Her Dirty Professor (2 page)

* * *

I
n class
the next day we’re doing labs, so it’s perfectly fine for people to talk. Normally I work alone, the clink and clatter of background noise the soundtrack of my workday. You’d think all that sound would be distracting, but I actually find that it gets me in the mood to work. I have my routines and the noise is just part of it. Except today Serena and her boyfriend are waiting at my table for me. This is definitely not part of the routine.

Boyfriend is in my chair. He gets up slowly when he sees me and saunters back to his own seat. He’s wearing perfectly pressed shorts that hit above his knee, a yellow polo, and white shoes that look like Keds, but probably cost ten times more. It’s an ensemble I’d imagine someone wearing on a yacht, except we’re about two hundred miles inland. To anyone without money, he comes off like a douche and looks like a character out of Dallas. Utterly ridiculous.

When I sit down, all I can smell is him. All wealthy people smell the same. It’s a unique scent, a formula they’ve mastered that consists of clean pores that have never been clogged with the sweat of hard labor, rubber soles that have never touched the ground because why do anything on your own when you can walk across the backs of others? Or maybe it’s just the smell of money. I don’t know. I’m probably just being cynical because I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for everything I have.

Serena doesn’t go back to her desk. Instead she continues to lean against mine, staying far too close to my personal space than I’m comfortable with. Since she won’t move, I guess I’ll have to. I roll my eyes and scoot my chair to the end of the table.

Mr. Johnson glances over at us. He knows this isn’t normal, but he doesn’t say anything, just wanders from desk to desk to see if anyone needs help.

“Did you watch the video again?” Serena asks.

I busy myself with my beakers and flasks, setting up my burner, trying to act all casual, like it’s no big deal. “I did. But I don’t think it’s Mr. Johnson.”

“Are you kidding? It looks just like him,” she says. Serena is beautiful, but it’s an out-of-date beauty. She’s too pristine, too put together. Her blonde hair is perfectly curled, clothes pressed. Reminds me of what people in the eighties expected pretty to be. I’m so tempted to dump my beaker of water on her head, see what shape wet gel makes with her hair without the authority of a brush and comb around to put it back in its place.

I seek out Mr. Johnson across the room, follow him with my eyes to make sure he doesn’t sneak up on us while we’re talking about him. Somehow I think he knows anyway. It’s like he can sense his own presence elsewhere. That old saying about ears burning, or whatever. He continues to glance our way and I keep averting my eyes to make it seem as though I was looking at the instructions on the whiteboard instead of him.

“I looked at the full movie and the names in the credits; I didn’t see his anywhere,” I say. “It wasn’t him.”

Boyfriend leans into the conversation and scoffs at me. “Have you ever watched a porn before? They never use their real names.”

My face heats up. I’ve watched porn before. A little. Very little. Not that I’m opposed to it at all, but when you share accounts and passwords with your parents it’s difficult to buy or search for things on the internet you don’t want others to know about. I guess I should’ve known the actors weren’t using their real names since most of them have names like “Johnny Dong” and “Lana Gnitsif”—which I thought was kind of a pretty name until I realized it was Anal Fisting spelled backwards.

“The guy in the movie is way too young,” I say, doing everything I can to convince myself and them that they’re wrong about the teacher I admire so much.

“Yeah,” Serena says, running her finger around the rim of my beaker. I swear if she tips it over and spills water on my assignments, I’ll break the damn thing over her head. I almost want her to, just to see if I have the courage to do it. “Because it was made ten years ago.”

“Damn,” I mumble. I didn’t even bother to look at when the movie had been made. By the low quality of the film, it makes sense that it was made ten years ago compared to some of the other movies that were on the website. I can’t get too down on myself for not paying attention to these things, though. After all, my attentions were elsewhere—a couple times that night.

I look at Mr. Johnson again.
Really
look this time. The shapes his body makes when he’s standing or leaning. The different facial expressions. He has the best smile. Genuine. The kind that makes wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. The actor in the video didn’t have those. In fact, he looked as though he’d never smiled a day in his life.

Could it really be him? I can’t imagine why someone so brilliant would resort to porn. I mean, unless he just really wanted to. Not that there’s anything wrong with porn. It’s a perfectly satisfactory profession for a lot of people, and I hear there’s good money to be made in something like that. I’m totally all for the sex-positive movement. It’s just, he doesn’t seem like the type who would put himself out there for the world to see. That’s a bell that can never be un-rung. When someone goes into a profession like teaching, there are background and credit checks to be had. Every decision you’ve ever made in your life is under scrutiny. You basically have to be a nun or a priest in your former life. Squeaky-clean as fuck.

