Dominant Professor: When you crave the punishment, you break the rules.

by Mia Luxe

He mulls over my words. I can tell he’s figuring out a way to make me look stupid in front of everyone, to find some flaw in my perfectly reasonable answer.

  “A disappointing answer. You covered only the private sector. With a business like a painting company, you need to look deeper. That includes the company’s history with the state, government, and IRS before you can make a business decision. If you fail to do that, a sound investment can turn into a huge loss for you and your investors. Is that clear?”

  Deep breath Olivia. He’s testing you. It doesn’t matter what you answered. The only reason he asked you a question is to correct you in front of everyone. He’s seeing if you’ll lash out again. If you’ll lose your cool.

  I bite my lip, forcing the sharp retort to stay in my thoughts. The gaze of the class is on me. I know that everyone is waiting to see if I yell out and call him an asshole.

  “Yes, Professor Harrison, it’s clear now. Thank you for your in-depth explanation.”

  See? I can swallow my pride. Nice try Professor Harrison, but you’ll find me more difficult to provoke than that.

  He smiles that cocky smirk, keeping eye contact until I cannot meet his eyes any longer. I have to look down.

  Every student in the class knows who is in control once again.

  A shiver runs through my body.

  Courting

  Olivia Abernathy - Tuesday Evening

  I can feel the sweat dripping down my brow. Professor Harrison might be in control in the classroom. Out here, I am in charge. The volleyball court is my domain. Across from me and ready to return my serve is Kim.

  My team is my family out here, halfway across the country and away from my old friends and family.

  My so-called friends. I knew her all my life and she sleeps with my boyfriend? Fuck them. I’m far away from all that now. These are my friends. This is my new family.

  I’m closest with Zoe and Kim. While I get along well with everyone else, most of them were popular in high school and you get the sense they know I was not.

  Popular girls have this innate sense of social standing. It’s like an instinct to them.

  I like to think of myself as studious. They probably think of it as being a nerd. Thank God for Zoe and Kim who accept me even when I prefer to hit the books instead of the booze.

  None of their opinions matter right now. Here at practice, only one opinion matters. Coach Feldman’s. After the last game of disasters, he warned me I might not even start the next game. That is not something I can handle. One of our biggest games of the season with me on the sidelines does not compute. It is time to prove I deserve my place on the starting line.

  On this court, I’m not the stupid girl who got cheated on. I’m not the worthless student who can’t even get an A. Here, none of that matters.

  All that matters is this serve. This play. This point.

  I study my opposition. Kim, sweet Kim, who has a big heart and is right now making a big mistake.

  I have told her over and over that she stays too far back against serves, and she still has not fixed the mistake.

  She fears the raw power and does not expect technique.

  My feet lift me from the ground as I soar into the air, the ball rising up in sync with my leap. The firm crack of my open hand against the volleyball propels it forward like a rocket. The only thing more satisfying than the slap of my hand against the volleyball is the echo when the ball hits the hardwood gym floor in a perfect ace.

  “Nice shot Olivia!”

  I smile at Zoe. Ever the supportive friend and teammate, we exchange a high five. I am so glad to have her on my team.

  I notice Coach Feldman nodding as he watches me. He was never one to show much emotion.

  “Again,” he barks out, and the ball is passed back to me. He wants to see if I can make the perfect serve twice in a row. I visualize the shot before I take it.

  Kim has over-adjusted, moving forward. This one is going to put her off balance.

  I’m going to get another ace.

  I’m going to prove I deserve to start the next game.

  The image of the perfect serve solidifies in my mind. I picture the ark of the ball when I notice someone watching our practice. The bleachers are usually empty during practice.

  It’s Professor Harrison.

  He’s dressed in a fitted suit and lounging on the bleachers, resting his weight on his hands as he leans back. His legs are spread wide and he looks infuriatingly comfortable while I sweat on the court.

  What is he doing here?

  I try to regain my focus. I leap, slapping the ball with power and strength. It soars over Kim’s head, putting her completely off balance.

  Shit.

  It keeps going.

  The serve misses the court by a mile. In a game situation, my team would lose position. In a close game, a mistake like that could cost us everything. My cheeks heat up. It’s embarrassing to make a mistake like this, even in practice.

  The fact that Professor Harrison is here watching makes it even worse. I had the perfect serve lined up in my mind, and his presence threw me off balance.

  “Again,” says coach Feldman.

  Brandy throws the ball to me. Zoe reaches out and gives me a quick fist bump for reassurance.

  “You got it girl.”

  All my energy goes into trying to focus. I attempt to push Professor Harrison’s out of my mind. I try to force the image of the failed serve out.

  I do not need to get another ace. I need to make a clean, consistent winning play and trust my team to be able to support me.

  I leap and spike it.

  Another miss.

  Anger flares up in me.

  Two in a row? I haven’t missed two serves in a row since high school!

  “Again!”

  The ball is thrown to me silently. There are no high fives. No fist bumps. Everyone is giving me space.

  My heart is racing, and my mind feels clouded by frustration.

  The ball just won’t do what it’s supposed to!

  No matter how hard I try not to look at the bleachers, I know Professor Harrison is watching and judging.

