Professor Trouble

by May, Soraya

  “Well,” I slip my fingers into his, “I know that you are a wonderful teacher, a vivid and evocative writer, and—” I glance significantly at his trousers, “a damn fine lover, as well.”

  Man, that almost made him blush. I don’t believe it. I almost made Will Spencer blush.

  “I’m very glad you think so. Another glass of champagne?”

  “Why, thank you, Professor.”

  We dance twice more, and both times I feel like I’m floating, surrounded by him and the music, and nothing else. On the third dance, I pull him closer to me, feeling him harden against me. We’re in the middle of a crowd of dancers, and no-one can see his hand slip down over the sheer material of my dress, tracing a curve with his fingers over my ass.

  In response I nestle into his chest a little closer, and his fingers travel up my back, drawing a line up my spine. The sensation is exquisite, and I stiffen against him. He whispers in my ear.

  “Now. Upstairs. I have a room.” It’s the best thing I’ve heard all night.

  “Uh-huh. I’m all yours.” I want to give myself up to him completely, to have him handle me, open me up and make me melt just the way he did last time.

  He takes my hand, and pulls me off the dance floor, diving through the crush, heading for the elevators. Halfway there, I hear a muttered curse from Will.

  “Shit! It’s Tom Ericssen and his wife! Bugger!” He grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me behind a pillar. We’re pressed up close to each other in the small space between the pillar and the wall, and I can’t help but giggle.

  “Shush! It’s not bloody funny! If he sees us, even with these masks…” Will’s trying to sound severe, but I can see the corners of his mouth quirk up.

  “It is slightly funny, Professor, you must admit. We’re stuck behind a pillar wearing masks, hiding from your boss. If there was any less room here we’d have to get the Fire Department to come and get us out.” The tension is palpable, and I can see he’s trying not to laugh.

  “You are a bloody menace sometimes, Ms. Masterson. Come on, they’re gone. Quick now.”

  There are still a few people within sight, and we manage to restrain ourselves until the elevator doors close behind us.

  “I want you in my mouth, Will. I want to taste that gorgeous cock.” He lets out a low groan of desire.

  “Damn, I love hearing you say that. You have no idea what you do to me, Emily.” I smile up at him with a little quirk in my lips.

  “Tonight, Professor, I want to do all kinds of things to you. I want to show you just what a...diligent...student I really can be.” I grab his lapels and pull him down to kiss him hard on the mouth. The doors open and we half-fall out of the elevator, clinging to each other. Down the hallway, weaving left and right, hoping no-one sees his hand on my ass, and mine rubbing the front of his trousers. He fumbles for the key-card, and I step back for a moment, just to take in the sight of him.

  My God, he’s gorgeous. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, thighs outlined against his fitted pants. I’m almost salivating at the idea of getting those pants off him, and feeling him slide into my mouth.

  The door clicks open, and we stumble into the room. He’s really gone all-out—there’s a bottle of champagne in an ice-bucket, and a tray of chocolates laid out on the dresser, although I have a feeling we won’t get to either of them tonight.

  The moment the door shuts behind us, I’m on him, pulling at his shirt, almost feverish. My desire to taste him the way he tasted me is getting stronger by the minute. I stand back for a moment, and he unbuttons his shirt, each button revealing more of his delicious chest and flat stomach. I lick my lips, and he sees me and smiles.

  “That’s very flattering.”

  I don’t reply, but reach up behind me and unzip the back of my dress. It drops to the floor and I see desire flare in his eyes immediately.

  “God. I want you right now, Emily.” I can tell he’s controlling himself with difficulty, and there’s a part of him that wants to throw me on the bed and fuck me right away, but this time I’m going to be the one to please him first. I grasp him by his belt, and pull him closer. He’s so much bigger and heavier than me, there’s no way I could move him if he didn’t want to be moved, but he comes easily, willingly, grinning as he does so. I unzip his trousers, and slip them down his hard thighs, hooking my fingers under the elastic of his boxers at the same time. He steps out of them, and I pause for a second to savor the sight of his beautiful cock.

