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The scent was thick in the air: a grounding whiff of old paper had blanketed the lecture hall in the midday. Professor Turner stood before the class, leaning back against his desk, his face etched by the light from the large windows in the most magnifying way ever, his reading glasses sitting neatly on the bridge of his nose, his salt and pepper hair a beautiful dishevelled mess, his Oxford shirt ever so crisp, and his pleated trousers high-waisted, supported by a leather belt with its golden buckle: wrappers of the eye candy that was your literature professor in Modern Poetry. In his hands was a well-loved poetry book you couldn’t remember the name of—he had been talking for the past three hours, explaining it rather, in an almost descriptive detail, and you had been watching, of course. Now, that’s just different from listening, isn’t it?
Well, at least that’s entirely different now in comparison to what you had been doing for the past semester. You’d been flunking all your subjects, barely meeting the required units. Really, you just didn’t care about your degree at all, sitting through lectures, hearing old people drone about shit you didn’t care about. There are more important things in life than just a flimsy diploma you’ll chuck in your basement ten years from now—or use as a kindling for when the apocalypse starts. It was funny, this. When you’d gotten a hold of information from your friend that the new professor this semester this whole time was some hot DILF (yes, she texted THAT, as a last resort to you actually showing up to class), you had to check it for yourself—the face you wore the entire class was utterly priceless.
Professor Alexander David Turner was a dreamboat. With that expensive cologne, that calm, relaxed posture he carried, and that small wrinkle between his brows when his mind was taking him to another place. It’s come to your attention now why all of your classmates were always present in his lectures. You thought it had something to do with their fixation with Dead Poets Society, but no, he’s just really tantalising to look at, a beautiful melting sundae on an August afternoon. He didn’t check for attendance, but you’ve made quite an impression on him—to put it subtly, you’ve grown quite infamous in the block as the student who haunts the class. The moment he stepped inside the room, his eyes landed in your direction—a new face in the crowd. Ah.
You were nervous, of course. Before even going straight inside the building, you were by the tennis court, smoking. You’d nearly gotten caught—the sound of footsteps from behind you—you made a quick exit then before you’d caught a glimpse of the witness, leaving them with nothing but a stray cigarette butt on the artificial grass.
“...and so, Plath uses Holocaust references to give… a rather dramatised version of her trauma. Now, she’s not exactly making a historical argument, is she? But… it’s used as an expression to vividly express the scale of her suffering. Pushing the limits of what confessional poetry could be.” His voice was softly rough, like something that would sound heavenly on the microphone.
A hand shot up from the front row, probably the one who's been ogling too, but in academic hunger. “So, she’s angry at her father, then?”
Alex looked up from the book before answering. “Yes, but we could still see that she saw him from a more childlike point of view,” he explained, his hazel brown eyes under the glasses going back to the open page.
He continued, “The cadence in the beginning is easily compared to a nursery rhyme rhythm that contrasts to the imagery of the violence in the last bit. So, we can assume she’s mad… but she idolised him and also still sees him as a paternal figure in her life.”
Hell yeah, fix my daddy issues, Professor.
“So, in a way, we’re seeing the entirety of her waking up from this dream—seeing the psychological hold he had over her, even when he had already died. Does that make sense?”
The girl who asked slowly nodded, “Yes, sir.”
Once the clock had struck five, he began to close his book shut. “Right, well, we’ll continue our discussion on Tuesday.”
The minority of uninterested students of the class sighed in relief.
“Class, please remember to submit your outputs tonight; I’ll be leaving the class portal open until midnight. No extensions, so please plan accordingly, and make sure to reread them before submitting, and no, there is never too much use of em dashes,” he announced, before his eyes darted at you.
Oh .
Your name slipped from his mouth like petrol on wood against the scraping of chairs from the students leaving to head to their next class.
“Could you stay behind for a moment, please? I’d like to have a word.”
Your friend, who was waiting for you to finish packing up your bags, heard this and grinned—mouthing a “You’re dead (but tell me how it goes)” to you before leaving the classroom. You nodded in defeat, sighing heavily as you waited for the last student to leave, the door closing shut behind them, their footsteps echoing in the hallway. You were stumped, of course, but also thrilled; an extra time with the hot professor was the kind of opportunity you get after you accidentally clean a genie bottle, but he seems responsible, so this conversation could land somewhere about your grades.
