myself back from the desk, and now I know she can see I'm stroking my cock, because she's looking right at me. Her eyes are locked on mine, but her fingers don't stop moving beneath the waistband of her panties. "How—ah—how would she want to be fucked, Ms. Masterson?"

  "Every possible way—ahuh—professor. She'd want him to take her and fucking rip her clothes off, and pin her to his desk. She'd just want him to be completely inside her. Filling her up with that gorgeous fucking cock of his—ah." Her face is slick with sweat now, and I can tell she's close to coming. I can feel my own orgasm surging inside me, and I can't—no, I don't want to—hold it back. I want Emily to see it, I want her to fucking taste it.

  "How would you—ah—conclude the piece then, Ms. Masterson?" She's almost on top of my desk now, leaning over it, supporting herself with one hand as the other goes in and out of her pussy. I want to taste her so fucking much.

  "She'd, she'd say that she wanted him to come inside her. Fucking come inside me, Professor, right now,"

  The sound of Emily's voice saying those words, that's more than I can stand. I explode on my desk with a deep groan, and her eyes still haven't left mine as my come surges all over the stack of papers, right next to her hand. She doesn't stop fingering herself, and her whole body starts to shudder as she melts into her orgasm. "Oh. Oh fuck. Oh fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Ohmygod. Ohh."