CHAPTER SIX – THE PROFESSOR AND HIS NAUGHTY STUDENT
Kat
Istand in front of the mirror for a solid ten minutes, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. Am I really doing this? Am I really going to be a toy in a rich man’s fantasy? It’s not even nine a.m. yet!
But the costume hangs in my closet, taunting me: white blouse, check; plaid pleated skirt, check; and black patent Mary Janes with a sweet yet naughty energy.
But first, panties. I stare at the pile of lacy briefs on the bed, every color and cut, and then at my own reflection—hair loose and brushed to golden perfection, thighs pressed together so tight it’s like I can hold in the secret.
I decide to skip the panties. Not out of laziness, but because Mr. McKnight didn’t mention them, and I want to be bad. Maybe he won’t even notice. Maybe we’ll just talk.
Yeah right, the voice in my head says. You know this isn’t about talking at all.
I ignore the voice. My heart hammers as I button the blouse, the little pearl buttons sliding through the fabric with a click that feels illicit.
It’s thin, so the outline of my bra is clear.
The skirt is obscenely short—definitely not school code, maybe not even club code.
When I move, the plaid fabric floats, and I can already feel the air underneath, the nothing between my pussy and the world.
I want to tell myself it’s just a job, but this isn’t how “just a job” feels. “Just a job” doesn’t have me biting the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning at the way my thighs rub together. I want to see what happens. I want to lose. I want to win. I want all of it.
I put on the Mary Janes, which are a size too small, making my toes pinch in a way that reminds me to stand up straight, and run a hand through my hair. My hands are shaking, so I sit on the edge of the bed, and take a few deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. It doesn’t work.
I’m supposed to go downstairs and “report to the professor’s office at 9 a.m. sharp.” The digital clock ticks closer and closer, every minute heavier. I decide: I’ll be late. Not much, just a minute or two. I want to see if Talon will punish me.
I count to one hundred, then tiptoe down the stairs.
The air smells like woodsmoke and evergreen, the morning sun already painting the living room in hot, bright rectangles.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I see the transformation: the great room has been rearranged.
The dining table is gone, replaced by a single wooden desk, and behind it is Mr. McKnight, insanely handsome in a dark button-down and wire-rim glasses he absolutely does not need.
His sleeves are rolled, exposing the ink on his forearms, and a legal pad sits open in front of him, pen poised.
He looks up at me, blue eyes gleaming, and says, “Miss Vreeland. You’re late.”
There’s no smile. No glint of mischief. It’s like he’s erased the last twenty-four hours and replaced himself with a sexier, sterner, more academic version. I have no idea how he does it, but my knees go weak.
“Sorry, Professor,” I say. My voice comes out a bit fluttery. Is that really me?
He gestures to the single chair in front of the desk. “Sit.”
I sit. The skirt rides up, and I cross my legs, instantly aware of the expanse of ivory thigh I’m showing. I wonder if he notices. If he wants to see more.
He makes a show of flipping through the legal pad, then sets his pen down with a click.
“I’ve read your last paper,” he says, and my mouth goes dry.
“Oh?” I say, breathless.
He leans forward, arms on the desk, blue eyes fixed on mine with the full force of his intelligence and will. “Your thesis was provocative,” he says, slow and deliberate. “But lacking in evidence. I expected more from you, Miss Vreeland.”
I swallow. I can’t remember if this is supposed to be hot, or just exciting. All I know is that my nipples are already hard and the air on my thighs feels like an invitation.
“I’m sorry, Professor McKnight,” I say, trying to sound remorseful. “I can redo it if you want.”
He looks down, notes something on the pad, then back up. “Your grades have been inconsistent at best,” he says. “Your last test was a seventy-two. The one before, eighty-nine. Your performance in discussion is better, but still not exemplary.”
Talon keeps going. He’s not letting me off the hook.
“I’ve reviewed your attendance at well. I see you’ve missed several office hours, despite repeated invitations.” His gaze flicks from my face to my collar, then lower, to my breasts, but never for long. It’s like he’s fighting himself.
“I’ve been busy,” I say, knowing it’s not good enough.
He taps the pen. “Busy with what?”
I open my mouth and then close it. My mind is blank. I am blank.
He lets the silence hang. The tension is atomic.
“Is it that you have a boyfriend?”
My eyes widen innocently.
“Well, no! Maybe. Yes, I’m seeing someone but I don’t know if you’d call him my boyfriend,” I murmur, leaning into the roleplay.
