The Professor (Becoming Jane)

by Adare, Alexis

  "Don't start," she warned. "And don't change the subject."

  Charlotte's boyfriend is a rich prep school dick-bag. She already knows what I think of him and she was right to see my jab for the diversionary tactic it was. I quit stalling, and filled her in, hitting all the high and the low points of the conversation I'd had with the Professor that afternoon.

  "Well shit," she said, slurping her wine. "He's just like, unrelentingly charming isn't he?"

  "Overall, yes. But he loses a few points with that rejection, don't you think?" I asked, glancing over at her while I popped open my eye shadow compact.

  "Nope, he gains."

  "What?"

  "Stay with me here..." she said over the steady glug of pouring wine. "He's valiant, noble even. He's thinking of your reputation, your honor, well, and his too. But, I mean it's clear from the boner he got when you were all up on his junk that this case of the hots goes both ways. He wants you too, for sure. I'm betting he'll come around. But only if you stop pursuing him."

  "I have," I said. "This afternoon was my last hurrah. Although I did leave him thirsty."

  "Good. Because you know what I'm thinking?" She paused and sipped her wine, musing quietly over the top of her glass.

  "No," I prompted. "I love you endlessly but I cannot read your mind."

  "Okay, I'm putting on my Mom hat for a second."

  I groaned. Our Mother, Lydia, is a therapist, specifically a sex therapist. Broadly speaking she loves nothing so much in this world as examining and analyzing the nooks and crannies of other people's psyche. Charlie had inherited this adorable little talent from my mother. And by adorable I mean annoying.

  "No, Janie, listen. Whatever is going on at home is heavy. Heavy enough that he ran away from England to come teach here for six months. But as he says, it's complicated, because whatever it is, he needs to take calls about it in the middle of a work day," she tapped on her wine glass for a long moment, thinking. "This guy's thing is control," she said suddenly.

  "Oh, great," I groaned again, and began pulling on my outfit for the first dance of the night.

  "No, I'm not saying he's a control freak. But right now, I bet he feels like his life is out of his control. You're only adding to that, with the flirting and the nip slips. So just back off, and wait for it. Give it some time and he'll come to you. He won't be able to help it." Charlie finished her wine and set her glass down, her eyes focusing on me fully for maybe the first time that evening. "Wait...where are you? What are you wearing?"

  "I'm at the club. I'm working tonight."

  "Oh, turn me around so I can say hi to the girls."

  "Can't, it's just me."

  "You, the whole night alone? Dang."

  "It won't be busy. Most of our customers are out of town already for Thanksgiving and it's supposed to snow hard tonight. Sasha said if somebody volunteered to come in and cover the regulars, everyone else could have the night off."

  "Aw you're so sweet, giving the mommy dancers the night off so they can have an extra night with their kids."

  "Well, I remember how hard it was on us when Mom had to work that awful retail job. I swear she worked like every Thanksgiving for five years," I said zipping up my skirt. "Speaking of which, are we going to see you Thursday for Thanksgiving, or Christmas for that matter?"

  "I don't know yet. Mason's still working out the details. Hey is that the skirt I made for you?" she said, quickly changing the subject from her domineering boyfriend to the snazzy skirt she'd made for my latest costume.

  "It is indeed. It's for my new ditzy sorority girl look. You like?"

  "I do! Spin, I want to see the whole thing."

  I backed away from the camera and did a slow 360 twirl. The outfit was cute, a variation on the naughty co-ed theme that was popular at a lot of college town clubs. I could've gone with yoga pants and college sweatshirt, but even strip club patrons have aesthetic standards. So Charlotte and I had collaborated on something with classic appeal, a hot pink plaid mini-skirt that skimmed the top of my thighs and had a zipper that ran the length of one side for easy removal. I'd added a sheer Peter Pan collar shirt to the ensemble, some lacy thigh-highs with garters, and a corset over a sheer demi-cup bra. I'd be wearing a blonde wig and headband with a pink bow, a pink scarf and a pair of eyeglasses. I was even incorporating a few props into the act, a stack of authentic Wagner University textbooks and a classroom chair. My shoes were standard-height stripper heels, although I admit, I'd spent a few hours on the internet last week looking for a pair of Mary Jane pumps in the perfect shade of pink.

