by Parker Grey
Melody makes another soft noise, her upper body going limp against the sheets.
“More,” she whispers.
I put a second finger into her ass, the ring of muscle gripping me tight, and Melody moans, arching her back and rolling her hips toward me. By now my cock is practically leaking pre-cum, and I’m a little afraid that I’m going to explode just watching her with my fingers in the ass.
“More,” she begs.
I add a third finger. She flexes her hips again, her knees going wider on the bedspread even though she was already completely bared to me, and she manages to push my fingers even further in as she moans.
That’s it. I can’t take any more. I need to claim her ass, now.
I pull my fingers out and push her down onto the bed, knees spread, and she looks over her shoulder at me, hands clutching the bedspread. I stroke my cock one more time, then rest the thick head on the bud of her back hole.
It looks impossible: my huge, thick cock and her tight ass, but I push against her slowly as she gasps.
“Relax, kitten,” I whisper. “I can’t fuck your ass like you want if you’re too tense.”
She opens to me slowly, biting her lip and looking over her shoulder at me as I slide through the incredible, tight ring of muscle and into her again. Finally the head of my cock pops through and I stop for a second, feeling her flex and tighten around me, and I force myself not to come yet.
“Don’t stop,” she whimpers. “I need more.”
My balls tighten, but I take Melody by the hips and slide my cock the rest of the way in, savoring every millimeter as she moans and clutches the sheets, her face bright pink, her eyes close. Finally I’m all the way inside her ass to the hilt, and I pull her against me slightly.
Her eyes rolls back in her head.
“It feels so good when you fill me up like this,” she says, breathing hard.
“You like having your virgin asshole stretched out by a big thick cock?” I growl. “You like fucking dirty, kitten?”
“Yes, Professor,” she says.
It takes every single ounce of self-control I have to go slow, sliding my cock in and out of her perfect, tight hole an inch at a time so I don’t hurt her, but she begs me to go harder, faster, and before I know it I’m losing control, thrusting in and out of her ass harder than I meant to.
Melody’s writhing underneath me, moaning nonstop, whispering yes over and over. I don’t think I can last long; not in her perfect, tight, dirty hole, not with her clearly in ecstasy like this.
“Professor,” she says, her voice nearly breaking. “Please let me come.”
I’m breathless.
“It feels too good,” she says. “I’m afraid I’m going to come anyway. God, please let me. Please.”
Jesus.
“Come for me, Melody,” I say, but the second I get the first word out I can already feel her clench around me.
“Oh God,” she whispers.
Her eyes roll back into her head and she hands clutch the sheets, the knuckles going white as she moans the same phrase over and over again like she’s praying, oh God, oh God.
Melody’s ass tightens around me even more, gripping me like she’s pulling me in even further, and I can’t take it any more. I unload into her, pumping shot after shot into her as I fuck her wildly, helpless against the sheer, pure pleasure of her.
Then I collapse onto her back, our sweat mingling together, my face next to hers, my cock still in her ass. We’re both quiet for a little while, and then she opens her eyes and looks at me.
“Thank you,” she says.
I kiss her, even though the angle is awkward, hard and deep and for a long time before we finally get up.
That night, she makes us tea in her messy kitchen, and I swear to myself I’ll leave right afterward but I don’t. Instead we sit around and talk. About her thesis, but also the best Thai food in town, how to avoid falling on ice, stupid ways that students try to make their papers longer.
We talk until one in the morning. I didn’t mean to. It just happened, and when I realize what time it is, I’m baffled, because this was just supposed to be about sex.
I was just supposed to have sex with Melody until I got bored, then move on.
But I’m not bored. And I don’t want to move on.
“Listen,” she says, sitting on her couch, looking down, my arm around her. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but it’s kind of late and my roommate won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, so...”
She looks at me, her eyes big and wide.
“You can spend the night if you want,” she finally says.
I smile.
“I’d like that,” I say.
We fuck again. She comes twice this time, once on my tongue and once around my cock, and both times it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt.
Then I fall asleep with her in my arms, and the last thing I think before I fade is this is perfect.
Chapter 23
Melody
The night in my apartment is like a dam breaking loose. For the first two weeks of classes, the only way I do anything besides have sex with Professor Sharpe is through sheer force of will. I have to practically lock myself into the library to get anything done at all, and I still get an A minus on an English quiz.
I’m addicted. I can’t get enough, and the funny thing is, neither can he. Sometimes I’ll stop by his office at lunch just to suck his beautiful, perfect cock, only to get a text a few hours later that I should meet him in the faculty lounge bathroom in Barrons Hall.
He finds me in the library, bends me over the bathroom sink, and fucks my ass until my eyes roll back into my head. In the study rooms in the student union, the first place we fucked, he spreads my legs on the table, eats me out, then pounds me with my knees over his shoulders, hitting that deep, perfect spot inside me again and again.
Classrooms. Deserted back hallways. Library basements. His office. Bathrooms.
