Professor Plucks A Freshman Savant

I

I

Ice pale she entered and strutting like a cat. Short, thin, brighteyed and lighteyed, darkhaired with curls bouncing, loosely clothed, wet from the rain. Big pale green eyes flashing. Pale she was pale as fine china and as delicate and the cream of her chest was spotted with brown freckles. Skin so fair you wanted to suck or slap every inch, you couldn't decide which more, you wanted to seek out every corner of her blank terrain and mark it for yourself.

"Mawrnin,"she drawled in a thick Bronx accent as she passed by me, her humble world literature professor. Under a lovely white forehead and very short, crooked, bohemian bangs she flashed me a smile of chemical fire.

God fucking damnit, I said to myself.

It was the first week of fall semester. It was raining, and the rain bled down the windowpanes and the lamplights glowed yellow over the cobblestone and through the weeping trees. She was wet. Her coat was wet and her oversized denim jacket clung damply to her thin arms. I lost myself in her, in the ghost of that greeneyed smile of absolute frankness, that feigned shyness, until she caught me staring.

Three weeks had passed since the end of summer semester and that fateful night I had cracked open the 19-year-old McKenna like a cask of overripe whiskey. Sharp and tangy and burning pleasantly in my stomach was the memory of her boa constrictor of a vaginal canal, her mousey choked back tears, her sex-slapped and well-fucked little body. She had finished off the semester in impressive fashion, working herself - honestly, with no favors for the surrender of her slimy slit that night - to a firm B minus. Considering I could have justified failing her at the start of the summer, it was nothing short of a magnificent turnaround. I thoroughly enjoyed the idea, even if it was part-delusion, that I had fucked some kind of sense and respect for literature into her, that my dick had reached deep enough in her belly, prodded something kidney-adjacent that connected to her thinking parts, and knocked loose at least some of the inanities her and so many of her classmates had labored under.

McKenna and I had not spoken or intercoursed since, though when the campus came back from summer's short slumberous break, I instantly thought of her. She smiled when she saw me in the library, and blushed deeply when I ordered a sandwich from her at her cafe at lunchtime a few hours later. And I allowed my thoughts of her - lust only, you understand, she's 19 for god's sake - to linger pleasantly until she was displaced entirely by that firstmawrninof intro to world lit.

I watched the wet little Bronx kitten from the corner of my eye as I spoke to the class. Her cheeks were shiny under the fluorescent glow of the old classroom's lamps, even dewy, like raw fruit in a storm.

I had them all introduce themselves, those hateful icebreaker sort of things you do on the first day of class or a new job, tell me your name your year your major your hopes your dreams your bra cup size your cunt's color etcetera etcetera...my mind typically drifted and filled in the blanks on the latter matter while they either bloviated or anxiously and rapidly muttered the former formalities.

The class, which was required at some point for all liberal arts majors and was usually taken in the freshman year, was almost entirely women. Girls, I should say. It was hard to call them women until they were juniors or seniors, as the general behaviors of 18 and 19 year olds was typically that of half-developed imbeciles. And despite what you may have read of what I most certainly did do to gasping McKenna's little gash, I had no special fetish for younger women or imbecilic, barely legal girls. Historically, for me, it had been quite the opposite: a string of relations with strong, wild, independent, feminist-type women my own age. Nothing sparked my heart more than intelligence. But in this hellscape of academia wherein I labored, where my own artistic ambitions had come to stagnate, where I had seemingly run through all of the women who fit the strict and narrow standards of my heart and now found myself bored and depressed by their company and feeling less lonely by being alone than with one of them, I still nevertheless retained a monstrous sexual appetite. And that night pumping McKenna like a hydraulic piston unlocked for me a key to surviving the soulsuck of the job. Not just the primal release that comes from possessing delicious, fertile flesh, but a way to aggressively exorcise all the frustrations of the futility of the modern university.

Because with McKenna, her little twitching wrist yanking on my wet staff had opened a dam in me; demon semen flooded out and drowned the bratty, insouciant student that represented a moronic generation, and a pert, studious, hard working literary scholar had been borne from the cum-covered ashes.

A voice,thatvoice, sliced through the covidcoughs and my thoughts.

