Misadventures with a Professor

by Sierra Simone

  “Fuck,” he mumbles, his head dropping down to hang between his shoulders. His eyes are still closed, and I shamelessly drink him in: the tightly carved body and the wide root of his cock just barely visible below the rise of my cunt. The furrowed pull of those dark eyebrows, as if his own pleasure is a problem he’s trying to mentally work out, and the soft part of his lips, as if something about this has rendered him unexpectedly vulnerable. The nearly too-square jaw and the high cheekbones—giving his face a geometric cast normally only seen in marble busts—and the vaguely unkempt hair that waves over his neck and temples.

  I’m curious about his hair, which is gorgeous but obviously neglected. I’m curious about his hands, strong but pale, as if they rarely see the sun. And I’m curious about his lean body and his earlier self-denial and his obvious kinky side.

  I’m curious about him. I want more of him.

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  I’ve read about this. I’ve researched this. This is the inevitable rush of connection that comes from all the oxytocin Oliver’s stoked in my blood. He’s flooded me with hormones, and now those hormones are insisting that I form a human bond with him, and that’s why people get snuggly and all clingy after sex.

  Well, that’s not going to happen with me. That’s not the plan. And given what I know about Oliver, I doubt it’s his plan either.

  I’m not going to be curious.

  I’m not going to want him.

  He solved my problem, and that’s that.

  I’m so busy reminding myself that all this affection and vulnerability is hormone-based and therefore not real that I don’t notice he’s opened his eyes and is staring back down at me.

  “Amanda,” he says huskily.

  I don’t know what to say back because the research didn’t cover this.

  Do I say his name back? Do I offer him my shower? Do I tell him I don’t expect him to stay?

  But before I can decide, he circles himself with a finger and thumb and makes to pull out of me, and I bite my lip at the sudden sting.

  He freezes, and I realize that he’s looking with some worry at the pain on my face, and then with slow horror, his gaze goes to his cock.

  Even from here, I can see the remnants of my innocence smeared on the condom.

  “Oliver,” I say quickly. “I can explain.”

  Chapter Four

  Oliver

  I have to get her blood off me, and I have to—I don’t even know what I have to do. Clean her. Clean myself. Offer to lash my own back. Whatever it is you do when you’ve accidentally fucked a virgin.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  It makes so much sense now. Her little gasps of surprise let out at the smallest things. Her expression of wonder as I serviced her cunt. Her wide, vulnerable gaze as I slowly stretched her open. Stretched her open for the first time.

  And I’m going to hell because guilt is not the first thing that races through me.

  It’s excitement.

  It’s more lust, stiffening my spent cock.

  It’s a dark possession, growling and flexing claws in my chest, telling me she’s mine mine mine.

  I ignore these though, holding up a hand to stay her words as I climb off the bed and rid myself of the condom. I’ve forgotten how wet sex is, how messy, although given how long it’s been, I’m shocked I remember anything.

  I walk back to the bed, tracing the lines of her body with my eyes because I can’t help it. She’s some kind of vision like this, her dark hair tangled everywhere in lovers’ knots and her body a topography of pure adolescent fantasy—lush tits, a nipped-in waist, and hips in a decadently feminine spread.

  And then there’s the blood on the inside of her thighs. The questions in her deep blue eyes. The lingering redness around the sides of her hips reminding me of how she felt over my lap, squealing and writhing as she took her punishment.

  I spanked a virgin. Oh God.

  “I’m getting a cloth for you,” I say. “Stay here.” It comes out sterner than I mean it to—sterner than it should have, given what I’ve just robbed from her—but the immediate acquiescence in her gaze whisks the follow-up apology right off my lips. And replaces it with a noise of approval.

  She is such a good student.

  I quickly clean myself in the bathroom and then bring out a fresh warm cloth for her, thinking I’ll hand it to her and let her clean herself, but as I approach, she parts her legs for me, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if it’s my due.

