The Professor's Indifference

I knew what I had to do.

I scanned the ten questions I'd written out in my notebook one last time. Solving them was a breeze, of course. I constantly exaggerated to my mother about how terrible I was at math, and academics in general, really. No need for her to know school was actually a little

too

easy. I was not at risk of failing Professor Z's class, nor any other class, truthfully. I just loathed putting in extra effort during the school year unless absolutely necessary. But to make this impending encounter believable, I'd stayed up late selecting challenging problems related to our recent lessons.

Today, Professor Z's height appeared even more pronounced than usual. Or perhaps it appeared that way because I now sat in the front row so that I could catch him after class. He likely stood well over six feet two inches, his long legs accentuated by the black tailored trousers that were casually crossed as he perched against the teacher's desk. My gaze drifted to his left hand resting casually beside him. A plain but thick silver ring adorned his pinky finger, a surprising contrast to his otherwise clean, modern look. I shivered involuntarily as I imagined that ring pressing against my clit as he bites my neck, and I let out an audible moan. I darted a glance around the room to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice. Or so I thought.

As I lifted my gaze back to Professor Z, he was looking at me. He

was

looking at me! His expression remained unreadable, but for the first time, his syrupy brown eyes lingered just a beat longer before shifting to someone else. Did he hear me? The mere thought, the possibility that he might have finally noticed what his presence did to me, had me pooling in my seat until I could feel my wetness between my thighs. I tried crossing my legs to alleviate the ache, but all it did was worsen the mild throbbing. With ten minutes left until class dismissal, I gathered my things and excused myself. I needed to escape to a quiet place and compose myself before attempting to approach him for office hours. I wasn't a fucking temptress that knew how to chase anyone the right way. Up until Professor Z, I did not truly know what it meant to crave someone, much less with the raw and painful intensity I felt for him.

Once I saw him enter his office, I allowed him five minutes to settle in before approaching the door. School policy mandated open doors during office hours, but Professor Z, true to his nonconformist nature, disregarded this rule. Today, the door was closed. Hearing his "come in" felt like stepping into the unknown, a dangerous thrill. I took a deep breath, trying to remember why I was even here. What was it again? Damn it. Here I was, about to confront a professor about...ignoring me? Was I being delusional? I had been accused of this once before in high school when I told the boy at the top of the class that I would get a perfect SAT score even though he'd called me "mid at best." I

did

get a perfect SAT score because I didn't appreciate that description. How can I be delusional about something I know I can have?

Suddenly, he stood in front of me.

"Oh hello, I thought I heard someone out here."

My breath hitched, my heart hammering against my ribs as I inhaled the faint scent of his cologne. Spice and berries, a surprisingly classy and elegant combination. Why, why did a nerd like him wear something like this? And what was with the silver ring on his left pinky finger? He was an enigma, completely beyond comprehension, and it made me

angry.

"Do you want to come in?"

He backed away from the door, allowing me to walk in before shutting it. There were probably rules against shutting the door with a student inside but he'd proven to not care about any rules at this school.

"Do you have questions for me?"

His question snapped me out of my haze. I fumbled for my notebook in my bag, his dark emotionless eyes watching me intently. God, I wanted to shake him. I wanted to crack that ridiculous facade so badly. I settled across from him, placing the notebook on the desk between us.

"Um yes, I had a bit of a difficult time with the logic here," I said, pointing to the first question in my notebook. He glanced at the question briefly, then lifted his gaze back to me, his expression unreadable. A familiar prickle of embarrassment crawled up my arms, flushing my cheeks. Why was he staring like that? Did I have something in my teeth?

"The truth, please. These questions wouldn't keep you up at night."

My rug of pretense now snatched rudely from under me, I felt as though I was sinking fast. My mind raced. What could I say? More importantly, how did he know? I made sure to be a stellar average student, never trying to truly excel at anything.

"Ms. Aierien, is it?" He leaned forward ever so slightly, "Why are you really here?"

Despite my earlier fantasies, the intimacy of his question still shocked me.

I suddenly felt exposed. I had on a simple white cotton dress, corset center, short and billowy on the bottom, something that only Free People could design to perfection. Underneath, my braless breasts felt sensitive, perking up just at the sound of his voice.

"I don't know," I responded, meeting his gaze. It was the face I desperately wanted to sit on, yet it remained frustratingly impassive. Even with the undeniable fact that the pink of my nipples pressed against the see-through fabric of my dress. Goosebumps erupted over my skin as I imagined placing my right foot on my chair and letting my dress pool and bunch around my waist while my thigh lay exposed. I imagined him watching me as I caressed my soft sunkissed thighs, while slowly approaching where I ached the most. Would his eyes light up? Would he crave me then? Want me so much that he would bury his tongue within me without asking?

"There it is again," he said.

I gasped, yanked back to reality, and met his gaze with a jolt. "What is?"

