The Professor by Charlotte Stein Read Free Book Online Page A

tries, I think, to behave as though that doesn’t matter either. But I just don’t think he expects it to happen. He thought I would stop at the shirt, and when I don’t everything goes slack, like someone cut the strings that hold up his features. He goes to say something, only his mouth no longer works.
    He can’t even raise his hand to stop me – but even if he did it would be too late now. I’m committed. If I go back on it the whole thing will only seem more suggestive. And really, what does it matter? The jacket hangs almost to my knees. I have underwear on, underneath. It doesn’t have to be any worse than the top.
    But it feels like it might be once we’re sitting down.
    He can see so much of my bare legs, pale and plump and smooth. They damn near gleam in the low light, in a way even I can hardly take my eyes off of. I keep glancing down and being surprised by them, by how small they look compared to his, by how vulnerable they seem suddenly. If I part them even a little it will seem like the rudest thing in the world – like I want him between them.
    I even imagine it. Behind my eyes, I see him lifting me on to his desk, spreading my naked thighs with one hand. My knickers are just these little flimsy cotton things – he could yank them down with very little effort. Shove the jacket up so he could get at my pussy, then do all the things he wants me to describe in my stories. Lick my aching clit, taste my wet pussy.
    More than just plain wet, really. I can actually feel it, every time I move. I can feel it even when I try to stay still. Some arousing thing happens – like the insides of this jacket slithering over something sensitive – and everything seems to swell between my legs and grow slicker. At one point the silky material brushes over one stiff nipple, and the heated wash of wetness is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
    I start to fear I’ll soak through my underwear and make a mess of the tweed.
    Yet somehow that only intensifies things. It heats my cheeks to an unbearable level. By the time he talks again I am melting. My skin feels sunburned – like I could peel it off my body with very little effort.
    And what he says doesn’t help me at all.
    ‘I want you to try some free writing.’
    ‘You want me to try what?’
    ‘Free writing. It is a simple exercise where you put pen to paper and allow whatever might be in your mind to come out. You are given a set amount of time, and during that time you may not stop writing, even if you have to scribble nonsense until the thread returns.’
    ‘I don’t think I can do that, Professor.’
    ‘Of course you can. A woman of your talent.’
    ‘No, but my talent takes a lot of work. I sometimes spend days on one sentence.’
    ‘Then let’s see what happens when you relax a little. Come, indulge me.’
    I wish he hadn’t said ‘come’ there.
    Or said it the way he does – so brusque, and insistent.
    ‘At least give me a prompt then.’
    ‘You really need one? Your mind seems to seethe with ideas.’
    ‘You’ve only read one story of mine. Well, one and a bit of bread.’
    ‘I hardly need a story when you talk the way you do.’
    ‘And how do I talk, exactly?’
    ‘Like someone who can hardly contain their wildly inventive thoughts.’
    ‘I wouldn’t call the things I say inventive.’
    ‘That’s because you’re not constantly trying to keep up with everything you say. Believe me, it is the most mental exercise I’ve had in years. I scarcely know what you might confess next – a feat made all the more memorable by your dull, forgettable behaviour prior to our first meeting.’
    I go to say something in response, then stop. It seems best to. All his compliments are rushing to my head – God knows what giddy thing might come out.
You inspire me to greater heights
is one possibility.
You provoke me into this insanity
is another.
    ‘Now, put pen to paper and see what you can come up with. You have ten minutes,’ he says, and he