Chapter Two
LUCY
I am going to fuck my professor. I am going to fuck Professor Kane.
I repeat the mantra over and over again, as if every time I repeat the words, my body will be propelled faster towards my goal.
I am going to fuck my professor.
I toss my diploma and cap onto my couch. My cell phone buzzes, but I ignore it, tearing off my graduation gown and the outfit beneath before jumping into the shower.
I am going to fuck Professor Kane.
Once dry, I put on a black top with strategic cut-outs—I’d slashed it open a few nights ago in a fit of boredom— and pull on a dark pink plaid skirt.
The skirt has a sort of British punk vibe I’m currently into and is ripped over the right thigh.
I’ve added three oversized safety pins, further committing to the aesthetic and holding the skirt together.
“Shit!” I notice I’ve missed cleaning off a few spots of paint on my calves in the shower. My solution? Black, semi-sheer, knee-high socks with an argyle motif and chunky ankle boots. Tossing my phone into a hot pink, faux fur bag, I race out of my apartment.
I am going to fuck my professor, I repeat with renewed rigor. I am going to fuck Professor Kane.
The bus is five minutes late. “Crap!”
I’m not sure how long my professor will be at the university. Her TA said she was packing up this evening before heading out of town tomorrow. She could already be gone.
When the bus finally arrives, my boot catches on the first step, and I whack my knee against a pole. I nearly eat it, but I manage to catch myself on the bright yellow railing just in time.
“Careful,” the bus driver calls down to me, waiting until I stand and pay before she pulls away from the curb.
“Thanks,” I smile, “I always try.”
There is a tear in one of my knee-highs.
“Damn!” I’m really, really going to try to fuck my professor, I repeat, my confidence not quite as stalwart as before.
On the thirty minute cross-town ride, I nervously fiddle with the bottom safety pin on my skirt. One large pot hole later, and, when the bus drops me off in front of the university, I’m down to only two safety pins holding my skirt together.
“Jesus Christ!” Okay, so I’m going to really try to attempt to fuck Professor Kane.
My internal mantra isn’t quite as motivating as before.
What if Professor Kane is wearing a three piece suit tonight?
Oh Gods, what if it’s the tweed one?
Professor Kane has this one tan and brown suit, so perfectly fitted that when she uses her shiny black stick thingy to point to stuff on the board, her jacket lifts to expose the tight fit of her pants.
I can follow the thin brown stripes as they round over the firm curve of her ass and slide down her long legs, over her perfectly sculpted thighs and calves.
Then, when she reaches further across the board, no doubt pointing out some arcane piece of supernatural lore featured in a 2000s camp fest of a movie, I get to watch as the pronounced hills and valleys of her biceps shift beneath her shirt sleeves.
Swallowing hard, I walk across campus, my mind flipping back and forth so rapidly between my goal—fuck Professor Kane—and my worry—what if she isn’t there? What if she’s so hot, I can’t get a word out? It’s happened before —that the University’s gothic stonework and the lush foliage are a blur.
When she wears that suit, I can’t breathe. I’ve brought myself to orgasm thinking about the way the vest hugs beneath her breasts…
And then, I would fantasize about her somehow knowing I was thinking about her in that suit as I orgasmed and how she would look so very disapproving at me, her delicately angled features tense and her full lips pursed, and I would come again.
My hands shake when I push open the door to the history and media studies building, only to run head first into a custodian.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, jumping back a step to get out of his way.
He’s an older man, ‘Robert’ embroidered on his shirt. I move to the side as he pushes a large black trash can overflowing with papers and a few broken drawers out of the building before I enter.
“Everyone has left,” he says with a frown. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Everyone?” My heart beats in a panicked rhythm, hard against my chest.
“The lights are all off and security will be locking up,” he answers. “If anyone is still in there, they will be leaving soon.”
“Oh…okay, thanks, Robert.” I nod, hope still firmly rooted inside me as I enter the building. About half way down the hall, the front door rapidly closing, I call back, “I’ll be quick! Wait…no.”
