Professor Trouble

by May, Soraya

  With an imperceptible movement, she starts to push her hips against mine, increasing in pace. I keep still, and I feel her grind herself against me, circling her hips, faster and faster. "Do it, Emily. Make yourself come on my cock." She bites her lip, still looking directly at me, and the sight of her almost makes me explode on the spot. "Faster, Emily."

  She's grinding herself hard into me now, and the sound of my cock slipping in and out of her fills the room, muffling her quiet moans of pleasure. I feel my own climax approaching, and I look down at her, this beautiful fucking girl, my student.

  "Do you want it, Emily? Do you want my come?" A look of pure joy crosses her face.

  "Oh God. Yes, Professor. Come inside me, right now." That's all I can take. It's far more than I can take, and I explode into her, tipping her over the edge, feeling her melt underneath me.

  19

  Lying here, I can almost believe this is completely normal. It feels normal. It feels right. His arms around me, crossed in front of my chest. His steady breathing in my ear, his heart beating against my back. I can feel his stickiness between my thighs, mixing with my own, still marking me.

  I don't know how this happened, but now it has, I don't want it to stop. I want to be wanted like this forever.

  But what does he want?

  When Will claimed me, his eyes went dark and flashed with passion. I think about how it felt to have him explode inside me, to feel like I was completely his. The memory of it makes me shiver involuntarily, and he stirs against me.

  I stroke his hand, and he subsides. Feeling him like this, he's warm and protective, not the dashing showman, the performer I see in class. Quiet, and steady, the kind of guy most girls would want to settle down with.

  But he's not like that, is he? Just look at him.

  I try not to think about all the girls who flirt with him in class, or about the rumors that he punched the Dean of his last college over a girl, which is why he's here. As much as I try, one thought keeps coming up in my mind.

  I want him. I want him all to myself. Now and always.

  20

  Oh boy. My Monday class is going to be seriously hard to get through now.

  But I don't care. The moment I had her all to myself, something changed. When we were lying together afterward, I could feel her awake against me. She shivered, and I kept expecting her to run.

  But she didn't run. She stayed, and this morning we kissed as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She's the kind of girl you'd move mountains for, sweet and smart and sexy. I don't know how, but I have to have more of her. I can't let it end like this.

  She left me the notebook, with a page of her neat handwriting about just how it felt when we made love, and just how good it felt to wake up with me beside her. I read it and reread it, studying every detail of the shapes of letters on the page, imagining her writing it as she’s lying naked with me in bed.

  That afternoon, I rack my brain trying to find a way we can be together in public, and finally I find one.

  Emily,

  I have a formal occasion to attend one week from now, on the night of the 16th. It is a masquerade ball. Would you like to be my partner?

  Will

  Less than a minute, and the reply makes me instantly aroused despite myself.

  Hell yes.

  One week will be just enough time for me to think of all the things I want you to do to me.

  I push my computer away, and ask myself for the thousandth time what the hell I'm doing, mixed up with a student. This is the one thing we're always instructed not to do, the one thing which is a violation of every academic code for every institution of higher learning on Earth, and I’ve ended up doing it.

  I can't decide if I'm doing this just to satisfy my own desires, or if I really believe this is somehow good for her. It can't be good for her. I know I'm playing with fire, but every time I see her, I want more of her. I want to know everything about Emily Masterson, about everything she thinks and does, and why. I want to watch her talk, about herself, about books, about her future, about anything.

  She's the only thing that's making this place tolerable, and I'm hopelessly addicted to her, no matter what the danger. I try to ignore the voice in my head which won't stop, every time I think about being with her.

  But how long can this last?

  21

  This week is going too fast, and not fast enough, both at the same time.

  Ronnie's delight at being told I'm going to a masquerade ball was only matched by her fury at not being told who I'm going with.

  "What the bloody hell are you talking about, woman? How can it be someone you can't talk about?" She's standing at the door to my room, hands on hips, staring at me like an angry stork. I think about telling her this, and abruptly think better of it.

  "Weeellllll," I begin, trying to placate her, "it's this guy who's kind of older than me, and I, uh, don't want to embarrass him, that's all. Plus I don't even know how serious it is.

  Please let it be serious. Please, please let it be serious.

  "Is this to do with you not getting back to your room until 8am last week?" She smiles triumphantly. "Yeah, you figured I was asleep, didn't you? I heard you come in, and you were looking pleased with yourself all that day."

  There's nothing I can do to get out of this one. "Okay, okay, you got me. Look, we had sex, and I'd thought it was just a one-time thing, but now he wants to take me out to this masquerade ball thing. It sounds like a fun evening, so why not? It's not like it's a commitment or anything."

  Please let it be a commitment.

  She tries a couple more times to get a name out of me, but when she can tell I'm not going to spill, she subsumes into grumbling under her breath in Dutch.

  I try to take her mind off it. "So, you going to help me get a dress, or what? I've only got today and tomorrow, and it’s not like I can shop for myself." This has the desired effect, and after a few more entreaties that she'll never tell, I manage to get her out of the door, promising to meet later for shopping.

