Teacher's Toy (Loftry University Playthings 1)

Chapter 3

Melody

The dorm roomis eerily silent as I slip inside. Normally, my roommate would have the music blaring and some sort of chaos scattered about the floor. Could it be that I manage to get here at a time when she’d be absent? It seldom happened, forcing me to spend hours on end at the library or some other quiet spot. How she managed to attend classes was beyond me. Perhaps our schedules just aligned in just the wrong way.

Easing myself around what looks like a papier-mâché goblin or monster, I put my bag down on my bed and lay a hand on the opening flap, arguing with myself. Should I pull the paper out now and get it over with? Thankfully, Professor Richards seemed to notice the agony it caused when he’d hand it to me, grade flashing about like a brand. For the first time in my life, I would have taken that scarlet letter. After all, a red A is a good thing when it comes to assignments.

With a sigh, I peer over to the door, ensuring complete privacy as I eased it out. It lies on my lap, grade faced down, as I stare at the back. The red I see peeking through on the last page doesn’t give me much hope, but maybe if I will it, it will be at least a B? I scrunch my eyes shut, and like ripping off a bandage, I flip it over. I still don’t open my eyes because if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. But it does exist. Every bad grade I’ve received exists to torment me. It’s not that I’m such a perfectionist that I have to have straight A’s all the time. I would love it. In fact, nothing would make me happier. However, my main concern is my scholarship.

If I can’t keep that, then what’s even the point? Should I just run away? Become a missionary like Charity? At least my parents smile when they talk about her. They never smile with me. Then again, I’ve always been the problem child, notwithstanding that I’ve bent over backward to be the perfect child. Shaking my head, I clench the paper in my fist, screwing up the courage to look at it.

How pathetic am I that I can’t even look at a grade? Opening my eyes, I stare down at the paper, the C- staring back at me with its slashing, angry accusations. My heart plummets as I look at it. And I studied hard for this one. What else was I supposed to do? Skimming down the page, I note Professor Richards’ remarks and feel the familiar heat rising through my body.

Alongside the typical right or wrong, he always leaves little notes for me regarding some of the answers. “Good girl” liters the pages, making my heart stir with pride and arousal. I can’t help but wonder if he does this for all his students or if I’m somehow just that special. It’s not the grades that affect me while in class; it’s his use of phrases to praise or reprimand me. For every “good girl,” there’s at least twice as many, “I’m disappointed” or “you can do better than this.”

Just the thought of someone else seeing these messages, whether or not they’re meant to be public or private, makes my gut churn with embarrassment and jealousy. I can’t look at them in class anymore. It’s hard enough just being in the same room with him. If I had to read his scrolling “good girl” while he leveled his all-knowing glare at me, I’d probably combust. No. It’s much better to look at it in the privacy of my dorm when I’m afforded the chance.

Laying the paper back on my lap, I stare down at the words until they become a hazy blur in my sights. I cast one more glance over at the door before letting my fingers wander down my blouse to cup my breasts. The pressure is not nearly enough. It takes the edge off but fills me with something more. I pinch my nipple hard, letting the zip of pain add to the arousal building in my system. A soft moan escapes my lips, but not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear. I’ve had a lot of practice while being at home.

Guilt fills me as I lie back on the bed and unbutton my pants. I’ve always been taught self-pleasure is wrong, but then, I’ve already done so many “wrong” things; what harm would it be to find some relief? Besides, it’s not like I’m actually sleeping with Professor Richards: that would be wrong. What I’m doing is keeping myself from acting like a fool the next time I see him.

I toss the paper aside so I can skim my pants down my hips. After class today, I’ve been so primed, so needy that just the scrape of fabric against my skin drowns me with need. I just need to get off and get it over with. Today is the last time. It has to be. It’s not right to lust after your teachers. It’s especially not right to masturbate to them. But what else can I do? All the college “hunks” pale in comparison. Besides, only one other guy has shown me attention since I’ve been here. That’s pretty slim pickings.

Scrunching my eyes closed, I force my brain to reroute and think of Chase instead. She’s a much more appropriate choice. I can’t get in trouble for lusting after him. Even though I have his face rigidly fixed in my brain, all too soon, Professor Richards takes his place, his stormy eyes boring into me – like he knows I’m trying to get off to another guy and won’t allow it. It’s silly. It’s so freaking silly. Professor Richards doesn’t even know I exist outside of being another body in class. Even if he did notice me, nothing could ever happen.

I grab the paper, my eyes going to the first “good girl” as my other hand skims down my fevered skin. Moaning a touch louder, I spread my thighs, slipping my fingers down. I’ve got to make this quick so my roommate doesn’t see me. I’m already embarrassingly wet as I skim my fingertips across my clit, drawing a strangled cry from my lips. Grunting, I keep my eyes affixed to the paper, repeating his words over and over as I strum my sensitive nub. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Dropping the paper, I reach down, sliding a finger inside, humming at the intrusion. Professor Richards is in my head as I withdraw and slide two back in. Would he whisper “good girl” to me as I take his cock deep inside? My orgasm comes fast, ripping through me as I imagine him thrusting deep inside my body.

I lie there, panting as I rub soft circles on my clit, riding out the last bit of orgasm. Why the fuck did I have to have a crush on this guy? Why couldn’t I just find someone else to make me feel like he does? Chase’s face again looms in my mind, but I shove it out. He doesn’t even come close to comparing. I sense that he wants more, but I just can’t give him that.

Shaking my head, I pull myself out of bed and jerk my pants back up. No use dwelling on what I could have. I need to get my head into the books and prepare for the upcoming midterm. The afterglow diminishes, leaving me in a puddle of longing and anxiety. For once, couldn’t something go my way?

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