  Knowing that he’s mine, even if it’s only for this one night, is the sexiest thing of all.

  Without my consciously willing it, my lips go over the head of his cock, and I engulf him, drawing a hiss of pleasure from his lungs. He tastes sweet and salty at the same time, and the more I have of him, the more I want. I slip my mouth around him, moving up and down his shaft, as he lies back on the bed. Every stroke makes him harder in my mouth, and he starts to thrust his cock back deeper into me, wanting more from me.

  Taking some of his juices on my fingers, I pull my mouth off his cock for a second. “Sit up. I want you to watch me.” Eyes fixed on him, I slide my hand down my body, slick with his juice. He raises himself up on his elbows, eyes blazing with desire. Without breaking eye contact, I slide my wet fingers into my pussy, and he growls with pure lust.

  I want to make him want me more than anything.

  “Do you like that, Professor? You like watching your student fuck herself with her own fingers, all wet from your cock?” His response is more animal than human.

  “Damn. You dirty little minx. Keep doing that. Keep fucking yourself while you suck me.” I do as he suggests, eyes still on him, and put my mouth back over his cock. He starts to thrust back into my mouth, as I alternate strokes on his shaft, and my hand between my legs.

  I can feel his cock start to throb, and my pussy is almost painfully wet by now. Sliding my lips off one last time, I swirl my tongue around his head, and he shudders. Standing up, I kneel above him, straddling his thighs, poised to have him inside me. We pause for a moment, but I can’t wait for very long, and I can’t tease him any more.

  “God, Will. I need this. I need you deep inside me.” I slip down onto his shaft in one smooth movement, and the size of it drives all the breath out of my lungs. For a moment, I can’t do anything except sit astride him, impaled on him. He understands what’s happening, and pauses, giving me time to adjust to his size.

  “I want you to ride me, Emily. I want to watch you on top of me, just like this. Take your time.” I nod, briefly unable to talk.

  Slowly, very slowly, I start to circle my hips around him, each stroke sending a charge of energy up into my stomach. I put my hands on his chest to brace myself.

  Now he’s underneath me, pressing up into me, and I can feel him opening me up. The rhythm of our movement together makes the bed shift under him, and he steadies himself against the headboard. His hands slip over my thighs, gripping me tight. His cock is like fire inside me, and he knows just how to time each thrust so that it hits me as the wave of pleasure from the last recedes.

  “Just like that, Professor. Please. Don’t stop. Just keep fucking me exactly like that.” I manage to get some words out in between his thrusts, and I’m rewarded by another growl from his chest, and a tightening of his hands on my thighs.

  “God, Emily. You look so fucking sexy on top of me. Every time I see you, I’m going to think of you riding me, just like this.”

  I try to look as innocent as possible—not an easy job given my situation—and bite my lip again. “Really, Professor? You’re going to think about me on top of you, with that big cock of yours inside me, when you see me in class?”

  He grins. “Damn right I am, you sexy little minx. I’m going to be thinking about you gasping with pleasure when I lick you, and how you look with your mouth around my cock. You’re addictive, you know that?”

  I want him to be addicted to me. I want him never to give me up.

  Now he's all the way inside me, a
nd his hands are gripping my thighs hard enough to leave marks.

  I want him to mark me. I want to be his.

  We move together like this for what seems like minutes, but it's probably only a few seconds. The regular surges of pleasure through my stomach and up into my chest make me dizzy, and I'm surprised when he uses one hand to make me sit up a little. He takes my hand in his, and brings it to his mouth, running his tongue over my fingertips.

  "Touch yourself while you're riding me. I want to see you play with your clit." I do as he says, circling my clit with my fingers wet from his mouth. Sitting up like this, the angle of his cock inside me changes, and the feeling is less intense with each stroke, a slow building of intensity inside me.

