Unlearned: Virgin and Professor Romance

by Haley Pierce

  The basement of the library is eerily dark, with a low ceiling that houses row after row of bookcases. There are rooms upon rooms here, all spread out in a maze that one can easily get lost in. When I was a freshman, I know I made hundreds of wrong turns, wondering where that staircase to the main floor is. But now that I’m older, there’s not a nook in this library that I haven’t explored. I guess you can call me an expert on it.

  I love this section of the library, this hidden space under the stairs that most people assume is just a storage area and pass on by. There’s a ratty old chair with green pilled fabric, and I’ve curled up there studying so many times that the shape of my backside is imprinted in the cushion. I love the smell of old, molding paper, the steady dripping of water moving through the pipes above. It’s my little hidden haven, a place where I can be completely alone, even more a home than my actual home, since at least here, I can be alone.

  In fact, I’m not even sure Dr. Hill will be able to find this place.

  Well, he’s a super-smart Yale doctorate. If he wants me bad enough, he’ll make it work.

  I sit with my Statistics book, studying until I’m bleary, until I check my phone and it’s eight-fifty. Then I check myself in a compact mirror, brush out my hair with my fingers, and apply my strawberry lip gloss.

  I check my outfit. In the past few weeks, I’ve started changing out of my normal clothes when I get to school, since I know my mother won’t approve of anything that shows too much skin. Today I’m wearing a short mini-skirt and camisole that makes my nipples pop out. From the way Dr. Hill always rakes his eyes over my shape, mentally undressing me in class, I know he approves.

  At nine-ten, just when I’m starting to get worried, he ducks his head under the stairs. “You weren’t kidding that this place is hard to find,” he says, his eyes already fastened on my nipples. He strides over to me, eyeing me appreciatively. “Did you do as you were told?”

  In answer, I take his hand and guide it between my thighs. He grazes between my legs just slightly, enough to confirm that I’m not wearing panties, and removes his hand quickly. Despite the whisper touch, the goosebumps spread out over my arms like a fever.

  “Good,” he says, holding out a finger, and I understand. He’s the teacher. I need to follow his lead. “Take off your skirt.”

  Nodding, I release the snap at my waist and let the skirt puddle at my feet, leaving me completely bare to him. He looks over his shoulder to confirm we are alone, then fastens his eyes on my pussy. I know I’m wet, and I get even wetter seeing his hungry eyes on me. I need him to touch me. I want to ask him to, but this is his lesson. I need to wait for his direction.

  He lifts a finger and twirls it. “Turn around.” When I do, he says, “Kneel on the chair.”

  I lower myself to the chair, and now my ass is completely exposed to him. Before I can feel self conscious, though, I feel him behind me, his fingers skimming my bare thighs. He runs a hand quickly down my wet slit, making me gasp. Then he grabs me roughly, molding my breasts, and pressing his erection against me, whispers in my ear, “Would you like to come, Addison?”

  “Yes,” I cry out. “I mean, I think so.”

  His hands graze my back, finding the thin straps of my camisole. He suddenly yanks them both down in unison, and my breasts spring free. Now I am naked except for my camisole, down around my middle. His breath is hot on my bare back. “You never have?” he asks. “Not even in the parking lot?”

  “I stopped before I . . .” I admit sheepishly. “I was afraid. I didn’t know . . .”

  He reaches under me, spinning me around so that now I’m facing him, under him. He looks at me. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  I draw in a sharp breath as he stands between my thighs, spreading them.

  I struggle onto my elbows as he bends in front of me, his eyes trained on my clit. “Wait,” I say, suddenly realizing what he’s up to. “I don’t . . . I’ve never . . .”

  “You don’t want your next lesson?” he asks. His voice doesn’t have the teasing lilt in it, but oh, he’s teasing me.

  Because, god, I want it. I want to milk this lesson for everything he’s worth. The thought of his tongue on me makes every nerve in my body sizzle with electricity.

  “Let’s begin,” he murmurs. He bends his head and licks his way up my thigh. He pauses, his breath on my skin enough to send me soaring into oblivion. When his tongue gently touches the sensitive nub, I arch up and let out a cry.

