Misadventures with a Professor

by Sierra Simone

  “At first,” I say, and the words leave me heavily. “At first. It was new to me—all of it was new. I was only just realizing what I liked and what I needed, and I think it became too real in the end.”

  “Because you were her professor?”

  “I wasn’t her professor,” I reply. “She was mine.”

  Zandy’s fingers still on my skin, and I can tell I’ve surprised her. “She was?”

  “We met as I was studying for my PhD. I’d like to say that we restrained ourselves until such a time when a liaison was ethical, but that would be a lie.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first couple to start that way,” Zandy says, and it warms me a little bit to see this young thing trying to comfort me. “So were the roles reversed? Did she do the spanking?”

  There’s a hint of a tease in her voice, and I give her a mock-stern tweak to the chin. “I always do the spanking, Miss Lynch. And I think the reversal of our power dynamic in the classroom is what excited her at first. For her, it was novel. To me, it became necessary.”

  I find that I miss Zandy’s hand moving over my skin, and I wish she’d keep stroking me as I talked. Even with her, the first person I’ve felt a desire to open up to in years, it’s not an easy story to tell. “We had about a year together. And then she got pregnant.”

  Zandy stiffens in my arms. “You have a child?”

  “Miss Lynch, listen when your professor is talking.” It’s the closest I’ve come to a joke around her, and the answering smile on her face is worth everything. I resolve to do and say whatever I have to in order to make her smile more often.

  “I was dazed when she told first told me she was pregnant,” I continue. “Too dazed to be either elated or terrified, I think, but I offered her everything I could. I offered all of my support. I offered to quit my PhD program or transfer to another university so that I could marry her. I was ready to give up any part of my life I had to in order to make it work.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “That she wanted a paternity test,” I say, and in my mind, I can still see us arguing in that dimly lit flat, the rain pouring outside and the blank expression on Rosie’s face.

  “What?” Zandy asks.

  “The baby wasn’t mine,” I explain.

  “But then—oh.” I can see as she puts it together. The timelines, the evidence of infidelity. “Oh.”

  “She didn’t want it to be mine. She was very blunt about that. She was very blunt about…well, lots of things. She’d been unhappy for some time, hence the cheating.”

  “That bitch,” Zandy mutters, and her ferocious loyalty makes something in my chest impossibly light but tight too, like a balloon.

  “Well, it was partially my fault. We’d grown into our bedroom games together, you see, and sometimes when something happens organically, you forget to communicate about it. And that’s what happened with Rosie. I was happy, so I thought she was happy.”

  “Would she have been happy without the kink, you think?”

  A fair question and one I’ve asked myself every day since that fight. All the names she called me, all the reasons she didn’t want to raise a child with me, they’ve rattled around my mind for so long that they’ve become part of me, like a tree growing around a fence.

  Degenerate.

  Deviant.

  Pervert.

  “It’s hard to say. I offered that too, to give up the professor games, but she refused… I think she resented me too much by then. The last time she spoke to me was an email informing me the test had proved the baby was his.”

  “Did you want the baby to be yours?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. Yes…and no. I think the idea of a child with a woman you love always seems thrilling, but in retrospect, she didn’t love me and I’m not even sure I loved her. Not in a lasting way, at least.”

  She moves her head, nodding against my shoulder in understanding, her hair sliding all silky and sweet smelling over my skin.

  Either the memory’s teeth have blunted over the years or something about Zandy eases the ache, but I find that I feel okay about the past. About Rosie. It’s hard to feel upset about anything that led to this moment, with Zandy’s soft curves tucked against my side and her hands on my body like it belongs to her.

  “What happened after you broke up? Did you do the kink with anyone else?”

  I think back to the intervening years between Rosie and now. I was a mess, both personally and professionally, and I owe a lot to the friends who saw me through, like Zandy’s father, who helped me in every way he could. “I saw a few people, nothing serious. The kind of hookups you arrange online, that kind of thing. It got old after a while because it wasn’t the same without someone I also liked and respected on an intellectual level.”