  "Do I pass inspection?" I took a bow as Charlotte whistled and clapped slowly.

  "You look fabulous. I'm still amazed that no one has ever recognized you, like on campus. None of the frat boys have ever noticed that the hot co-ed is actually Lizzy Bendit from Clouds?"

  I wrapped my ponytail up in a bun, grabbed the chin length blonde wig from its stand on the makeup counter and slipped it onto my head, tucking any stray strands of dark brown hair up and out of sight.

  "Nope. Because most of them have never seen me. They can't afford Clouds. All the bros go to that skanky titty bar over on Fourth. The one with the beer-water and shitty buffalo wings." I stepped into the pink Mary Jane's and sat down to buckle them.

  "Oh right, there's that," Charlie agreed. "But what about teachers?"

  "Yeah, there's been a few," I conceded, "but either my disguise has held up, or they just didn't have the nerve to mention it. Which is understandable, since then they'd have to admit they'd been to a strip club."

  "True," she said.

  "Mostly..." I said, picking up my phone, "I've never been recognized Charlie, because in this line of work, no one is looking at my face."

  * * *

  I was right. It was a slow night. The snow had picked up and by 11:30 we had only a handful of customers. Most of them were either watching a sports show at our bar, working on a laptop or nursing a beer at one of the tables that lined the perimeter of our main stage. I didn't really mind. While I wasn't going to be making any big money on private dances or tips tonight, Sasha pays a great hourly rate, and I was able to use the time to experiment with the performance I was designing to accompany my new costume.

  DJ Mandy works an IT job at the hospital and spends her evenings moonlighting with us, spinning tunes. Her suggested playlist for my new act was a brilliant array of every rock song ever written about forbidden teacher/student lust. She ran through them one by one all night, allowing me time to experiment with choreography for the act. By the end of the evening I'd stopped removing any clothing (no one was watching anyway), and had worked out a routine that was one part burlesque, to one part striptease with a splash of fancy pole work thrown in for fun. I was just coming out of a perfectly executed fireman spin when I saw him.

  He stood in the shadows by the door, just to the left of the bar. I watched, breathless, as he stepped forward into the dim light of the club and graced Sasha with one of those killer English smiles when she greeted him.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  He wore a long dark grey wool coat and a patterned blue scarf that looked like cashmere.

  He's wearing a coat! And OMG he looks so fine in it.

  Thankfully, Van Halen stopped singing about how hot for teacher they were and the song ended. I slinked backstage unnoticed and adjusted my costume, peering discreetly around the curtain just in time to see Sasha seating the Professor at a table, the table at the very end of my stage. A few seconds later, Patti, our bartender came around with a bottle of dark imported beer and a bowl of mixed nuts. The Professor thanked her, removed his coat and scarf and draped them over the chair to his left. He sat down, threw a handful of nuts in his mouth, raised the bottle to his lips, and drank deeply.

  Before he sat down I'd gotten a glimpse of that ass and my god was he fine. He wore fitted denims, a tight white button down shirt and of course his ever-present glasses. How anyone could a make such a simple pairing l
ook so sexy I had no idea.

  Fuck! What the fuckity fuck fuck am I going to do?!

  The music started up and I heard the slow sexy notes of the first bars of The Police's “Don't Stand So Close to Me” playing clearly, tauntingly, from the speakers of our state of the art sound system.

  Fucking digital clarity. Goddammit!

  I couldn't run, I couldn't hide. I couldn't keep a customer waiting. Already I could see Sasha standing at the bar, looking for me. And DJ Mandy had skipped the song back, stretching out the opening refrain a little longer to allow me time. The routine I'd worked on leapt out of my head. I couldn't remember a single step, which meant I'd be flying blind, improvising a new dance, just for the Professor. I gave myself the fastest pep talk on the face of the planet, grabbed my stack of textbooks and headed out onstage. My only option was to go for broke.

  The song started over again from the top and I stood center stage, with my back to my audience of one. Books clutched to my chest, one hand resting lightly on my prop chair, I clenched my legs together tightly like a shy virgin. I was petrified and trembling when the spotlight came up, illuminating my backside as Sting sang of school girls’ fantasies. I kicked into autopilot and moved my body mindlessly, small steps, subtle movements, anything to get the ball rolling.

