Her Dirty Professor

by Penny Wylder

  Her Dirty Professor

  Penny Wylder

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Excerpt of The Virgin Intern

  Excerpt of FILTHY BOSS

  THE VIRGIN INTERN

  PENNY WYLDER

  Copyright © 2016 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Georgia

  Normally I don’t pay much attention to the other students in my classes, but it’s hard to ignore people while they’re watching porn in the seats right in front of me. Two of them: a wealthy Abercrombie-type kid, and his sorority villain girlfriend. Both Barbie- and Ken-doll blonde and spray-can tan. They huddle together, eyes glued to an iPhone propped up against a beaker, snickering and whispering to each other.

  It’s a fairly large class with long science tables lining the room in two parallel rows. I’m surrounded by Bunsen burners, flasks, beakers, stacks of notes and flashcards, electric balances, and burets. The place always smells like rubbing alcohol.

  The distance between our desks make it difficult to see the little screen from where I sit, but not so difficult that I can’t make out the two naked bodies humping away at each other.

  Dog-earring one of my notebooks, I glance over at Mr. Johnson, who’s lecturing about alkaloids and chemical reactions at the front of the room, oblivious to the perverts in front of me.

  I continue to glance between the video clip over their shoulders and Mr. Johnson. As far as I can tell, it’s normal porn. Two people in a staged room with bright lighting, going at it. So why are the couple in front of me watching it in the middle of class, laughing? Seriously, who watches porn in public? I try to stretch farther for a better look, but I’m too short and the table is too wide. They either know something I don’t, or they’re ridiculously immature. Whatever it is must be worth the risk of getting caught, which only sparks my curiosity more.

  For as long as I can remember I’ve always been an overachieving, overly curious girl. It’s my Achilles heel. My mom thinks it’s an asset, but for me it’s a burden. I can never seem to mind my own business. It’s great for academics, always wanting to know what happens next in books, or how someone came up with an equation. That inquisitiveness got me to the top of my class, earning me a spot as high school valedictorian before I graduated last year, but when it comes to my social life, it hasn’t helped me make any friends. I can’t seem to stop myself from butting in where I don’t belong. I try to hold my tongue. It doesn’t stay still for very long. I’m just too damn nosey for my own good.

  As much as I tell myself to ignore it, I can’t help myself. I lean forward, practically on top of my desk, tapping the girl on the shoulder. She slowly turns in her seat, a glare already prepared on her face before looking at me.

  “What’s so funny?” I whisper to keep Mr. Johnson from hearing me. He’s wandered to the other side of the classroom with his back to us.

  The girl—I think her name is Serena—looks like she puts on her makeup with an airbrush, hair sculpted out of satin, nothing out of place. All of her clothes bear logos and have French names. She’s alien to me. I can’t imagine a world where I could afford a pair of shoes that cost more than my parents’ combined monthly wage. I can’t even fathom for a second being her. I wouldn’t know where to start.

  She looks at her boyfriend (I have no idea what his name is) as if she’s not sure if she should tell me. He gives me a once-over like he’s sizing me up, then lifts a perfectly waxed brow and nods.

  Serena hands me the phone. I notice her manicure is perfection like the rest of her when our fingers touch. “It’s Mr. Johnson,” she says.

  At the top of the screen is an advertisement for a website called Rocket Cocks that boasts nothing under eight inches. I don’t need to whip out a ruler to see that the actor who my classmates believe is my teacher definitely fits the criteria in the size department. Only thing is, he looks too young to be him. Before I can really get a good look at him, Serena yanks her phone out of my hands.

  Irritated, I glance up and find that Mr. Johnson has moved back to our side of the room. He looks right at me and our eyes meet. On instinct, without meaning to, I glance right at his crotch. In a split second I’m picturing him naked, with a dick as thick as my wrist and long as my forearm when fully erect, pointed at me.

  I jerk my attention back to his face. It’s too late. I’ve been caught. He has this wide-open look of surprise on his face, and he stumbles on his words when he starts to lecture again, as if he’s forgotten what he was saying. He’s quick to recover and goes on to teach the rest of the class while I cuss inwardly for being so damn obvious.

  Serena giggles into her hand and whisper-coughs, “Busted.” Her boyfriend quietly laughs along with her.

  Leaning back in my chair, I grumble and try to ignore them the rest of the period—which is extremely difficult when I keep hearing them say things like “biggest dick I’ve ever seen on a white dude” and “I bet he makes barn animals jealous.”

  Class is over at three. Thank God. I try to get out unseen. As I’m leaving, Mr. Johnson calls my name. I close my eyes and let out a long sigh, then open them again just in time to see Serena and her boyfriend smirk at me as they leave. Bracing myself for the reprimand I fear is coming, I turn on my heel, walking slowly through the dispersing crowd until I’m standing in front of him.