  * * *

  Mall shopping with Ronnie is an experience not unlike being on a commando raid with a Green Beret. She sweeps into a store and scans it for targets of opportunity in a matter of seconds. If she identifies possible high-value assets within five seconds, we stay. Otherwise, we bug out and it’s on to the next store.

  Shop assistants scatter in terror as she stands exactly in the middle of the shop floor, arms folded, assessing the terrain.

  “No. No, maybe—no. And, definitely no. Emily, we’re leaving, let’s go.”

  I trail in her wake, trying things on when she suggests it, and doing my best to participate in the process. Eventually I settle on a black halter-neck dress which goes easy on my abused credit card, and comes down off my waist without being inadvertently ruched around my hips.

  Wow. I think I might be able to actually move in this dress without it piling up on my ass like I’m wearing a bustle. And it’ll go with my strappy silver heels, which is a blessing.

  Ronnie is solicitous throughout the afternoon, and to her credit only tries to get a name out of me twice, which is better than I expected.

  "The split up the side means you can dance, huh? Or, you know, lift it up easily." I swat her lightly with my purse.

  "It's not going to be that kind of evening." Please let it be that kind of evening.

  Ronnie looks unconvinced. "Well, you say you like this guy, right?"

  "I do, but—"

  "And he likes you?"

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  "Is he an asshole?" This one makes me stop and think.

  "No, but I just don't know that he wants a long-term—"

  "Is he crazy?"

  "Except for being into me, I don't think so." She grimaces again.

  "Honey, you need to stop thinking about what he wants, and focus on what you want."

  I sigh. "You're right, Ronnie. Right now, what I want is a cup of coffee."

 
22

  This week on ‘Will Spencer Discovers the United States’: what I call a dinner suit is called a tuxedo here.

  I confused the hell out of the college dry-cleaning service when I phoned them; I think maybe they were expecting I changed for dinner even when I'm eating alone. I'm a traditional guy, but that's ridiculous.

  Or maybe they thought it was a onesie.

  I'm going to try not to think about it too much.

  I twiddle my bow-tie in front of the mirror, thoughtfully. It's a handy invention: the famous historian Arthur Schlesinger said "It is impossible to spill soup on a bow tie. In fact it requires extreme agility to spill anything on it at all.". Besides, I like the idea of a form of dress where it it's supposed to be a bit messy.

  Looking down at the white half-mask on the corner of the bathroom cabinet, I trace my finger along the line of the nose. The consequences of being caught with Emily at the ball tonight, or any other night, would be severe. What I've done so far is bad enough, but escorting her somewhere is a different matter entirely. Carrying on a relationship with a student is, of course, expressly forbidden by Lowell College's regulations, but that isn't the worst part.

  The public perception of this is the worst part; it would be savage and condemning. I'd be painted as a manipulative seducer, a guy who used his power and position to extort sex from a young female student, and who influenced her in the worst possible way. If we were to get caught, I'd deserve whatever happened.

  But we haven't been caught. Not yet. And when I think about being with Emily tonight, and about having her in bed with me, about the way we made love, and the way she shivered with pleasure and bucked against me as she came, while I held her tight—I’m prepared to risk being caught for that. Emily's worth any risk, and the more time I spend with her, the more I feel it.

  Is there a way I could take her with me when I go? She's finishing, and she isn't going straight to graduate school, so—

  Don't be a bloody idiot, Spencer. She's a girl, not a souvenir doll. She has her own life to live, and you can't take her out of that just because of what you want. Your home is halfway across the planet, not here.

  I pick up the mask, fish the keys of the rental car out of my bag—stay on the right-hand side of the road tonight; boy, that was a close shave this morning—and look around the flat.

  Besides, it's not as if she won't want to move on. She's twenty years old, and this is a brief passion for her. She'll be sad when I leave after this semester, but at that age, she wouldn't expect anything different. She wouldn't expect any kind of serious commitment.

  So neither should I. Tonight, no talk of future plans, or of my family; that'll only upset her, and she's too beautiful to upset.

  I should just enjoy the moment, and enjoy the time I spend here. I look at my phone again to find the address of the hotel, and see Katherine's email again:

  Dear Bruv: I am coming to visit!

  One month. Details later.

  Love Kath xxxx

  Maybe when Kath comes to visit I can tell her about it, about Emily. Being over here has made me realize how much I miss my big sister.

  23

  It’s dark outside, and I’m standing outside the dorm in a Goddamn ball dress, trying to look inconspicuous. I could have waited for him to call, but this was the only way to make sure I could escape without everyone on my floor seeing me and asking where I was going, why I was dressed like this, what I was doing and who I was going with. Twice a couple of cars have pulled up, and I’ve had to hurriedly jump behind a bush to avoid being seen.

  I see a black sedan pull up at the corner, and the passenger door opens. The inside is dark, and I can’t see the driver. Well, it’s either him, or someone who thinks I’m a very expensive hooker. Great.

  With as much courage as I can muster, I walk over to the car and stick my head in.

  “Wow.” A deep, clipped, English voice greets me, and the light flicks on. “Get in.”

