How I Ended Up with My Professor in the Library

When I entered the School of Literature at eighteen, the last thing I expected was that the most interesting semester of my life would unfold in the library’s quiet hallways.

My name is Valeria. I have long black hair and the kind of face people describe as “striking” when they don’t want to say what they really mean. I know that because I’ve been reading that expression for years. I don’t mind. If I learned anything early on, it was that desire works like any other resource: whoever has it manages it, and whoever manages it has the advantage.

Professor Medina taught Literary Theory on Tuesdays and Fridays at ten in the morning. Forty-two years old, chiseled jaw, dark hair with gray at the temples that he made no effort to hide. One of those men who get more interesting with age instead of less. He had a habit of speaking while pacing between the rows, and when he passed close by he smelled of something dry and clean that wasn’t any fashionable cologne.

I sat in the third row from the very beginning of the course. Close enough for him to see me without it seeming calculated. Even though it was calculated, of course.

The first Tuesday I crossed my legs while he explained narrative perspectivism. Nothing remarkable happened. The second Friday, when I did the same thing and bent down to pick up the pen that had “fallen” off my desk, I saw him stop looking at his notes for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

That was enough.

Over the next few days I watched his patterns. What time he arrived. How he organized the class. What kind of questions he asked whom. It was, at bottom, the same kind of attention he asked for when analyzing a text: read the details, understand the structure, identify the points of tension.

The following Tuesday I wore a shorter skirt than usual. The kind of thing any student could wear without anyone saying a word, just a little above the knee. When I sat down and let my knees part a few inches, with the theory book open in front of me as if I were taking notes, I noticed his gaze travel across the classroom and stop a fraction of a second longer in my direction than it should have.

He called me to the desk when class ended, after the others had already started leaving.

—Miss Valeria —he said in a calm voice—. I’d appreciate it if you were a little more careful with your posture in class.

—My posture? —I repeated, as if the phrase didn’t have the obvious meaning it did.

He held my gaze for a moment.

—You know what I mean.

—I don’t think I do, professor.

He pressed his lips together. Gathered his papers.

—Very well. You may go.

I left without saying anything else. But that afternoon, in my apartment, with the door shut and the building’s silence all around me, I couldn’t stop thinking about that look of his. About how he had tried to keep his tone authoritative while his eyes betrayed him. I lay on the bed for a long while thinking about it, about what might happen if I kept pushing, about how he had really looked at me when he thought I wasn’t noticing.

I took off my panties and threw them on the floor. I spread my legs and ran two fingers over my cunt, checking how soaked I was just from thinking about it. I imagined Medina’s cock, the one I still hadn’t seen, the one I was sure he was hiding under those dress pants, thick and veined. I imagined sucking it on my knees in his office, with the door not quite closed, looking up at him while I took it all the way to my throat. I slid three fingers inside and started pumping fast, my other hand rubbing my clit in tight circles. I came in less than two minutes, with a muffled moan against the pillow, and lay there with my fingers shining with my own juices, knowing that Friday I was going to do something stupid.

***

The following Friday I arrived in class with a plan.

I had put on the same skirt, but this time with nothing underneath. It was the first time I had done that in class, and I admit the combination of nerves and anticipation had a weight of its own, completely apart from whatever I was planning. I could feel the cool classroom air against my naked cunt, and every time I moved in my chair I noticed how wet I already was.

When Professor Medina came in and took attendance, I answered normally. But when he reached my name and looked up, I spread my knees just enough that there could be no doubt about what I was showing him, and held his gaze while I did it.

This time he didn’t pretend not to notice. He simply kept taking attendance without changing his voice, but I saw him swallow.

He called me to the desk twice during that class, with reasonable excuses. The second time, when the others were copying an outline from the board, he leaned toward me and said in a very low voice:

—If you do this again, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.

—That sounds like a threat —I said just as softly.

—It sounds like what it is.

—And what exactly would those consequences be?

He didn’t answer. He turned back to the board. At the end of class, without looking at me, he said in a neutral voice to the whole group:

—On Friday at five I have office hours in the library. Third-floor research room, for anyone who needs guidance on the final paper.

No one took note. I did.

***

On Friday at five fifteen, the library’s ground floor had four students scattered around and an assistant behind the desk staring at the screen. I went up to the third floor. The corridor smelled of old paper and silence. At the end there was a door with a sign that said “Research Room — Authorized Personnel Only.”