  What right does he have to waltz in here and break my concentration? I made the perfect play, and then he has to come in here and ruin my focus.

  The gym is dead silent. My team is wordlessly wishing for me to hit a good serve. My face feels hot and my body uncomfortable, a ball of stress building in my stomach.

  I try to picture the perfect serve in my head. Instead, all I can see is the way the ball soared over Kim’s head and missed the court.

  I throw the ball up, leaping into the air.

  It’s already too late.

  The throw is wobbly and erratic, and my hit off-center. The ball spikes forward with incredible power. The ark looks perfect, shooting forward into a hit that Kim is going to have plenty of difficulty returning, and my hope soars with the ball.

  Instead of arcing cleanly over the net it hits the top of the net, bouncing back into the court with a dull thud.

  “Come here.” Coach Feldman’s voice drips with disappointment.

  I walk to Coach Feldman. His bald head glistens under the gym lights, and his polo shirt hangs loosely on his thin, wiry frame.

  “What the hell happened there? You make one of the best serves I have ever seen you hit, and then three faults in a row?”

  What happened is Professor Harrison came here and broke my focus.

  “I - I don’t know.”

  “Laps.”

  “How many, Coach?”

  “Until I say so. Go!”

  My feet are already pushing me forward. My legs burn, and I savor the pain. I am sore from the practice, but nothing burns worse than the embarrassment.

  My fists clench as my path takes me towards the bleachers.

  I will not spare Professor Harrison a glance. I just humiliated myself in front of my team and my coach because this cocky man in a suit decided to stare at me.

  I pr
omised myself I would not spare him a glance, but I can’t help it. As I run towards him, the venomous words spit out of my mouth.

  “Why are you even here,” I blurt out as I approach, slowing my run to a jog.

  “I’m here to see if what George says is true.”

  It takes me a second to make the connection.

  George is Coach Feldman’s first name, though I have only heard anyone calling him Coach before.”

  “You know Coach Feldman?” I stop in front of Professor Harrison, jogging in place.

  “Oh yes. He was stiff competition in the pool once upon a time. When he stopped swimming and got a career coaching, we kept in touch. You better keep running. George hates slackers.”

  My cheeks flush bright red.

  “You don’t tell me what to do, not here, not on this court. Now tell me, why are you here?”

  He shifts his weight forward, leaning towards me.

  “I’m here because George said you’re the best player in the entire division - at practice. During games, you’re good, but you crack under pressure. It looks like you cracked under pressure today.”

  “It didn’t help to have you sitting here, watching!”

  He shakes his head like he’s disappointed at my response.

  “There are worse distractions than me. You have a lot to learn in our first mindset session tomorrow. Right now you’re mad. You think you’re mad at me, but you’re mad at yourself.”

  I’m mad at you, you arrogant, know-it-all infuriating specimen of a man!

  I force my mouth shut before I say the words. No matter how badly I want to take out my anger on Professor Harrison, I manage to keep the words to myself.

  And I didn’t even have to bite my lip to stop myself from blurting out.

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.”

  “Good. You’re sore, Miss Abernathy. Take a hot shower tonight, as hot as you can handle.”

  I let my feet carry me away, and by the time I have done my first lap Professor Harrison is gone.

  Forty minutes later, practice is over and the rest of the team goes to the locker-room to shower. I stop running, panting and breathing hard. Coach Feldman looks at me with his silent gaze. It’s just me and him left in the gym.

  I start running again.

  He watches as I run harder than I ever have before, every muscle in my body telling me to stop. I keep pushing on.

  Ten minutes later he leaves the building. The gym is empty except for me and the sound of my feet slapping against the floor.

  I keep running.

  Red Haired Devil

  Bruce Harrison - Tuesday Evening

  The gym door clicks behind me as I leave the gym. It was hard to tear myself away from the sight of Olivia sweaty in her little workout shorts, but I’m running late.

  I want to do the dirtiest things to her perfect sweaty body.

  A small pang of guilt hits me. I couldn’t help myself. I had to stop by and watch her practice on my way to the onerous staff event.

  It’s my fault. That first serve was a work of pure art. Her body is poetry in motion, flawless form and intense determination. And yet as soon as she saw me, the next three serves miss. I make her so angry. Does she truly resent me so much?

  The air feels fresh and clean as I walk from the gymnasium to the conference hall. My tailored suit is comfortable, but I’ll still feel out of place in the conference hall. I can’t relate to the other faculty members.

  Many of my coworkers have never really “worked” a day in their lives. They went straight from high school to college, from college to grad school, and from grad school to being professors. That’s why it’s important I keep teaching. These students need someone who has done what they talk about. Someone who lives the life.

  I pass through the doors and into the conference room. Laid out on a cheap folding table are a punch-bowl and finger sandwiches. The white bread and shining deli meats are nauseatingly bland and nutrient-free.

  The Dean arranges these little meet-ups twice yearly. He’s forty years old and passionate about the school, and I have only one complaint about him. He makes it clear that attendance at his “Minglers” is mandatory, so I give him ten minutes of my time to keep him happy.