  I know that when I come like this I'm going to make a mess all over him, but I don't care, and I think that's exactly what he wants. The feeling gets stronger inside me, and I speed up the motion of my fingers on my clit.

  "That's it. God, yes. I love seeing you with your hand on your clit while my cock is buried inside you." He's hoarse with need now, and I start to rock my hips back and forth, slippery across him with sweat. Faster, and faster, until he starts to shudder, thrusting up into me with such force that I'm almost thrown off him.

  "Fuck, Emily. That's so fucking good." I want to tell him how much I've wanted to see him like this, completely inside me, taking me as hard as he can, but I can't get the words out. All I can do is hang on as each stroke goes into me, and he starts to come, in a long, pulsing stream, shooting up into me.

  Yes, Professor. Please. Do this to me every day. Every night. Always.

  I throw back my head, and arch my back, and scream his name in a drawn-out, ragged noise of pure pleasure. A light explodes behind my eyes, and I collapse forward onto him, tears, and sweat, and our own juices covering us.

  24

  I can't decide whether this is the worst idea I've ever had, or the best. The last three weeks have been incredible. Twice a week, I see Emily in my class, always on the last seat in the front row, always attentive and thoughtful, those eyes fixed on me.

  Every evening we can, she's in my bed. She's writhing underneath me, calling my name. She's kneeling in front of me, lips around my cock, stroking me expertly until I pump into her mouth. She's straddling me, sliding herself up and down on me, until she collapses into her orgasm.

  I can't get enough of her, and the more I have, the more addicted I become. I'm not getting any work done in the evenings, but I don't care about that either. Emily has become my purpose for being here at Lowell, the reason I get out of bed in the mornings.

  I thought it would be hard to conceal what's going on from the college, and from the students, but it's honestly easier than I'd expected. In class, she's just like any other student, although she pays a lot more attention than most. I'd like to put that down to my teaching ability, but some days I'm not so sure—I catch her watching me in class, and then later that night she tells me exactly what she was thinking, accompanied by a lot of sighs and moans as I lick her pussy.

  I'm careful not to be marking any of her work, and I make sure it gets externally assessed, more for her own sake than for mine. I need her to feel like she's doing well in the class because of her own ability, not because she's fucking her professor.

  And do well she does; she's the best student I've had in years. She reads diligently, asks questions, and her essay-writing is head and shoulders above her classmates. It's quite difficult for me not to praise her too much when I'm around the rest of the faculty.

  Occasionally, someone will ask about her, and I'll nod noncommittally, as if to show approval, but not to be too positive. It kills me not being able to say what I really think about her ability, but if I were to go on and on about her as much as I'd like to, people would really get suspicious.

  But, for all my happiness, there's still a little voice in my head, and it's saying the obvious thing, and it won't go away.

  This is a baaaad idea. She's just a girl, and she's infatuated with you. What will happen when this semester comes to an end? Will she just change her mind and go off to the rest of her life?

  I try to distract myself when I'm not with her—meetings, faculty dinners, anything. Anything not to be alone with my own thoughts, and that little voice asking me about the future.

  25

  This is the kind of thing that people do in books or movies, not in their final year of college in rural New Hampshire.

  In the last three weeks, I've gone from looking forward to my future, to almost dreading it a little. Three weeks ago all I thought about was leaving Lowell, and now, every day here seems like something precious, something to be savored.

  Being with Will every night we can. Lying together in his bed after making love, in his featureless apartment, joking about the furnishings and trying to find ways they could possibly be more neutral and inoffensive.

  Watching him in class, measured, and confident, and entertaining, and easy. Sometimes, I put down my pen for a moment, close my eyes, and listen to the sound of his voice, light and shade when he pauses to make a point, or rising when he makes a joke, and a wave of laughter washes over the class.

  The best thing of all, though, is the last thing that happens at night. Being curled up close to him, and having him put his arms all the way around me as I sink into sleep. Every night, my last thought is this is what it's like to be wanted by someone. This is what it's like to belong to someone.

