He was an ugly man by most anyone's standards, but he was masterful with words, a skilled and electrifying lecturer, every class an intellectual whirlwind. There were never any free seats; everyone got to his class early. Jane had, as she always had in all her classes, selected a seat at the front of the room. Before she knew his power, before she lost herself to her helpless infatuation, she selected her seat like the teacher's pet she was and was now always closest to him when he was at the podium.
There were too many students for him to know them all by name. He never even bothered with attendance. But she knew he knew her name, because after the first exam, when she'd handed him her exam book, he'd deliberately studied the cover. And then, as she stood there uncertainly, he'd looked up at her, winked, and whispered, "Thanks, Lady Jane." A glorious buzzing suffused her to hear her name spoken by this man she so idolized.
On the first hot day of spring she wore very little like most girls in her class, but unlike the others she was somewhat uncomfortable with the exposure. While the other girls stretched their golden limbs like lionesses, Jane wrapped her pale arms around herself and pressed her legs tightly together, cursing the fair skin so out of place in the bronzed throng. But when he stepped to the podium and paused, just for a fraction of a second, taking her in, she knew he has noticed her. He made a real effort after that day, but several times she caught him sneaking glances, distracted. Toward the end of the class she brazenly stretched her legs in front of her and watched in delight as she struggled to avert his eyes from her creamy flesh.
The heat wave continued, and each day she dressed for class with care, wanting him to realize she had preened for him, had thought of his voice in her ear as she dressed: If it isn't lovely Lady Jane, so beautiful, look at you, my God, I want to touch you, words that enflamed her as she hurried to class, and as she touched herself in secret late at night, alone in her bed.
Her fantasies about her professor, which had begun in earnest after the first hot day of spring, were constant. They began as romantic: they would bump into each other at the coffee house, he would grab her wrist after small talk and pull her to him, kissing her mouth so softly it was like a whisper, breathing against her, Jane, I need you, Jane, I must have you. He would take her to a field, feed her cherries, and lay her down among the wildflowers, worshipping every inch of her. Or he would declare his passion for her and whisk her off to Europe; make love to her throughout England, whispering the beautiful names: Gloucester, Leicester, Essex... each like a million little tongues on her skin. Always it was his voice that tipped her desire, claiming her completely.
Soon her fantasies grew more erotic, waking her in the night with an ache to be filled by him, so intense that her skin ached. In her dreams he touched her and teased her until she begged him, and always he looked at her and said in that rich, mesmerizing voice, "Tell me what you want, Jane." Her sleep was so disrupted that she walked around in a drowsy haze most days, able to concentrate only on her obsession with her professor.
They had a project due, and though she had no trouble with her topic she signed up for an office appointment, blushing furiously as she scribbled her name in the Friday 4PM slot, the only one left because all of her classmates would already be at the bar. She endured the lecture on the Howards by resting her head in her hands, covering her closed eyes, the better to savor the sound of his voice. That Friday, she willed herself to his office and was filled with relief to see him sitting at his desk, slightly disheveled. She had been so afraid, so irrationally afraid, that she'd approach the top of the stairs to find a dark, locked office.
And what an office it was, tucked away in the attic of Wingate Hall, but with surprising light, and the blissful, dusty smell of old books.
He was silent, smiling neutrally as she approached, half-dizzy with embarrassment and confused lust. "I came," she blurted, and perceived just the tiniest arching of one eyebrow, a widening of his pupils, and then a smoothing over as he registered her meaning. "To talk about the project."
"Yes," he said. "The project. Good. Please," he motioned to the chair next to him, "have a seat."
"I want to explore artistic depictions of Elizabeth," she stammered. He nodded, and she continued, explaining which portraits she'd like to use, relaxing as she spoke, her eyes never leaving his.
"Sounds fantastic, Jane," he praised when she had exhausted the explanation of her plans. "Sounds like you have it well in hand." He smiled at her kindly, but there was an extra warmth, she thought, and she grasped for more time. She'd done all the talking, and she'd been uncharacteristically silent, when all along she'd hoped to hear his voice so she had something to take home with her, something to use in the night when the fever kept her awake and the only way she could fall asleep was to replay his voice in her head while she fingered her cunt to orgasm after violent orgasm.