"Hi, guysss, I'm Madelyn Beckers but you can call me Madi," the girl I was swooning for had stood up, and her wet jean coat hung carelessly and suggestively off one cream white narrow shoulder. She pronounced Madi likeMatteywith her sharp accent from the opposite coast. "I'm a freshman, English majah, from New Yawk,da Bronxhahah,I like bagels, lox, bikes, the Yankees, all things New Yawk..."

You have to understand: she didn't look like she spoke. Maybe you're thinking of some boasty and breasty broad, some loudmouthed lipstick'd phenomena replete with a Statue of Liberty or Jay-Z t-shirt, hoop earrings, bubble gum, and a mortal fear of the sun. Madelyn, delightful Madi, contained all that energy in her carelessly bared kiss-me-please shoulder. Her mess of frilly, wet, black, curly hair, her mischievous half-smile, her subtle Jewish pride, was all coiled, half-hidden in her lithe, understated, feline form. She could've been a criminal or she could've been homecoming queen, and from her every light lisp to Bronx drawl to lascivious, bare white-shouldered shrug, the ultimate truth of her beckoned teasingly like the most forbidden of enigmas.

Still, she was but a passing fantasy, as a dozen or a hundred twitching young hips and flipping skirts and long white legs had become since I had given myself permission to fuck my students, until she finished her little introduction:

"...aaaaaaaaaand," she drew it out for effect, "My favorite nahvel is prahhhbahblyEat Pray Love."

So dervishly fuckableandof poor, perhaps even imbecilic, literary taste? I foresaw months of grating essays comparing my Joseph Conrad and Emily Bronte syllabus to whatever ironic, Internet-centric, congestive sludge backed up the intellectual cholesterol of New York Times bestseller readers, and if I wasn't fully erect I probably would've puked.

II

II

I don't know whether I considered it foreplay or manners but I needed to see Madi's writing before I could allow myself to see her tiny titties. I know this might sound strange from someone who cobbles together a depraved lunacy like the idea of my sperm splattering sense into McKenna, but there were still some rules to this whole "fuck the shit out of your barely legal teenage students" thing. As dearly deep as I loathed the institution, the dean, the brainrot of my students' generation, this was not the dick swinging free for all my own teenage self might have fantasized up.

My world lit course met twice a week for 90 minutes. Ahead of the second class, I assigned a small piece of writing based on reactions toWuthering Heights.Of course only a handful of the girls had actually read the book, and I admit it was an aggressive assignment to have them complete the whole thing in a week. I took all the papers to an off-campus flower shop that had a small cafe in the back. My friend Vanessa, one of the few sane and respectable humans on this planet, was the owner, and always saved a little corner seat by the greenhouse window for me on Thursday afternoons, when I usually went over to grade papers after world lit.

"You look excited," Vanessa said when she saw me, dropping by a pot of tea. "What's wrong with you?"

"Well, school's back in," I said.

"Exactly," she said. "Like I said, what's wrong with you?"

I sat down with a wildly uncharacteristic, Thursday afternoon, paper-grading grin.

"I don't know, must be a good batch this year," I said.

"Agood batch? What are you, fucking Bill Nye the Science Guy? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?" she laughed.

Despite the distraction in my soul I managed to laugh with her. The morning after I'd wet my dick in McKenna, I'd considered telling Vanessa. She was 33, just a few years younger than me, and had herself dropped out of the English PhD program I was in because the particularly noxious blend of apathetic students and political academia had driven her to alcholism and near-suicide. I didn't blame her.

I'd met her then at her low point, when we got drunk together and argued about everything from academia's corporate chill to Pushkin being used as a propaganda piece in Ukraine. We almost fucked. We didn't, and I had her stay on my couch indefinitely for months while she sobered up enough to recover from the experience of practicing literature. Then I used some of my meagre salary to invest in her book-themed flower shop and cafe, which had thus far thrived, and she had not only paid me back with interest but also routinely helped me grade papers. Some part of me wondered how much sexual tension underlayed our relations, and I had to admit I'd masturbated to the idea of her jet black, bone straight head of hair and big lips bobbing on my shaft many times. But I liked her too much to commit to that just yet; we helped each other not out of attraction or a sense of debt, but because we liked each other. We were bonded.

But still, I didn't know how she would react to knowing I'd soaked my dick inside a student. And even if she didn't run to the authorities, I wasn't sure I wanted her to know.

And if I couldn't tell her about McKenna, I certainly couldn't tell her about Madi.