  In my head, the end of the semester was a parole date, the time I'd walk through the gates of Lowell with my suitcase in my hand, and the world would open up in front of me. I had a job lined up, and a career planned out for me.

  Now, it feels like the final night of a stage play; something that was wonderful and magical, but it was never going to last, and now it's coming to an end.

  Will is supposed to go back to England. Does he want to go? He doesn't talk about it when we're together, but I know that was always his intention.

  I don't have the right to tell him what to do. I still know so little about him, about his life in England, his family. I want to learn, but there isn't enough time.

  There isn't enough time.

  26

  After my classes finish each day, I take my sports bag from my office and head for the gym. Mid-morning before lunch is an uncrowded time, and I can usually make it in, get through my program, and get out without students wanting to strike up a conversation about their assignments. I don’t begrudge them the time, but trying to think about marking schemes when you’re in the middle of a set is, well, distracting.

  Today, I'm halfway through my bench. Deload day is tomorrow. Today is heavy day. I am not a fan of heavy day. I should have a spotter for this.

  Unrack.

  Deep breath.

  Down to the midpoint of the torso just below the nipples—

  Aaaand there’s someone standing directly over me, smiling.

  "Hi, Professor Spencer!" Emily winks at me, and licks her lips.

  I nearly drop the bar on my chest. God, don't do that right now, please. "Ah..Emily—Ms. Masterson. Good afternoon."

  She continues, a wicked glint in her eye. "Your program looks really interesting. Do you think you could show me some of it later on?"

  I roll my eyes at her—what the hell are you doing?—but she won't be stopped. "I'd like to do some more weight training, and I was wondering if you could show me the ropes, so to speak."

  I grimace. "I'll see what I can do, Ms. Masterson. Now, if it's okay, I'd like to finish my set."

  That night, I send her an email:

  Dear Emily,

  So you want to learn the ropes, huh?

  Her reply is almost immediate.

  Dear Professor,

  Uh-huh. Think you can teach me something?

  I stroke my hardening cock, and think for a minute.

  Dear Emily,

  Yes, I think I can. Friday evening, at the gym. I have a key to the faculty weight room.

/>   I know this is taking another crazy chance, but I’m so addicted to her, I don’t care.

  Dear Professor,

  I’m wet already just thinking about it ;)

  Bloody hell.

  27

  My hands are slick on the washbasin, and I look at myself in the mirror. How does a girl dress up for this kind of invitation, exactly? Just normal gym gear, or gym gear plus sexy underwear, or what?

  No. That won't work. Gym shorts and lace do not mix. After some thought, I settle on nothing at all under the shorts. I've got several pairs, anyway.

  This seemed like a good idea when I was teasing Will in the gym, but now it's about to happen, I'm actually a little nervous.

  I shake my head, and try to think about something else. Watching him in the gym, sweat-soaked, concentrating.

  Hell yes.

  It makes me wet right away. The idea of us alone in the gym, that wide open space. Giving myself up to Will completely, letting him know that I'm his to pleasure, and that I want everything he has to give me.

  Fuck, that's sexy.

  The way his dark eyes flash when he's aroused, and he holds me, needy, tight, grasping.

  I can't wait.

  Sneakers. Towel. Gym bag. Hair. Panties in the bag in case I need them for after.

  Come on, Emily. Stop being so sensible. You're not packing for a weekend camp, you're about to get screwed silly in the gym by your college professor.

  I grab my bag, pull my door softly shut, and head down the hallway. Most people will be at dinner now, so, again, no awkward questions, although this looks innocent enough; just a post-class workout. It's a short walk through the colonnades to the Rec Center, and I can see the pool lit up, busy with the swim team training. The gym is at the back, in a little annex, and I can see from the number of people leaving it won't be busy.

  As I walk up, the automatic doors swing open and I see Claire from my class leaving, all spandex top and booty-shorts. That's not fair, Em. You're the one who's got the hot guy, remember? I duck behind a tree, and she drifts past, engrossed in her phone.