  My cock jolts again, bobbing at visions of a future that will never happen: of this girl spreading her legs for me whenever I ask, offering up her sweet body like it’s mine to take. Sucking my cock under my desk while I work. Writing lines at her own desk, naked and ashamed. Crawling over my lap whenever I need it, letting me pet and tease and spank that round ass until she’s begging for relief.

  No, Oliver. It’s a miracle she didn’t run away screaming the moment I bent her over the bed. There’s no way a nice girl like her—a barely non-virgin, a girl with a watch—would ever want to play my sick games.

  But I let myself have this moment where I clean her myself. Where I spread her even more, carefully, see to her tender skin. Roll her over and check her bottom, even though I took it fairly easy on her. The funny thing is that after all these years, “fairly easy” was still enough to nearly make me come in my pants. And it was her who made it that way. Her gratifying little moans and tempting little wriggles. The way she said I liked that with such pleased surprise. With such innocent abandon.

  Fuck.

  It’s not a good thing the way it makes me feel. As if I’m not so lonely. As if I can have…this.

  She sighs as I clean her, and after I put the washcloth over the towel bar in the bathroom to dry, I wonder what comes next. The last time I slept with a virgin, I was a fumbling virgin myself, and whatever followed the too-short act is blurred by enough awkwardness and time that I can barely remember it. I have no idea what to do as a man. As a polite and—dubiously—civilized man.

  And so I debate whether I should apologize or get dressed or what, and then she holds out her arms.

  “I know it’s just the oxytocin,” she says sleepily. “But I’d like you to hold me for a minute. You don’t have to stay long, just—” She yawns, those red lips stretching hypnotically, her tongue so temptingly wet and pink. “Just for a few minutes until I can metabolize these hormones.”

  I should hesitate. I would hesitate with any other woman. I don’t do holding, I don’t do postcoital anything except shame and regret, and yet somehow I’m climbing into the bed with her. Somehow I’m sliding under the covers and folding her into my arms, and somehow I’m not balking at the familiar way she nestles into me, as if she belongs there.

  Somehow I’m relaxing around her. Somehow I’m enjoying the way she feels like this, with her head pillowed on my chest, her curves smashed against me, and her cheek rubbing against me like a needy cat’s.

  I should leave.

  I should say I’m sorry—for the spanking and for the barbaric way I fucked her—and then I should leave. And I’m going to.

  In just a minute.

  After I’ve enjoyed the sated warmth of her for a little longer. After I’ve gotten my fill of her scent, all deep floral and spice.

  After I’ve rested my eyes and given in to the strange peace she’s infected me with.

  I really am going to leave.

  I really am…

  The sunshine breaks through the room with a sheepish kind of warmth, as if embarrassed to wake me up, and it’s pure instinct that makes me reach for the woman in bed with me. Well, pure instinct and a painfully erect cock, aching from a night of dreams about an American girl who likes spanking and spreading her legs for me.

  But my fingers encounter nothing but cool sheets, and when I open my eyes, I see groggily that I’m alone.

  Suddenly, I’m not so groggy. The entire shameful night floods back into my memorie
s. What I did to Amanda, what I took from her. Falling asleep uninvited like an idiot.

  What a cretin she must think I am…what a monster.

  And she’s not wrong. I am a monster.

  I sit up, and it should relieve any person to see what I see next, which is a hotel room bereft of the effects of its occupant. No more suitcase on the stand. No laptop situated neatly on the desk. When I go to the bathroom, the space is as clean as it must have been when she rented it, a still-wet shower and sink the only evidence that she was here.

  That and a note propped against the mirror.

  Oliver, it reads in a neatly printed hand.

  I’m sorry if last night caused you any worry, but I wanted you to know it was better than I ever could have dreamed. We won’t see each other again, but I’ll never forget how good you made me feel. I’m proud to have been your good and bad girl, even if only for one night.

