Her Possessive Professor by Gena Snow

Chapter 12

 

Hailey

 

 

 

 

I follow Jared out of the classroom and walk next to him toward the elevator. All the faculty offices are above the third floor. Inside the small elevator car, we stand facing each other, and his manly musk scent assaults my senses. I feel an irresistible pull toward him. I venture to peer up at him and see his amused eyes. “Why’re you so nervous?” he asks in a soft voice. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m okay,” I say. I can’t help but suspect that he knows what’s bothering me. Perhaps he’s opened the file and read its contents? That would explain his amused look.

Oh God. That would be embarrassing. I’ve already crossed the line by inviting him to my room and being intimate with him. If he read my story, too, he would no doubt think I was a slut trying to seduce him.

I contemplate the possibility nonetheless. If he read it, I would have to tell him I wasn’t the author. I could tell her it was my roommate’s…wait. He knew I didn’t have one. Okay, a friend. Better, I was an editor … but how would I explain the characters that so closely resemble us? Shit. I wish the elevator would just plunge and kill me.

But it arrives at the fourth floor safely. When the door opens, we are greeted by Dr. Kennedy, the professor I had a class with last year.

“Hi Dr. Kennedy!” I smile at him as I step out of the elevator and he responds, although he probably doesn’t remember me.

Dr. Kennedy was a friendly middle-aged man who gave easy A’s. I can’t say I like him because, frankly, he didn’t teach much and mostly just had us do class discussions. My biggest problem with him was he allowed late papers even without excuses, which was hardly fair. But then, I didn’t mind the easy A, either.

Jared gave him a tight nod, without a smile, before stepping past the older man.

Jared shuts the door behind us as soon as we enter his office, which is spacious. It has a waiting area with a leather couch, outside the main area where a large oak desk takes half of the room and some bookcases and chairs occupy the rest.

“Wow,” I whisper as I look around, impressed. I’ve been to many professors’ offices, but none is comparable to this. It even has a nice view of the distant mountains. “Are you the department chair?”

He chuckles. “No, I’m not. Dr. Kennedy is. I was just lucky. When I started my job, the oldest professor who worked here retired, and it was the only office available. The other faculty members didn’t want to move, so I took it.”

“Nice,” I say, gazing at the view.

He stands next to me and asks casually, “So, does my office look quite different from what you’ve imagined?”

“Yes, very—,” I say and stop abruptly. How does he know I’ve imagined it? Has he read my story? I gaze up at him nervously and see his blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

I swallow. “I, well. I haven’t expected it to be so large and with a view.”

He raises an eyebrow and goes back to his desk. “The desk is too high to bend over with comfort, don’t you think?”

My mouth falls open and my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “You’ve… read it?” I ask in a small voice.

“Read what?” he asks.

I stare at him for a moment to read his expression, and there’s an unmistakable merriment in his eyes. Bastard. He’s teasing me.

I curse silently and clench my teeth. Fine. If he’s read it, then so be it. It’s pointless to stay here and waste time.

I rush toward the door, but I’ve barely made it to the waiting area when I feel his hand gripping my arm and pull me to him.

“Wait, Hailey,” he says in a soft voice. “Listen to me.”

I let him turn me around and put his hands on my shoulders. He gazes into my eyes intently, smiles, and says. “I read it. Yes. And I think it’s beautifully written.”

My mouth falls. “Are you talking about the essay or the —?”

“The smut.”

My cheeks burn again, hearing him uttering the word. “You must be kidding because there isn’t a thing as a beautifully written smut.”

He inclines his head to consider my comment for a moment. “I disagree. There is plenty of well-written erotic literature throughout history. In fact, T. S. Eliot wrote some.”

My eyes widen. “Really?”

He nods. “Yes. Wait here.” He leads me to the couch and makes me sit down, and then he goes back to his office and returns with a hardcover book.

“Classic Erotic Poems,” he waves it at me as he sits down next to me.

He leafs through the pages before presenting me with the opened book. “Read it,” he instructs. “Out loud.”

I place the book on my lap and read the title, “How the Tall Girl and I Play Together.” I blush. Wow, this feels very different from J. Alfred Prufrock or The Waste Land.

I give Jared an uncertain look. “Go on,” he urges me.

I clear my throat.

 

“I love a tall girl. When she sits on my knee

She with nothing on, and I with nothing on

I can just take her nipple in my lips

And stroke it with my tongue”

 

Wow! Thank God the poem is short. I don’t think I can go on any longer. My eyes are glued on the page because I can’t even look at Jared.

“So what do you think?” he asks me calmly.

Do I have to answer the question? I hesitate and turn to look at him. “Holy shit,” I say. “Are you sure Eliot wrote it? It’s so… crude.”

“It certainly lacks subtlety,” he says, chuckling. “But yes. He did write it —for his second wife, who was thirty-eight years younger than him and brought him immense sexual pleasure in his final years. His first wife suffered mental illness, and their marriage was unhappy. He married the second time when he was in his sixties, after thirty years of celibacy.”