Professor Sharpe has claimed my body; he has access to every hole, and he uses it. Constantly.
And I want him to. God, do I want him to.
One day, feeling particularly like I can barely walk for lust, I get a little crazy. I lube up my asshole and go by his office right before office hours are ending, wearing a skirt.
Once I close the door behind me I climb on top of him and slide his huge cock into my ass with no warning, and he makes the most primal, guttural sound I’ve ever heard. He whispers filthy, dirty things into my ear as I ride him in reverse cowgirl, and he pulls me back against him and rubs my clit as I come again and again, almost uncontrollably.
I leave after a long, deep kiss, his semen still leaking from me. Tomorrow is Saturday, and Saturday means the one night a week I sleep at his house, falling asleep and waking up in his arms. I look forward to it all week, and I wish I didn’t.
I wish this was still about sex for me, because that’s easy. If it was just sex, I wouldn’t wish that we could go on dates, or be seen together outside the classroom. I wouldn’t hate so much that this was secret.
From his office, I go to the departmental mailroom. Another professor’s left a last-minute reading printout in a box there, and even though she said it was optional, I want to do it.
Standing there, checking her mail, is Professor Calvino. She teaches Greek, and she’s somehow both motherly and no-nonsense, her spiral-curl gray hair sticking out in every direction, so different from her daily uniform of sharp slacks and blazers.
When I stand, she’s looking at me.
“Melody,” she says.
“Hi, Professor Calvino,” I say, my reading in my hands, my heart starting to thump.
Please don’t let me smell like dirty sex. Please, please, please.
“I’ve noticed you’re spending a lot of time with Professor Sharpe lately,” she says, adjusting her half-moon glasses on her face.
My heart pretty much stops.
“I don’t like to plant ideas, but if anything untoward
happens, please let the department know,” she goes on.
My blood is rushing through my ears, and I think I’m starting to sweat from sheer nerves.
“Untoward how?” I squeak out.
She glances at the door quickly, as if she’s making sure that we’re alone.
“If he makes a pass at you or anything,” she says, keeping her voice low.
She knows, I think. Oh my God, she knows.
“Have you heard something?” I manage to ask.
Professor Calvino sighs. She looks at the door again, then takes one step closer to me.
“There was an incident once,” she says, her voice confidential. “I don’t like to go into detail, but Professor Sharpe had a relationship of a sexual nature with an undergraduate.”
I stare at her, mouth open. All I can think is, I thought I was special.
“Frankly, I didn’t think we should hire someone with that kind of track record, but I was outvoted,” she goes on quietly. “In my experience, when someone abuses their power once, they tend to do it again, so we’ve been trying to keep an eye on his female students and make sure they’re okay.”
My face is ten shades of red, I can tell, and I’m just staring at Professor Calvino, open-mouthed.
“Has something happened?” she asks mildly.
I shake my head no, even as I’m thinking, wildly, yes, something has happened, a lot of somethings have happened.
“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” I say, willing my voice not to shake. “He’s been very professional with me.”
She nods once, curtly.
“Good,” she says. “I’m glad to hear it. Take care, Melody.”
She walks from the room, leaving me standing there, open-mouthed.
I start crying the second I leave the Classics Department, but it’s horrifically cold, windy day so I wrap my scarf around my face and pretend it’s the wind making my eyes water. I skip my last class of the day and go home, dramatically throwing myself on my bed.
The bed where we fucked the night I got back.
The bed where we slept. Together.
I feel like an idiot, like I’m stupid child that Professor Sharpe used for sex and planned to throw away. I can’t stop thinking about Professor Calvino saying they tend to do it again.
I’m not the first. I’m probably not the second. How many have there been? Is there a new one every semester? Does he just pick a girl from his class and fuck her until he gets bored?
When is he going to get bored of me?
I cry on my bed for a long time, the horrible thoughts swirling around in my brain. I don’t even know why I’m so upset, because isn’t this what I thought I wanted?
For us to be nothing more than a sexual fling?
But it’s not. I’ve been lying to myself about what this is, because even though there is sex — a lot of sex, really good sex — it’s more than that.
To me, at least.
It’s a long time before I finally get off my bed, but I know what I have to do.
I have to confront him.
Chapter 24
Professor Sharpe
I light the “Pine Spice” candle on my mantle and then step back, taking in the scene. The fire’s going below, finally; the living room is clean; the lasagna is in the oven, staying warm. I even decanted the wine so it can breathe.
All I need is for Melody to get here, and then the night will really be perfect.
Right on time, at six sharp, there’s a knock on my door and I grin as I go to answer it.
The second I see Melody’s face, I stop grinning. Her face is botchy and her eyes are red and puffy.
She’s been crying.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head quickly and walks into my house, past me. I close the door against the cold, baffled.
“Tell me,” I say, my voice sterner than I mean it to be, because I can’t stand to see Melody hurt.
I’ll kill whoever hurt her, I think, my fists balled. If someone laid a finger on her, I swear I’ll kill them.
