The Professor (12 page)

Especially if I talk dirty to him. If I beg him to lick my clit as I fuck myself with it, or tell him how wet I’m getting, or let my eyes wander all over his body as I do myself. Like I find him attractive, and arousing – which I do. I even try to tell him so sometimes. I talk to him about how big he is all over, how he would swamp my body as he made love to me. I suggest he pins me to a wall and fucks me until my ears ring.

All to no avail.

Until the cinema.

I don’t really get what makes him tick, sexually, until the cinema.

I know that something is different when I put my hand on his knee. Though I don’t fully understand how much, at first. I just slowly start to process that he hasn’t moved the hand, the way he usually does. Sometimes he laces his fingers with mine, like a warning shot off the bow of any possible sexual behaviour. Other times he tells me I am incorrigible.

This time there is only silence.

And that silence thickens as time ticks on. By the time I get to five minutes of unadulterated thigh touching, it seems to be getting harder to breathe. I can feel a heavy sort of heat surrounding me – and even more so after I try a little experiment. He is still and quiet and staring straight ahead at the screen, so I just slide my hand up a little way. I give his thigh a little squeeze, to test the waters. Of course, I don’t expect it to really work, when filthy talk and frantic masturbation didn’t. The other day I walked around the apartment naked, and got nothing for my trouble. This game we are playing…

He is
incredibly
good at it.

So when I feel him sink just a little way down in his seat – just enough that my hand moves a little higher without me even doing anything at all – I don’t know what to think.

I just
do.
I slide my hand all the way up between his legs, half breathless and completely sure I will find hardly anything there. In fact I feel so sure I barely prepare myself. I run headlong into his heavy erection, without any bracing at all. And I need bracing. I need
something
. All the air rushes out of my body the moment I feel him. The gut punch of arousal is swift and sweet and strong – and oh, God, it gets so much stronger when I realise he’s not moving away. He’s not stopping me.

He doesn’t change the subject, like he did the other day when I pointed out his hard-on.

He just sits there and lets me fondle him, without so much as a disapproving glance. I flick a surreptitious look over to him and his eyes are still on the screen. He has slumped a little and his lips are parted, and I’m willing to bet I would see flushed cheeks if the lights were up. But other than that he could be as indifferent as ever. Anyone watching would think nothing of it.

Even though I start unbuttoning his trousers right then and there.

Of course I do. There is no way in the world that I’m passing this opportunity up. If he wants to stop me then he can stop me – but it seems he has no desire to, no matter what I do. I ease him free of the tweed and he just sits there. Well, he just sits there until I lick the palm of my hand and start to stroke him off. After which he does actually make a move.

He turns to me, and whispers in my ear.

‘Faster,’ he tells me.

Just like that – like he never resisted me a day in his life. In fact, after those first whispered words some sort of floodgate seems to open. As though only air and string were holding his desire in, and now I have somehow worn through. I don’t understand what did it exactly, and I have no idea why he seems unperturbed by his own behaviour. I only know that he keeps going and going and going, way past the point I thought he could stand. Way past the point
I
can stand, because ohhhh, my God.

‘Use your wetness,’ he says, and I do a double-take.

I ask him what he means, half-confused and half-hopeful.

And get this for my trouble:

‘Use your own wetness to ease the way.’

After which all I can do is babble.

‘Oh, my God. Oh, my God, OK,’ I say, though the whole thing is easier said than done. I’m so excited I can hardly get a hand inside my knickers, and when I finally manage I make such a mess. My fingers are sticky with my own juices, gleaming with them. I can hardly get a grip on him after that – though God knows I do my best. I rub and stroke and work him, until he no longer needs any of my lubrication at all.

He provides some of his own.

His prick is leaking copiously, all down the shaft and over my hands, and it gets messier the more I go at him. The greedier I get the clearer the response, until finally I think he might be bucking into my grip. He’s definitely making noise, because he does it right in my ear. He moans that I should go faster, that I should unbutton my top, that he wants to see me as I stroke him.

And just when I think he couldn’t get any filthier:

‘I want to come in your mouth again.’