  I danced to the front of the stage, and flipped through my text books, setting the stack down carefully with an exaggerated forward bend that arched my back and displayed my cleavage to optimum effect. As I rose, I looked up, meeting his gaze over the rim of my bright pink prop glasses. I smiled at him, and saw shock flash across his features. But the surprise was quickly shuttered, his expression changing in an instant from pleasure to apprehension, his brows drawn together over a flinty, inscrutable stare.

  Removing my glasses I arched forward again, and set them on top of the books, then straightened and lifted my hands to the scarf at my neck. I untied the scrap of pink cloth, and cast it to the side. The Professor's eyes followed the movement, then snapped back to me, and I saw heat rising in their deep blue depths. Exhilarated at his response, I waltzed the few feet back to my prop chair, and dragged it forward with me to the front of the stage. My eyes locked on his, I set the chair in place, and sat, one leg crossed over the other, a demure pose that belied my intentions. Wriggling in my seat, I squeezed my knees together and fondled the lace of my stockings. Playing the timid schoolgirl, reluctant to share the grand prize too soon, my hands flew from my thighs, to my blouse instead. I attended to the buttons slowly, popping them one at a time, my eyes never wavering from his face.

  A muscle in his jaw twitched and the soft line of his lips hardened. He took a draught from his beer, then opened his jacket and removed his wallet from an inside pocket. He flipped it open, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, and set it on the edge of the stage. Then he pointed to his head.

  His meaning was immediately clear, but there was no way I was going to shed my wig that easily. It was my safety blanket, my mask, the last raft of pretense to which my courage clung and I was reluctant to give it up.

  Instead of removing the wig, I smiled at him and shrugged my blouse off one pale shoulder at a time, letting it slide from my fingers, over the edge of the stage, onto his table. He smirked and shook his head, held up another twenty-dollar bill and set it on top of the other. He pointed to his head again.

  I glanced at the money and back at him, then swiveled and propped my feet up on the stack of books, removing both of my heels in turn. He took another sip of his beer, set it on the table, and removed another bill from the wallet, setting it with the others. Once again he pointed to his head, this time propping his elbows up on the table he rested his chin on his tented hands, and smiled faintly, expectantly.

  The music changed at just the right moment, the ever-watchful DJ Mandy seamlessly transitioning from the sexy drone of The Police, to a striptease track that echoed their distinctive tones.

  Smiling sweetly I lifted my arms over my head, allowing my hands to fall tantalizing close to the wig and then past it. Over my breasts my fingers trailed. Along the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips and finally, gliding over my thighs down to my knees. I pried my legs open by degrees, then bunched the tiny pink skirt up my thighs to gain access to the garters. I unclipped them one at a time and rose. Resting a foot on the chair, I rolled the first stocking down slowly, mimicking the burlesque moves I'd seen the other girls perform a hundred times. I repeated the movements, tugging the second stocking from my foot. I sat again in the chair, leaned over, and dropped them both into a silken puddle on his table.

  He stared at the stockings for a moment and I saw his shoulders shake, with laughter or frustration I wasn't sure. He reached into the wallet, and pulled out more money. He held it up, a crisp one hundred dollar bill. He set it on the stack at the end of the stage, and then produced another, adding it to the pile. He did this five times, then held up his wallet and showed me its gaping interior. Empty. He didn't point at his head this time, instead he sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and scowled at me over the top of those glasses.

  He was visibly shaken now, the intensity in his gaze raging over my body like the heat from a furnace. His eyes roamed hungrily from my lips, to my neck, my breasts, and the silky bare expanse of my legs. The course of his study set me aflame, and for the first time in years, I felt shy. But the scrutiny was delicious, addictive. I was raw, exposed, beautiful. Overwhelmed, I flinched, and lowered my chin for a moment, steadying my nerves. Breathless moments passed. Finally, I lifted my head, and peered at him from under the fringe of my lashes. His expression softened a fraction, a hint of awe flickering across his handsome features. A blush of color rose in my cheeks, and across the tops of my breasts. My eyes flitted to the stack of money then back to him. I rose from the chair and as my hips swayed gently in time with the music, my focus returned and suddenly, I had an epiphany. I knew what I wanted to be.