"Thanks for the tea," I said, grinning. "You're the best."

I purposefully saved Madi's paper for last, tucking it in my lap - on top of a persistent erection - while I rolled through the interminable attempts to produce a cogent opinion on Emily Bronte. This proved to be a mistake. My mood instantly soured. One paper was good. Two or three were passable. Another half dozen were obvious AI jobs. The other 15 or so were bad, and of those several were simply horrific, worse than the worst of what someone like McKenna had ever produced. With every passing semester, it seemed, the generation was degenerating.

Finally I got to Madi's. I read it very quickly once and then went over it again, slowly, my heart hammering, my blood pumping. Then I read it again.

When I was through the third time I put the paper back on my lap and ordered a bottle of wine from Vanessa.

"Liked that one, eh doc?" she nodded to Madi's creation on my lap as she brought the wine over.

"Oh," I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed. I picked the essay up, realized it was hiding an obvious and very full erection, and scrambled to put it back down again. "Ah, well, interesting student," I managed.

"Interesting,"she mocked, peering to see paper or perhaps penis better. "This...Madelyn, is interesting?"

A little thrill ran through me when I heard my new darling's name spoken aloud.

"Yes," I said. "Well, you know. Maybe."

She must've noticed something in the flicker of my eye or the way I spoke, or perhaps it was indeed the erection, because she perked up.

"Oooh, and does the dirty old man professor have a disgusting dirty old man professor crush on one of his veryinterestinglittle vaginas?"

I attempted, and failed, to muster up a convincing lie or distraction, which was unlike me. I can lie better than most, especially when I need to. But visions of what I imagined to be Madi's lightly fluffed, tiny gash of a cunt danced in my hot perverted skull...

"Don't call themvaginas, Nessa," I said.

"Oh god, doc," Vanessa mock-gasped, pouring wine for both of us in handmade wooden cups. "Youdohave a crush. Tell me you do. Tell me you don't. Ooooooh boy this is good."

"Relax about all that," I said. "I don't have a crush."

"You're in love withMadelyn Beckers.What a cute name. And is she a good little Lolita for you?"

"Oh shut up," I laughed. "She's no Lolita. In fact I have it on good authority, her student record in fact, which shows that she just turned 19 -"

I cut myself off. I'd been about to state her birthday. Vanessa's mouth was hanging open.

"Are you - are you actually trying to get with her?" she asked.

"Of course not," I recovered. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I didn't think younger girls were the grouchy heartthrob professor's type."

"They're not. You know they're not."

She seemed not to hear me.

"I wouldloveto meet the girl that the heartthrob young professor is all ga-ga over."

"You know exactly how the heartthrob young professor feels about his students," I lied.

"Sure," she said, grinning and swilling her wine and standing to go. "But after a long day of the dean and his demands, of all your little vaginas teasing you and desecrating your favorite novels...the dick wants what the dick wants, no?"

She rubbed my hair in a friendly way, something she always did, and walked back into the greenhouse.

"Let me know if you wanna talk on it," she called back.

I watched her nice wide hips swinging as she went. She had on skintight jeans. The meat packed into the seat of her was tremendous: not overly fit, not shapely, and a bit out of proportion with her otherwise average size, but simply fat and delicious.

I tore my sex-maddened fiend of a gaze away. One thing at a time, I breathed.

My penis was pulsing still and I looked from the age-appropriate Latina assmeat vanishing out the door and down to the pert teenage Jewish-Polack titty represented in the essay in my hand.

The dick wants what the dick wants.

I pulled up the paper. That was indeed what the dick wanted. Madi's essay was everything this dick could've wanted but never knew it needed. There was no getting around it: Madi, who claimed to love Eat Pray Love, was a fantastic writer, perhaps even preternatural. She was a bit overly flowery, certainly too baselessly opinionated, disorganized, and, on paper, arrogant, naive, and tasteless. But the seeds of a supreme talent were there, the kind that a tenured graduate-level professor came across in good programs once every few years perhaps, but the kind that was almost never seen in an intro-level required course at a state university. The seeds were buried beneath layers of irrelevant modern cultural references and a total lack of understanding of Wuthering Heights. But still they were there, and it thrilled me sexually even more than a McKenna-esque sheer idiocy would have.