I’m doing the math in my head. In order for him to get to where he is now, a professor in one of the best private universities on the west coast, he would’ve been in college himself back when the movie was made. He also would’ve known videos like those could eventually destroy his career if anyone were to find out. Why would he risk his entire career?

“The only way to find out if it was really him,” Serena continues, “is if someone sees the goods. Also, there’s that birthmark on his hip that would totally give him away.”

There’s that, but I could tell just by seeing his dick. I would know it anywhere. I watched the video several times and have it ingrained in my memory.

“How are you going to do it, just walk up and ask to see his birthmark?” I ask, skeptical.

Boyfriend—I seriously need to learn his name; I think I heard Serena call him Chet, or maybe Chad, once—laughs too loud, getting the attention of everyone around us, including Mr. Johnson. I look down to avoid his irritated gaze. I hate the thought of him thinking I’m fucking around in class and not getting my work done.

“Are you kidding?” Chad (or whatever) says. “I wouldn’t let my girl near that summer sausage; I’d lose her for sure.”

Serena rolls her eyes and says, “I’m not going to find out, but you are,” she says to me.

“He won’t show me,” I insist. I can’t even imagine how I would go about seeing it. I picture the look on his face as I walk up and say,
Good day, Mr. Johnson, how about you show me that beautiful fuck-stick.
The thought brings a fraction of a grin to my face. Mostly because the voice I use in my head is British. I’m not sure why. It just pops into my head like that.
“He wouldn’t be willing to risk his job. He could lose everything.”

“Trust me, for you, he would,” says Chad with a sleazy grin. Serena jabs him in the ribs, giving him a dirty look. “What? He would. She’s hot.” Her angry look continues to harden until he’s squirming. “But you’re hotter,” he says. The nasty glare continues far too long until both me and Boyfriend are super uncomfortable. After a minute she relaxes. The thin compliment seems to satisfy her enough to move on.

When she looks back at me, there’s more heat in her gaze, as if it were my fault her boyfriend called me hot. “I dare you to find a way to catch him naked and get a look at it,” she says.

“How the hell do you suppose I do that? It’s not like he has a reason to strip down in class . . .”

Or does he?

Ideas begin to fire off in my head. Situations. Possibilities. Probabilities.

Here’s where my curiosity will get me into trouble. I don’t back down from dares, and in this case, I kind of don’t want to. I’m just as curious as everyone else, and I actually think I have a plan on how to see him naked that might just work. I look in my backpack to make sure I have what I need, and with a nervous smile, realize that I do.

I
’ve never been
interested in one of my students. Never even been tempted. Not until Georgia.

The first day she walked into my classroom I knew I was in trouble. All the typical things played into it: A sexy mane of thick dark hair, silky pale skin, eyes like bright blue planets that suck you into their world. But it was more than that. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life—
been
with plenty of beautiful women. With Georgia it was different. It was chemistry.

Part of it was her looks. On more than one occasion I pictured brushing my fingers through her locks. The full lips I’d love to kiss, and the curvy body I want to taste every inch of. It’s
everything
about her. Looks, yes, but her personality too. The inquisitiveness. That might not be all that of an attractive feature for most men, but for a teacher there’s nothing better. And the fact that she devours my every word, eyes stalking me as I cross the room. I’m used to students’ glazed-over stares as they watch the clock above my head ticking by, waiting for the hour to be over.

Not Georgia. She acts as though I’ve hung the moon, never questioning anything I teach. I have her in my grasp. If she’s as quick of a study in bed as she is in the classroom, she may just be the girl of my dreams. When it comes to sex, I could bend her to my will, dominate her, and she would love every minute of it.

But the distracted girl in my classroom is not the same girl I’m used to seeing on a daily basis. I’ve never seen her talk to Serena and Chad. Normally the Rockefeller wannabes talking in the corner don’t rattle her a bit. For some reason they have been for the last two days. And what was that, when she looked right at my dick yesterday? Not that I’m complaining, of course. It just took me off my guard, and I don’t like to be surprised in the middle of a lesson when I’m trying to get these thick-headed students familiar with chemicals that could easily poison them or burn their skin if they’re not careful.

In the months Georgia’s been in my class, she’s always looked me right in the eye. Yesterday it was as if my cock was giving the lecture. After class I even checked the front of my pants to make sure my zipper wasn’t down and that I hadn’t spilled my lunch down the front of me. Seeing her look at me like that, I’d struggled to keep from getting a hard-on in class. Struggle is putting it mildly. I had to force Mrs. Chambers, the cook in the cafeteria—the one with the mustache and blackheads the size of pennies—into my thoughts to keep my dragon down. Because trust me, when I’m hard, there’s no hiding it.