  She grins up at me. “Does this mean you like me, Professor Graeme?”

  I give her a playful scowl and tug on her hair. “Don’t push your luck, Miss Lynch.”

  She nestles back into me with a little yawn. “That explains why you’re such a stickler about the condoms,” she says. “The baby thing.”

  “Precisely so.”

  “Do you want babies someday? Or has that all been ruined?”

  “So blunt, Miss Lynch.”

  But she’s not asking in a fishing way—rather like she genuinely wants to know, and I think about it. About how Rosie was recently promoted to department head at my university and how there was no avoiding her then. No avoiding the very pregnant belly with her third child inside and her giant wedding ring. I took this sabbatical right after.

  Deviant.

  Degenerate.

  “No,” I finally answer. “I think that door has shut for me.”

  “That’s sad,” Zandy says sleepily.

  I suppose it is sad, but I can’t imagine going through all that again. The hope and the joy, and then the shame and the disgust…the heartbreak. Better just to avoid it entirely.

  After a few minutes, I say, “I don’t think kinky professors get to have babies and wives,” and I’m rather proud of myself for saying the word kinky out loud…until I realize the girl next to me is fast asleep and snoring against my chest.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zandy

  When I wake up the next morning, Oliver is across the pillow from me, his beautiful river-colored eyes all soft and gentle on my face.

  “Good morning, Miss Lynch,” he says with a smile that’s small but open and real, and I feel my heart dipping low inside me, like it’s weighed down with happiness and is going to sink right through the mattress.

  “Good morning,” I answer in a sleep-croak, and then I make a face. My breath must be awful, not to mention the makeup I surely have smeared around my face. Of course he looks gorgeous right now, with that perfect, haughty face and his even more perfect hair. I try to roll away, and he catches me. “No,” I moan, ducking my head into my pillow to try to hide my morning self. “I need to clean up.”

  “And you may, but I have to know, Zandy, were you planning on leaving last night?”

  His voice is husky from sleep too, but it’s also more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard him. Gentler. As if he’s already bracing himself for the answer.

  “Yes,” I say honestly, because I do like to be honest. “But not anymore.”

  His brows furrow the slightest bit, and it’s just so unfairly handsome on him that I can’t stand it. I kiss him with my terrible morning mouth and get out of bed.

  “So you’re staying?” he asks, and the vulnerability is louder than ever, filling in the spaces between the words and lighting something very young and sad-looking in his face.

  “Yes, Oliver. I’m staying.”

  Relief illuminates his face, and I’m rewarded with another one of those massive smiles, so big there are lines around his mouth and eyes when he makes it.

  “Even with the”—I see him struggle to say the word, but he manages it with only a little bit of a blush—“the kinky stuff?”

 
“Especially because of the kinky stuff,” I assure him with a wink, and then I go find a shower and a toothbrush, a big smile on my own face.

  After I’m all cleaned up and ready to work, I find myself strangely slow to go down to the office. Which Oliver will I find there? It seemed like we connected last night and this morning, but I thought that the first time we made love here at the cottage, and I was wrong. I don’t think I can bear it if I open the door to find another cold Oliver again. Not after what we’ve shared together.

  So it’s with a deep breath and a lot of bravery—and a pat on Beatrix’s head for good luck—that I open the door to Oliver’s study and walk inside.

  He’s already behind the desk and bent over his work, all tousled hair and long fingers and wide shoulders. That old-fashioned ink pen winks in the sunlight as it moves in deft motions across the page. He finishes penning something in his notebook, ends it with an efficient little flourish, and then deigns to notice my presence. When he looks up, his mouth is in that sharp frown I normally find so irresistible, although it terrifies me right now.

  “Miss Lynch,” he says brusquely, and my heart plummets to my feet. Is that what this is going to be? Is today going to be a repeat of yesterday?