“You’ve had 97 absences in my class this semester,” he starts, his eyes not leaving yours as he sets the book down on the table.
I know, so many days wasted…
“And as much as you are an active participant with sending your assignments to me through the class portal, it’s come to my attention that you’re never attending any classes—mine and other professors, in particular.” Professor Turner has talked about your absences in the faculty, and of course, they knew you too. When it comes to your outputs… Well, he’s seen your essays: a bit derivative, with imprecise wordings, but it could be honed; he saw potential, but not just that, he saw something else today, too.
The lecture hall was now a box of solitude between the two of you. You were about to say something when he continued again.
“Could you come to the table?” It was a command masked as a question. He sat on the soft swivel chair behind the desk.
You nodded, leaving your bag on your chair as you slowly made your way to him—accidentally knocking over someone’s forgotten Hydro Flask —before you reached him. Up close, you could see the faint wrinkles between his brows and under his eyes; it made him impossibly hotter than before. He looked like he spends his nights in pubs drinking beer in a booth alone, reading T.S. Elliot . His brown eyes under those reading glasses were still on you, almost as if memorising your face.
A few minutes passed, his hand travelled into the pocket of his trousers. There was a crinkling sound of some small Ziploc bag—he set it down on the wooden desk—a cigarette butt.
Not just any cigarette butt. The tennis grounds met this particular butt, it was the bastard that was in your mouth four hours ago. The lipstick smudge you left was undeniable evidence.
Fuck. He was the…
“This”, he begins, and his voice heavy with authority and disappointment, “was found near the tennis court this morning.”
Oh, fuck me.
“Around the time you were… otherwise occupied, I believe?” He paused, looking at you. You could sense it, but you didn’t meet his gaze.
“Now, your grades and attendance are a concern, a fairly significant concern, mind. But this…” he trailed, pushing the baggie closer to you. You took the courage to look at him then, and his facial expression was serious. He continued again, arms crossed now, his biceps visible under his shirt. “I’m not going to lecture you on the health risks; that’s merely your choice. But what I am going to address is… that it is against the campus policy to smoke on the university grounds."
“So,” he says now, leaning back against the chair, “can you explain yourself?”
Busted.
You were embarrassed, of course. His steady gaze didn’t help; he was disappointed but also authoritative: it was enough to heat your body up to a burning, molten degree. You wanted to shackle yourself from doing something unholy—like going under the desk and apologising with your mouth instead.
“I just needed to, sir,” you started. “I didn’t have time to run out because, well… my next class—yours—was about to start in a few minutes.”
“Yes, I hear you,” he replied, adjusting his reading glasses with his knuckle. “But that’s not an option; it’s in the rules. Smoking, vaping, any of it, is not permitted here.” He tapped the baggie again with a single finger.
“Your attendance is a concern, and now, this incident… just adds to the pile.”
He lets out a small sigh, his gaze steady and holding yours. “Your cigarettes and your lighter, please.” He extends his hand now, expecting.
Your eyes widened. Cigarettes? While a rather pricey haul this morning, it was easily replaceable. But your lighter? Your Zippo was now on a different footnote; it was a vintage, beautiful old Maritime Zippo back from the 1940s you got from an antique shop. You exhaled through your nose, fumbling through the pocket of your skirt, before taking out your crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and placing it on the table beside the plastic baggie.
His hand remained outstretched, waiting for the last object he asked for.
“I… I don’t have a lighter.” You lied, voice strained and and your eyes looking away from him.
He furrowed his brows, the lines on his forehead indenting. “I saw you. You have it.”
“Must’ve slipped my hands."
“Now,” he demanded. “Or we will have to discuss the consequences of your resistance.”
You scoffed, What’s the worst he could do?
“Fine, you want proof? Search me,” you taunted, raising your arms up.
Alex didn’t move from his seat; instead, his eyes remained fixed on you. You thought he was just going to do that for the next five minutes to embarrass you further, but as you challenged him, you soon realised he wasn’t the kind to back down. He stood up from the swivel chair in an unhurried manner and rounded the desk before walking up to you. He stopped just two feet away from you, and his presence this time was more imposing than before. His eyes scanned your whole figure, finding a loose thread from your flimsy facade. His hands didn’t move, not yet. The air in the lecture hall had gone off, crackling in the air. Even the lights from the big windows behind the two of you had dimmed down. His silence was more dangerous than any verbal cut. It was a test, perhaps a counter to your challenge; it’s not like you’re expecting him to actually do it, right?
