Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

Could it really be him? I can’t imagine why someone so brilliant would resort to porn. I mean, unless he just really wanted to. Not that there’s anything wrong with porn. It’s a perfectly satisfactory profession for a lot of people, and I hear there’s good money to be made in something like that. I’m totally all for the sex-positive movement. It’s just, he doesn’t seem like the type who would put himself out there for the world to see. That’s a bell that can never be un-rung. When someone goes into a profession like teaching, there are background and credit checks to be had. Every decision you’ve ever made in your life is under scrutiny. You basically have to be a nun or a priest in your former life. Squeaky-clean as fuck.

I’m doing the math in my head. In order for him to get to where he is now, a professor in one of the best private universities on the west coast, he would’ve been in college himself back when the movie was made. He also would’ve known videos like those could eventually destroy his career if anyone were to find out. Why would he risk his entire career?

“The only way to find out if it was really him,” Serena continues, “is if someone sees the goods. Also, there’s that birthmark on his hip that would totally give him away.”

There’s that, but I could tell just by seeing his dick. I would know it anywhere. I watched the video several times and have it ingrained in my memory.

“How are you going to do it, just walk up and ask to see his birthmark?” I ask, skeptical.

Boyfriend-I seriously need to learn his name; I think I heard Serena call him Chet, or maybe Chad, once-laughs too loud, getting the attention of everyone around us, including Mr. Johnson. I look down to avoid his irritated gaze. I hate the thought of him thinking I’m fucking around in class and not getting my work done.

“Are you kidding?” Chad (or whatever) says. “I wouldn’t let my girl near that summer sausage; I’d lose her for sure.”

Serena rolls her eyes and says, “I’m not going to find out, but you are,” she says to me.

“He won’t show me,” I insist. I can’t even imagine how I would go about seeing it. I picture the look on his face as I walk up and say, Good day, Mr. Johnson, how about you show me that beautiful fuck-stick. The thought brings a fraction of a grin to my face. Mostly because the voice I use in my head is British. I’m not sure why. It just pops into my head like that. “He wouldn’t be willing to risk his job. He could lose everything.”

“Trust me, for you, he would,” says Chad with a sleazy grin. Serena jabs him in the ribs, giving him a dirty look. “What? He would. She’s hot.” Her angry look continues to harden until he’s squirming. “But you’re hotter,” he says. The nasty glare continues far too long until both me and Boyfriend are super uncomfortable. After a minute she relaxes. The thin compliment seems to satisfy her enough to move on.

When she looks back at me, there’s more heat in her gaze, as if it were my fault her boyfriend called me hot. “I dare you to find a way to catch him naked and get a look at it,” she says.

“How the hell do you suppose I do that? It’s not like he has a reason to strip down in class . . .”

Or does he?

Ideas begin to fire off in my head. Situations. Possibilities. Probabilities.

Here’s where my curiosity will get me into trouble. I don’t back down from dares, and in this case, I kind of don’t want to. I’m just as curious as everyone else, and I actually think I have a plan on how to see him naked that might just work. I look in my backpack to make sure I have what I need, and with a nervous smile, realize that I do.

.

Loche Johnson

I’ve never been interested in one of my students. Never even been tempted. Not until Georgia.

The first day she walked into my classroom I knew I was in trouble. All the typical things played into it: A sexy mane of thick dark hair, silky pale skin, eyes like bright blue planets that suck you into their world. But it was more than that. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life-been with plenty of beautiful women. With Georgia it was different. It was chemistry.

Part of it was her looks. On more than one occasion I pictured brushing my fingers through her locks. The full lips I’d love to kiss, and the curvy body I want to taste every inch of. It’s everything about her. Looks, yes, but her personality too. The inquisitiveness. That might not be all that of an attractive feature for most men, but for a teacher there’s nothing better. And the fact that she devours my every word, eyes stalking me as I cross the room. I’m used to students’ glazed-over stares as they watch the clock above my head ticking by, waiting for the hour to be over.