Talon’s blue eyes flash.
“Is that so?” he purrs. “Does this so-called boyfriend please you?”
I stare at him, big breasts heaving.
“No, Professor McKnight,” I whisper. “Ernest leaves me hanging all the time, and ..and.. well, he has a micro-penis,” I confide in a whisper. “He doesn’t satisfy me at all.”
The handsome man smiles.
“I know you can do better, Miss Vreeland,” he growls, voice dropping. “But I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”
I nod, hair falling over my cheek. I push it back, trying to look up at him through my lashes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I want him to feel sorry for me. I want him to be angry. I want—
He stands, pushing the chair back with a scrape.
He’s so much taller than I remember. The shirt is tucked into his jeans, no belt, just all man.
He circles the desk and comes to stand right behind me, close enough to smell his aftershave, his sweat, the something else I can’t name.
His groin’s in my face, but then he bends over.
“You want to succeed?” he asks, voice right in my ear.
I nod, the movement tiny.
“Then you’ll do what I say?”
I nod again.
“Say it.”
“I’ll do what you say, Professor McKnight.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, the grip gentle but unyielding.
“Good,” he says, and the word is a benediction and a curse.
He leans over, and I feel his breath on my neck. “Next time, be on time. Leave the thoughts of the micro-penis at home. Or I’ll have to find a way to discipline you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it hurts. The heat between my legs is relentless, and oh god, but I’m damp already.
“Yes, Professor,” I whisper, and I hear the tiniest catch in his breathing.
He straightens, goes back behind the desk, and picks up the legal pad again. The air is thick, sticky, and electric.
“Any questions?” he says.
I shake my head, then add, “No, sir.”
He smiles, just a little.
“Class dismissed,” he says, but neither of us moves.
I sit there, heart pounding, waiting to see if he’ll ask me to stay after. If he’ll call me back.
His eyes are on my knees, my thighs, and then, finally, on my face.
He says, “I expect better next time, Miss Vreeland. Don’t disappoint me. Take some time to think about where you’ve erred, and then come back at noon.”
I nod, and get up, and walk—no, float—back to my room, every step charged with the possibility of being called back, of being stopped, of being taken in hand and made to pay.
He doesn’t call me back. Not yet.
But I know, the next time, he will.
The next “class” comes faster than I expect.
It’s almost noon and already I’m vibrating with nervous energy, making fake outlines on my laptop and googling “How to be an honors student in a plaid skirt.” I run through this morning’s role play in my head on a loop—his words, his gaze, the hot promise in his breath.
I tell myself this is just acting, but I know I’m hoping for more.
My skin is electric, my thighs slick from the anticipation alone.
I fix my hair, reapply a hint of lip gloss, and for a crazy second consider drawing a tiny heart on my ankle, just to see if he’ll notice. Isn’t that what naughty girls do? But then, I think better of it and tiptoe down the stairs again, my heart racing at a hundred miles an hour.
The room is darker now, the blinds half-closed against the winter sun. Talon’s behind the desk again, hair slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled. The notepad is out, pen at the ready. He’s reading over something and doesn’t look up as I enter, forcing me to clear my throat to get his attention.
He glances up, glasses perched perfectly, and says, “Miss Vreeland. I was about to mark you absent.”
“I’m early,” I say.
He doesn’t acknowledge it. “Sit.” He gestures to the same chair as before. “We’ll go over your latest submission.”
I sit. The desk is bare except for a pad and a single red pen. My knees knock together; I can’t tell if I’m cold or just losing my mind.
He slides a sheet of paper across the desk.
It’s covered in red, every margin bleeding with his corrections.
“Your argument is still underdeveloped,” he says, voice level.
“Your opening is weak. Your supporting evidence is anecdotal at best. You cite no sources, and your conclusion is pure conjecture.”
What? Where did he even get this essay? But I see it’s just a print-out of something random, and nod, face on fire. This is embarrassing. This is perfect.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Talon nods.
“But,” he says, and his eyes bore into mine, “your grammar has improved.”
“Thank you,” I say, and the words come out strangled.
He sits back, folding his arms, and regards me for a long moment. “Why do you want to pass this class?” he asks.
I blink. “I need the credit,” I say, because that’s what any desperate student would say.
“That’s not an answer,” he says. “Why do you want to pass my class?”
I can’t look at him. I stare at my knees. “Because you’re a good teacher,” I say, voice tiny. “And I want you to think well of me.”