But the objective was clear: if you did have the lighter, and you were lying, the consequences would be dealt with.
You remained rooted in your footing; he won’t do it, you were sure of that.
But your assurance had died quickly as he finally closed the inches between the two of you. His hands—unexpectedly—touched you, patting gently on your sides. Your mind had gone blank; only his cologne—spiced amber and sandalwood—and his touch filled the gaps in there. His palms were warm and large, and they made their assessing travel to the pocket of your skirt: empty, no cold rectangular bump of a Zippo. Professor Turner continued his slow, clinical exploration of your form, his touch surprisingly grounding. His eyes were not staring back at you; rather, he was staring at your forehead, as otherwise looking into you would seem too intimate.
He found nothing; his movement paused now. But under his lenses, his gaze landed on you.
“See?” You whispered, a subtle triumph in your voice, fresh from the bundle of nerves as his touch was still tattooed into your skin.
His touch shifted, his long fingers now ascending to the lines of your ribs. You felt ringing in your ears, panicking as he reached the curve of your breast; you tensed immediately.
“Hey! I don’t think you’re supposed to do this, sir—”
But your protest died as his hands cupped the swell of your breast, his fingers gently pressing the fabric of your bra from under your shirt. Nestled against your thin lace bra, located just near the underwire, was the warm metal, the familiar shape of your reusable lighter. His fingertips brushed against the metallic form.
Busted.
Your face was warm for two reasons. His eyes, which once darted to your chest, had returned to look at you again.
“Take it off,” he commanded.
Confused, you let out a disbelieving scoff. “What? My shirt?”
Professor Turner offered nothing but a raised brow, as if asking you himself, did he stutter?
Well, this situation has just gotten interesting.
Your hands trembled as you gently reached for the buttons of your shirt, looking down at his loafers as you released each button with the slight touch of your shaking fingertips. Your skin had slowly exposed itself to him; with enough access, he reached out, gently easing the Zippo from its hiding place. His knuckles brushed the soft flesh of your breast as he retrieved the contraband. The small metallic pocket-sized thing was dented from the corners, and its line-drawn sailboat was etched onto the case. There was a name written on the bottom—unreadable now from its constant usage; it was a well-loved thing. He didn’t acknowledge it; his focus was solely on you as he pocketed the lighter. Professor Turner looked more serious this time. He steps back then, and before, with his words, he instructed you two words that made your brain leak out of your ears.
“Bend over, on the desk.”
You blinked, unsure if you were hearing him correctly. Regardless, you did, slowly leaning forward, your hands resting on the smooth surface of the wooden desk, your eyes a pair of dilated, questioning gazes as you looked up at him. His jaw was set in that commanding, intimidating way, and he looked at you like you were easily crushable in the palm of his hands.
Professor Turner’s voice was firmer now, breaking the silence of the lecture hall. “Disregarding campus policy, attempting to conceal contraband… it’s unacceptable,” he says, the words distasteful in his mouth.
Then, with a sharp edge of his tongue, he continued. “Lift up your skirt.”
Your hands trembled, obeying regardless of the fear. The fabric rose up over your hips, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs. You didn’t know what was about to happen, but you weren’t complaining, not even in the slightest. Your mind raced through all the possibilities of what was about to come as he walked behind you.
Then, a sharp, stinging smack against your backside.
“Count,” he ordered.
“O-one,” you whispered, before he landed another blow to your skin, the sound echoing through the hall.
“Two,” you continued, eyes closed. His palms meet the soft skin of your arse again, and it was a delicious sensation that sent your whole body shivering.
“Three.”
Each strike was the aftertaste of rum, the long finish of each note dancing on your tongue; it was a build-up to something potently delectable, and you felt your voice growing hoarse with each whip of his palm. By the tenth strike, you were already a flushed, trembling, sweating mess.
“Now,” his voice had cut through your haze, firm and commanding. “Apologise. Say, ‘Sorry, Sir.’”
It was a simple thing, but you felt that if you said it, then whatever this was would stop—and frankly, you didn’t want it to.
“No,” you spat, shaking your head in defiance.
The lecture hall was dead quiet for a brief period before, with a final, decisive blow, Professor Turner stated, “Right. That’s it.”