  Am I being rejected again?

  But then Oliver leans back in his chair and studies me in a way that I recognize, with his pulse jumping in his throat and his eyes gleaming with hunger.

  “Come here. I need a word.”

  I don’t have to pretend to be shy or uncertain as I walk to the desk. My chest is being hammered at with a heartbeat that’s out of control, pumping every kind of hormone every which way through my body, and my mind is racing through every possibility. Is this a game? Or is this real? Did he come down to the office and find something I’d done wrong? Did he come down here and suddenly realize he wanted me to leave after all?

  When I get to his desk, he impatiently gestures for me to come around the other side, and so I do with some worry, biting my lip.

  “We need to talk about your work,” he says, pointing to a paper on the desk.

  I’m already puzzled because this isn’t my work. My work is all databases and bookshelves, and this is just a paper with a single line written across it in ink pen. When I get closer, however, I see what’s written on the paper, and then I’m biting my lip for an entirely different reason.

  Red means stop.

  I look up at him, and while he’s still frowning, there’s a palpable thrum of excited lust around him.

  This is a game, I realize. And he wants to make sure it’s okay with me if we play. He wants to check, and I love how careful he is for a man who seems so aloof.

  How can he think he’s twisted inside when he’s so clearly concerned about my safety and emotional comfort? And has been even since our first night together in the rain?

  He’s a good man, I think, and he doesn’t even know it. This Rosie hurt him too much for him to see that his kinks don’t make him some kind of depraved freak. They might make him dirty, yes, unique maybe—but dirty and unique in a way that fit me perfectly, and I’m going to prove it to him.

  I’m going to show him how much the filthy whorls and loops of his personality fascinate me. How well they feed me and please my inner teacher’s pet.

  “I don’t see the problem with my assignment, Professor,” I say, giving him my best innocent face. “I thought I followed all the instructions you gave me.”

  He gives me a dazzling smile and reaches out to squeeze my hand once before settling back into his flinty look from earlier.

  “You didn’t,” he says shortly. “And I’m afraid there’s no time for you to rework the assignment.”

  “Please,” I say, putting my hands in front of me and twisting them. I’m a little surprised at how easily it comes to me, my role, but it’s because I do really want to please him and it’s so easy to imagine how unhappily desperate I’d feel in these circumstances. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just don’t give me a bad grade.”

  He studies me, propping his head against his fingers and letting his eyes roam over my body with predatory leisure. “Anything?” he murmurs. “Do you need the grade so badly?”

  “I do. Please, you know I do.” I cast around for what I might really say if I were in some kind of academic trouble, letting the sharp judgment in his gaze affect me. I feel ashamed, as if I really have messed up an assignment, and I also feel so fucking turned on I can’t think straight. “I’ll do an extra assignment. Two extra assignments!” I add when he starts to shake his head.

  “That won’t work, unfortunately,” he says. “Unless…”

  I don’t even have to pretend to light up, that’s how real this all feels. “Yes? I’ll do it. I promise I will.”

  “Fine,” he sighs, “but it’s highly unusual. I daresay you won’t be making the same mistakes with your paper after this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His pulse jumps above the collar of his button-down. He likes that.

  “Are you wearing knickers beneath that dress, Miss Lynch?”

  “Professor?”

  “Take them off. You won’t need them for this.”

  “B-But, sir—” I pretend to protest, even though inside I’m already squirming with delight. Already thinking of his palm on my backside and his long, thick cock pumping inside me.

  He cuts me a look that brooks no argument. “This is your grade. If you want to fix it, this is how.”

  I give my best impression of a timid pout, although I think he can see the grin threatening to break through as I shimmy out of my panties. He holds out an imperious hand, taking them expressionlessly and putting them in a desk drawer.

  “My bra too?”

  “Bra too.”