  “Oh, my God,” I groan.

  His tongue is a straight line to my very center, igniting fireworks. Everything that I thought I knew was nothing. Whatever his tongue is doing to my clit, it’s enough to make me writhe on the chair. I am spreading my legs apart wider and wider, shamelessly. My dignity doesn’t matter anymore. All I can feel is his tongue on mine.

  And then, just when I think it can’t possibly get any better, it does. He inserts a curled finger into my pussy, pumping it slowly in and out, once, twice . . . and then I lose it.

  I thrash on the bed, biting my fist so hard I’m sure I draw blood. “My god,” I mumble, my voice choked by my hand. “Please . . .”

  “Come now,” he says, and I can’t help but think of Anna, in the parking lot. He just tells women to come, and they fall helplessly into line. I, too, have no choice but to obey the command. I shatter to pieces, filled with liquid heat and electricity, a volcano blowing its top off. I scream and writhe as I tangle my hands in his hair, grinding myself shamelessly against his mouth.

  “Well,” he says, as he pulls away. The stubble around his mouth is wet with my juices. I blush, but he seems so very unaffected. Like he brings women to their knees all the time. “I hope you have learned a lot.”

  Oh yes, yes yes. But I can barely make my lips move to form actual words. I’m shivering and shaking and I really can’t stop. “I . . . oh my God.”

  “You’ve gotten very religious suddenly,” he says, giving me a self-satisfied smile as I reach for my camisole. He also finds my skirt and lays it next to me.

  I straighten and pull on my camisole, but my entire body is still quivering. “I . . . am I supposed to feel like that?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  “Like my entire body is made out of jelly.”

  He lets out a laugh. “Yeah. I suppose.”

  When I pull on my skirt, and as he creeps to the doorway, I’m suddenly hit by something. It’s over. I don’t want it to be over so soon. My body may be sated for now, but something inside me still wants him. “Um. When can we do it again?”

  He laughs again, runs his hands through his hair, letting it flop back into his eyes. “Boston’s in a week. But I wanted to give you the coming attractions, to whet your appetite.”

  I pout. “I have to wait a whole week?”

  He nods, then comes over and sits beside me on the green chair. “Trust me, baby. I’ll be going as crazy as you.”

  That’s doubtful. He’s like an iceman, completely impenetrable. I exhale my disappointment and stare at the dusty cement ground.

  “What is this place?” he asks. I look up at realize he’s reaching over and studying one of the old piles of yellowing paper in the room.

  “Oh. Well, Marysville used to have a cartography concentration. It was world-renowned for it, back in the 1800’s, supposedly. But then cartography got computerized and they rolled it into the computer science major, and all these old maps kind of went to trash. But I really like them,” I say. I reach for one and start to unroll it. “Like this one. This one is my favorite.”

  He studies it. “This is a mountain range.”

  “It’s the Mid-Atlantic ridge, the largest undersea mountain range,” I explain. “Do you know how they used to map undersea places back then, before sonar? They used to drop great lengths of weighted rope down into the sea and measure how deep it was. Over and over again. Can you imagine how long this must’ve taken, to create this map?”

  He’s just staring at
me, a peculiar expression on his face. He quickly lowers his eyes back to the map. “Yeah. That’s amazing,” he breathes. “So, you come here a lot?”

  I nod and look at my phone. My mother has sent me a text, wondering when I’ll be home. I jab in an answer and say, “As long as I’m on the campus, my mom doesn’t worry too much about me. She thinks I’m studying.”

  “How does she—“ He stops. “Wait. She tracks you through your phone?”

  I nod. “That’s why I couldn’t come to your apartment.” I gnaw on my lip. “She really chewed you out this morning, huh? I heard from Carol, our housekeeper.”

  He scratches his jaw. “I wouldn’t say she chewed me out. I held my own. She’s not happy with me, no. Says she’s going to address it with the dean.”

  I cringe. “Oh, no.”

  “The dean’s on my side,” he answers confidently. “She says parents can often do these things.”