  He leans against the whiteboard where the day’s chemical formulas are written in green dry-erase ink in his scribbled teacher handwriting. He’s wearing a white button-down and tan slacks and somehow manages to make it look good—not stiff and boring like my other professors. He’s also younger than the rest of them too. Mid to late thirties would be my guess. With short cropped hair, scruffy stubble, and wide shoulders, he could be Tom Hardy’s twin. He’s tall, too. This guy really lucked out in the genetics department. Sexy and with brains to boot.

  After everyone leaves, he folds his arms across his chest. Here it comes, I think, bracing myself for whatever is next. Of course he has every right to lay into me for being distracted during his lecture on the dangerous chemicals we’ll be working with this year. I totally deserve it. Doesn’t make it feel any better, though. I’ve never been in trouble with teachers. They love me. In middle school I was teased relentlessly by other students for being the teacher’s pet. I was never able to really connect with kids my age. The thought of having Mr. Johnson mad at me has my stomach turning inside out. This sucks. Especially since he’s my favorite teacher and science is my best subject.

  Instead of barking his disappointments, he surprises me and says, “I know you’re here on a scholarship, so if those wealthy brats sitting in front of you are dicking around, I can either move them or you. Whichever you would prefer.”

  Speaking of dicking around . . .

  My eyes slip back down to the mound bunched up beneath his slacks. If there’s enough flesh gathered there to make that big of a bulge when he’s soft, I can only imagine the prize awaiting whatever lucky girl falls into h
is bed when he’s hard. My gaze only lingers a second before I look down at my shoes.

  “It’s fine,” I say, kicking at a piece of petrified gum stuck to the floor. “Normally they don’t bother me.”

  He lowers his head, trying to get me to look at him. “I don’t think that gum is moving. It’s been there since I started working here five years ago.”

  I smile and try to stand still.

  “Whatever it is that they’re doing—is it anything I should know about?” he asks.

  When he opens his mouth I notice his white teeth overlap just the slightest bit in the front, making his lips look even fuller. “Georgia?”

  How had I not noticed how incredibly handsome—and even hot—he was before? I mean, I noticed he was good looking, but I must’ve been too absorbed in my schoolwork to realize the extent of it. Guys and dating just really aren’t on my radar these days. Like Mr. Johnson said, I’m on a scholarship and I can’t afford to blow it. Relationships tend to do that. First they’re all fun and games, someone to go out to parties and grab dinner with. Then someone gets invested and before you know it, all you can think about is that person. I let it happen once in high school and ended up getting my heart broken when he cheated on me with my best friend. After that I decided to stay away. There’s no time for distractions. I have big goals. It’s not enough to just keep my scholarship. I want to be the best. If I can be the valedictorian of both high school and college, I’ll have graduate schools eating out of my hands.

  “No, it’s nothing,” I say. “Just dumb videos they were watching. It won’t happen again.”

  He presses his lips together like he doesn’t believe me, but instead of arguing says, “Okay, then. I’ll leave things the way they are. But if you have any troubles at all, you can come to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  He folds his arms across his chest again, making his shirt tight. That’s when I notice the muscles giving his sleek arms definition. I don’t have to see him naked to know there’s a gorgeous body hiding under those clothes. Suddenly I’m breathing harder and feeling flushed. This calls for some wine and a cold shower, though I doubt that would be enough to douse the warmth spreading through the lower half of my body.

  Time to go. Now. Before the wet spot growing between my legs starts to show.

  As I’m walking out he says, “Don’t forget the assignment due tomorrow.”

  It’s a good thing he mentioned it because now all I can think about is Mr. Johnson and his, well, Johnson.

  As soon as I get back to my dorm room, I get to my computer and look up the Rocket Cocks website. My roommate spends most of her time with her boyfriend who lives off campus, so I don’t have to worry about her showing up.

  It doesn’t take long for me to find the video clip I’d watched in class. The male actor—performer? I’m not exactly sure what to call him—looks a lot like a younger version of Mr. Johnson. Same broad shoulders, intense blue eyes, slightly crooked nose, and great ass—even in slacks, he can’t hide it.

  The clip is only two minutes long. I watch it over and over, memorizing it. It’s not nearly enough material for me to come to a conclusion on whether or not this is my teacher. I want to see more, so I purchase the entire video. My bills still go to my parent’s house. I just hope they don’t decide to go through my credit card statements.

  The female actor in the video has large fake boobs, wears too much makeup, and has platform heels so tall she wobbles when she stands. She’s able to take his big cock without even flinching. She looks almost . . . bored? Her eyes are lazy, and she keeps glancing off to the side as if being instructed on what to do. Her mechanical movements and the unnatural, almost robotic, way she moves into the different positions make me think there’s a director off to the side choreographing their coupling like it’s some kind of staged interpretative dance.

  Without even taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being full, she starts to ride him, bouncing with the hollow look of someone lost. Nothing about her expression tells me she’s enjoying this one bit. The moans and dirty-talk are over the top, and so obviously fake I’m embarrassed for them both. Though she has a great body, it’s doing nothing for me. The male doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it much himself, just going through the motions. The only saving grace is that he looks so much like my teacher that I can’t help but get turned on. Watching that giant dick sliding in and out of pink flesh causes an ache between my legs I can’t ignore.

