The Professor (13 page)

And oh, how it turns my pussy to liquid to think about it.

I imagine that big hand coming down on my arse, and almost go over right then and there. My clit pulses and new wetness leaks down the insides of my thighs – and that’s before he pushes my legs apart. He does it so roughly I nearly lose my balance, and then again when I consider what he can see. Me bent over the desk, as unsteady as a woman clinging to a life raft. Arse in the air, with my skirt a ruffled-up frame around it.

And all the slippery, flushed mess in between.

My sex felt enormous before I got here. God knows what it looks like now. God knows how thick and swollen and flushed my folds are, and how slick. I bet I’m gleaming with it. I bet he can see it coating my thighs and my tightly clenched arsehole; I bet he can see my clit all fat and stiff. One little stroke over it, in this position, would be enough. The crack of his hand is going to be too much.

And the thing he actually does is way beyond both of those possible moves.

I just don’t expect it, you see. I’m thinking of pain, bright and brilliant. Or of him maybe licking me there, with all the hunger I can now sense in him. But then I hear the crackle of paper and the snap of rubber, and everything I thought I knew or understand just flies right out of my head. I spend a full minute just thinking, ‘He is going to fuck me,’ over and over, and even after my brain clicks back into gear it still makes little sense. New thoughts keep sending it spinning, like:
He is not only going to fuck you, but is prepared for that eventuality. He prepared for it.

He has a condom, and is using it.

He might have had one all this time, just waiting for the right moment to use it. Half of him feigning reluctance, and resistance, and some sort of sadistic or masochistic urge to make me push him. The other half so ready he barely stops to check if this is OK. He just starts rubbing the head of his cock over my already clenching hole, seeking entrance that I feel sure he’s never going to get. I’m too overwhelmed by all of this. I’m so excited I’ve gone all the way back around into a kind of numbness.

And it continues, until I feel his fingers on my clit. Worrying and rubbing and circling me there, so soft and deliberate I can’t help moaning his name. I can’t help arching my back, and when I do it just happens. He slides in as smooth as every other fuck I ever had wasn’t, opening me up in a way I can scarcely believe. It steals my breath. It makes me moan, loud and long and so full of abandonment. I don’t care that anyone can hear – but then, neither does he.

‘Good Lord, you feel sweet,’ he says, loud enough that I actually feel it deep down in my bones. I shudder at the sound of it, cunt tightening hard around the intrusion. So hard, in fact, that he struggles to move. He makes a sound like someone clicking their fingers, as soon as he attempts it. Then again, when he manages one stuttering stroke.

He can hardly blame me for it, however.

He’s the one with the gloriously, incredibly, amazingly thick cock.

Oh, God, just the feel of it spreading me open. It seems to press and urge itself against nerve-endings I had no idea I had, to the point where I have to put a hand over my mouth. At the very least I can’t rock back into the slow, steady thrusts he works up to, because when I do the sensation is way too intense. It crackles up my spine and forces sound against my gritted teeth, violent enough that even staying still doesn’t put it off.

I’m going to make a fool of myself.

I’m going to make a
loud
fool of myself.

If he doesn’t make a loud fool of himself first.

Lord in heaven, the things that come out of him when he really starts to give it to me.

‘Christ, there is nothing in this world like having your tight little cunt,’ he tells me, and he seems to feel no shame about it. On the contrary, it only eggs him on. By the time he speaks that one last ‘cunt’, he’s fucking me hard into the desk. I can feel the wood pressing into my belly and thighs, sharp enough that it should hurt. It probably
would
hurt, if it were not for the sheer blissful pleasure of him taking me. Of Professor Halstrom using my body like this – because he is. When it’s not quite enough for him, he tugs me back on to his cock. He pins me down and forges into me, in these long fierce strokes that leave me boneless. And best of all, oh, best of all:

He opens me up with his hands.

So he can see my pussy, I think, spread wide around his big prick. So he can watch himself sliding in and out of me, see me spasming and growing slippery around him – though growing slippery might be a slight understatement. It feels more like I soak him, when I come. Like before, only far more shocking than that. Doing it over his face as he tongues my clit is hardly a surprise. But to do it while someone fucks me…

I can hardly stand it.

He
can hardly stand it.

I know he’s reaching for my clit when it happens, and the moment it does his hand stills against my thigh. His thrusts become erratic, sloppy – like he can no longer quite control himself – and his voice suggests the same. ‘Christ…Christ you’re spilling all over my cock,’ he says, in a way that only makes it worse. Now I’m mewling and working myself back on him, half up off the desk so I can eke the last of the pleasure out.

Though I’m glad I do. As soon as I arch my back – as soon as I roll my hips – he takes a hold of me. One hand goes to my breast and the other to my hair, and I don’t think he hesitates about doing it. There are no apologies or explanations, no asking, no regret. He just gets great fistfuls of me and fucks until he feels the same things I do: great shuddering waves of sensation, intense enough that he groans against the side of my face. He gasps in my ear that he’s close, so close.