You couldn’t see his face, you could only make out his reflection from the windows that you two were in front of, and you wanted to turn before finally a set of two fingers slid your panties to the side, exposing you further. You felt the cool air hit your wet cunt, tensing you up, and to make your breath hitch higher, the fingers left your skin, and the sound of the distinct unbuckling of a belt filled the air, the leather rasping against the fabric. Then, the sound of his metal zipper had sealed the deal.
Oh, god.
He offered one last opportunity for you to reclaim your absolution. “Apologise,” he repeated.
“No,” you managed to say, the last word you’ve ever uttered.
The heavy weight of the silence filled the space between the two of you. Then, you felt it—he slid your panties further to the side—he entered inside of you.
You gasped, immediately holding on to the edge of the desk as you cried out. The stretch was the sear of a cigarette burn against your skin. He moved with a precise, slow movement, as if to get you used to the feeling—or to withhold you from what you’d be begging for in the next few minutes. Your mouth fell open with each thrust, eyes closed as you moaned out. It felt like your insides were being spread to the absolute limit.
“Yes…” you whimpered; the word was a continuous affirmation straight from your throat as he continued to move his hips. “Yes. Yes. Yes…” your resistance weakened now, and the need for your release was imminent now in the large space, the sound of your bodies filling the air.
“Oh, sir… Ah—hah—” you gasped when he thrusted particularly hard. “Faster, please…” you begged, your back arching.
Professor Turner leaned closer to your body, his warmth hovering over your back as he whispered in your ear. “Apologise for me, love,” he repeated once more.
You let out a choked moan as you shook your head; you weren’t going to apologise, no.
In response, he lifted himself off and gave you another stinging strike against your bare ass. You let out a loud cry before that whine soon died down as he thrusted—but a man of pure sadistic orders, kept his slow pace.
You couldn’t take it anymore; it felt like you were on the world’s slowest roller coaster. Your resistance has crumbled now, cracking under the surface.
“S-sorry, sir.” you choked out.
As those words left your lips, the slow rhythm of his hips had halted. The sudden stillness was enough to be scraped with a butter knife.
“Again.” He ordered, his voice a steady rumble.
You whimpered as your body trembled, with a shaky voice, you repeated the words with a tonne more weight. “Sorry, sir.”
Professor Turner moved again; this time it was a movement made to brutally fuck you straight into the desk. Your body shook as he plunged inside you with the force of a hydraulic press. It was too much—you were crying out, your back arching as your nails scraped the varnish off of the wood. He was revelling at the sounds you were making; every gasp made him go impossibly faster. He was putting every frustration he had over you into this biological ritual practice that was as old as the Zippo you kept. You were rocking on the table, your moans flying around the walls of the godforsaken lecture hall like a DVD logo screensaver, bouncing off of every corner of the room.
He gathered your hair in his hands, pulling your hair back into a tight ponytail, the nape of your neck exposed. He continued his ruinous pace; each thrust was a series of him banging you up to heaven and then back on earth, your body coiling around his big hard dick. You were close, so fucking close.
“Hold it,” he growled, his breath hot against your neck.
The command was the first thing you were sure you wouldn’t follow through with now. The pleasure was hot, bordering on painful—his moans filled your ear, hot breath against your skin, as he groaned, calling out your name like it was made to be in his lips at this exact moment.
Too much.
You let out a strangled cry, cumming all over his length, sending uncontrollable spasms all over him. Your body had convulsed into pure elated sensations, the bright lights filled your vision, and a release left you breathless and momentarily at peace. He groaned, as your climax was a chain reaction to his own that was felt to an unimaginably precise degree. He lets out one last guttural sound that vibrates through you before he finally rolls his hips one last time—his hot, fat load filled you to the absolute brim, making you shiver as you whimpered against him. He fell against your back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
As you turned to look at him. His brown eyes—bigger than you realised—were half-closed, completely relaxed under his fogged glasses. His salt-and-pepper hair sticking out in every direction. He was still taking the air back to his lungs as you two lay there for a while; his heavy weight was a comfort you didn’t know you needed—or maybe he just smelt good.
It was quiet, the sunlight on the window was starting to reach the two of you, and you wondered now if anyone from outside had heard or seen of anything, but for now, it didn’t matter.
The comfortable silence was slowly knocked down from the shelf like a soft thud on the carpeted floor.
“I’m confiscating the Zippo,” he whispered. “Be here on Tuesday, if you want it back.”
You let out a grin, humming softly. “Yes, sir.”