by May, Soraya
Watching her is just about the sexiest sight of my entire life, head thrown back, pressing herself against the desk as her hips buck again and again.
Slowly, very slowly, her breathing returns to normal, and her hand slips out of her jeans. I want so badly to take her hand and put it between my lips, to know what she tastes like, but I don't move from behind the damn desk. Her other hand is still on the desk, palm flat on the papers, and I realize a drop of my cum is on her pretty fingernails. Still looking at me, chest heaving, she lifts her hand to her mouth, and sucks my seed off her fingers. Her tongue licks out, tracing a line over her teeth, and I let out a wordless groan of desire.
The sound seems to break the spell we've been under. She flushes bright red again, but it's the red of embarrassment, not arousal. Her mouth opens, as if she's about to say something, and then closes again without a word coming out.
I have not the faintest idea what the right thing to say is in a situation like this. With surprising forethought, I keep my mouth shut.
Emily brushes her hair back, and backs slowly away from my desk. I don't know how she manages to get out the door without taking her eyes off me, but she does. I hear her footsteps outside, hurrying into the distance.
Two thoughts vie for space in my head:
1. This is the end of my career.
2. Maybe I should have told her to do up her jeans.
12
This is the most embarrassing thing that has happened, or ever will happen, in my life.
I just got myself off in front of my professor. What on earth was I thinking?
I was going to just go in there, give him back the notebook, and get out as quick as possible. Sure, it was really fucking sexy, knowing that he was thinking about me like that, but did I just tell him that I wanted him to fuck me?
Yes. That's exactly what I did. While my hand was down my pants and he was watching me.
Did I just lick his cum off my fingers? Yep.
Did I just tell him that I wanted him to come inside me? 3 out of 3, Emily Masterson. One hundred percent correct.
I’m in my room, hiding under my blankets, buried in my glorious pillow. There's a knock on the door.
"Hey, babe, what are you doing?" It's Ronnie.
"Hey Ronnie. I'm, uh, hiding." I can tell that won't really be enough of an answer.
"Hiding, hey? When do you expect to come out of..hiding?"
"About 2100."
"So, two hours from now?"
"No, I mean the year 2100. AD."
"Riiiight. Do you want to talk about it?" I consider this. Normally I'd want to talk, but I don't know if I can face explaining what just happened even to her. I know Dutch people are meant to be famously relaxed about sex, but this, this is something else.
"Honestly, Ron, I'll be okay. Just...just maybe leave me to it for a bit, huh?" There's a pause, and I hold my breath. I know she is contemplating trying to force her way in. I love her, but she has a bad habit of not taking no for an answer. Luckily for me, she decides against it.
"Okay, honey. Whatever you say. I'll be back to check on you in a bit." I exhale.
Now what? I sit up, pull the blankets around me, and try to make sense of the situation. I mean, it's not like I did anything that would get me in trouble, is it?
Dragging my laptop onto the bed, I look up the Lowell College Code of Conduct.
2. Every person in any class must behave in a manner consistent with a positive learning environment and comply with any rules governing the class
Hmm. Is masturbating on your professor's desk in front of him 'consistent with a positive learning environment'?
3. The person in charge of a class may exclude from that class and up to three subsequent classes any student who behaves in a disruptive manner or otherwise inconsistently with the rules governing the class
Well, I think I pretty much 'behaved in a disruptive manner', that's for sure. It's not as if Will isn't in just as much trouble as I am, though.
I'm pretty sure that for male professors, taking your cock out—that big, gorgeous cock of his—in front of your female students and stroking it—over and over again, with that look of lust in his eyes—is probably a violation of some kind of academic statute.
Look, a guy like that is bound to have lots of pretty girls fawning over him. He could go out to a bar and get laid any Friday or Saturday if he wanted to. His accent alone would have most girls falling all over themselves to drop their panties.
The best thing to do is just to pretend it never happened. I won't say anything in class, and I won't bring it up. I can imagine he'd be embarrassed too, so if no-one says anything, then it'll fade into history.
Years from now, it'll just be a dirty story I can tell my friends over drinks, about the time I made myself come on the professor's desk while he watched.
Like a horny little bitch, who wanted nothing more than to be taken by her professor, and to have him put that big gorgeous cock right inside me, and—
With an effort of will, I stop my hand, which seems to have been drifting towards my pants without my knowing. It's time to put this out of my mind, and just get on with my life. It was a weird experience, but now it's happened, and I'm just going to let it go.
I just wish I could stop thinking about his eyes, and about the look of pure desire on his face.
I've never met anyone who desires me that much.
I’ve never seen anything more sexy.
13
The Romans had an incredible number of words for sex, far more than most people realize. Every dirty word we have in the English language—the Romans had it, and many more besides.
But I have been through all of my Latin dictionaries, and I cannot find, even in Latin, words to express just how completely and comprehensively fucked I am right now.