Even better: he asks me if I’m ready.

‘Ready to take my come in your hot little cunt?’ he asks, as though he is someone else in those few seconds. Someone raw and real and so good I never want him to go back. This is the beast behind the veil – the one who pushes me back down and strips himself of the condom, so he can stripe my back and arse with his come. And then when he’s done, oh, when he’s done, he kneels between my legs. He licks me, in all the places he made me messy.

While I lie there wrecked and wasted, in this impossible bliss.

I expect him to be distant, in the aftermath. To avoid my gaze as we dress, or my hand when I go to take his on the walk home. But he does neither. For some unfathomable reason, I am the awkward one during both. I burn beneath his unwavering gaze as I button my cardigan back up, and then again as he helps me straighten my skirt. He just does it so fondly, with this half smile on his lips that makes me think there were never meant to be winners and losers in this game.

He just wanted to play.

He enjoyed playing, I think, swiftly followed by the sort of stomach flip I thought was reserved for other girls. Flirty, pretty girls who get surprised with fun and exciting things, like their super-serious and utterly reserved lover suddenly stopping to kiss them beneath the awning of a bookshop, as we make our slow and winding way back home. I point to something in the window, and he just tugs me back into his arms. He finds my mouth with his, as soft and sweet as I’ve ever known him to be.

As though this actually is his daydream of a romantic life.

Only now it’s real. There is nothing practised about it, nothing forced. No sense that he’s awkwardly fumbling towards it, like someone lost in a pitch-black room.

He just wants it, and so he takes it.

And when we get back to the apartment, he takes something else too. First my mouth, while we are still standing in the entranceway. Then my clothes, in so frantic a fashion I have to stop and check it’s really him. And finally, oh, finally my pussy, in all the ways I’ve always wanted him to go about it. Not with my back to him, partly dressed. Completely bare and spread out over the bed, with his hands covering my breasts, my belly, my arse.

God, when he squeezes my arse.

He does it like he wants to, or needs to.

Like it means something to him, to touch me that way. There is no concern for my pleasure in it – though Christ knows I get a great gush of it all the same. I feel his fingers digging hard into one plump cheek, and have to press my face into the pillow. A moan breaks out of me, as guttural and loud as the one I gave him in the office, and then louder still when he makes his next move.

He licks me. He licks me in a place no one has ever licked me before.

But more importantly: he gives me that same sense of this being something he urgently desires. He has apparently spent long hours thinking about tonguing my arsehole, and once he gets to do it he is very enthusiastic about it. Too enthusiastic about it, in all honesty. I can hardly look down at him, and his so very wet mouth and his slippery tongue and his eyes burning holes through my body. In truth I can’t even stand to feel it, when he makes those maddening circles right over me there, and buries his face so deep between my legs. The whole thing makes me want to squirm away.

But I can’t, I can’t.

He stops me when I try. He wraps his arm around one of my thighs, and holds me so firm I can barely buck at the feel of it. Though I try to. My body simply will not stay still. My breath is coming in high tight whines and I can see my belly tensing and relaxing – like I’m going to come, I think, even though coming must be impossible. I’ve already done it once today. He’s only licking me in a kind of rude but not usually sensitive place. I don’t understand how he does this to me.

I only know that it happens. I twist and buck and by the time I’m done he’s already moved on to the next portion of this utter annihilation: fingering my pussy so he can have me again. Is he seriously going to have me again? He took months to get to this point, and now he’s going to take me twice in the space of an hour – and just as feverishly as he did at the office. His face is flushed and his hands are shaking when he starts unbuttoning his pants. Almost as though this is the first time he has ever been with me.

Though I suppose in one way it is.

The thing over the desk was a fuck, hard and almost brutal. It shoved me into orgasm, headlong and unable to catch my breath. This is something else – a fact that only truly becomes clear when he finally spreads himself over me. He laces his hands with mine, as soon as he has sunk in me almost to the hilt. And though I think it bothers him a little to do it, he can’t seem to help meeting my gaze. Meeting it, and holding it, in so strong and deep a way it sort of feels as though I might have hypnotised him.

Or that he has hypnotised me.

How else to explain how I react, when I see right down to the bottom of that ocean in his eyes? I notice the slight shift in colour, from a near-grey to a blurry blue, and the way he searches me, as though already sensible of everything that is there, and it just happens. Before he moves, before he does anything, just here with him now like this, looking into each other’s eyes:

A tear slides out of the corner of mine.

And in answer he kisses it away. He rubs the side of his face against mine, and when he does I know.

He was wrong. He was so wrong about only being able to express in letters, because here it is in physical form. All those sentiments he expressed on the page, now made flesh. He rocks ever so slightly against me, and the pleasure is like something else instead. It surges in the same way and pulls a gasp from me in the same way, but the impact is all in my mind, and in my heart. ‘I have never felt like this before,’ he says, and I know exactly what he means. Even as I lose myself in the motions, I see it clearly:

People say ‘make love’. But they don’t really mean it. It’s just a pretty bow to dress up a base thing, and make it palatable to people who wouldn’t find it so otherwise.

