Meeting the Professor
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It was a miserably snowy day, the kind when a car refuses to start the first time and takes ages to warm up, the kind that makes breathing burn and turn to mist, the kind of winter morning where the snow crunches underfoot.
It took Walt ages before he left his dorm room. He kept glancing at the clock and at the door. What if he left and everyone stared at him? His impressive height drew more eyes than he was comfortable with. One set of eyes was enough to send him running. Only Johnny could have convinced him to go to college. His light-hearted brother could convince a fish to breathe air.
Outside of his dorm room may have well been filled with nightmares. Nightmares that haun him. Nightmares that prevent him from living a normal life.
With a twist of door handle, he was out of his dorm with his laptop bag, which had everything he would need.
He barely arrived at his class in time, and when he did, he was confused about if he were in the right class as it had already started and the Professor was talking about
Beowulf
.
That was very on point for Medieval Lit, so he walked towards the front, curious to learn more about the fictional hero. Though he was terrified that the students would make fun of him, he kept his eyes on the curvy woman by the whiteboard. Her voice was honey and led him all the way to the front row before he realized what he was doing.
The lecture hall appeared large enough to hold fifty students. It was a tiered room with folding seats and individual desks facing a raised platform with a table. The wall behind was lined with whiteboards. Half of the boards already had bright calligraphic writing in blues, reds, and black as if Walt had missed half the lecture already.
By his watch, he was only two minutes late. There were perhaps fifteen students who had felt it worth traversing snowy roads and icy sidewalks. He calmed his breathing before the overwhelming amount of people made him run out of class.
New semesters led to increased stress for the ginger boy, and the idea that somehow he entered the wrong class weighed heavy on his mind.
"Who knows
Beowulf
?" the instructor asked the classroom.
"Movies and TV shows count," she added, momentarily biting on her whiteboard marker. A handful of arms raise into the air. "Good. I actually knew him personally. You could say he was a man of great size."
The Professor said the last two sentences quietly enough Walt thought only the first two rows could hear her.
Wasn't Beowulf a fictional hero?
Walt wondered.
She wore a modern blue dress with patches of random colors sewn across it. If she kept adding onto the dress, blue wouldn't be the dominant color anymore. Walt smiled at that thought. Under the blue dress, she wore a white ruffled button-up that clung to her chest. The dress also had two lines of buttons, for what purpose he didn't know. It was ankle length, and he was disappointed by how little leg the dress showed; however, feet and shoes were just as arousing to him.
She was wearing boots, they were brown and had brass buckles, they had two-inch heels. Enough heel to walk in reasonably comfortably for a short period of time, but not reasonable to run in, nor to teach a class while walking and standing for an hour and a half.
"Does anyone know what date
Beowulf
was written?" the Professor asked the classroom. No one raised their hand, nor did they blurt out an answer. "Ha. That's a trick question," she chuckled and started to scrawl on the board.
Setting was in 500s
Written When?
"It was written anywhere between the seventh to tenth century," she said while writing the second line. "That's a very large gap, if any of you can do maths." Walt hadn't fully realized she had a very cute British until that moment. He couldn't tell which area of the UK she was from--he didn't know enough to tell, but the accent was music to his ears.
Her hair was a voluptuous shoulder-length cascade of white, which he thought was odd because he would have sworn she was too young to have white hair.
Dyed or weird genetics
, he thought. Walt was no man to judge with his bright orange hair. Growing up in Wyoming, other kids had relentlessly made fun of it.
Small town kids are savage,
Walt thought errantly before bringing his attention back to the lecture.
The woman's chest was full and curved, creating two spherical mounds in her white ruffled blouse. Walt chuckled quietly, watching the tight blouse struggle to contain her breasts. Did he see sewn patches where they might've popped out?
"You there, young sir," she asked while staring directly at him, "can you tell me how Beowulf's story was created? Also, tell me your name."
"Um... Walt." There seemed to be a giant disconnect between his brain and his mouth. Everyone was staring at him, but all Walt could think about was feeling those orbs in her blue dress. Walt wanted to grab them, squeeze them, and glide his hard cock between her breasts. He also wanted to suckle on them. "Uh... I.. I.. believe it was word of m-mouth," Walt said shyly.
Walt wasn't an expert on medieval literature. He wasn't an expert on any field of literature. Walt's specialty lay in creative writing, but this class was required for getting his bachelor's and moving towards the goal of being a world famous author.
Please be right! Please don't call me again!
Walt inwardly shouted in his mind.
I want to run. I want out of here.
He dared not look at the door. Could everyone sense his fear? He felt their eyes on the back of his head.
"You're pretty spot on. A story began to form as bards told the tale. It evolved and was changed with every year it was told by mouth until one day somebody finally took the time to write it down," she lectured. "I should know because I'm the one who gave that poor bastard the idea. Lot of help it gave him," she continued and trailing off to a mumble at the end as if lost in thought.