I thought of her little catlike saunter across the room. I had sudden visions of rushing my hands through her big curls and holding the back of her head as I drove my body like a maniacal freight train into the tracks of her narrow hips. Oh, how wouldshedescribe it? Her vocabulary, for a college sophomore, was breathtaking. I thought of Arthur Rimbaud being forced to concoct a paper on a classic novel he hadn't read, of what flawed and still utterly fascinating genius he would still produce. Perhaps that was the mysterious thing I saw in her, that coiled something that had first snapped me out of a rainy daze thatmawrnin, not just the precociousness of her guile and eyes that danced to the green-fiery beat of jungle fuck, but actual latent artistic genius.

I smelled the paper. Seeking traces her. Lead and lilac. She'd forgotten to type her name and instead had written it in sloppy beautiful pencil in the top corner.madi beckers. Like a Latin genum and species classification. The lowercase affectation sent a surge of that monstrous lust through me again. In a shaky hand I wrote her a few hundred words of detailed feedback. Enough to get her attention. Without being conscious of what I was doing I gathered up the edge of the paper in my fist and let it rest in my lap over my bulge, grinding the flower of her mind into my manhood with the heel of my hand.

III

III

My written feedback had the desired effect. Her pale green eyes, always aflame, razed strictly at me and only me for the entirety of every class for the next few weeks. She was usually the last to leave. She saidmawrninevery morning, but curtly. She did not suck up, that wasn't in the arsenal of this porcelain-white little goddess, but she would have given the most calculated and discerning and hardass professor no reason to give her anything less than an A. It turned out she simply didn't like Emily Bronte; when it came later to Conrad, Joyce, Naipul, Zadie Smith, and especially Dostoevsky she was, compared to her peers, a borderline savant. She was still no literary expert, and only her work on Dostoevsky could be said to be truly excellent, but her writing, my god, her writing - she spun tangled and gorgeously ornate prosaic webs out of the simplest ideas. She misunderstood a novel, but wrote what could have been turned into a prize-winning short story in her essay response. It was impossible to tell if she flirted with me; she was not blatant like the other girls, her clothes were never overly revealing, they were stylish in a careless, certainly bohemian, almost punk rock sort of way, and all it took was a glance at the flat and cream white V of her cleavage-less and mole-spotted neckline to send me spiraling dizzily down gushing labial canyons of want.

When she spoke in class, when she laughed, when she ever caught my eye in the halls and sent a thrill through my balls, blood rushed to her white cheeks with her nerves. She was quiet until she wasn't. She understood well how to appear meek and demure, though she was far from innocent. She presented a malleable, submissive vibe but she did it for her own benefit, and a feline cunning glimmered to the surface through all the various shades she wore to the world.

I let myself be taken by it. I learned her scent (lilac indeed, though gentle, and something like the desert after a rain, swirled up with vague wafts of patchouli). I thought I was far too annoyed by her generational personality quirks to develop a romantic interest in her, but the fathomless depth of my craving for her body made my lust impossible to separate from other feelings. It couldn't be true love, though I found myself trying a little too hard to convince myself. If raging hormonal lust I hadn't felt in a decade was a form of love, then I was fully smitten. And much like true love, it blinded me to the charms of other women. A few other students I'd had my eye on B.M. (before Madi) - girls like eloquent Ellie, a luscious and limby senior redhead who headed up the college paper, and Evie, a pouty-lipped, ponderously breasted blonde who made weekly overtures at me, vanished. I stopped going to Mel's Diner to visit the titanic-breasted waitress named, quite literally, Chastity, and I stopped my idle masturbatory thoughts of McKenna's sweet little shivering form of fuck, that first sweet berry I'd plucked from the student bushel weeks ago.

Of course, lust can do wild things to a man, as it can to a woman; it can perform wild tricks on a man's perception of reality because his biology is wired to give him maximum reward for fertilizing the exact egg of his choice. In the best of cases this force through which the green fuse drives the flower provided a well-tinted lens upon the object of my desire, often for inscrutable purposes. So in world lit class the next Tuesday, I found myself standing at the lectern,Notes from Undergroundin my hand, wondering if some part of my psyche had simply endeavored to make Madelyn Beckers, of the Latin genus and speciesmadi b.,into something of an enigma so that my body would have an excuse to furiously copulate with hers. Maybe our genetics lined up.