What Happened with My Professor in the Library

My name is Camila, I’m twenty-two years old, and I’m finishing my final year studying Communications at a public university. I’m five foot three, petite, with curves that attract more attention than I’d like to admit. I’ve always liked moving with a certain ambiguity, neither too provocative nor too discreet, but the truth is that skirts and stockings in a university department can be a weapon when a woman knows how to use them.

Adrián came in as a substitute professor halfway through the semester. He was in his late thirties, with delicate glasses and tousled hair, as if he’d left home in a hurry. I barely paid attention during the first class. The second was different.

I was sitting in the third row, wearing a pleated skirt that came just above my knee. Crossing my legs was automatic for me; I did it without thinking. But that afternoon, while he was explaining something about Barthes, I caught him looking at me. It wasn’t a glance. He held my gaze a second too long, then lowered his eyes when he realized I’d noticed.

Something stirred in my stomach.

I crossed my legs again, this time slowly, giving him a moment to look if he wanted to. He looked. He swallowed. He kept talking, but his voice cracked a little on the word “signifier.” I almost laughed out loud.

At the end of class, he called me to his desk.

—Camila, could you please stop distracting me? —he said quietly, without looking directly at me.

—I didn’t know I was distracting you —I replied, pretending to be innocent.

—You know perfectly well what you’re doing.

I lowered my gaze to the desk so he wouldn’t see me smiling. That was when I noticed the bulge beneath his trousers. He was hard. So hard he couldn’t stand up from the chair without it showing, which was why he’d called me over instead of coming to me. I looked at it discreetly. He turned red all the way to his ears.

—Go —he muttered.

That night, in my bed, I touched myself thinking about Adrián while he was surely doing the same in some apartment downtown, thinking about me. The idea drove me crazy. I slipped my fingers between my legs slowly, my head full of his tense face, his voice, the way he’d tried to carry on with the class while I showed him my legs. I put my hand on my breast over my bra, pinched my nipple until it hardened, and increased and decreased the rhythm between my thighs until I came, clutching the sheets tightly and swallowing my moan so I wouldn’t wake anyone. I stayed there trembling, my pussy wet and my heart pounding against my ribs, thinking about what I would do if I ever took him into my mouth for real.

***

On Wednesday I had class with him again. This time I came prepared. A shorter skirt, a black lace thong that barely covered anything, and the firm decision to misbehave.

As soon as he sat down, I opened my legs for an instant. Just long enough for him to see. Then I closed them again as if nothing had happened. Adrián cleared his throat and looked at his notes with a concentration that wasn’t natural.

Ten minutes later, I dared to go a little further. This time I left my legs open longer. I knew he was looking at the black lace; I knew he was imagining what lay behind it. The feeling of power made me dizzy. I shifted in my chair, barely arching my back, and spread my knees until I left an exact glimpse of my sex exposed whenever my skirt rode up a little. I felt the air against the edge of my thong, and anticipation made my skin burn.

He called me to his desk again.

—If you keep this up, I won’t be able to go on teaching —he said, and for the first time there was no joke in his voice. He was angry, or something close to anger.

—Do you want me to stop? —I asked.

—I want you to understand what you’re provoking.

—I understand perfectly.

We looked at each other. I was twenty-two, and he was almost forty, but in that moment, at that desk, we were both the same age: the age of someone who has just jumped off the diving board and still hasn’t touched the water.

—I’m going to the bathroom for a second —I told him.

In the bathroom, I took off my thong. I folded it, put it in the pocket of my cardigan, and went back to the classroom. I sat in the same chair, this time with my legs slightly farther apart, and waited for him to look at me. The air brushed my naked pussy beneath my skirt, an indecent sensation that left my mouth dry. When he looked at me, it was different. Different from everything before. He saw that there was no lace anymore. He saw that there was nothing. And for an instant, I swear he forgot where he was.

—Professor —I said at the end of class, when everyone else was already leaving—do you have a minute?

I approached him with the thong in my hand, balled up. I placed it on his desk without saying a word and left the classroom without looking back.

***

Two days passed. Two endless days. I thought there would be no response, that he’d regretted it, that he was going to report me to the dean’s office, that I’d gone too far.

On Friday, before his class, I ran into him in the hallway. He handed me a white envelope without saying anything and kept walking. I went into the bathroom and opened it. Inside was my thong, carefully folded.

I smelled it. It had a different scent, mixed with mine. I put it back on, feeling how the lace was still a little stiff in some places. The thought of wearing it throughout his entire class seemed so obscene that I nearly laughed to myself in the bathroom. The brush of the fabric, wet with memory, against my lips made me squeeze my thighs together and breathe deeply, trying to calm the throb already rising through my belly.

I went back to the classroom. I sat down. I opened my legs so he could see that I’d put it on. He leaned against the blackboard, crossed his arms, and smiled at me for the first time since he’d joined the department.

At the end of class, he quietly told me to wait for him in the university library at six. It would be closed to the public for inventory, but he had the key.

***

By five to six, I was already at the door. Adrián arrived with a backpack hanging from one shoulder, unlocked the door, let me in, and locked it from the inside with two turns of the key.

The library was dim at that hour. There was only a faint light at the back, between shelves of old books that no one ever consulted. It smelled of paper, dust, and varnished wood. I leaned against a table and looked at him.

