Her Possessive Professor by Gena Snow
Chapter 11
Jared
I arrive at the classroom five minutes before class begins. Only two students are present. While waiting for more to arrive, I check email on my mobile phone.
Hailey’s message gets my attention. “I’m very sorry, Professor. I think I’ve come down with the flu.”
Flu in September? I frown. Isn’t it a bit early? I’m going to reply and tell her to take care of herself when I notice another message coming in. “Sorry, I forgot to attach the file. Here it is.” I’m curious to see what she’s written, but I doubt I have the time to finish it. I’m about to skip it but the title of the attachment catches my attention. Taken by the Professor. Interesting title. What does it have to do with Eliot? It doesn’t sound like an essay at all. Seeing only half of the class is here, I go ahead and open the file.
Excerpt: Jennifer’s eyes are glued to the naked statue-like male body in front of her. “Professor Adonis,” she coos as she splays her hands over his tantalizing six-pack, feeling every piece of the taut muscles. One hand stroking his firm chest, her other hand travels down over his abdomen, brushing over his thick bush of pubic hair, and gingerly touches his very erect, thick, male appendage.
Holy shit. What’s this? My cock swells. It must be a mistake. I return to the mailbox and see yet another message has arrived. “Urgent. Please Do Not Open My Last Attachment!”
Well, too late. I stifle a chuckle and quickly finish reading the story.
Wow. I must say it isn’t bad at all. It has steam and it’s humorous. Did Hailey write this? There’s little doubt about it given the details that allude to what happened in the bar, which is named the Tropic instead of Tropic of Cancer, and the unfriendly but “hot” professor that could be based on me.
The pen name is Joy Rider, very appropriate for the genre. Unable to resist my curiosity, I do a quick google search and find her author page. I’m quite stunned by what I see. She has nearly fifty titles all published within six months. That’s almost ten stories per month. It must be her other job.
Sensing that most of the students are here, I make a note to come back to check out her books later and put away my phone.
Shantih shantih shantih. I write the Sanskrit mantra on the board. “It means rest, calmness, tranquility, or blis—,” I say as I turn to face the class and stop midsentence when I catch sight of Hailey sitting in the back.
She gives me a furtive glance and averts my eyes, taking her notebook out of her bag. Instantly, I recall the story she sent me. I’m suddenly unable to lecture, and since there’s only about half an hour left, I let the class discuss in pairs. Hailey doesn’t have a partner, and so I sit next to her.
She panics the moment I near her, and she squeezes a smile as she greets me. “Hi, professor, I’m sorry I’m…uh… late again.”
I shrug, thinking about a way to respond. I want to tease her a bit. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’m glad you made it to class. I thought you were sick.”
“Oh, yeah, I … err… am, but I err, didn’t want to miss The Waste Land. You know?”
“Good, then let’s get to the poem,” I say, not giving her the chance to speak again. “Tell me, why does Eliot call April the cruelest month?”
“I…err…don’t know,” she says. “Professor, did you—?”
I feign a stern look, although I can barely hold my laughter, knowing what’s on her mind. “Have you read the poem, Miss Carson? If you haven’t, then do it now. Read the first stanza for me.”
She begins with a trembling voice. “April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain…”
I explain to her what it means because she looks as if she’s going to cry.
“Tell me, how do you feel when you remember the time when you were a child?”
She considers for a moment and says, “I feel happy…and sad.”
“Ah. Why sad?”
“Because… it’s gone.”
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s how the poet feels when he thinks of April. He remembers the good times that won’t return.”
She smiles. “Wow. That makes so much sense.”
Seeing that she’s able to put aside her worries, I guide her through the rest of the stanza before the class ends.
After class, Hailey waits anxiously for me to wrap up my conversation with another student.
“What is it, Miss Carson?” I ask her, enjoying the pink that creeps onto her lovely cheeks.
It’s just the two of us in the classroom, and I can’t help but wonder, what if I carry out the details of her story? Spanking her with the monstrous board eraser, and bending her over the podium? Fuck.
“Have you…err…read my email?” Her voice is small and she stares at the floor as she speaks.
“How many times must I remind you, Miss Carson? Look at me when you speak to me!”
She peers up. “I’m sorry. Have you read the second email I sent you this morning?”
“No, I haven’t,” I lie, wanting to put her mind at ease.
She lets out of loud breath. “Thank God. Please don’t open it, okay? Just delete it, please!”
“Sure, I’ll do that,” I say. “But why?”
“Err, I sent you the wrong file.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh!”
“It might harm your computer if you opened it!” she tries to convince me.
I stifle a laugh. “Really? Why is that?”
“It…err, might have some virus in it.”
“Ah. Are you saying that it’s contaminated? Or, dirty?” I pronounce the last word in a deliberate, low voice, watching the fear returning to her eyes.
“Something like that,” she says, dropping her gaze again.
“Okay, I promise I won’t open it,” I say calmly, keeping a straight face. “Anything else?”
“Umm, yeah.” She looks up. “I attached the essay to the third email I sent you. You should open that one.”
I frown. “I’m confused now. How many emails have you sent me? And how am I supposed to know which one is the second or the third?”
“Oh God.” She hits her forehead with the heel of her palm out of frustration, and then she asks me, “Would you allow me to access your mailbox and delete my own message?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” I say.
“Okay. What if you open your mailbox, and I’ll tell you which one you should delete?”
“Sure,” I say. “That sounds feasible. Let’s go to my office.”
