The Professor (9 page)

They are silky and slippery, and everything is tingling because of it. Everything is swelling and getting warmer and slicker, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I don’t even think I want to stop it, at this point. He’s still completely asleep. I could just slip my hand under my knickers and get myself off, without him knowing a single thing.

I even go to do just that, and only fail when I feel something around my arm. Something firm and insistent, that absolutely cannot be his hand. There is no way he would grab me like that, and even less chance of him pressing me back onto the bed. It was dubious enough when I dreamed it up. Him actually doing it is impossible. Incredible.

And ten times more exciting than it was in my head.

There are details to the real thing I could never have thought of – like the fact that his thumb brushes one sensitive nipple when he pins me to the bed. Or that it feels as if he’s cupping and fondling one of my tits when he does it. Or that I try to get up again, embarrassed, and he forces me back down. God, I think I almost come when he forces me back down. At the very least I moan and squirm and say his name.

And even louder when he makes his next move.

He just starts shoving my knickers down. No talking about it. No asking. He doesn’t even seem to have a particular expression on his face – or if he does I can’t make one out. His eyes are glittering shards of glass in the darkness. His mouth is a soft blur. He could be thinking anything, anything, oh, God, anything at all up to and including
I want that pussy around my dick
.

It certainly seems like it, once he has my underwear down around my knees. He doesn’t even bother to take them off completely, as though his patience has worn too thin for it. He just needs some sort of access to my cunt, and this halfway point is fine for that. My legs can spread far enough, my pussy is bare enough – now all he has to do is get between my legs and rut.

Either that, or he could just lick his fingers.

No, honestly, that’s what he does – he licks his fingers. And I can’t even be disappointed about it either, because oh, Christ, the way he goes about it. He watches me as he does it, in this almost detached sort of way. As though he’s teaching me a lesson, I think, though I have no idea what the lesson could possibly be. I think he might be the one who needs to be taught a thing or two, if he honestly thinks he needs to make those fingers slippery before he touches me between my legs.

Though he learns it fast enough. He learns it too fast, if his expression is anything to go by. He eases those fingers through my insanely slick folds, and his lips actually part. A sound comes out of him – one that might be a sigh but could be a moan. It definitely feels like a moan. My clit jumps at the sound of it, and I know I make an even bigger mess of myself down there. I know I do, because he rubs through it. He eases it over my plump lips and around and around my eager hole, almost slipping inside but not quite, oh, not quite.

Though it hardly matters.

How could it, when he follows that with a stroke around my clit? No teasing, no preamble, no watching me squirm like a fish on a hook. He just starts rubbing me there, fast and firm and so sure it stops my breath. I’m halfway to orgasm before I’ve even fully processed what he’s doing, and I go the rest of the way once I do. I see it in bold bright letters behind my eyes:
he’s forcing you to come. He’s frigging your clit quick and hard until you do it all over his hand.

And then suddenly it’s happening. It’s happening way too fast. I sort of want to stop myself, but I can’t, I can’t. My belly is tightening and my clit is swelling against his fingers and I’m just too far gone. Sound slips out of me before I can catch hold of it, embarrassingly thick and guttural. Or at least it would be embarrassing on any other day. But now…now. Now I say all kinds of other stuff and don’t care one little bit. Not as this pleasure breaks and my clit flutters against his fingers and I come, kicking and screaming.

It’s only in the aftermath I realise.

When he turns his back, and tells me just why he did what he did.

‘Perhaps now we might at last get some sleep.’

I wake with every intention of being good from that point on. He made himself very clear, after all. I was a nuisance to him, a great and terrible nuisance. I woke him with my furtive attempts at masturbation, to the point where he had to see to me. Doing anything further would be the height of bad manners, I am sure.

I feel absolutely and completely sure, until I sneak a glance at him. 

And then I don’t know what to think.

He isn’t facing away from me any more. He’s not even lying on his side. He’s sprawled on his back, limbs so haphazardly spread about the bed I’m surprised I didn’t notice before. One of his hands is curled almost against my side, as relaxed as someone with ten times his casualness. And his crooked knee is pretty much resting on my thigh. If he shifted just a little it would nudge between my legs.

Though I try to put that thought out of my mind the moment it climbs in there. I take a few deep breaths. I consider other more boring things, like wallpaper and England and books by Norman Mailer. I even close my eyes and try to go back to sleep again – but the problem is that I do it just a little too late. I glance in the wrong direction before I shut them, and after that there is no chance of going back. His sudden relaxed state is bad enough.