She takes a deep, shaky breath, her eyes never leaving my face.
“Professor Calvino told me about you,” she says, her voice wavering.
I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I stare at her, blankly.
“That you fuck undergrads all the time?” she says, tears coming into her eyes.
My heart squeezes in my chest.
“It’s not true,” I say, taking a step toward her, reaching for her shoulders. Melody takes a step backward. “I don’t fuck students, Melody, that’s...”
“Really,” she says, her voice pure acid. “Because I’m a student and we’re fucking.”
“That’s different!” I say. “What did she tell you?”
Melody takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s trying not to sob.
“That you had a sexual relationship with a student once, and probably have had more that no one knows about,” she says, glaring daggers. “And she was right about that part, so it stands to reason she was right about the whole thing. How many? One per semester? One per class per semester? How many other kittens are there?”
“None,” I say, holding my hands out toward her. “Melody, you’re the only one, I swear.”
I take a deep breath, ready to come clean.
“I made a stupid mistake when I was in grad school,” I say. “I was a teaching assistant and I had a one night stand with a girl in my class. She thought she could get a better grade out of it, she couldn’t, long story short, now everyone thinks I’m a pervert who has sex with my students.”
Melody arches one eyebrow.
“It’s just you, ever since,” I say. “Melody, I swear. The rest of them seem like — like children, except you, and you’re beautiful and pure and smart and sexy as hell, and I wish I didn’t want you like I do because it would sure make my life less complicated.”
Her bottom lip is quivering, like she’s about to cry again, and she looks away.
“I love you,” I say.
She looks at me again, this time incredulous. I’m incredulous, because I don’t know where that came from. I didn’t mean to say it, I just did.
And it’s true.
“I need to think,” she says, and walks past me for the door again.
“Melody, I promise,” I say. “Cross my heart, hope to die. Anything.”
She shakes her head again and opens the door, then stops on the threshold and turns back to look at me.
“I don’t know,” she says, and leaves. I watch her walk down my drive and then away from my house as the snow falls. I want to chase her, but I know it won’t do any good, because she’s nothing if not stubborn.
Back inside my house, I want to shout and punch things. I want to take the lasagna out of the oven and smash it on the ground, throw the wine against the wall, let the fire burn the house down. But instead I force myself to think while I drink scotch.
I have to let her know. I have to convince her that she’s the only one, the only girl I’ve truly wanted in years, the only person I’ve ever felt this way about.
I sit quietly. I think. I’m a professor; thinking is what I do.
I don’t go to bed until I think I have a solution.
I think Greg sensed the urgency of this meeting, because he scheduled it for nine on Monday morning, the soonest it could be. My stomach is tying itself in knots as we sit in big, comfy chairs on opposite sides of his desk and he studies me carefully.
“Well, Ethan, I give up,” he says, bringing his coffee mug to his lips. “What’s this about?”
I’m about to risk everything. My career. The job that I love. The life I worked so hard for. If I get fired, I have no idea what I’ll do — it’s not like there’s a big demand for Latin translators these days.
But I have to try. I have to get Melody back, to prove that I’m willing to go to any lengths for her.
I take a deep breath.
“I’m in a relationship with a
former student of mine,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “She’s an undergrad.”
His eyebrows arch upward instantly, and his coffee mug freezes halfway to his mouth.
“Ethan, are you serious?” he asks.
Chapter 25
Melody
Professor Sharpe calls me thirty-four times on Monday. He texts me again and again, but I mute him and ignore his voicemails. I just can’t look at them right now, can’t hear him lie any more.
I don’t know if he’s lying. I want to believe him. I do, but I don’t want to be an idiot, either. People don’t change, and I know that.
When I get home for the day, I check my email, still bundled up in my coat and scarf. A dozen emails from clubs and organizations, telling me how I should spend my after-school time; a promo email from the Gap; a few from friends.
And an email from Greg Cohen, the chair of the Classics Department.
I sit up straighter.
Melody,
I need to speak with you about an important matter. Could you come to my office tomorrow morning at ten?
Best,
Gregory Cohen
Oh fuck. I have no idea what this is about — Professor Sharpe? The A minus on my quiz? My thesis? Something else completely?
I feel like I’ve swallowed a lead weight as I pull my phone from my pocket and unmute Professor Sharpe’s texts. Just as I do, another one comes through:
I told Professor Cohen about our relationship.
Oh God. Oh God.
I don’t actually know if I could get in trouble for this. It can’t be a good idea, but could they fail me? Expel me? Worse?
What the hell could be worse?
I’m useless that night. I don’t get any homework done at all, and when Erica gets back, I’m just watching Netflix on my laptop in bed. I tell her I’m not feeling well, since it’s not like I can tell her the truth.
I don’t sleep well.
I’m outside Professor Cohen’s office at nine forty-five the next morning, just waiting anxiously. At nine fifty he walks down the hall, coat and scarf still on, and sees me sitting there.