Back in my apartment, I stare morosely at the mass-produced oil paintings on the wall, and wonder what's going to happen.
Is there any way I can possibly explain this? Is she going to go straight to the College authorities, and have me fired on the spot?
I think about the look on her face as she came in, nervous and yet wanting something. She was halting when she talked, but it took a lot of bravery for her to say that she'd found the thing in the first place.
I didn't want to take advantage of her. She deserved better behavior from someone in my position.
She's so deliciously fucking sexy, and the look of arousal on her face as she came—my cock twitches at the memory of seeing her, flushed, leaning on my desk as she shook in her orgasm.
I was just horny, and I took it out on the first pretty girl who came within range.
What an asshole.
If she does have a boyfriend, I wonder if she's going to tell him, and whether he's going to be pissed. I'd be pretty pissed if it were me.
If I were that age, and I had a girl like that, I'd hold tight to her and never damn well let her go.
I stand up, and start throwing my gym gear into a bag. Maybe a workout will take my mind off what's going on. The college gym is pretty small, and pretty old, but it's homey, and right now I have to get out of here or I'll go crazy.
As I lock my door to leave, I find I can't stop thinking about her, but not in the horny I-want-to-fuck-her-senseless way.
I'm thinking about how light she felt in my arms when I caught her, that first day we met.
I'm thinking about her intent look when I'm talking in class. She sits there, eyes locked on me, completely unaware of anything else. She doesn't flirt, or preen, or show off, like the other girls—she just gives me her whole attention, her whole self, completely, because she wants to learn everything I have to teach her.
And I took that attention and talked her into watching me masturbate.
Like I said, what an asshole.
14
My sense of impending doom about Monday’s class abates a little when I realize she's not there as I walk in. I get into the teaching, this time about depiction
s of the treatment of slaves in Roman satire, and it's going pretty well.
Halfway through, I look up, and there she is, sitting in the front row on the end where she usually sits.
How did she do that?
Doing my best to maintain the unflappable-Englishman thing, I carry on with the class. She listens intently, and asks a couple of questions. She doesn't smile, but there's no evidence of stress or upset in her voice, and I begin to think we might be able to forget about the whole episode.
But I don't want to forget about it. I want to do it again.
"Right, last question for this class. What does Juvenal say about the famous line ‘mens sana in corpore sano’, 'a healthy mind in a healthy body'?"
Another hand goes up near the back. "Mr. Jackson?"
"Well, it's what we should ask the gods to give us."
I shake my head. "Almost, but there's more to it than that. Anyone else?"
Her hand goes up. "Ms. Masterson?"
"Well, he kind of says that we shouldn't ask the gods for anything, but if we do, then we should ask them for a healthy mind in a healthy body."
I smile, and she smiles back for the first time in the class. It's so pretty. Not just sexy, but pretty.
"Yes, that's correct, Ms. Masterson. Okay, that's enough for today. On Wednesday we're moving on to Horace. If you don't have the book, there are a bunch of copies in the library, so try to come with one."
The students file out again, and I watch her leave. Just as she turns for the door, she glances back over her shoulder and looks at me, and smiles again.
15
After class, I take myself and my laptop to a cafe. I need to get out of my room where I've been holed up for the past two days, and here is as good as anywhere. I need to finish my essay about Molière by tomorrow, or I'll have no time to do any reading, and I don't want another evening falling asleep over my books at one o’clock in the morning.
Plus, I haven't seen Ronnie for a few days, and that's usually when she pounces with an offer of cocktails and dancing that can't be refused, like a tall, skinny, Dutch version of ‘The Godfather’.
Pushing my way through the students, I find a perch on one of the bench seats. I'd be happier if my feet reached the ground, but I hook one ankle into the stool, and start making typing motions with my fingers.
After ten minutes, I realize that I haven't typed a line, and sigh. I'm supposed to be working on an essay, but I'd rather be daydreaming about him.
I'm still embarrassed, and I thought by now I'd be actively wanting to forget about the whole weird fucking episode. But I don't. I want him to see more of me, but that can't—shouldn't—happen.
I arrange myself so no-one can see the screen of my laptop, and start to type an email. I need to apologize. Clear the air, get it out of the way, and then we can move on with a professional relationship. We're both adults, and this is the adult thing to do.
Dear Professor Spencer,
I hope you are well. I would like to talk briefly about my conduct on Wednesday night. Do you have time to meet for a brief discussion?
Regards,
Emily Masterson
I'm only working—staring at my blank essay page—for a minute when a reply pops up.
Dear Ms. Masterson,
Very well. I'm about to leave for the day, but if you are able, let's meet at 6pm at Bar Comida. It's not far from campus.
Regards,
Will Spencer
I guess that's okay. I mean, it's just a bar. It’s not like I’m going to meet a guy at a bar.
This is just a professional meeting from one adult to another, where I'm going to say that what happened was unexpected, and in no way reflects my conduct, professionalism and commitment to the class.