His erection is about twenty steps too far. 

The sight gets me by the throat. All the breath is forced out of my body, and shows no signs of coming back soon. I might die just lying here looking at the thing – but, by God, I get why. It isn’t just the fact that he’s lying next to me as bold as brass with his cock jutting against the tweed. It’s that he is enormous.

No, no. Enormous doesn’t cover it. 

Enormous is jealous of what he has. 

I have to glance away the second I see it. I can hardly believe it, despite knowing how tall he is and how burly he is and his hands, God, I should have known because of the hands. Or even the nose – everyone says there is no truth in that one but at the very least I could have anticipated. I could have expected, then been disappointed. Now I have to cope while lying next to him in bed, after promising myself I wouldn’t do anything sexual in front of him ever again.

How am I supposed to never do anything sexual again when I know he has that? I could barely manage before. I almost masturbated because of his shoulder blades. This is too much, way too much. My head is already filling up with all the things he could do to me with it, and all the things I could do to him. Then when I try to yank it back, the images just get worse. They get elaborate. I start with something small, like him touching himself when he knows I’m not around. Hand straining to contain that big, thick thing. The head of it heavy and dark and slick.

Then end with him in my mouth, filling and fucking and spilling thickly all over my tongue. Him in my pussy, having to work to get inside my tight little hole. Pushing in inch by delicious inch, spreading me wide and filling me so full I can feel it in my teeth, every bit of my cunt just aching to squeeze around the intrusion. And getting absolutely nowhere.

God, I bet I’d hardly have to clench at all to feel how solid he is, how thick, how hot. The barest flutter would get me there – and when I say ‘get me there’ I mean orgasm. I mean gushing all around his gorgeous cock, before he moves an inch. I could see it happening. It’s almost happening now, and his cock is still over there and completely covered in clothes.

And I know that, because I keep looking.

My eyes keep sliding over there, without my permission. Nothing will hold them back. I cover them with one hand and somehow end up peeping from between two fingers. I turn on my side and still glance over my shoulder, as though hoping to see something different when I do. But no, no – everything is exactly as it was. I can still make out the heavy curve of it, through material that seems far too thin.

Why did it have to be so thin?

It makes it really hard to keep my hand where it is. Though I honestly try my hardest – I hold on to the hem of my T-shirt, and then the sheets beneath me, and finally get up, to stop myself getting close. I go to the tiny window and try to open it, just so I can get some air. So I can cool off and think straight for five minutes, without the thought of his cock intruding.

If I don’t he’s going to think I’m sex-mad.

He’s going to think I can’t control myself, and need to be shipped back to England. And he would be right to, because I
am
sex-mad. I
do
have trouble controlling myself.

Even after I manage to crack the window open a little, I still feel feverish. I focus on things outside – lovely things, amazing things, wonderful things. Dawn is breaking over hundreds of glistening rooftops, and each one looks like it belongs atop a gingerbread house. The bakery across the street is making bread, and the smell wafts up to me, both familiar and not. I am in another country, another world, and yet I can’t break free of my own body.

It carries on aching and shivering, no matter how hard I fight it.

And now he knows it. I hear him get up from the bed and come over to me, and brace myself for impact.
This is precisely why I stopped talking to you
, I imagine him saying, so hard it feels like he might have already done it. I resign myself to it. This is how he is: staid and reserved and unwilling to give himself over to anything pleasurable. I can never expect anything more.

Though of course that is the very reason it thrills me, when he
does
do something more. I almost bite my own tongue in two when I feel him cup my breast. Partly because of the very idea of him doing it, of him wanting it, of him not even disguising it as anything else, but mostly because he touches me underneath my clothes. He slides his hand inside my top, and fondles me in a way that can only be described as lustful.

In fact I know it is, because he doesn’t stop there.

He squeezes my breast with one big hand – not quite rough but not quite gentle – then seems to decide that through my bra is not quite good enough. His hands go to the hem of my top, and I think,
No, no, not possible
. People could probably look up and see me through this window. They could see him. He would never strip me – not even if we were totally shut into a completely private room.

But I’m wrong.

He pulls it over my head before I’ve even finished thinking it. Then after that he goes one better: he starts unfastening my bra. He takes that off too, and once he has he doesn’t hesitate. He swallows both of my breasts in his massive hands, in a way I know is designed to have the maximum impact. His touch is greedy and possessive, as though he really wants me to know how much he wanted to do this. He wanted to grope my tits, and toy with my sensitive nipples.