"There's this intense look on your face," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I've seen it a few times in class. It's unlike anything I've ever encountered, and certainly not something I'm accustomed to seeing in my classroom. What could possibly consume your thoughts so completely?"

"You," I breathed, the word leaving my lips in a whisper. God, I'd finally done it. I'd confessed.

"Excuse me?" His response was a breathy question mark in an already charged room.

Emboldened by a surge of defiance, I blurted out, "You."

I'm not sure what I expected but a steady gaze was not fucking it.

"You can't be serious." A flicker of disbelief danced in his eyes.

Feeling the sting of shame mixed in with heady arousal at his disinterest, I spoke up, "I am. I cannot focus, professor. I might die if you do not touch me soon."

A tense silence stretched between us.

"You think about me in class?"

Was he toying with me? Could he really be this oblivious?

"I have thought about you spanking me senseless on that very desk you teach from. I've wanted to ride you until this constant fucking ache goes away."

Shame had evaporated, replaced by a raw vulnerability. Surely, he

must

feel something, right?

His gaze remained fixed on me. He didn't utter a single rebuke. He didn't say that my behavior was inappropriate. But he wasn't giving me what I wanted.

"How long...has this obsession... been building?"

"What does it matter?" My voice betrayed a hint of frustration, laced with a desperate yearning.

"Indulge me."

My cheeks flushed as I surrendered the truth."I'm a server over at Monet's on the weekend. I may have overheard some professors describing their students in an unexpected way."

Taking in a deep breath, I continued, "they were all men and you were there, too. Most of them knew me, talked about me, called me things like "siren," "the gorgeous girl with the bluebird tattoo," "pretty eyes," but despite you having seen me twice a week for two months, you told them you vaguely recalled my face."

Panting now as my recollection revived the humiliation I felt that day, I waited for him to say something, say anything, admit that he lied.

Instead the bastard repeated, "yes, that's correct. At the time, I vaguely remembered you."

Embarrassment curdled into simmering anger. I rose from my chair, each measured step shrinking the distance between us. He remained composed behind his desk, a flicker of something resembling annoyance crossing his features.

I invaded his personal space, our faces inches apart. My voice, laced with barely contained fury, I ask, "Why are you lying to me?"

Frowning slightly, he repeated himself, "I assure you, I am not lying. But, I am intrigued. I have been called...cold and aloof before. But instead of repelling you, it seems to have the opposite effect. Why is that?"

His eyes still lacked desire and it burned me up. I ached so much, wanting to be filled by him, wanting for him to give up this fucking charade and take me hard against his desk. I had never been so aroused in my entire life.

He still didn't push me away, so I leaned close to his ear. Desperate for him to hear my need, I whispered, "P-please, tell me you need me. I can't take this anymore."

"But I don't n-"

"P-please," I say brokenly, kissing his neck so softly. And for the first time, I felt his hand move so slowly up my thigh, and pushing my panties aside, he felt my sopping core. I gasped into his neck as he stroked me with his ring - I was already so close. Once, twice, and then I broke apart on his neck, my tears falling. Without a word, he unbuckled his belt, taking out his cock. It was hard, telling me that he felt something, too, even if he didn't admit it. He leaked pre-cum and I wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste all of him. But I couldn't. He didn't let me. He lowered me onto his cock and I gasped again as he filled me up. It was just as I imagined.

Fuck

, it was just as I imagined. I fucked him over and over again and he stayed silent, a hand on my neck applying light pressure.

I beg him, "tell me, please tell me you want me.

Say it.

"

But he stayed quiet, his silence building up the heat in my body. I'd never met anyone like him, anyone so fucking stubborn, who refused to admit that he wanted to taste my breasts the moment he saw them through my dress, that the thought of my taste kept him up at night.

"Tell me you wanted to lick my nipples when I walked into your office." His hands previously on my neck slid down to move my dress up until he could feel my breasts, so heavy in his hands. He grazed my pebbled nipples and I nearly came from the sensation alone. But he didn't say anything to me. Grabbing his hair in desperation, I bring his lips to mine, his warm tongue finding my own, kissing me in rhythm to our fucking. Breaking off from his lips, I begged him one last time, tears flowing freely now, "p-please tell me that while I've rocked into my fingers for relief every night, calling your name, begging you to fill me, that you were home thinking about the day you would do just that to me."

I may have touched a chord because he spanked me then over and over and over again, and biting my shoulder he came hard on a grunt, his warm seed filling me up, and a few seconds later, I came, too. Our sex filled the air, the evidence of our need seeping out from us and unto his trousers and chair. I wanted to save face and get up, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop kissing him. I felt drunk with my desire for him and I wanted him again. Looking at the drawer beside him, I spot a pair of neatly folded trousers. Following my gaze, he said, "I always keep a pair for emergencies."