I pack up my laptop and hurry from the cafe. What should I wear?
Getting back to my room, I shower, trying not to think about what Will's naked body would look like in here with me. Still don’t know what to wear.
A dress is more grown-up and less preppy, but I don't want to look like I'm actually going out on a date, because that would be really weird. Not that this isn’t weird enough as it is.
I settle for a red A-line thing with a little bit of a flared waist; cute, but professional. Poking my head out the door, I make sure Ronnie isn't around, because I really don't feel like answering questions about where I'm going right now.
16
My keys and wallet are on the little glass table next to the kitchenette, under the Rene Magritte reproduction print that looks like it was left-over from the late eighties. This place is about as anodyne as apartments get, even by visiting-academic standards, but it's appropriate; temporary accommodation, for temporary people.
Speaking of 'appropriate', I'm not certain it's that appropriate to be meeting your students after-hours in a bar, especially the attractive female ones. You're kind of past that now, Dr. Spencer. Buuuut, the last thing I want right now is people seeing us talking on campus in any way that might arouse suspicion, and it's not as if I can ask her to come to my office after...after what happened. At least this way, we can get this resolved—more effectively than last time—and I can go back to teaching students, rather than fantasizing about them.
Now, what to wear? Go for something avuncular and serious-minded. Dark blue, yeah. With a white shirt. You're supposed to look like someone's professor, right?
Descending the stairs to the front door, I pull out my phone and find the location of Bar Comida. I've never so much as been out in this town, but I picked it because it was close to here, and in one of the back-streets; less chance of being seen that way.
It looks like it's only a couple of blocks, and it's 5.40 now, so I'll be there early. At least I've got a book if she's late again.
Apart from this alarming episode with Emily Masterson, I can't say that Lowell's a bad place; it's pretty, the town is appealing, and the students have been pretty receptive. Some more than others, ahaha.
Stop it, Will. You're feeling guilty about this, remember?
There are much worse places to be working, and the pace here is relaxed enough that I could work on a book. Maybe the revisionist commentary on the Aeneid everyone keeps telling me I should write.
It's actually nice not being in the hothouse environment of Bailey, where one's every action and word is being scrutinized and measured as being 'intellectual enough'. It always bothered me a bit at the time, but now, being away from it, it's all the more clear.
Fine, but you're not here by choice. If I were to stay here, it would be career suicide; it'd be perceived as a cop-out, and I'd be marked down as a second-rater who couldn't make it at a real university. I always loathed that kind of intellectual snobbery when I was in England, but I can't deny that it still stings a bit.
So, the only choice is to let it sting; do my penance here, stay under the radar, and go back to Bailey for a while, then do something else that I'd rather do. It's only temporary.
Temporary accommodation, for temporary people.
The streets are rain-slick, and the pavement a little narrow, so I have to pick my way carefully across towards the bar. I still can't get used to how they let drivers turn on a red light here; the first day I arrived, I nearly got run down twice. Since then, I've been a hell of a lot more careful about crossing. Also, thank heavens someone explained 'jaywalking' to me; I do get some leeway for being a foreigner, but being arrested for illegally crossing the road wouldn't be easy to describe to my colleagues back in England.
As I walk, I start to think about how best to handle this...episode...with Emily. The best thing to do is apologize—again—and say that it was a temporary lapse of judgment. She doesn't seem vengeful or manipulative, so the best I can do is to hope that she's going to accept it, poor girl.
It's funny, though; the thing I remember most as she left my office that night, sweaty and disheveled as if we'd almost made love, is how brave she was.
Brave enough to tell me she had the notebook
, and passionate enough to show me how she felt, right there.
When I go back to England, I'm going to miss having her there in class, perched on the end of the row. I still haven't actually seen her come in except for that memorable first time—don’t know how she does that—but she's always there, always looking, always focused. It isn't just politeness, although that's important; it's nice to feel that there's someone in class for whom my teaching really matters. Being wanted like that is the most attractive thing I've had happen to me for quite some time.
Emily Masterson is an admirable young lady, and she’s going to do something worthwhile with her life, there's no doubt about it.
The door to the bar is small, small enough that it must be an old building from the 19th century, with little panes of dark glass in it. I put my nose up to the glass, but can't see inside, although there's a light on, so it's open. I turn the handle after a brief look around, and step inside.
It's dark, and pretty poky. In years past this place would have had a haze of cigarette smoke at head height, and a bunch of taxidermy heads behind the bar, large dead herbivores gazing with glassy benevolence at the drinkers. As it is, there's a bartender, who nods noncommittally at my entrance, and a burble from a jukebox in the corner. That's it.
I head for one of the booths in the back, out of sight of the bartender, and try not to feel like this whole thing is quite so clandestine. My well-thumbed copy of Suetonius's Lives of the Twelve Caesars should keep me occupied until she arrives.
17