It turns him on to do it.

I can tell it does, by the way he pushes my legs apart. He does it with his foot, too hurriedly, too sloppily. And when he bends me over the desk that stands between me and the window…well, what else can I think? The hand he spreads over my back is much too firm and far too eager – as are the fingers that start tugging my knickers down my legs. He almost snaps the elastic several times, and above that sound is another, deeper, sweeter one.

His harsh, desperate breathing. Like he can hardly contain the urge to take his pleasure. He can’t wait to fuck me, I think, and come close to groaning in arousal and disbelief. My pussy is creaming over the very idea, every inch of it so ready for that cock of his. I can feel it clenching just at the thought. The moment he slides in I’m going to do it all over him – and that much is true. I do come almost the second I feel him against me, hard and long and oh so juicily.

But it’s his face that he puts between my legs.

Not his cock, not the hard fuck I was anticipating. He kneels down and kisses me there, open-mouthed and as hungry as I can ever imagine anyone being. I doubt I would suck his prick with this much abandonment, and that is the thing that really does me in. The shock of it is enough, but his eagerness is the real catalyst. He actually makes sounds as he licks and sucks my spread cunt. Thick, guttural sounds of the sort I made when I climaxed last night.

I hear them and I just about burst with it. My hand goes to the window, uncaring if anyone can see me. And though I know I’m shoving against him – though I know I’m rocking my hips in the rudest possible way – I can’t stop myself. I practically fuck his mouth, and feel almost no shame when I do. How could I possibly when he keeps going? He doesn’t stop at one filthy, too eager orgasm. Instead he decides that this is nowhere near enough, no matter how hard I try to squirm away from him. When I do, he insists on it.

He grasps my hips and holds me there, while he works me over again.

And when I say works me over, I
mean
works me over. He does it like the night before, insistent and firm and nearly forcing me towards orgasm. No teasing – quite clearly he thinks I’ve had enough of that. No, no, he just rubs the flat of his tongue right over my over-sensitised clit, until I’m almost screaming with the sensation. It’s far too thick and far too hot, like a kind of branding. I want to pull away, but he won’t let me. His grip is so firm I can scarcely move. I can’t even close my legs, because his knee is between them.

And then, oh, then he starts flicking at my swollen bud with the tip of his tongue. Right on the underside, right where it’s sweetest, so quick and firm I can only go limp against the window. I rest my forehead on the glass, breathing too hard and shaking too much and most probably looking like the horniest little slut that ever existed.

But I don’t care. In truth it only adds to the pleasure of the whole thing, to think of people watching me getting fucked by my Professor. Watching my breasts jiggle and my fingers pinching and pulling at my hard nipples. If they strain hard they might even see my lips moving around words I don’t mean to say.

Or at least I don’t mean to say them
at first
. But after he uses two fingers to spread my folds open, stroking around my bud until it stands proud, I kind of forget any decorum I had. I forget that my filthy words might be the thing that made him turn off last night, and I just let them spill out of me. ‘Ah, yes, just like that,’ I tell him, ‘just like that, lick my clit, lick my clit, oh, God, yeah, you’re going to make me come again
.
’

And it’s true. He is. I feel it welling up inside me, so slow and heavy I can chart its progress. It circles my clit and then rolls up through my belly, too dense to take at first but then better, sweeter, brighter. It becomes a fizzing spark that spreads through my chest and limbs, bursting outwards over and over again until I can hardly stand it. I have to get away now, I have to – and not just because it feels too intense. There is also the fact that I might be making a real mess of his face. Everything feels very slick between us, suddenly.

But he doesn’t seem to mind at all.

If anything it makes him hold me tighter, until I really can feel my juices all over his face. And when he finally lets me go, when he stands up and lets me turn around, I can see it. I’m all over him, from his chin to his shirt collar. He looks like he’s been stuffing his face with that syrupy fruit, if stuffing your face with syrupy fruit was something that also made your eyes wild and bright and your cheeks flushed.

God, I don’t feel ashamed of it, when I see his flushed cheeks. And I’m right not to. Because, after a second of heart-thumping silence, he breaks it with this:

‘Lord in heaven, Hetty. Was there ever anyone who enjoyed getting her quim licked more than you?’