  “But . . .” That’s odd. My mom’s been the largest benefactor of Marysville for the past four years. Dean Armstrong can’t afford to be on anyone else’s side if she wants to continue to receive the funding. “Did the dean know which parent she was dealing with?”

  His eyes flash to mine. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that my mom is kind of a big deal on this campus. I mean, she donates millions of dollars a year, the Applied Sciences Building, the . . .”

  “Wait.” He blinks slowly. He holds up his hands, frozen there. “Are you telling me that your mother donated a building to the campus?”

  I nod. “The McBride Applied Sciences Building.”

  He inhales sharply. “Shit. You mean—fuck.” He steps away from me like I’m infected and rubs his face tiredly. “Well, you could’ve told me that, Addison. This might change things.”

  Oh, no. I’ve never had my life flash before my eyes, but my entire relationship with him, from the time I met him in the student center, right up to now, it all flashes in my mind, as if this is an ending I’ll regret. I need to salvage what I can, and fast. Heart in my throat, I come up close to him and try to lay a hand on his shoulder. “What are you saying? Does that mean you don’t want to go through with Boston?” I venture timidly.

  He turns to look at me. “No, that isn’t really what this is about, after all. I should just change your grade, to appease your mom. What the fuck does it mean, anyway?”

  I stare at him, horrified that such a suggestion could come from his mouth. That’s letting her win, giving her her way. That’s exactly what she’s used to, because everyone does it. No one ever stands up to her, and she just goes on living by her rules, even if they hurt innocent people.

  “No!” I shout at him, disgust in my voice, to his surprise. “That’s a horrible idea. I’d hate you if you did that. The truth is, I did deserve the grade you gave me. You were being fair. You’re entirely in the right.”

  He pulls away from me and laughs bitterly, staring at the spines of old books on the shelves. “Not after what we just did.”

  I freeze. I know what he’s thinking. This has everything to do with Boston.

  His eyes are on the ground. His voice is hard, emotionless, as usual. “Addison, if I let them investigate it and delve deeper into my classroom proceedings, they could find out things about us. They’ve already asked for my syllabus and lesson plans.”

  I don’t know why I expected that he wanted me so much, he’d never let a thing like losing his job get in the way. He seemed like the dangerous, rebellious kind, the type of man who’d say fuck it and do what he wanted. I didn’t think he was the type who’d kowtow to a little woman who had him by the balls.

  I thought he could protect me from people like her.

  I’d thought wrong.

  “So, I guess I will consider Boston off,” I mutter, grabbing my backpack and statistics book and squeezing past him.

  Cain

  I stare at the email from Dean Armstrong.

  Hi, Dr. Hill, considering that Mrs. McBride is a good friend of the school’s, and that her daughter is working hard to be accepted to medical school, can I ask you to please reassess her grades for the term? If you agree with the grades you have given thus far, please provide detailed written explanation as to why these grades were deemed fair. However, if you choose to go this route, a full investigation into your methods may be necessary. Thank you.

  Then I open up the grade log for my creative writing class, finding Addison’s first 74, shining in bright red lettering. I change it to a 100. Then I go back to the “save” button, my cursor hovering over it.

  Do it. Just do it.

  No. Addison’s right. Bending the rules to be with Addison is one thing, but outright lying is another. I stop and X out of the program, leaving the grade the way it is.

  The past week had been strange. Despite the increasing pressure I’d been hearing from Dean Armstrong, I managed to get through my classes. Addison barely looked at me, and when she did, it was the cold, aloof glance, which was hard to stomach.

  Excruciating, actually.

  Over the week, I’d written another couple chapters of my book, still feeding off the taste of Addison’s pussy on my tongue. God, she’d been so sweet. But the memory is fading. Now I know I need to be with her again, get her juices flowing in order to keep my creative juices flowing. All it would take would be me to show up at her hotel in Boston. She’d let me in, and I could probably sweet-talk her into giving me enough motivation to finish this goddamn book and another dozen.

  Then I open up a document and write a ten-page essay on why Addison McBride’s poem deserved a 74. I include excerpts from other, higher-graded class poems, detailed line-by-line notes, and more. I feel like I’m back in college again, myself.