I don’t want this to be over quickly.
I want it to take however long Professor Kane wants it to take. I want it to be exactly what she wants and how she wants it. I want to do exactly what she asks, and I want to raise my hand and ask for permission before I do it. And then, I want a gold star for being such a perfect teacher’s pet—
I need to fuck my professor.
Several turns, up a small flight of stairs, and down another later, the small window of the closed door to Professor Kane’s lecture hall glows with what must be silver moonlight shining into the classroom.
It would’ve been easy for the custodian to assume no one was there, but the light shifts, as if someone is walking in front of those massive windows, and I have to force myself to inhale deeply, because I just stopped breathing.
“I am going to fuck my professor. I am going to fuck Professor Kane,” I whisper the words, again and again, as my body is pulled towards the lecture hall.
My palms press against the small window in the door, my nose an inch or so from the glass as I look down into the room.
Breathe!
Professor Kane is there, and she’s wearing the tweed suit.
Oh Gods! Oh Gods! Breathe!
My throat is suddenly tight, and my tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth.
That’s definitely not a part of my plan.
My knees seem to wobble, and my fingers dig into the hem of my skirt.
I hear a sharp tear and realize I ripped the skirt further, revealing another missed spot of paint on my upper thigh.
I graduated today… In six years instead of four, not including the gap year, and at two different schools, but I’m an adult!
I’ve been one for a hot minute. I’ve rented more than one car.
I have two—TWO!—different and amazing opportunities for next year that I have no idea what to do about: an artist in residence position back in California, and a scholarship to a prestigious graduate painting program in London.
My parents want me back on the West Coast, but I like the cold, and there are other great programs in town where I could continue my studies…
But what if I don’t want to commit to one thing right now?
I’m fucking twenty-five, goddamnit. I can do this! I don’t know what else I want for my life, but I’ve wanted Professor Kane for a long time, and I’m going to get her…or, at least, really, really try to get her.
Her jacket is carefully laid over the heavy wood desk at the front of the room.
She is in her vest and white button down, sleeves rolled up, as she strides around the front of the lecture hall, putting away boxes and adding things to an open leather suitcase by her desk.
She moves with such purpose and certainty.
There are no extraneous movements, no wasted energy, just confident perfection, and I’m enthralled.
I want to please Professor Kane. The need overwhelms me every time I see her.
It seems so hard to do, but if I could just get the reward of a single smile, the accomplishment of it could sustain me for quite a while. I know it.
On more than one occasion, I’ve almost fallen in the race down the stairs to get a seat at the front of the class.
Would she have helped me up? I think so.
Of course, she’d then sternly remind me I need to walk slower and arrive earlier, and somehow, the scolding is what would turn me on.
I would fantasize about it in class. Professor Kane knows what she wants and is unafraid to demand it. It’s hot.
I'd taken to carrying a second pair of underwear in my bag just so I wouldn’t have to ride the bus home in soaked panties after class.
Even now, as she bends over to pick something up, the tweed fabric of her pants stretching tight over her ass, I can feel the gusset of my underwear cling to my folds.
I should’ve packed another pair.
Frantically, I search my furry purse in case I’d forgotten a pair in the zipper pocket.
I can’t seduce her if I’m already half lost to lust. Somehow, she’ll know I’m barely holding it together in her presence.
I can’t do this without a pair of security panties. As I push past crumpled receipts and a stockpile of soy sauce packets and salt, my movements are frantic. Come on, fresh underwear! You’ve got to be in there! In my desperation, I knock an elbow into the door, hard.
I freeze.
“Ms. Anderson,’’ Professor Kane’s voice, sultry and deep, booms in the eerie silence.
It takes everything in me not to drop down beneath the door window.
It’s too late. She’s seen me.
“Ms. Anderson,” she repeats with the slow drawl of irritation.
My pussy aches, and a small whine escapes my lips.
Shit, I’m in trouble.