Her Possessive Professor by Gena Snow

Chapter 6

 

Hailey

 

 

 

 

Shit, did I really say that? I shouldn’t. I can tell the professor isn’t pleased when he hears my answer. It’s why he stands behind the podium now and narrows his eyes on me.

But I can’t help myself. It’s what I get out of the lines. The guy goes to a hotel with a woman, right? And what else would they do over there if not licking and rubbing each other? Ok. Maybe I’m a bit farfetched. I have an overactive imagination, and writing smut makes it worse.

“This is not a love poem, Miss Carson,” Professor Price says derisively. “It’s a satire.”

Shit. This is so embarrassing.

I’m lost as he goes on to explain the sophisticated meanings behind the poem. It’s too much for me. I don’t get the irony hidden in the lines. I don’t think anyone else is getting it either, except a smart ass named Alex.

Come on, the fact that Prufrock likes to talk to himself in his head doesn’t make him insecure. Everybody does that. Fantasizing about the mermaids doesn’t make him pathetic. I fantasize about celebrities all the time: Zac Efron, Ian Somerhalder, Jamie Dornan… None of them will ever know about my existence, let alone singing for me, but it doesn’t lessen the pleasure they bring me.

Should I make another comment and shock the professor with my frankness? I dwell on the naughty thought for a moment and decide against it. I focus my attention on the professor himself. He looks so good in his light blue dress shirt. His hair is a bit unruly today, and he runs his hand over it from time to time. He’s cleanly shaven, but I like him better with scruff. Damn. He looks so much hotter than the movie stars I secretly admire. How could anyone pay any attention to an uninteresting guy like J Alfred Prufrock when Jared Price is right in front of them?

Unable to help myself, I compose a scene that I can use in my story. You can’t blame me. It’s not an everyday event I get to have a professor that hot.

“Come to the podium, Miss C,” Professor P says to me, “I shall punish you.”

“For what?” I ask with a shudder. He looks so fierce.

“For not getting the poem.”

“But that’s not fair.”

He narrows his intense blue eyes on me, and his lips press into a thin line. “Being fair is not my goal.”

I shiver and walk up to the podium like I’m being hypnotized. For some reason, we’re the only people in the classroom. Where is everybody? It must be after class.

I wait for his move with trepidation, and my eyes dart between the deluxe eraser next to the board and the professor. I have no doubt he’ll use it to slap my bottom. It’ll be messy, but at least it’s cushioned. 

But the professor doesn’t reach for that. Instead, he lifts me up and places me on top of the podium so I face down. My head and feet dangle in the air. Oh my God. I squeal with embarrassment and excitement. “W-what’re you doing?” I ask in a trembling voice.

Before I know it, he pushes up my skirt, and my bottom is bare for him.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Your ass looks good.”

And then he slaps my cheek with a crisp sound. My God! I can’t believe he really did it! And why am I not protesting? Because holy shit. I like the touch of his rough hand, and I want more.

I can’t help letting out a tiny moan which sounds more like a sound of satisfaction than complaint, and I earn myself another curse, followed by more slaps.

The moment I feel my juice leaking along my inner thighs and onto the podium, I hear Professor P’s low grunt. “Miss C, you’re a slutty little girl.”

He stops spanking and shoves a finger between my thighs instead, smearing my juice all over my juncture. “Oh God,” I hear myself utter. This feels good. I wriggle on the hard surface of the podium.

I’m about to come, but he flips me over to face him. “No, Miss C, this is not how a punishment works.”

He then peels my panties down, spreads me wide, and stares at my center with dark, intense eyes.

As I reach a hand to touch my aching spot, he gets hold of my wrist, moves it, and pins it together with my other wrist on top of the podium above my head. He then starts long and excruciating torture by teasing me. His hand brushes over my breasts and skims over my belly, my thighs, my legs, bringing me to a sensory overload. But he doesn’t touch the part of me that craves him the most. He’s punishing me. Oh, God.

“Please!” I beg him. “Make me come!”

“Not yet, Miss C. Not until you fully understand the poem.”

“I do understand it,” I say. “My understanding is different from yours. That’s all.”

He looks amused. “Well, then enlighten me. Tell me how you understand it. What’s the meaning of the poem?”

As I’m racking my brain for an answer, his hand continues to tease me by stroking the perimeter of my womanhood.

Damn. I can’t think.

 

“Answer my question, Miss Carson!” A rumbling voice startles me out of my daydream.

Holy hell. I blink as I see the stern face of Professor Price in front of me.

The class isn’t empty. My classmates, including the Alex guy, are staring at me.

“I’m sorry, but could you please repeat the question?”

“Sure,” he looks displeased. “What do you think of Prufrock as a character?”

I think quickly and speak, “Err, I think he’s sexually frustrated.”

I see him frown and regret what I said. Shit. Why do I keep getting at sex? I wish he’ll leave me alone, but he doesn’t.

“How so?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Just a hunch.”

“Hunches are not acceptable, Miss Carson. Evidence!”

I swipe the screen to locate a line I vaguely remember. “You see, here, he worries that he won’t ‘have the strength to force the moment to its crisis.’ In other words, he has trouble climaxing.”

The room falls quiet, and I hear titters from the back. I believe the professor’s eyes flash, and his face turns just a bit red.

I feel the need to justify myself more, and I continue. “Prufrock is getting old and losing his male potency. It says somewhere he’s getting bald and not worth the attention of a mermaid, and he imagines himself to be Lazarus, Hamlet, and Michelangelo. In short, he wishes he were someone more powerful and immortal…” I ramble on and on until he stops me.

“Fair enough, Miss Carson. It shows you’ve read the poem,” he says and walks away.

Whew. I let out a breath of relief.

I wait until everyone else has left the classroom before approaching the podium. The professor looks at me with his stern eyes, and I shudder. Being so close to him and right in front of the spot he spanked me in my fantasy make me blush.

He doesn’t speak, but his attention falls below my neck. I’ve taken off my hoodie and am wearing my cami dress which is thin, so thin it probably reveals the shape of my bra, which is also thin…shit.

I should be embarrassed, but he probably likes what he sees. When his eyes meet mine, they’re stormy.

“What’s your reason for being late this time, Miss Carson?” he asks me. “Couldn’t find parking again?”

“I…err. I overslept. Sorry.”

“You sleep until noon every day?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah, I go to bed late. I work at nights.”

“I thought you didn’t have to work during weekdays.”

“I subbed for someone last night.”

“The bar closes at midnight. You could still get enough sleep without being late for class.”

Jeez. Why is he so insistent?

I stutter. “I…err… have another job.” I still work at Safeway a few nights a week, but I spend most of my free time writing.

Fortunately, he doesn’t ask what else I do. “How many hours do you have to work per week?” he asks instead.

“At least forty.” It’s an underestimate, but I don’t have to be accurate with him.

He frowns again. “And how many classes are you taking?”

“Four.”

“And you plan to pass all of them?”

What? Is he taunting me? “Yeah,” I say. “I got it.”

He pauses for a second and says. “You might need to work on your time management, then. Because clearly, you aren’t getting enough sleep. You weren’t paying attention in class, you sat there, but your mind wasn’t.”

Damn. How am I supposed to tell him I wasn’t dozing off earlier but creating contemporary literature?

All I can do is nod. “I know. Thanks for the advice.”