It was ajar.

It was a long room, with floor-to-ceiling shelves on three walls and a dark wooden table in the center. The blind on the only window was half drawn, and the light coming in was that gray autumn-afternoon light that makes everything seem still. Professor Medina was standing by the back shelf, holding a book.

When I walked in, he looked up.

—I thought you weren’t coming —he said.

—I thought you were going to cancel —I replied.

He set the book down. Closed the door. The latch clicked sharply, loud in the whole room.

We looked at each other from opposite ends of the table. He had that expression of someone making a decision and knowing exactly what it implies.

—I’ve spent weeks telling myself I wasn’t going to do this —he said.

—And?

—And here I am.

I went around the table toward him. His hands found my waist and pulled me close, and he kissed me. He started slowly, as if he was still measuring how far he could allow himself to go, and then he stopped measuring. I felt it in the way his hands squeezed my hips, in the way his breathing changed against my mouth. His tongue parted my lips and came in looking for mine, and I sucked on it as if I were already practicing for what was coming next. One of his hands slid down my skirt, and when he realized there was nothing underneath, he paused for a second. His fingers traced the bare skin of my hip, slid down the curve of my ass, and came back up along the inside of my thigh.

—Jesus —he murmured when his fingers brushed my soaked cunt—. You’re dripping.

—I’ve been like this since Tuesday’s class —I said.

—Whore —he muttered against my neck, and the word went through me like a jolt.

His fingers went in without resistance. Two at once, all the way in, and I had to grip the lapel of his jacket so I wouldn’t lose my balance. He moved them slowly at first, curving them inward, searching for the exact spot. When he found it, he knew by the way my breath escaped.

—There —I whispered—. Right there.

He took me to the table. I sat on the edge, and he lifted my skirt to my waist, leaving me completely exposed. He stood there for a moment staring at my pussy, open and glistening, with the same focused expression he wore in front of a difficult text.

—Do you know how many times I’ve masturbated thinking about this? —he said.

—Tell me.

—Too many.

He knelt in front of me and I opened my legs all the way, bracing my hands on the wood to steady myself. The first lick was slow, flat, from bottom to top, and it tore a moan out of me that I had to cut off by biting my lip. The second was more direct: the tip of his tongue on my clit, moving in tight circles. He knew what he was doing. He did it with the same attention he brought to explaining a text in class: no skipped steps, no rushing.

He slid two fingers into me again while he sucked my clit, curling them, pumping slowly, then increasing the rhythm when he noticed I was starting to shake. I put one hand on his head and grabbed his hair, guiding him, setting the pace myself too. I closed my eyes and focused on the wet sound of his mouth on my cunt, on the silence around us. Someone moved a chair downstairs. The elevator ran once. The world kept existing completely oblivious to what was happening in there.

—Don’t stop —I panted—. Please, don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. He sped up. His fingers pumped faster and his tongue didn’t let up, and I felt everything building in my stomach, tight, about to burst. When I could no longer keep the sound inside, I covered my mouth with the back of my hand and came all over his face, my legs shaking and my hips pushing against his mouth. He stayed there, sucking slowly while I came down, until I had to pull his head away because I couldn’t take it anymore.

He stood up, wiped his lips with his thumb, and looked at me. His chin was shining and his eyes were dark.

—Now you —I said.

I got off the table, guided him to the nearest chair, and knelt in front of him. I unbuckled his belt without haste. I pulled down the zipper. When I took his cock out of his briefs, I let out a sound of approval: it was exactly what I expected. Thick, long, the head already wet with pre-cum and the veins standing out along the shaft. I took it in my hand and felt it throb against my palm.

—Look at it —I murmured—. You had that whole cock tucked in your pants while you were explaining Bakhtin to me.

—Suck it —he growled, and that was the first time I heard him lose that polished tone.

I ran my tongue from base to tip, slowly, looking into his eyes. Then I licked his balls, one and then the other, while I worked the shaft with my hand. When I finally took him into my mouth, he slid halfway in with no effort, and he let out a rough groan that echoed in the room. I sucked him slowly, pulling him out and taking him back in, coating him well, leaving strings of saliva hanging every time I pulled away.

—Fuck —he panted—. Fuck, like that.