  —Amanda

  My chest feels heavy with something unfamiliar, and I find myself rubbing idly at it as I set the note down. Pick it up and read it again.

  Fold it and put it in my jacket pocket—so the hotel staff won’t find it, I tell myself—but after I dress and leave the room, I find myself touching it. Rereading it as I ride the lift down to my own floor to change clothes and shower. Running my fingers along the edges as I walk to the British Museum to meet a friend helping me with some research at one of the libraries there.

  I’ll never forget how good you made me feel.

  I’m proud to have been your good and bad girl.

  Even if only for one night.

  This should be a good morning. I blew off some steam with a girl who let me practice all manner of depravities upon her, and then when I woke up, she was gone. No dangling expectations; no awkward send-off. Just a sweet note that was meant to assuage me of my guilt and firmly close the door on the possibility of more.

  Which—excellent, right? The last thing I need is some curvy, blunt American invading my thoughts while I have important work to do. Invading my space with her wanting to be spanked and her mumbling about oxytocin and her fucking watch.

  Last thing I need.

  All for the best.

  Right.

  Chapter Five

  Zandy

  The oxytocin isn’t wearing off. Or at least it’s not wearing off the way I thought it would.

  I’m frowning at the glass of my train window as the countryside swishes by—flattish fields studded with animals and telephone poles, just like in Kansas—and I’m feeling an inconvenient restlessness, like I’ve left something important back in London. Something back in bed with Oliver.

  Stop it.

  It’s not like he’s a phone charger or a passport. I don’t need him for anything else while I’m in the country, and this…this…mooning over him is immature. And if there’s any advantage to losing my virginity at the ripe old age of twenty-two, it should be that I know better.

  But it’s weird, this feeling. It’s immune to logic; it defies knowing better. I find myself smiling whenever I shift in my seat and the secret aches inside me declare Oliver’s touch. I find myself biting my lip as I replay the fire and frenzy of his hand on my ass. And I squirm when I remember his words.

  Good girls hold still.

  Good girls come on the cocks their teachers give them.

  Jesus.

  But I do manage to stop myself from searching for Oliver Markham on social media. There’s no point. Even with all these infatuated thoughts pinging around my brain, I know I’d never be so crazy as to track him down and reach out. My research indicated those things are unwanted. Considered clingy.

  So I put my phone away and watch as the fields outside London slowly fold into rich, slow worlds of green trees and far-off church spires, and there’s nothing Kansas-like about the view anymore. And with no homework and my job for Professor Graeme not yet started, I find myself in the luxurious position of having nothing to do.

  I doze off to the gorgeous green view and the slow shake of the train.

  And when I do, I dream of Oliver.

  The rain is making it hard to hear my dad’s voice. I press the phone closer to my ear and squint through my clear umbrella at the house in front of me—a white, thatched affair with deep windows and riots of flowers crowding the front.

  “I said, did you make it to Graeme’s house okay?” Dad repeats. “I should have done a better job with the timing or had him pick you up in London.”

  He sounds nervous, which is always how my father sounds. He teaches Victorian social history at the University of Kansas, and he’s more comfortable in his cluttered office or in front of a whiteboard than he is in the real world, and these kinds of situations, even secondhand, tend to stress him out.

  “The timing is fine, Dad. I wanted to have a night in London, remember?”

  He makes a fretting noise. “I just wish he were there now to help you get settled in.”

  Professor Graeme scheduled an impromptu research trip to London after I’d already booked my flight, and I assured Dad—and told him to tell the professor—that I honestly didn’t mind being by myself for the weekend. I mean, a chance to rattle around an adorable old cottage and explore the gorgeous sights of the Peak District? I’d pay to do that, so the opportunity to do so for free is not a hardship.

  “I’ll be fine,” I soothe. “I can find my way to the kitchen and the bathroom, and that’s all I need.”

