Page 13 of Misadventures with a Professor
But before I can decide, he circles himself with a finger and thumb and makes to pull out of me, and I bite my lip at the sudden sting.
He freezes, and I realize that he’s looking with some worry at the pain on my face, and then with slow horror, his gaze goes to his cock.
Even from here, I can see the remnants of my innocence smeared on the condom.
“Oliver,” I say quickly. “I can explain.”
Chapter Four
Oliver
I have to get her blood off me, and I have to—I don’t even know what I have to do. Clean her. Clean myself. Offer to lash my own back. Whatever it is you do when you’ve accidentally fucked a virgin.
Shit.
Shit.
It makes so much sense now. Her little gasps of surprise let out at the smallest things. Her expression of wonder as I serviced her cunt. Her wide, vulnerable gaze as I slowly stretched her open. Stretched her open for the first time.
And I’m going to hell because guilt is not the first thing that races through me.
It’s excitement.
It’s more lust, stiffening my spent cock.
It’s a dark possession, growling and flexing claws in my chest, telling me she’s mine mine mine.
I ignore these though, holding up a hand to stay her words as I climb off the bed and rid myself of the condom. I’ve forgotten how wet sex is, how messy, although given how long it’s been, I’m shocked I remember anything.
I walk back to the bed, tracing the lines of her body with my eyes because I can’t help it. She’s some kind of vision like this, her dark hair tangled everywhere in lovers’ knots and her body a topography of pure adolescent fantasy—lush tits, a nipped-in waist, and hips in a decadently feminine spread.
And then there’s the blood on the inside of her thighs. The questions in her deep blue eyes. The lingering redness around the sides of her hips reminding me of how she felt over my lap, squealing and writhing as she took her punishment.
I spanked a virgin. Oh God.
“I’m getting a cloth for you,” I say. “Stay here.” It comes out sterner than I mean it to—sterner than it should have, given what I’ve just robbed from her—but the immediate acquiescence in her gaze whisks the follow-up apology right off my lips. And replaces it with a noise of approval.
She is such a good student.
I quickly clean myself in the bathroom and then bring out a fresh warm cloth for her, thinking I’ll hand it to her and let her clean herself, but as I approach, she parts her legs for me, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if it’s my due.
My cock jolts again, bobbing at visions of a future that will never happen: of this girl spreading her legs for me whenever I ask, offering up her sweet body like it’s mine to take. Sucking my cock under my desk while I work. Writing lines at her own desk, naked and ashamed. Crawling over my lap whenever I need it, letting me pet and tease and spank that round ass until she’s begging for relief.
No, Oliver. It’s a miracle she didn’t run away screaming the moment I bent her over the bed. There’s no way a nice girl like her—a barely non-virgin, a girl with a watch—would ever want to play my sick games.
But I let myself have this moment where I clean her myself. Where I spread her even more, carefully, see to her tender skin. Roll her over and check her bottom, even though I took it fairly easy on her. The funny thing is that after all these years, “fairly easy” was still enough to nearly make me come in my pants. And it was her who made it that way. Her gratifying little moans and tempting little wriggles. The way she said I liked that with such pleased surprise. With such innocent abandon.
Fuck.
It’s not a good thing the way it makes me feel. As if I’m not so lonely. As if I can have…this.
She sighs as I clean her, and after I put the washcloth over the towel bar in the bathroom to dry, I wonder what comes next. The last time I slept with a virgin, I was a fumbling virgin myself, and whatever followed the too-short act is blurred by enough awkwardness and time that I can barely remember it. I have no idea what to do as a man. As a polite and—dubiously—civilized man.
And so I debate whether I should apologize or get dressed or what, and then she holds out her arms.
“I know it’s just the oxytocin,” she says sleepily. “But I’d like you to hold me for a minute. You don’t have to stay long, just—” She yawns, those red lips stretching hypnotically, her tongue so temptingly wet and pink. “Just for a few minutes until I can metabolize these hormones.”
I should hesitate. I would hesitate with any other woman. I don’t do holding, I don’t do postcoital anything except shame and regret, and yet somehow I’m climbing into the bed with her. Somehow I’m sliding under the covers and folding her into my arms, and somehow I’m not balking at the familiar way she nestles into me, as if she belongs there.
