Charlotte Stein - The Professor

‘People share things about you around the canteen?’

‘The latest, I believe, is that I have an insane ex-wife locked in my attic, despite having neither an ex-wife nor indeed an attic.’

‘So you have never been married then.’

Now it’s his turn to look startled.

Only slightly, of course. One side of his mouth twitches, and his eyelashes sort of flicker in a way that could be read as a tiny widening. But the thing is, slight twitches and tiny eyelash flickers are enough, for someone with a granite face.

‘I am not sure what relevance that has.’

‘No relevance at all. I was just curious.’

‘And you think being curious about my dull life will serve you well.’

‘Considering this is the first time I ever dared ask anyone so terrifying such a direct question about anything I’m going to say yes.’

‘You find me terrifying, Miss Hayridge?’ he asks, and I honestly can’t tell.

Is he sincerely wondering, or just messing with me?

His slightly raised right eyebrow suggests the former.

But the strange new glint in his eye suggests something else.

‘You’re seventeen feet tall with a chest that could probably deflect bullets and a voice that might be capable of commanding the winds. You know everything about everything – including things about me that I barely even realised myself. And when you get angry, your anger lies in wait like a cobra, then strikes someone dead before they even know there is any danger. Yes, you are terrifying, Professor. But I should probably also say that no one has ever made me feel more like I’m worth something than you did yesterday, so whether I’m still afraid is certainly up for debate,’ I say, completely breathless by the end and half sure I shouldn’t have said it. It skirts way too close to I find you attractive.

Though the fact that it does only makes his next words more unexpected.

‘Perhaps it would not be if you knew why I have never been married.’

He speaks so calmly, as though referring to the weather.

Instead of the secret mysteries of him that no one can ever know.

‘Is it because you’re secretly a werewolf?’

‘What on earth would make you think such a thing?’

The scars and the bursting fleshiness , I think.

But refrain from saying, to my eternal relief.

‘It was just the first silly guess I could come up with.’

‘So you would rather discuss silly things than reality.’

‘I would rather live in silly things than reality. I bet you would too, if it meant you could admit to me that you were a fantastical creature rather than whatever the actual thing is,’ I say, though don’t expect it to hit. No, Miss Hayridge, I am the very model of practical thought , I imagine, and instead get this long silence. This long silence, coupled with a ton of intense staring. Almost like he’s searching me for something.

Some lie or sense of how I came to such a conclusion.

Because I’m right. I’m so right his voice drops to a husky whisper when he responds.

‘Unfortunately, the only world we have is this one.’

‘Why do you think I like writing stories so much?’

‘Writing stories will not change that fact.’

‘No, but it feels like it does, for just a little while.’

‘Perhaps you are merely avoiding the truth.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘It is if you forget to live in the meantime.’

‘I would willingly sacrifice being friends with people who don’t seem to like me anyway and parties at places I don’t really want to go to for worlds I create myself.’

‘And when you wake up at forty and realise that’s all you have?’

‘Is that what you did, Professor?’

He draws back then. Glances away.

Changes the subject.

Oh, God, he changes the subject.

As though the subject sets him on fire.

‘We are both reasonable adults, are we not?’

‘I think I just about qualify as reasonable.’

‘But you are most definitely an adult, and an intelligent and insightful one.’

‘I don’t feel intelligent and insightful when you say things like that to me.’

‘You think I condescend to you. You think this is mockery.’

‘No. I think flattery of any sort turns my insides to jelly.’

‘I assure you flattery was not my intention. I tell you the truth, nothing more.’

‘That only makes it worse, quite honestly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a kind word to anyone, and certainly not when you really meant it.’

‘My regard is hard won and easily lost, I freely admit.’

‘Am I losing it as we speak, Professor?’

‘I wish you were.’

Something happens after those four words escape out of him. He seems to jerk, as though struck, and for a moment the strangest expression dominates his face. It reminds me of the look people get when they wander into the wrong room by mistake, even though neither of us has moved an inch. And when I go to say something more to him, he turns away. He picks up the pages beside him and begins riffling through them, so briskly and professionally I can honestly believe there was nothing more to it.

Even though his voice when he finally speaks is just a little tight.

‘Before we go any further, I want to make one thing abundantly clear. Nothing I do or say will ever be anything other than the rightful attention a teacher may pay a student, no matter what words we may have occasion to say to one another or discuss. Is that understood?’

‘I never thought otherwise, honestly.’

‘Then from this point on we may proceed with perfect objectivity and professionalism? We may look upon your work as work, and not pay undue attention to the acts therein described?’

‘Yes, of course. I never meant to imply we wouldn’t.’

‘No question of impropriety?’

‘None at all.’

‘And you are capable of conducting yourself in such a manner.’

‘I am,’ I say.

Perhaps in that moment I even believe it. I am calm, as he goes through the rules for this. My heart isn’t hammering. My hands aren’t trembling. Everything he tells me seems to make a lot of sense.

Until he speaks, and then all I can think is:

I was right to not want him to say rude words.

‘Excellent. Now then, perhaps we can begin by examining where you went wrong here: “His cock is a tree root, heavy and thick – too heavy in truth for my tightly closed sex. He has to force his way into me, pushing and twisting until I give, his own slickness the only thing easing the way. Still though, oh, still it sings through me, to have him fill me like this. My body stutters with the pleasure of it before he moves, sweet enough that I could call it a climax. Certainly it undoes me far more expertly than anything I have ever given myself.”’

I take my time responding, in part because I have no real answer for him.

But also because everything he says renders me mute. I go to speak and only air comes out of me. All the words in the world fall down inside my body – though that might be a good thing. The ones that occur do not seem appropriate. They seem to focus a lot on the sound of his voice, rather than the point. I keep replaying the roll of his tongue around the R at the start of ‘root’. The almost slick click of his teeth around the C at the start of ‘cock’. It takes me an absolute age to come up with anything.

And when I finally do it’s rubbish.

‘I have no idea.’

‘No clue at all?’

‘Not even a tiny one.’

‘So it is your honest belief that a woman can come through such rudimentary penetration? No attempt at arousing her, no mention of any previous ministrations that might allow her lover to sink in, softly and slowly and smoothly?’