Yet I believe it here. I feel it breaking through me – the sense that I am being made, somehow. That I am being loved. And I keep feeling it all the way to the very end, when he gasps my name against the side of my face. Our bodies so close together I should feel swamped, though I don’t.

All I want to do is hang on tight, as my orgasm stutters into life.

As his does too, with more abandon than I’ve ever seen him express. He laughs as it sings through him. He bursts out with it, breathless and almost astonished. ‘Good God, woman, how you have undone me.’

But I haven’t.

Not completely, not utterly.

And certainly not
literally
.

Because when I glance across at him in the aftermath, I realise:

In all the time we’ve been together…

He has never once taken off any of his clothes.

I decide to test the theory first. Not because I feel afraid to ask – though there is a slight element of that. But mostly I just want to be sure about it, before I blurt something out. To know what ground I might be disturbing, before I dig in too deep or too clumsily. There could be fault lines just beneath his reserved facade, and I have no desire to make them any worse.

So I wait, and watch.

I watch him never so much as drop his trousers, whenever we make love. And we make love a lot after that. Every boundary he seemed to have built around the idea of us having sex is long gone. He takes delight in my body, and his own pleasure. He comes upon me in the kitchen and decides that he would like to kiss my throat. He would like to cup my breast. He would like to lift my skirt and take me up against the kitchen counter, until I’m shaking and shuddering and moaning his name.

I know he loves it when I moan his name.

Or when I tell him to do it to me harder – God, yes, he loves that.

He just doesn’t like to do any of it in a state of undress. I can be naked. I can be naked in public places, from his office to a train carriage to a shady place in the park, where he brings me to orgasm by licking and kissing my bare breasts. I would even say he delights in my exposed state, and how excited it makes me when he takes advantage of it. I gasp when he starts unbuttoning my top, and again when he leans in to tell me why. ‘There is nothing in my life that has ever been so arousing as you undoing those buttons in my office,’ he says, and then all I can do is lie back against the grass. Let him make lazy circles around my nipples with his tongue, until I can feel it happening.

‘I’m going to come,’ I tell him, as aroused by the idea as he always is.

Oh, he always adores it when I do it too fast, or over something so slight. ‘I honestly never thought any woman could be so wet and ready and eager as you,’ he tells me, as I tighten around his working fingers or push against his hot wet mouth or play with myself as he talks dirty to me. Lord, he’s so good at talking dirty. His voice dips even deeper and lower, face always almost impassive as he tells me to use that little toy on my tits or my clit.

He just keeps all his clothes on while he does it.

He always keeps his clothes on – though I don’t know what it means for sure until one sultry morning a few days later. I wake to the sun blazing through his thin curtains, half-overheated because of that and half-overheated because of the position I find myself in. Somewhere in the night I sandwiched myself against his back, and it has left me sweltering and sticky as anything. I have to peel my nightie off.

But he doesn’t do the same. He just goes to get up, and would probably have succeeded too if it were not for the hand I put on his arm. I haul him back down before he can shower and change without me seeing, and I seal the whole thing with a kiss. He can’t protest at a kiss. Not when the one I give him is so soft and wet and open, and certainly not after I add one or two things.

Like words whispered against his ear: ‘I dreamed of having you in me.’ 

And a hand over his already hard cock. 

He forgets whatever he was doing, for the hand on his cock. He even lets me roll him on to his back, my mouth on him there before he manages to free himself. Most of me thinking of him filling me there, but a small part still on my goal. I want to see what happens when I try for more than this. More than his bare prick. 

I want his whole body. I want him to really give himself to me.

And he does, to some extent. He lets me straddle him, still stroking his now incredibly solid and oh-so-slick cock. But when I go to slide my hand beneath his too thick pyjamas, he stops me. Casually, like he’s not doing anything at all. Just with a hand over mine, and a slight shift in our positions. He sits up a little way as though to more actively rock into me, yet still I can see it for what it is. 

Evasion, of the finest sort. When I go to do it again he doesn’t just stop me. He presses down on my hips, until the head of his dick rubs against all the sweetest places inside me. He makes me rock in a certain way that sends me senseless, hands so firm on me I can’t even squirm free. I have no way of getting out of this, and certainly no way of thinking straight enough to do it. For a full fifteen minutes all I know is the stutter and pull of the pleasure he makes me feel.

And the slow swell of my orgasm, as it rises up to meet me.

By the time it comes he has me against the headboard, low moans rolling out of me 

like a litany. Legs around his waist and hands in his hair and everything so good I could never consider anything else. This is enough. If this is all he has to give, it is more than enough. He pants in my ear that he loves me, as his cock leaps and swells in my tightening cunt, and I forget almost everything but that.

It’s only when it’s all over that I realise.

I think it might be more than clothes.