  “Well, okay,” Dad says in a worried tone. “You call me if you need anything. Graeme is a good man, but he’s always been a bit reserved and not a little distracted. I can’t imagine he’ll be a very attentive host.”

  “Dad, you didn’t set this up so I could sample English hospitality. You set it up so I could have hands-on experience with a private collection before I start library school.” I walk up the flagged path to the front door, looking for the bright-blue flowerpot that should be hiding the key. “And if I can handle you, I’m sure I can handle him.”

  Whether man or woman, fussy old scholars are all the same. And I should know, because after my mom died, my father’s fellow professors basically became my second family. I’ve spent my entire life around the species, and I’m incredibly grateful my dad’s extensive network of academic colleagues yielded the chance to spend my summer in one of the most beautiful corners of the world.

  However, I have adjusted my expectations to include all the things that living with an old person working on a book will mean.

  Terrible television shows.

  Stale store-bought cookies.

  Finicky and exacting demands on my time.

  But it will be worth it.

  I say goodbye to Dad and let myself inside the house, parking my suitcase and wet umbrella carefully by the door so I don’t drip water all over the clean flagstone floor. And then I step through the narrow hallway into the house of my dreams.

  The flagged hallway is lined by bookshelf after bookshelf, each one crowded with a combination of well-worn paperbacks and sleek leather volumes and colorful modern hardcovers. The librarian’s itch I feel to sort them is pure joy, pure brain-lust. I could spend hours poring over these shelves…and I will, I decide right then. I’ll ask Professor Graeme if I can shelve these in my spare time, while I’m not helping him catalogue research. It would take me several delicious days to decide on a method, weighing my options between the traditional Dewey or a contemporary, more intuitive scheme…

  I force myself on, past the sitting room overlooking the front garden full of flowers, past the snug with its cozy fireplace, and into the kitchen. It’s massive and rambling and beamed and flagged and vaguely cluttered in a way that speaks to home and hearth rather than true untidiness.

  I follow the stairs up to find three bedrooms—two of which are clearly guest rooms, with narrow beds and nondescript furnishings, and the last is obviously Professor Graeme’s. I feel a little guilty peeking inside, but I tell myself it’s simply for orientation’s sake as I get to kn
ow the house. In any case, there’s not much to see. A large bed with an IKEA-looking duvet. An end table stacked with books. Sheepskin slippers tucked by the bed.

  Slippers.

  Well, if that’s not a marker of advanced age, I don’t know what is.

  It’s only as I leave his room and walk back down the hall that I realize I haven’t seen any pictures anywhere. There are paintings—small landscape-ish things that have that unmistakable “acquired by a grandmother” look—and a bust of Charles Dickens with untold years of dust caught in the bronze curls of his beard, but no pictures of Professor Graeme himself. No long-dead wife or kids or grandkids, no obligatory picture frames with nieces and nephews.

  Nothing.

  That’s a little strange, right?

  Mulling over this, I hop down the stairs and find my way to the back of the house, which is dominated by his study. Where I imagine most of the working and cataloging will be. Like the curious cat I am, I push the already cracked door open farther and step inside.

  It’s a mistake.

  The opening door sends a pile of books and pamphlets scattering across the rug—not that there’s much room to scatter, given that there are piles and piles of books and paper everywhere.

  Old books. New books. Rare books. Pamphlets that should be in clear archival envelopes or at least under glass. Folders upon folders of what appear to be photocopies. And a cat. Who opens her eyes at my appearance, stretches all her paws out to the same point, and then rolls over so her belly’s in the air.

  And goes back to sleep.

  There is a small desk off to the side—mine, I should think…or it will be mine—and a large desk that’s no less cluttered than the floor but at least shows signs of rudimentary organization. An old-fashioned ink pen lies across a closed leather notebook, a blotting paper and inkwell nearby, which does nothing to revise my assessment of his age. And behind the desk, there’s a wide line of windows, stretching nearly the width of the room, showing nothing but silver rain at the moment.