Every time I look at Georgia, she’s looking back at me with bare curiosity, as if I’ve done something so outrageous, so entertaining that it warrants all her attention in case I do it again. I try to hold her gaze but she keeps averting her eyes. Maybe I’m reading her wrong and she just needs help with the assignment, but I don’t think so. I’m not sure what she wants and it’s driving me crazy.

The entire period is a struggle to keep my focus. When the class is finally over, I sit at my desk and take papers from my students as they leave the room. When the last student is gone and the door shuts, I get up to lock it. When I turn around, I realize Georgia is still at her desk and she has yet to clean out her flasks and beakers.

I stand up, not sure what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets. She’s looking down at the paper in front of her as if she’s really struggling. She’s my best student. She should’ve breezed through this assignment. It’s stuff we’ve already covered throughout the school year. I’ve never known her to struggle with anything since starting this class, especially things this easy.

Making my way across the room, I see last night’s assignment on her desk. Though I’m looking at it upside down, from this angle it looks complete. In fact, it looks more than complete. It looks as though she wrote out each of her answers and explained why in the margins for good measure. She’s always doing things like that, going above and beyond what I ask her to do when most students struggle to write two words. I even had a student once answer a question with “just because.” Not to name names, but his name sounds like Brad and he sits next to Serena . . .

“Georgia? Do you need help with something?” I ask her.

She startles at the sound of my voice, knocking over a flask full of blue liquid that splashes onto my pants and shirt.

I back away instantly, sucking in a worried breath. Working with chemicals, I know just how dangerous they can be. I once had a professor in college blow up a classroom. Luckily no one was seriously injured in the accident. But that’s one cautionary tale you don’t forget in this business.

Though we’re not working with anything explosive or particularly dangerous at the moment, there are chemicals in this room that could cause nasty rashes and first-degree burns. I don’t want to take any chances. As I strip off my clothes, down to nothing but my boxer-briefs and socks, the area around me fills with the scent of peppermint.

Georgia jumps out of her seat with a towel in hand, wiping off my bare chest, and spending an exorbitant amount of time on the front of my boxers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to open the flap and see inside. I stop her by grabbing onto her wrist before the effect she’s having on me becomes impossible to hide. After she calms down, I let go of her. She apologizes for being so clumsy. She is not a clumsy girl. Not in the slightest. And she’s not one to startle easily, either. There have been plenty of times when I’ve stood over her while she was deep in thought, and not once when I said her name did she flail her arms and dump chemicals on me.

“God, I am so sorry, Mr. Johnson, it’s not a chemical, it’s just mouthwash.”

I pause with my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers. I was starting to think I was better safe than sorry and should strip down to nothing at all and wash off.

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Mouthwash?” I say, confused.

Her beautiful porcelain skin floods with color. “The bottle broke in my backpack so I dumped it in the flask so it wouldn’t get all over my homework.

I glance over at the sink attached to table right beside her, and the trashcan just below it. She had two options of easy disposal, but decided to dump it in a flask instead—for which she would have had to use a funnel in order to sift it through the small opening. This is a smart girl with excellent problem-solving skills, not whatever this character is she’s playing—who reminds me more of the ditzy Serena she’s been sitting behind who barely squeezes through life on a C average.

I start to wonder if this has anything to do with the reason those two have been talking in class the last couple of days.

“Can I see your paper, please?” I ask. I want to see if she really did need help with her assignment or if this is some game she’s playing that I have yet to figure out the objective of.

Her jaw clinches, and she takes the paper in her hand, hesitating as though she might not give it to me.

“Georgia? If you don’t turn it in today, you don’t get credit.”

“Can’t I turn it in late?” she asks, looking up at me with those big innocent eyes. The way she bites her bottom lip has me itching to grab her by the sides of her face and bring those lips to mine. If she were anyone else but my favorite student, I would have.

My voice stays firm even though I’d probably cave if she asked me for an extension. “Highest grade you can get when turning something in late is a C.”

Her eyes go bright with fear, and I fight the smile bubbling up. Little Miss Overachiever. I knew that would get her attention. She hands me the piece of paper. Even with the smell of mint still lingering in the air, the scent on her paper fills my head. I’m stunned at first, and glance over at Georgia who stares down at her desk, chin bobbing as if she’s either about to cry or scream, or maybe both.

With the page to my nose, I fill my lungs with the sweet, earthy scent of female cum. I want to close my eyes and live in this moment, stick my tongue out and taste her. I would know this smell anywhere. Hairs stand up all over my body and my dick strains against my boxers. Reluctantly, I put the paper down in front of me to hide my arousal.

When I finally break the hold her scent has on me, I look at the page and realize her work is flawless—like usual. So why had she been sitting there acting as if she were in need of help, unless she meant all of this to happen? I have a sinking suspicion that she was trying to get me out of my clothes on purpose, and that she had every intention of having me smell her cum on these pages. The only question that remains: is this brilliant student trying to start something with me?