—Come here —he said.

I walked over to him. He grabbed me by the waist, gently pushed me against the first bookcase, and kissed me. It was a long, deep kiss, the kind that doesn’t ask permission. He bit my lower lip, and I dug my nails into his back through his shirt. I returned his kiss hungrily, sliding my tongue into his mouth until a low, almost humiliating moan escaped him.

—I spent two days thinking about nothing else —he whispered in my ear.

—Neither did I.

He undid my blouse button by button, unhurriedly, looking at my face the entire time. When he was done, he left it open and lowered himself to my bra. He kissed me over the lace, then beneath it, pushing it aside slightly with two fingers so he could suck one of my nipples patiently. The cold library air raised goose bumps on my skin, and I arched against his mouth, feeling my pussy grow wet just from his tongue and his breathing.

I knelt down. I opened his belt and pulled his trousers down to his ankles. His cock wasn’t enormous, but it was exactly as I’d imagined it: thick, straight, with prominent veins, heavy in my hand. I ran my tongue over the tip before slowly taking it into my mouth, looking up at him from below. He grabbed my hair and began moving my head at the rhythm he wanted. I sucked his cock with my mouth open, wetting the shaft, taking him deeper and deeper until my eyes filled with tears.

—Deeper —he said hoarsely.

I obeyed. I took him all the way in, until the tip struck my throat and I had to breathe through my nose, saliva running from the corner of my lips. He made a sound I’d never heard from a man before. As if I were killing him. I squeezed his buttocks with my hands and kept going, slowly at first, then faster, licking the base and circling his balls with my tongue, feeling his thighs tense beneath my fingers.

He lifted me up. He carried me to the aisle between two bookcases, where an old mattress was propped against the wall. He threw it onto the floor, pushed me down onto it, lifted my skirt, and moved my thong aside. He spread me with two fingers, checking how wet I was, and smiled crookedly.

—Look at you —he murmured.

When he penetrated me, I gasped so loudly that I covered my mouth with one hand. First he pushed the tip in slowly, applying pressure until my pussy swallowed his glans and tore a muffled moan from me. Then he entered little by little, filling me, opening me with a delicious, brutal pressure. We were in a university library, on the floor, and he was fucking me as if we’d been waiting years.

—Tell me you like it —he ordered.

—I like it.

—Tell me how.

—Like that, like that, like that.

He grabbed my hips and began thrusting harder, making the mattress creak beneath my body. I felt every motion deep inside, the blunt impact against my flesh, the rough friction against my clitoris each time he sank into me. My skirt rode up to my waist, my blouse hung open, my breasts bouncing with every thrust, and he lowered one hand to rub me between the legs, getting his fingers dirty with the juices dripping from me.

—That’s it, Camila. Get wet for me —he said, breathing against my neck.

He turned me over. He put me on all fours on the mattress, grabbing my hair with one hand and my hip with the other. The pace changed. It was no longer gentle. It was punishment, it was a reward, it was everything at once. I felt my face against the rough fabric of the mattress and could think only about making him not stop. His cock drove into me in short, deep thrusts, making my legs tremble and opening me even wider. Each thrust pulled a dirty sound from my mouth, and he answered with heavy breathing, growing more desperate by the second.

—You’re incredible —I said, panting.

He slapped my ass, not very hard, but enough to make my entire skin prickle.

—You’re the worst student I’ve ever had —he replied.

I laughed. I really laughed in the middle of sex, and he laughed too, and for a second everything was absurd and perfect at the same time. Then he grabbed both my hips and sped up.

I felt him getting close. I was close too. I brought one hand between my legs and touched myself with two fingers, rubbing my clitoris while he kept driving his cock into me from behind. My orgasm rose like a shockwave, and I came before he did, squeezing my body against his, trembling all over, my mouth open against the mattress so I wouldn’t scream. He pulled out at the last moment and came over my lower back, hot, all at once, spattering my skin and the curve of my ass.

We stayed like that for a long minute, both of us breathing as if we’d run a marathon.

***

Afterward he got up, took a tissue from his backpack, and cleaned me. He helped me straighten my skirt, buttoned my blouse, and fixed my hair. He did it with a strange care, almost tenderly, as if he regretted it a little. I could still feel the moisture running between my legs, my body warm, my pussy tender and throbbing inside, as though he were still inside me.

—And now? —I asked.

—Now you go home, take a shower, go to sleep, and on Monday you go to your next class as if none of this had happened.

—What if I don’t want to?

He looked at me. For the first time that afternoon, I felt that he was the adult and I was the girl. But it wasn’t a superior look. It was more one of exhaustion.

—Camila, this can happen two more times, or five, or not at all. But it doesn’t get talked about. Understood?

—Understood.

I left the library with my legs still trembling. I ran into two classmates in the hallway. One asked me why my face was red. I told her I’d been running so I wouldn’t miss the bus. She laughed.

At home, in the bathroom, I took off my thong. I smelled it again. This time it smelled half like him, half like me, and like something new that belonged to neither of us. I put it in the drawer with my stockings, underneath everything, and stepped into the shower.

That night I slept more deeply than I had in months. And on Monday, of course, I went to class.