I sped up. I started pumping with my hand and my mouth at the same time, up and down, looking him in the eye whenever I lifted my gaze. He put a hand on my head but didn’t push. He just left it there, as if he didn’t want to interrupt anything. I sucked the tip with my lips tight, circling my tongue beneath the glans, and he let out a curse I had never heard him use in class.

When I felt he was close to losing control, I pulled his cock out of my mouth with a wet smack and ran it across my shiny lips.

—Not yet —I said—. I want to fuck myself on it inside.

He stood up. Turned me around slowly and I leaned on the table, facing the shelf, my chest against the wood and my ass raised. I felt his hands hike my skirt up to my waist, his fingers part my cheeks, and then the tip of his cock rubbing up and down over my soaked cunt, getting it nice and wet before going in.

—Put it in already —I panted.

And he went in. With a slow pace that made me grip the edge of the wood with my fingers. Centimeter by centimeter, until I felt his balls bump my clit and knew he was all the way inside. He stayed there for a second, breathing, and I clamped my pussy around his cock so he could feel what I had waiting for him.

—Fuck —he groaned—. You’re so tight.

He started moving. Calmly at first, coming almost all the way out and then pushing back in to the hilt. Then he began increasing the pace, searching for the angle, adjusting until an involuntary sound from me told him he had found it. He kept it there. The table creaked once and then held. I buried my forehead between my arms and let the sound come out muffled against the fabric of my sleeve, but the sharp slaps of his hips against my ass echoed through the room.

—Like this? —he asked, in a voice that wasn’t the one from the classroom—. You like it like this, whore?

—Yes —I said—. Harder. Break me.

He grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me for real. Smack, smack, smack: each thrust lifted my body against the table and tore a moan from me that I no longer bothered to hold back. He reached around from the front, slid his hand under my blouse, shoved my bra up, and squeezed one breast, pinching my nipple between his fingers. With the other hand he yanked my hair, forcing my head up.

—Look at yourself —he growled in my ear—. Look how I’ve got you.

He was looking at me in the reflection of the glass of a locked display case at the back of the room: skirt hitched up, ass bare, face red, mouth open. Seeing myself like that, bent over his table, with the professor’s cock going in and out of me, almost made me come again.

At some point he turned me around: he pulled out, set me up on the table, ripped off the panties I wasn’t wearing and wanted to rip off all the same, and lifted my legs onto his shoulders. He went back in with one thrust and this time he went deeper. We finished face-to-face, his hands on my open thighs and mine on his shoulders, scratching him through his shirt. I bit his lower lip and he answered with a brutal kiss, sucking my tongue while he drove into me to the hilt, over and over.

—I’m going to come —he panted—. Where.

—Inside —I said without thinking—. Take the pill. Come inside.

He sped up. The last thrusts were hard, sharp, teeth clenched. When he came, he did it with his eyes closed and his head tilted, and I felt it everywhere: in the tension of his thighs, in the way his cock pulsed inside me, in the warmth of his cum spilling against the walls of my cunt in waves. He squeezed my hips so hard I knew he was going to leave marks, and I came with him, feeling each of his throbs wrench another one out of me.

He stayed inside for a while, breathing heavily against my neck. When he finally pulled out, I felt a thread of semen sliding down the inside of my thigh to the table.

The silence that came after was the heavy kind.

We each straightened ourselves out on our own. He buttoned his shirt, wiped himself with a handkerchief. I pulled my skirt down over my dripping cunt, adjusted my bra, ran my fingers through my hair. Neither of us spoke for a long minute.

—I’m going out first —he said.

—Fine.

He stopped at the door.

—Tuesday —he said—. I have class.

—Me too —I replied.

He nodded once and left. I heard his footsteps receding down the corridor. The elevator. The room’s silence becoming silence again.

I stayed seated on the table a little longer, looking at the half-open blind and the strip of gray sky visible between the slats, feeling his cum still leaking inside me. Then I picked up my backpack. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror at the end of the hall: hair in order, blouse in place, nothing to tell. I went down to the street.

It was cold. I put on my headphones and walked to the bus stop with that satisfied heaviness in my legs that makes everything else seem less urgent.

On Sunday a message arrived from a number I didn’t have saved.

Tuesday, after the last class.

I smiled. I saved it as “M.”

I didn’t reply until Monday night.

I’ll be there.