  Every time I walk out onto this stage, I read the crowd, my customers, in order to become their fantasy. It's my special talent, my guy intuition, my Lizzy Bendit mojo, and it'd never failed me. Until I'd met the Professor. He was right. I didn't know him, couldn't read him, hadn't figured out his mercurial nature. But he didn't know me either, he never had a chance. All week long I'd been trying to seduce him based on my ideas of what he wanted. Not once had I been honest or vulnerable, the real me. That was going to change, right now. This was my chance, in this moment, to live out my desires. For the first time on stage, I didn't want to conceal my identity. I longed to be recognized for who I was. It wasn't Lizzy Bendit on stage right now, it was me, Jane Claremont and I wanted the Professor to see me. To see all of me. It was time to take it all off, including the wig.

  I smiled at him, danced to the pole and grasped it with both hands. My heart pounded recklessly, but I thrilled to find my courage resolute. I would not falter again. Hooking one leg around the pole I kicked out with the other and sent my body spinning rapidly around it. I pivoted midair, and crossed my legs, clenching the pole between my thighs, then shifted, rotated my hips and flipped upside down. My legs holding me firmly, I quickly removed the wig, and tossed it mid-twirl to the back of the stage. I whirled once more, my hair rippling around me like a silken curtain, before my body made a final rotation and I came to a stop, stage front. I shook out my hair, and let it cascade in a wave of mahogany curls down to the floor.

  I raised my eyes to the Professor and saw him, arms still crossed, one hand pressed to his mouth in a fist, hiding his expression from me. I spun again, and used the momentum to lift my torso upright. My fingers found the side zipper on the pink plaid skirt, and I slipped it off with just one hand, tossing it to the front edge of the stage. I was clad in very little now, only a thong, corset and a demi-bra. We were getting to the end of the dance, to the good stuff. My temperature and my nerves shot up by several thousand degrees. Arching my back across the pole I spread both legs wide and lifted my arms, twirling around the silver colum
n like a butterfly. I reached up and anchored myself with one hand, then slowly lowered to the floor, letting my legs glide away from me in a full split as my thighs made contact with the stage.

  Rising to my hands and knees I crawled slowly to the end, then leaned down to my glasses, still atop the stack of books. I gazed up at the Professor, and without breaking eye contact I flicked out my tongue and caught the glasses by the temple arm. Pulling the end into my mouth, I played with it for a moment, sliding my tongue over the earpiece, before setting them back on my face. I pushed the prop chair away from me and reached for the clasps of my corset, snapping apart each fastener until the front of the garment gaped lewdly. I peeled it away from me, and sighed at the tingle of blood returning to constricted flesh. I was nearly naked now, just the demi-bra and thong, two sheer scraps of lace left between me and the Professor’s eager gaze. I reveled in the sensation, and rose to my feet, writhing to the music, my movements a performance of wanton arousal.

  My gaze met the Professors again; he was fixed in his position, fist still raised to his mouth, only his eyes had changed. They'd grown darker now, fiercer. He looked like he either wanted to punch something or fuck something. If it was the latter, I hoped I was his target. I danced to the edge of the stage again, removed the glasses from my face and tossed them to the large pile of my clothing that was pooled on his table. It was time for the grand finale, the piece de resistance, the money shot, whatever euphemism you prefer will do just fine here. As the British say, it was time to get my kit off, and my entire body was trembling with anticipation.

  I reached behind me for the clasp at the back of my bra and unhooked it, then whirled around, whipping my hair over my shoulder to bare my back to his eyes. Removing the bra, I held it to the side and then dropped it, rather over-dramatically I admit, to the floor. I palmed my breasts, covering them and danced backwards to the end of the stage, my hips undulating seductively as I moved. My breasts felt heavy, swollen and tingling with need. I rolled the hard nipples between my fingertips and almost gasped aloud at the sensation. As the music reached its crescendo I threw my head back and closed my eyes. Spinning to face him, I raised my arms, gathered my hair at the nape, and lifted the waves high above my head. I let the silky strands cascade through my fingers, and down my shoulders, to caress the sides of my naked jutting breasts. The dance was over. I stood before him, exposed, free and eager to meet the Professor's gaze once again. Was he moved by my performance? What would I see in those brilliant blue eyes? Lust? Desire? I leveled my head and opened my eyes.