I don’t know her well enough to say for sure that she’s not the kind of girl who would carelessly try to hook up with a teacher and risk losing her scholarship, but she definitely doesn’t seem like it. I would never try to do anything to ruin the limitless options of her future, only I’m really struggling not to give in to her.

“Georgia, what’s this about?” I say, trying to mask the lust-heavy undertones of my voice with authority. I don’t know how successful I am at it, but I’m giving it one hell of an effort. “I know this wasn’t an accident. Does this have something to do with Serena and Chad?”

She looks at me, but she can’t seem to hold eye contact. Her eyes start to wander over my body, stopping at my hip. Her gaze lingers on the small birthmark shaped like California, and her mouth drops open.

“What . . .” she says, her voice trailing off as if her mind is somewhere else.

I snap my fingers in front of her face to get her attention. “What is going on with you?”

She hesitates. Whatever it is bears a heavy weight that makes her shoulders droop.

“I can’t help you unless you tell me,” I say.

Taking a deep breath, she lets her head fall into her hands. “I’m so sorry.” She looks up at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling and winces. I’m actually a little afraid of what she’s about to say. With as much twisting and turning as she’s doing in her seat, it can’t be good. “I was sitting behind Serena and Chad and they were watching this video . . .”

She’d mentioned them watching videos before, but the way she says it now leaves no doubt as to which video she’s talking about. Squeezing my lips together, I stand straight as if my vertebrae has been soldered together. It was only a matter of time before someone found the old movie. I hoped it would be long after I’d retired, but luck doesn’t seem to be on my side. At the time, when the porno was first made, it seemed like a needle in a haystack that someone I knew would come across it. It was made in a tiny back-alley studio. The company was professional enough to test for STDs prior to production and it paid well, but as these types of companies go, it was like a mom-and-pop thing. The director wrote the script, did the lighting himself, and ran cameras, while his wife and brother ran the others. I had no idea they’d have the kind of distribution to keep videos out in the world after all these years.

Now it has finally come back to bite me in the ass.

“Who all knows about the video?” I ask, sounding angrier than I should. It’s not like it’s her fault that the students in my class found it, and I can’t blame her for being curious enough to watch it. If the shoe were on the other foot and I found a video of Georgia, I would definitely check it out.

“As far as I know, just us,” she says. “They were hesitant to even show me, but I’d already seen enough to realize what they were watching. I don’t think they’ll tell anyone.”

“No,” I say, resigned. Looking out the window at the clear sky, I see my entire career—all those years of late-night study sessions and horrible part-time jobs in greasy fast-food joints to earn tuition flash before my eyes.

That’s why I’d resulted to porn, because there were no part-time jobs that paid enough. I was going through the job section of the newspaper one day when I saw the ad for porn actors. I was young and thought, fuck for money? Hell yeah, I can do that. But it wasn’t at all how I thought it would be. I showed up at the studio and met my co-star, who, at the time, was smoking a joint because she couldn’t bear to have sex with me sober. She was twenty-six years old and had already starred in over fifty movies, some of them so extreme, according to her, that they had to have a medic on set just in case. After that I was afraid, to say the least. There was nothing sexy about any of it. She immediately went into the rules, what she was willing and not willing to do. I was then instructed to lie on a bed with all eyes on me. With the heat from the lights blazing down on me, and the cold mechanics of the whole thing, I struggled to stay hard. They made me pop a little blue pill and threated to kick me out and not pay me if I couldn’t perform. Somehow I managed, but despite my hard cock, I wasn’t turned on one bit. Once I came, I was so glad it was over I decided never to do it again, even after receiving a nice paycheck. It just wasn’t worth it. And now, everything I’ve worked for, all of it could be gone because I had sex for money on camera ten years ago.

Exhaling a long, exhausted breath, I say, “I don’t think they’ll tell anyone as long as I give them something in return. Their parents are wealthy, so I doubt they’ll want money, but I’m sure they will want As in this class. But you already have a perfect grade in my class, so what will you want?”

I have a hard time keeping the irritation back. I thought Georgia was different. Stupid me, I was actually starting to feel a connection between me and her. I thought she liked me. Now that I realize she did all of this to blackmail me because of the video, I realize how dumb I’ve been.

“I don’t want anything,” she says.

I watch her, trying to read her face. I’ve been teaching long enough to spot a liar from a mile away. So why am I not picking up on anything? I want to believe her. Those big blue eyes look sincere, and so does the shocked expression on her face, but the way she continues to twist the straps of her backpack tells me she’s not being entirely honest.

“You’re lying,” I say.

She bites her bottom lip, her eyes bouncing between my face and my dick, which has finally settled down in the face of my ruin.