  I slip my fingers into my pajama bottoms, beneath my panties, and start to rub circles around my clit, imagining I’m the girl in the video and Mr. Johnson is plowing into me. When the look-alike actor gazes directly at the camera, it’s as if he’s looking right at me, teasing me. I rub faster, desk and computer shaking, until I’m covered in goosebumps and being pushed over the edge. With my other hand, I plunge my fingers inside, and that’s enough for the building pressure to burst, and my entire body floods with pleasure.

  Takes a minute for me to come down, for my breathing and vision to return to normal. When I pull my fingers out of my panties, they’re sopping wet. On my desk is the assignment due tomorrow in Mr. Johnson’s class. I stare at it a moment, contemplating. Then I look at my sticky hand. Should I? It only takes a second for me to decide that, yes, I should. I grab it, wipe my juices on it to give him something to think about while he’s grading. I want my pheromones to call to him, let his animal instincts take over. Force him to notice me. Drive him wild without him knowing why.

  In class the next day we’re doing labs, so it’s perfectly fine for people to talk. Normally I work alone, the clink and clatter of background noise the soundtrack of my workday. You’d think all that sound would be distracting, but I actually find that it gets me in the mood to work. I have my routines and the noise is just part of it. Except today Serena and her boyfriend are waiting at my table for me. This is definitely not part of the routine.

  Boyfriend is in my chair. He gets up slowly when he sees me and saunters back to his own seat. He’s wearing perfectly pressed shorts that hit above his knee, a yellow polo, and white shoes that look like Keds, but probably cost ten times more. It’s an ensemble I’d imagine someone wearing on a yacht, except we’re about two hundred miles inland. To anyone without money, he comes off like a douche and looks like a character out of Dallas. Utterly ridiculous.

  When I sit down, all I can smell is him. All wealthy people smell the same. It’s a unique scent, a formula they’ve mastered that consists of clean pores that have never been clogged with the sweat of hard labor, rubber soles that have never touched the ground because why do anything on your own when you can walk across the backs of others? Or maybe it’s just the smell of money. I don’t know. I’m probably just being cynical because I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for everything I have.

  Serena doesn’t go back to her desk. Instead she continues to lean against mine, staying far too close to my personal space than I’m comfortable with. Since she won’t move, I guess I’ll have to. I roll my eyes and scoot my chair to the end of the table.

  Mr. Johnson glances over at us. He knows this isn’t normal, but he doesn’t say anything, just wanders from desk to desk to see if anyone needs help.

  “Did you watch the video again?” Serena asks.

  I busy myself with my beakers and flasks, setting up my burner, trying to act all casual, like it’s no big deal. “I did. But I don’t think it’s Mr. Johnson.”

  “Are you kidding? It looks just like him,” she says. Serena is beautiful, but it’s an out-of-date beauty. She’s too pristine, too put together. Her blonde hair is perfectly curled, clothes pressed. Reminds me of what people in the eighties expected pretty to be. I’m so tempted to dump my beaker of water on her head, see what shape wet gel makes with her hair without the authority of a brush and comb around to put it back in its place.

  I seek out Mr. Johnson across the room, follow him with my eyes to make sure he doesn’t sneak up on us while we’re talking about
him. Somehow I think he knows anyway. It’s like he can sense his own presence elsewhere. That old saying about ears burning, or whatever. He continues to glance our way and I keep averting my eyes to make it seem as though I was looking at the instructions on the whiteboard instead of him.

  “I looked at the full movie and the names in the credits; I didn’t see his anywhere,” I say. “It wasn’t him.”

  Boyfriend leans into the conversation and scoffs at me. “Have you ever watched a porn before? They never use their real names.”

  My face heats up. I’ve watched porn before. A little. Very little. Not that I’m opposed to it at all, but when you share accounts and passwords with your parents it’s difficult to buy or search for things on the internet you don’t want others to know about. I guess I should’ve known the actors weren’t using their real names since most of them have names like “Johnny Dong” and “Lana Gnitsif”—which I thought was kind of a pretty name until I realized it was Anal Fisting spelled backwards.

  “The guy in the movie is way too young,” I say, doing everything I can to convince myself and them that they’re wrong about the teacher I admire so much.

  “Yeah,” Serena says, running her finger around the rim of my beaker. I swear if she tips it over and spills water on my assignments, I’ll break the damn thing over her head. I almost want her to, just to see if I have the courage to do it. “Because it was made ten years ago.”

  “Damn,” I mumble. I didn’t even bother to look at when the movie had been made. By the low quality of the film, it makes sense that it was made ten years ago compared to some of the other movies that were on the website. I can’t get too down on myself for not paying attention to these things, though. After all, my attentions were elsewhere—a couple times that night.

  I look at Mr. Johnson again. Really look this time. The shapes his body makes when he’s standing or leaning. The different facial expressions. He has the best smile. Genuine. The kind that makes wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. The actor in the video didn’t have those. In fact, he looked as though he’d never smiled a day in his life.