It’s inexplicable, unfathomable. All that effort and a hand on the knee was enough – though I have to wonder if it really was. It must be something more, I think, something else, something I’m missing. A key ingredient in his sexual makeup, that he keeps as guarded as everything else about him. Or at least I think he keeps it more guarded. But then the door to the place seems to stutter, and somehow he doesn’t go stiff and still. His eyes don’t flick to it. He doesn’t tell me to stop.

On the contrary – his hand goes over mine and urges me on.

Even when someone takes a seat on the other side of the theatre, he urges me on.

And then I know, in a great blinding gush of excitement and joy.

He has a thing about public places
.

Oh, my God, staid, upstanding Professor Halstrom has a thing about public places. It was the reason he got so out of control in the museum; the reason he kissed my cunt as I stood at the window; the reason he told me about the fuck he could give me on his desk. He has a little fetish that pushes him over the edge. A foible of the kind I thought only other people had.

And it makes him come hard and sudden and violent, the moment I get down on my knees in this theatre. I have to rush forward to take the first thick spurts, as he strokes it out of himself. I have to lick and suck hard, because he does it so copiously. It seems to go on for ever and ever, and oh, God, the
noise
he makes. Far too much for such a quiet space. And far too filthy. ‘Fuck, yes, take it, take it, oh, God, yes, I love your sweet mouth on my cock,’ he says, and only a full five minutes afterwards seems to feel any shame. He flushes and fumbles with his trousers, telling me to go on ahead into the lobby.

Though he should understand that it’s far too late for that.

I know what makes him lose it, now.

He works in a tiny crooked building that barely seems like a university, on the edge of what looks like an industrial estate. It even looks industrial inside – I pass strange machinery on the way up to his office, and men in boiler suits who glance at me oddly. Like I don’t belong here, in this sooty, half-falling-down place. My cardigan is too candy-cane-coloured and my hair too neat.

Though none of them knows what lies underneath.

Not even Lukas does – if he did I doubt he would have brought me here. It took some persuading as it was, despite there being no earthly reason why I shouldn’t visit. He doesn’t teach me in one of the rusty-looking rooms we pass. There is no scandal in me climbing the stairs behind him to his extremely dusty and oddly book-less little office. There is only scandal in what I’m going to do when I get there, if I can possibly work up some of the courage.

Which I can’t, at first.

Instead I let him show me the sights out of the broad but grimy windows. In the distance there is a spire, and he tells me its history. He points out various landmarks – though he does it in such a desultory way I have to wonder if this is really such a good idea. He seems to have faded a little, since the cinema. The colour and life he found in teasing me have washed away and revealed the bones of him beneath. And those bones are brittle; they are bleached; they have weathered too much.

Anything more and they might break.

I don’t want to break him.

Is this the sort of thing that will break him? He told me to go ahead and try. He meant it as a challenge, a game – one that he was fine with when he was winning. So honestly, how can he complain now? He constantly shows how much he wants to be embroiled in this with me. Even as we stand there looking out, he puts a sudden hand on the nape of my neck. I feel his thumb stroke just under my ear, gently, softly, like he wants me to know how much he wants contact with me, even as he struggles with what it does to him.

It must be OK to do this.

Yet when I finally start unbuttoning my cardigan I am shaking. My breathing is a little uneven, and not only because of the sensation that courses through me when I get to button three. It reminds me of running down a hill at full pelt, only sweeter than that. More exciting. And it gets stronger the lower I go. By the time I part the material and reveal my completely bare breasts beneath, my clit is one constant ache. My slit is slippery with arousal – and of course my nipples are two erect points.

They look like the rudest thing in the world.

Or, at least, they do if his expression is anything to go by. I’ve never seen anyone embody the phrase ‘his mouth ran dry’. But I think he gets very close. For a moment he just stops mid-stoop while retrieving something from the floor, lips parted, eyes suddenly dark with
something
. And I don’t think the something is affection. I think it’s lust, naked lust of the sort I know he felt in the cinema. Sometimes I think he feels it all the time, like some great-backed beast ever shifting beneath the veil of restraint he slips over himself.

I see it move now, mottled and slick.

Though he tries his best to hide it.

‘Put that back on, Hetty,’ he says.