  I’ll make my rounds, talk a little bullshit, and be out of here in no time.

  I barely make it a step into the room before I hear a familiar titter.

  “Oh, hello Bruce, you’re late!”

  I look to my right and see Laurel, the college librarian, bouncing up to me. Her pale breasts are spilling out of her low-cut dress. The fluorescent light shines against her long red hair and I can smell the faint hint of whiskey mixed with her perfume. The memory of last year’s “Mingler” jumps into my mind.

  “Did I miss much?”

  She rolls her eyes theatrically.

  “Oh, nothing much. It’s so boooring in here. There are so many other things I would rather be doing.”

  She eyes me up and down as she talks. I don’t even want to think about what she’s imagining.

  “Well, you know how Dean Smith Caruthers is. He loves his Minglers.”

  I keep my tone professional and polite, not wanting her to think a repeat of last time is going to happen.

  Laurel looks up at me and brushes her hand against my chest. I recoil from her touch.

  “The Dean knows we all work better when we get to know each other. Mmm, just like we got to know each other last time. Why don’t we get out of here and go to that secret little spot I know in the library and we can… read a book.”

  Last year jumps to my mind. It involved a flask of whiskey that Laurel somehow managed to hide in a dress just as tight and sheer as this one and a romp in the library.

  A romp that was followed by her “bumping into me” on campus a few too many times to feel natural.

  I feel only pity as I look at her, tipsy at a staff event. Compared to Olivia this woman who is my age seems childish and naive.

  “I’ve got enough reading for tonight with all these papers to grade. I’ll have to decline.”

  The disappointment in her eyes is palpable. I can tell her advances are rarely refused. For a second, her eyes narrow and I think I see a flash of anger, but it is gone instantly, replaced by her fawning smile.

  “Well, if you get tired of reading someone’s boring old term papers, you know where to find me…”

  And with that, she slinks away.

  Just last year I had taken her hard in the library, pressing my hand against her mouth to keep her from crying out.

  Today I feel no desire for her.

  Olivia. Olivia, the one woman who hates me with a passion. The one woman I want. What have I gotten myself into? How will I be able to control myself when I have her alone in my office tomorrow, her scent overpowering my reason?

  Steamy

  Olivia Abernathy - Tuesday Night

  Where the hell were you? Practice ended thirty minutes ago!”

  As usual, Zoe is lying in bed, a forgotten textbook near her feet and her laptop perched on her long body. Her feet actually hang off the tiny dorm bed.

  She is wearing her comfy pajamas as she loves to do after a hard practice. My own sweaty breathlessness is the complete opposite of her relaxed state. She pulls one of her earbuds out to chastise me.

  “Coach said to do laps. He didn’t say to stop.” My sentences are short and choppy. I barely made it back from practice to my dorm room. I felt like I was going to fall over with each step up the stairs to our second-floor dorm room.

  “You’re insane. You look like you ran a marathon!”

  “Maybe I did.” I grit out a smile. Though I am completely exhausted, it feels good to have run until my body gave out.

  There is only way to stop thinking about humiliating mistakes.

  You have to push your body so hard that your brain cannot think at all.

  “You’re insane Olivia. Go shower, you’re dripping sweat on the floor!”

&n
bsp; With a shake of her head Zoe puts her earbuds back in and goes back to her laptop.

  I step into the bathroom, turn the shower on, and strip the sweat-soaked clothes from my body. Naked, I stand in front of the mirror and watch how my body glistens with sweat. My matted hair is proof of my hard work. There is pure determination in my eyes.

  Some girls like the way they look when they get all dolled up for a date or some overpriced, noisy nightclub. I like the way I look when I am tired to the bone.

  I am about to step into the warm, relaxing water when Professor Harrison’s voice rings through my mind.

  Take a hot shower tonight, as hot as you can handle.

  The way he said it, it had not been a suggestion. It was an order.

  I won’t be taking any orders from that man. Although… he looked so proud and powerful in that photo of him winning the race in his office. Maybe he knows a little more than I give him credit for.

  Before I can rationalize it, I bite my lip and turn the shower hotter than I ever have before.

  If Daenerys Targaryen can do it, I can do it.

  Steam fills the bathroom. I steel myself and step into the heat.

  It feels like letting yourself walk into a hot tub without getting accustomed to it. The shock of the heat makes me gasp, and I almost step back out. My cheeks are flush from the exertion of running and the almost unbearable heat of the water. They grow even redder as I realize I have done exactly what Professor Harrison ordered me to do.

  Within seconds, the heat goes from the verge of painful to pleasurable. I can feel the deep heat soothing my aching muscles and I relax in the water, letting it flow over me. All the embarrassment of the day seems to disappear. I grab a handful of body wash and start to massage my muscles, relishing in the heat and suds.

  As I wash my body, a tingle of desire runs through me.

  I just followed Professor Harrison’s orders. I did exactly what he told me to do.

  My nipples harden and I can’t help but touch them, feeling them in my fingers and gasping as desire floods over my body. Nothing has ever felt this intense before. The image of the classroom fills my mind as I close my eyes and let my hands roam over my body, pinching and playing with my nipples.