  I take off my bra from under my dress, a little clumsily, wondering if I should just peel the whole dress off but deciding I should follow his instructions literally for now. It does feel quite lewd after I hand him the bra, standing there in a thin dress with nothing underneath. The soft jersey against my sensitive nipples only pulls them tighter and tighter, and my breasts feel obscene like this, heavy and loose and hard-tipped. Oliver seems to agree, his eyes darkening as he takes in my curves under my dress.

  “You have a filthy little body, Miss Lynch. It’s fucking profane. It makes me think shameful thoughts, and do you know what happens to a man when he thinks thoughts like I’m thinking?”

  I shake my head, even though my eyes drop down to his lap.

  “That’s right,” he says. “My cock gets hard and it needs to come.”

  I lick my lips instinctively at the thought, and he growls.

  “Up on the desk.”

  I’d expected to go over his lap, so my hesitation is real. “Sir?”

  “You heard me, Amanda.” The use of my full name isn’t lost on me—he means business now, and I’d better listen.

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way…although the punishment for not listening might be kind of fun too.

  I sit on the edge of the desk facing him, keeping my skirt primly around my knees, which of course he doesn’t allow for long. He grabs at the hem and pushes it up to my waist, separating my knees with an impatient hand. The kiss of coolish morning air against my wet and swollen cunt is nearly unbearable—almost as unbearable as his wicked gaze taking in my most feminine place.

  He wastes no time in inspecting my pussy, rubbing me with his long fingers and then spreading me open to see if I glisten for him yet. I do. I can hear it as he moves his fingers over me, and I take a strange kind of pride in showing off how wet I get for him, how needy and slutty he makes me. I don’t want him to doubt ever that his needs are also my needs—that they get me off as surely as they do him.

  “You are so fucking filthy,” he swears, and I can see how fast his chest heaves under his button-down. “You like this, don’t you? You wanted it.”

  “Yes,” I breathe, my head lolling to the side as one finger probes inside. “I wanted it.”
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br />   “I knew it. I’ve seen the way you watch me in class, Miss Lynch. It’s improper. It’s very wrong.”

  “I can’t help it,” I whimper, lost to our game and to the skilled massage of his finger inside my pussy.

  “I bet you even failed your assignment on purpose, just to provoke me into punishing you.”

  “I had to,” I gasp. The heel of his palm is rolling against my clit now, and my legs are spread as wide as they’ll go as I shamelessly fuck his entire hand. “I didn’t know how else to get you to notice me.”

  “You think I didn’t notice you? Those eyes, so innocent, with that mouth that just begs for a cock? You think I didn’t notice those wanton tits? How they spill over your bra when you bend over? How they jiggle when you move?” He breaks off on his own groan now, and I can see the painful-looking outline of his dick in his trousers, pressing so hard against the fabric that the shape of the flared crown is visible.

  “I think you need to be taught a lesson, filthy girl,” he growls. “I think you need to fix the mess you’ve made.”

  “Anything,” I say, bucking wildly against his hand. I’m so close, so very close. “Anything you want.”

  He removes his hand so suddenly that I curl around its absence, whining at the loss. He ignores me, unfastening his belt and trousers and pulling out his penis. It’s dark and thick, so hard that the skin at the top shines and I can make out every ridge of muscle and vein under the thin, velvety skin of it.

  “Suck,” he orders, and I comply eagerly, scrambling to my knees between his legs and taking the delicious organ into my mouth.

  His answering moan is worth every discomfort I feel as he gently gags the back of my throat, as he winds his hands through my hair and guides me faster and deeper over him. I’m grateful for the guidance, as I’m still so new to this, and I let Oliver’s tensing thighs and hitched breaths teach me where he likes my tongue, how deep he likes to linger.

  “I should keep you as my pet,” he mutters viciously to the top of my head. “Keep you under my desk sucking me all day. Keep you tied up and bent over my desk so I can fuck that pretty cunt whenever I get bored. What do you think?”