  When I attach it to the file and hit send, I can’t help thinking Addison would be proud of me. I think about telling her, I think about running my tongue up and down her sweet pussy while she thrashed and grabbed my face, pulling me to her. I’d fucking kill to do that again.

  Then I hit refresh about a million times. Dean Armstrong is going to fucking hate me.

  Fuck. What did I just do? Did I do it because I was thinking with my dick again, or did I do it because I actually wanted Addison to be happy?

  At this point, I don’t know. I hope it’s the first one—but goddamn, there’s a fine line between having perfect, inspiring sex and falling hard. I’m walking a tightrope to avoid losing my job while getting this book done.

  And now, the shit is about to hit the fan.

  Fuck it. If I lose my job, I lose my job. She’s right when she said I was going through the motions. I’ll get another one. But I’ll still have Addison’s respect. Right now, that means more. If I ever want to finish this book, I need to make her happy.

  I drive up 95 like a madman, getting into the Boston city limits at a little after ten. The hotel is the Four Seasons, of course—nothing but the best for Addison. I have to bribe a maid in order to tell me which room is hers. Turns out, she’s in a penthouse, and from what the very chatty maid had to tell me, her warden chauffer isn’t even on the same floor as she is. When the elevator stops on her floor, I find the double door and knock. Her soft voice comes from behind it, groggy and confused. “Who is it?”

  “Room service,” I say, leaning against the door.

  She pulls open the door. “I didn’t—“

  I smirk at her. She stops, her mouth still open, and I have to laugh at her. She’s wearing giant, shapeless flannel pajamas with bacon and eggs all over them, and her hair is a mess of static cling, piled on the top of her head. Her face is scrubbed clean of make-up, and there’s a blush climbing over her cheeks.

  “Oh, my God,” she says. Then, she starts to slam the door.

  I catch it before the clasp can lock. I push it open and stride inside, dropping my bag to the floor. “Listen to me.” She’s retreated into her room. There’s a giant couch there with a plate of what looks like waffles, and a big-screen TV is playing some old Fred Astaire mov
ie.

  She collapses on the sofa, staring at me like she’s completely shell-shocked I’m here. “No. Why are you here?”

  “Because I never said our deal was off,” I tell her. “I’m still in.”

  “But what if I’m out?” she snaps, hugging a pillow to her chest. “Why don’t you just go kiss my mother’s ass some more, like everyone else? You’re good at it.”

  “Listen to me,” I say again. “I—“

  “No!” she throws the pillow at me and rockets to her feet. “You’re right, my first time should be special, not with a coward like you. Why don’t you just leave? I can’t even stand to see your stupid face anymore.”

  I’ve tried to interject a word edgewise about a thousand times by the time she takes a breath. Before she can speak again, I lunge at her, grabbing her hands, which are in fists, ready to pummel my chest. I kiss her on the mouth, hard. Her resistance dissolves instantly.

  If you would just shut up for two seconds,” I growl into her mouth, “You’d know that it’s going to take a lot more than threats from your mother to get me to change that grade.”

  She stops, pulling back, gazing at me. “What?”

  “What can I say?” I tell her with a nonchalant shrug. “You’re right. Even if I lose my job, I refuse to change the grade, because that would be lying. Your poetry is godawful. Probably the worst I’ve ever read. ”

  She grins. “Really?”

  I nod.

  She grabs my tie and yanks me to her, kissing me harder and with all her strength. Her mouth is sweeter than ever, like maple syrup. “God, I am so happy you’re here.” Then she stops and looks down. Her face falls. “Oh, god.”

  I take her chin and lift it to me. “Don’t worry. You’re gorgeous.”

  She purses her lips. “But I had ideas. Lots of ideas. Of how this would go. And . . . this isn’t exactly what I expected.”

  I cock my head. “What ideas did you have, exactly?”

  She grins sheepishly. “Well, I . . . oh gosh, it’s too embarrassing.” She looks up at the ceiling, at the walls, at the black and white movie playing on the television, anywhere but at me. It’s adorable, the way she blushes. “I had an idea of an outfit that I’d wear for you. And this isn’t it.”