I blink, wondering if I have the right vehicle. But he turns and smiles, and all my doubts are gone.
“I missed you all Christmas.” The word Christmas sounds funny the way he says it.
I climb into the vehicle, dropping my bags on the ground next to the door I leave ajar. I slide into his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. It’s hard not to kiss him with every bit of passion I have in me. I want everything he’s willing to offer, and I don’t know why.
He cups me in his lap, holding tightly to me. His fingers tremble just slightly, like they’re straining too much or holding back maybe.
I rock in his lap, grinding against the erection I can feel there. I sit back, reaching between his legs to free the beast I think is beckoning to me. As I open the zipper and button, it springs from the pants and underwear. I don’t think. I don’t even consider what I am doing. Instead, I kiss him and wrestle with my own pants after kicking off my shoes. There, in the parking lot, I lower myself back over him once I’m bared, sliding my wet sex over his rigid cock. He freezes, not touching me, not breathing. He’s perfectly still as I ride him, rocking my hips and rolling my stomach, working him like a joystick.
I increase my pace, biting down on his quivering lip and gripping his shoulders with my greedy fingers that want too much. I force him to move with me, force him to fuck me. It’s better than I imagined. He fits inside of me like he was made to be there. I orgasm, clutching to the headrest as he pants softly in my ear.
When he climaxes, he loses all control, just like at his cabin. He grips me too hard, his fingers digging into my hips and butt. He forces my pussy up and down, forces the riding and the circular motion. He comes moaning in my ear, biting down on my lobe. I hadn’t noticed he’d bitten me, but I cry out as he bites harder. He jerks his finish inside of me and pauses, again frozen.
“I think I love you, Professor.”
He shakes his head. “You can’t,” he mutters with a strange accent and shoves me off him, pushing me from the Jeep with semen dripping down my bare legs. I just land on my feet, and he’s driving away with the door open. I yank my pants on but have lost my shoes, for what I assume is forever.
I think this because I don’t see him again. Not the way I did.
My heart aches when he doesn’t come to see me, or call me, or text me. My insides tighten and burn when I think about how I let him use me. I try not to linger in that place, the one made up of shame. I worry that I might have gone too far to that bad place where you can’t ever have normal again because you are addicted to the twisted darkness.
I try to not to think about him at all.
It doesn’t go well.
7. First day of spring
It doesn’t feel like spring. It feels like fall or early winter. It’s dank and cold, and my hopes of seeing snow are gone. I know I will not see a single flake for the whole year until next winter.
My phone vibrates as I reach the steps of the campus. I glance at it before I realize where I am. I’m at the campus of the university in the city. I had gotten on the bus to go to the mall, and yet, here I am. It’s happened before. I have gotten on board to go somewhere, and my body instinctively goes looking for him.
I climb the steps, knowing exactly where the literature department is. It isn’t my first time making it all the way here before stopping myself.
When I get inside I pause, looking for the information office. My insides tighten as I walk to the silver-haired lady with the granny glasses and a terrible winter sweater on. I grin when I see her name, Anne Holle. She is Ms. A. Holle, and my brain is just infantile enough to enjoy that. When she glances up I turn my grin into a soft smile. “Hi, I’m looking for Dr. Russo.”
She cocks a brow. “Who?”
“Dr. Derek Russo. He teaches literature.”
She tilts her head to the side, giving me the oddest look. “You mean Professor Hanson? Dick Hanson?”
I purse my lips. “Nooooo. I think I mean Russo. He’s a professor here. Perhaps he’s changed subjects.”
“Oh, if only it were that easy. I can tell you that there has not been a Dr. Russo on campus as a teacher since I started twenty years ago, and Dr. Hanson, the literature professor, has been here since Jesus was in short pants.” She chuckles. “He’s older than Methuselah’s bloody goat.” She sees the look of pain on my face. “I assume you are looking for this professor for the wrong reasons. Well, our lit prof is gay, very gay. He’s been to Canada to marry the theater director from the playhouse downtown.” She winks. “Go figure, a gay lit prof and a theater director? Who would have guessed?” She chuckles again.