Not Georgia. She acts as though I’ve hung the moon, never questioning anything I teach. I have her in my grasp. If she’s as quick of a study in bed as she is in the classroom, she may just be the girl of my dreams. When it comes to sex, I could bend her to my will, dominate her, and she would love every minute of it.

But the distracted girl in my classroom is not the same girl I’m used to seeing on a daily basis. I’ve never seen her talk to Serena and Chad. Normally the Rockefeller wannabes talking in the corner don’t rattle her a bit. For some reason they have been for the last two days. And what was that, when she looked right at my dick yesterday? Not that I’m complaining, of course. It just took me off my guard, and I don’t like to be surprised in the middle of a lesson when I’m trying to get these thick-headed students familiar with chemicals that could easily poison them or burn their skin if they’re not careful.

In the months Georgia’s been in my class, she’s always looked me right in the eye. Yesterday it was as if my cock was giving the lecture. After class I even checked the front of my pants to make sure my zipper wasn’t down and that I hadn’t spilled my lunch down the front of me. Seeing her look at me like that, I’d struggled to keep from getting a hard-on in class. Struggle is putting it mildly. I had to force Mrs. Chambers, the cook in the cafeteria-the one with the mustache and blackheads the size of pennies-into my thoughts to keep my dragon down. Because trust me, when I’m hard, there’s no hiding it.

Every time I look at Georgia, she’s looking back at me with bare curiosity, as if I’ve done something so outrageous, so entertaining that it warrants all her attention in case I do it again. I try to hold her gaze but she keeps averting her eyes. Maybe I’m reading her wrong and she just needs help with the assignment, but I don’t think so. I’m not sure what she wants and it’s driving me crazy.

The entire period is a struggle to keep my focus. When the class is finally over, I sit at my desk and take papers from my students as they leave the room. When the last student is gone and the door shuts, I get up to lock it. When I turn around, I realize Georgia is still at her desk and she has yet to clean out her flasks and beakers.

I stand up, not sure what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets. She’s looking down at the paper in front of her as if she’s really struggling. She’s my best student. She should’ve breezed through this assignment. It’s stuff we’ve already covered throughout the school year. I’ve never known her to struggle with anything since starting this class, especially things this easy.

Making my way across the room, I see last night’s assignment on her desk. Though I’m looking at it upside down, from this angle it looks complete. In fact, it looks more than complete. It looks as though she wrote out each of her answers and explained why in the margins for good measure. She’s always doing things like that, going above and beyond what I ask her to do when most students struggle to write two words. I even had a student once answer a question with “just because.” Not to name names, but his name sounds like Brad and he sits next to Serena . . .

“Georgia? Do you need help with something?” I ask her.

She startles at the sound of my voice, knocking over a flask full of blue liquid that splashes onto my pants and shirt.

I back away instantly, sucking in a worried breath. Working with chemicals, I know just how dangerous they can be. I once ha

d a professor in college blow up a classroom. Luckily no one was seriously injured in the accident. But that’s one cautionary tale you don’t forget in this business.

Though we’re not working with anything explosive or particularly dangerous at the moment, there are chemicals in this room that could cause nasty rashes and first-degree burns. I don’t want to take any chances. As I strip off my clothes, down to nothing but my boxer-briefs and socks, the area around me fills with the scent of peppermint.

Georgia jumps out of her seat with a towel in hand, wiping off my bare chest, and spending an exorbitant amount of time on the front of my boxers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to open the flap and see inside. I stop her by grabbing onto her wrist before the effect she’s having on me becomes impossible to hide. After she calms down, I let go of her. She apologizes for being so clumsy. She is not a clumsy girl. Not in the slightest. And she’s not one to startle easily, either. There have been plenty of times when I’ve stood over her while she was deep in thought, and not once when I said her name did she flail her arms and dump chemicals on me.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“God, I am so sorry, Mr. Johnson, it’s not a chemical, it’s just mouthwash.”

I pause with my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers. I was starting to think I was better safe than sorry and should strip down to nothing at all and wash off.

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Mouthwash?” I say, confused.