But I know as I know myself that he doesn’t really mean it. If he did he would put it back on himself. He would pull it together over my breasts like he did his coat when I was soaked, instead of just standing there watching me. He might even explain to me why this is a terrible idea –
we are in my office, you still seem like my student, anyone could come in.

But the thing is, I think all of those are reasons to do it.

Rather than reasons not to.

The very moment I climb on to his desk, his eyes roll closed for a second. As though he knows, he knows, oh, he knows what I’m going to do. He gets what fantasy I have seized on, and his reaction tells me all I need to know about whose fantasy it actually is. Somewhere deep down, he has thought about it too. He didn’t just talk about it to make me hot. He talked about it because it makes
him
hot. It gets him hard, to think of me stripping down in his office. Of me sitting on his desk with the wings of my cardigan parted, nipples taut and pointing skyward, one hand already lazily stroking and teasing them.

I know it does, because when he steps towards me – stopping mid-stride as though an invisible force field stands between us – I see it between his legs. There is that solid, heavenly shape – the one I’ve shivered over ever since he fucked my face. Ever since I saw it and felt it in the cinema, heavy and curved and so good I would do just about anything to feel it inside me.

Including masturbating on his desk.

‘Hetty,’ he says.

So I lick two fingers, and coat the tip of one tight bud. I circle it, until the tingling buzz it provokes works its way down my body and over my slowly swelling and very bare sex. Because oh, yes, yes, I’m bare there too. One stiff breeze on the way here would have revealed almost everything I have – the way it reveals itself to him a moment later. He takes another step, but that one is his downfall.

Now he can see beneath my skirt, to the sparsely furred spread of my already slick cunt.

‘You wore no underwear either,’ he says, so flat and grave about it I consider stopping. Just to let him process it, for a second. Ease into it, maybe.

Though I know if I do, all of this will come to an end.

I have to push on. Go further. Be filthier.

‘It felt too tight over my aching pussy,’ I say.

Then watch him slowly start to unravel.

‘You should really…not…do this.’

‘I would obey, I really would. But it just feels so good.’

‘Someone might come in.’

‘Maybe they could do what you won’t.’

‘Oh, yes, and what might that be?’

He leans towards me, as deadly and dark as I could ever imagine him being.

It should make me balk. Instead that mean gaze drives me on.

‘Fuck my cunt. Fuck me with a big, hard cock.’

‘No matter what you say, I am
never
going to do anything of the sort to you here.’

‘Not ever? Not even a little?’

‘Not even if you beg,’ he says.

As though that is some kind of kicker.

Some sharp and deciding end to this heated conversation.

I hate to be the one to tell him that it isn’t.

‘I guess I’ll just have to do it myself then.’

And I do. I slip one finger inside myself as he stands there, watching. Quite clearly wanting to look away, but equally unable to do it. He seems almost mesmerised by the easy back and forth of it, and even more so when I start to really work it in and out. First because I want to draw him in, but after a while it starts to become more than that. It starts to make my spread thighs tremble – not exactly close to orgasm, but not far off either. I mean, I doubt I could come like this.

But I know that when I ease another finger in alongside the first it makes me genuinely sigh with pleasure. It makes me gasp and shift back on the desk, just so I can spread my legs a little wider. And once I have I really start to fuck myself. I find that bundle of nerves inside me, and rub until I’m trembling with it. Until I start to cream all over my hand and his desk, so lost in the sensation I sort of forget what my goal was.

Which only makes it more startling when he suddenly speaks.

‘Turn over,’ he says, in a voice that no longer sounds like his own.

Though it’s the words that really get me. I can barely comprehend them. I almost ask him to repeat them in a clearer way, but to be honest I’m glad I don’t.

Because
he
repeats them in a clearer way.

‘Turn over. Bend over the desk and pull up your skirt.’

I try not to race to do it. Eagerness seems out of place for the thing I think he might be about to do – though God knows it’s hard not to. I see him yank off his jacket and almost go out of my mind. And when he rolls up his sleeves I have to look away. It makes me shake, to know that he needs to take that step first. That he has to prepare himself for this, like some fighter getting ready to go into battle. This is going to be hard, and brutal, and tough. This is going to be a real punishment.