Jared’s face is clearly written with sympathy, which speaks for my own feelings. The great poet devoted most of his life to pursue a literary career and seeking greater purpose in life, sacrificing the pleasure that every human being is entitled to enjoy.

The majority of his life was intellectually rich but sexually deprived. He didn’t get to taste the joy of sex until old age. Who is to judge him with this seemingly crude verse written without any literary device?

“It’s raw,” I say. “And very powerful.”

“Exactly.” He nods in agreement.

I read the poem again before passing him back the collection.

“Keep it,” he says. “It might give you inspiration on your writing.”

I blush. “Are you serious?”

“I am,” he says solemnly. “How long have you been writing smut?”

I pause. “About a year.”

“Just as I thought,” he says with a nod. “Your expressions are quite shy and not explicit enough.”

My mouth hangs open. I’m both embarrassed and amused. “Are you offering me writing tips?”

He laughs. “I guess so, although I’m hardly qualified because I’ve never written one myself. However, I’m a critic of literature, and I believe my opinions count.”

I raise an eyebrow and wait for his next comment. “Are you saying my language isn’t crude enough?”

“Precisely. You’re too reserved. You use too many euphemisms, which aren’t that powerful in arousing feelings.”

He might be right, but I’m too shocked to speak. Am I really discussing smut with my English professor? This is bizarre.

But Professor Price doesn’t look embarrassed at all. He acts as if he does it on a daily basis. “Here,” he opens the same poetry collection to I Sing the Body Electric" by Walt Whitman.

 

"Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,

Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,

Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow”

 

“What do you think of it?” he asks after I’m done.

“Mmm, I don’t know. It sounds really beautiful, like a song, and the metaphors are subtle but vivid nonetheless,” I say hesitantly. “Ebb and flow make me think of rhythmic body movements.” Limpid jets of love? Quivering jelly of love? I have a pretty good idea of what they stand for, of course, but I don’t say.

“Good. Now I want you to read this one by Robert Herrick,” he says and quickly finds another poem.

“Upon Julia’s Breasts?” I read the title and giggle.

“Yes. Read it.”

I stop giggling and do as I’m told.

 

"Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me

Behold that circummortal purity;

Between whose glories, there my lips I'll lay,

Ravished in that fair Via Lactea."

 

Oh God. My breasts tingle. “What does Via Lactea mean?” I manage to ask.

“It’s Latin for the Milky Way,” he says, clearly suppressing a smile.

“Jesus,” I say and burst into laughter. “This is so blunt!”

He laughs with me. “Now tell me, which one arouses you more? Whitman or Herrick?”

What? I cover my face with the book. Damn. This is not real.

“C’mon,” he urges. “Don’t be shy.”

“Herrick,” I say a moment later. “Frankly, although more poetic and beautifully written, Whitman’s takes time to chew before one gets it. Thus the effect is less potent.”

“Exactly,” he says. “It’s written more for intellectual stimulation than carnal satisfaction.”

“Since poetry is primarily food for thought, I suppose Whitman’s is more superior than Herrick’s?”

He shakes his head. “Wrong. Poetry is the expression of emotions, and its purpose is to rouse reactions in the readers. The simpler the language, the more powerful it is. We can’t really say which one is better because it depends on how you look at them and what you’re looking for in a poem. If you appreciate great imageries and metaphors, then Whitman’s poem will delight you. On the other hand, if you want something more sensual, then Herrick speaks for you.”

I listen attentively and nod. “I like Robert Herrick. Was he an erotic poet?”

He laughs. “He was a vicar. His earlier works refer to lovemaking and the female body a lot, but later works are more spiritual and philosophical. He appreciates love, life, and sensual beauty. In his poems, he urges people to make the best of their short stay on earth.”

I turn the page and see a poem titled, To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time, and start reading:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.

“My God,” I exclaim. “This is so true! I have to hurry if I don’t want to die a virgin!”

His eyes turn dark. “Is it all you get out of our meeting today? And what’s your plan?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Give my number to the first customer who asks for it next time I work at the bar?”

He growls. “Over my dead body!”

I giggle as I close the poetry book. “Kidding! But I think I can identify with Robert Herrick. I like writing smut because I enjoy….” I stop mid-sentence. I was going to say I enjoy sex, but obviously, it isn’t true because I’m but a virgin.

“You enjoy fantasizing about sex,” Jared finishes the sentence for me, in a low voice.

I blush. “Y-yes.”

We’re sitting very closely. In fact, his arm is on the sofa’s backrest behind me, touching my shoulder.

As my blood leaves my brain and flows to my lower regions, my body switches from thinking mode to feeling mode right away.

God. He’s so handsome. Those blue eyes that have been bright with the excitement of speaking poetry earlier turn a degree darker. “I must say, Miss Carson, you have an impressive imagination.”

I swallow, my lady bits are on fire now, and I should take leave. Otherwise, I’ll do something unthinkable, like seducing my professor in his office. But I can’t stop blabbering. “I’m sure what I’ve imagined isn’t comparable to the real thing.”

His breath hitches. “Would you like to find out?”

“Yes,” I whisper.