  I slide inside and pull the door shut. He’s dressed in a midnight-blue tuxedo, with a white shirt that almost glows in the dim light of the car. His hair is brushed back off his face, and he’s looking at me with such intensity I’m struck speechless.

  “You look…incredible, Emily.” All I can manage is a wan smile.

  “Thanks. I bought it just for this.”

  “Got your mask?”

  “I do.” I pull it from my bag and put it experimentally to my face. “Look okay?” Ronnie and I spent most of the afternoon gluing sequins and glitter onto the damn thing, and I have a feeling I’ll be picking glitter out of my bed for months now.

  “Gorgeous. Let me see your face again.” I hadn’t realized just how close we were sitting until right now. He places a finger on my chin, tilts my head up, and kisses me very gently on my top lip. The sensation makes me shiver, and I hope he can’t see me do it. Don’t let him think you’re a silly girl, Em. I cough.

  “Shall we go?” It comes out blunter than I’d intended, and he smiles quizzically.

  “Anything you say, Ms. Masterson.” He puts the car in gear, and we pull away, leaving the charmingly grimy student dorm to be swallowed up by the darkness.

  On the way, we talk. About the things we didn’t know about each other. His childhood in England, happy, but alone with books all the time. Mine, down in Massachusetts, the middle child, all boys except for me.

  The time he spent traveling, riding a horse through northern France because ‘he wanted to see the countryside, and the back of a horse is the best way to do it.’ My own writing, the challenges of social media for academics. Everything.

  I feel myself slipping away in his eyes, his voice. I don’t want the car ride to end. I want to go on like this, in the darkness together, just us.

  * * *

  The hotel is a great island of lights blazing in the night. There’s a pause in our conversation when we arrive and the car rolls to a halt. Will looks over at me, and I try to keep my breathing steady.

  “I’ve never been in this situation before, Emily.” He’s smiling, but his tone is serious. “I keep thinking this is a terrible idea, but then I see you, and everything else gets swept away.”

  I swallow hard. “I—I— know what you mean.” For a second I think we’re going to kiss again, then the valet bustles up to the door, and the moment passes.

  I get out—knees together, swivel your butt—and before I know it, he’s there, taking my arm. The carpet stretches in front of us as the car purrs away behind.

  “Don’t forget your mask, Ms. Masterson. Tonight, you’re my beautiful and mysterious guest.” He slides his own mask over his hair. It covers his cheekbones, and down to the square line of his jaw, but nothing can conceal those eyes.

  Hurriedly, I slip mine on, and do a little twirl for him. “Beautiful and mysterious enough for you?”

  He chuckles. “Every bit. Come with me.”

  The walk down the carpet seems like a very long way indeed, and we’re pounced on, coats removed, plied with champagne, before we even get in the door. Not that I’m complaining. I should have eaten more before I got here, but it’s too late to worry about it now. Will is a steadying presence at my side, and he steers us through the throng around the main door, champagne glass in hand.

  Inside, the air is thick and warm like molasses; I’m not sure if it’s the champagne, or the heat from the giant candelabras nestled like forests in the corner of the ballroom.

  We take a moment to look over the dance floor, couples gliding past us, and I feel a surge of envy. Will looks over at me, and he must be able to see the look on my face.

  “Would you like to dance, beautiful and mysterious guest?” Uh-oh.

  “I’m not, uhh, much good. We had lessons at school when I was a kid, but I kind of hated it. Looking at them now, though, I wish I’d paid more attention.” He snags my champagne glass out of my hand, and deposits it on the tray of a passing waiter.

  “You’ll be fine. Come with me.” This is eviden
tly happening, and there’s not much I can do about it. Part of me is terrified I’m going to tread on his feet, but I keep quiet. Will’s right hand slides from my waist up to the small of my back, and his left hand takes my right.

  “What, uhh, what kind of dance is this?” I’m playing for time, but he’s not buying it.

  “It’s a foxtrot. Now, with me.” I feel his body press into me, and all of a sudden I’m being carried along, into the mass of dancers. We’re picked up and moved along by the momentum of the music and the combined force of all the couples on the floor.

  I’m sure if I could see behind me, I’d be terrified, but all I can see is Will’s chest, and all I can feel is his arms around me.

  We spin across the dance floor, and I’m in heaven. Genuinely, honestly, in heaven. I never imagined I could dance like this, and my nervousness evaporates in his arms. All I can think of is how I don’t want this to stop, ever.

  “Emily.” I look up. The song has finished, and the dancers are filing off the floor, heading for the buffet. Will looks down at me, smiling. “Did you enjoy that?”

  I try to find something to say that doesn’t make me sound like the smitten girl I seem to be. “It was, was wonderful. Where did you learn to dance like that?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a very important skill if you’re going to be a suave man of mystery, you know. James Bond, that bloke who plays Loki, me—all English men are basically the same.”

  “Well, superficially you might be right, but I know you a little better than that, Professor.” I’m not going to be completely taken in by his urbane-Englishman act.

  “Oh, really?” His arm moves back up to my shoulder, and he guides me off the dance floor. “What is it, exactly, you know, then?”