Page 63 of Prosecco with My Professor
This is a disaster.Three nights last week I masturbated to Oliver’s barking. Sometimes, he barks when I know Emma’s not home, but I get hard anyway. If I’m not careful, I’m going to have a Pavlovian response to a dog’s bark: an instant erection every time I hear one.
I do not know if Emma’s reciprocating on the other side, but I think about it constantly. In fact, I’m thinking about it so hard right now that it takes a minute for me to notice someone’s knocking at my office door, and based on their insistence, they know I’m in here, and it’s not the first time they’ve knocked.
I clear my throat. “Come in.” It’s Monday, the last week of the third term, and it’s been hectic with the coursework and grading. Not a good time for me to be off my game, and I half think that maybe it’ll be someone complaining about my mental state or reporting that I’ve made a grave error.
To my surprise, it’s Vincente. We haven’t talked since our fight and have been avoiding each other.
“Hello,” he says, lingering in the doorway, awaiting an invitation.
I gesture at the chair and close my laptop while he settles into his seat.
“How are you feeling?” he begins.
“Better. No more painkillers now, and I’m stretching every day.”
“Good. Not back to playing yet?”
I shrug. Playing football is my way to stay in shape, burn off energy, and enjoy myself. At my age, my father was portly, smoking, and had a lot of stress in his life—not only his business but his continued affairs and his strained relationship with me and…well, everyone in his personal life. My back is a lot better, but I’m not entirely optimistic about being able to go back to my favorite sport. I might have to take up something else—biking or swimming—to stay fit.
He grunts in sympathy and picks at a bit of fuzz on his pants leg. “Listen, I owe you an apology. I know that if you were sleeping with a student, you would tell me. Right?” He looks up, meeting my gaze and frowning. He didn’t actually apologize, nor is he confident in his own assessment.
With a sinking feeling, I realize he shouldn’t be. I crave Emma so badly it aches, and that’s not going away. We’re nearly through the fundamentals terms, and nothing has changed.
I have two choices to stay above board—leave Emma alone or quit my job.
I don’t want to quit. Teaching is a way to prove to myself that I’m not trying to live up to my father’s standards anymore; I’m no longer trying to impress him, even after his death. This independence is important to me.
“Right,” I say, and the lie is bitter.
Vincente and I move onto other topics, and when he leaves, I attempt to go back to work. But my mind wanders to my other option—leave Emma alone.
Could I do that? Should I pack up my things and move again to a different apartment, one where I wouldn’t see Emma in the halls and on the commute to work? One where I wouldn’t hear barking at night and wonder if she’s touching herself. I could file a request to drop a lecture for the fourth term so I wouldn’t be teaching her. I could swap with another professor and pick up an undergraduate course instead.
It niggles in the back of my mind for the rest of the day, though I bury myself in my work, lecturing and consulting with the CEO of a solar company. Back in my apartment that night, I attempt to work on my book, which has been languishing. My laptop is in my lap, and Zola is on my chest.
Until, that is, Oliver barks, and my whole body tenses.
It’s late enough that I know we’re all home—me, Emma, and Eva. Eva shouts, “Shut up, Oliver!” but he keeps barking.
I jackknife up, surprising Zola and causing her to dig her claws into my chest before she leaps straight into the air. When she lands, she rockets up the stairs to her loft.
I have to know. Ihaveto know.
Five seconds later, I’m banging on Emma’s door. I rest one hand on the top of the door frame and close my eyes, picturing her scrambling off her bed, putting her clothes back on, and hustling to the door. When it opens, I’m rewarded with exactly the view I was hoping for: Emma is flushed, disheveled, the strap of her tank top sliding off one shoulder, and her nipples straining against the unpadded fabric. Her eyes are wide and dilated.
Even though I am not the one who’s been masturbating, my breathing matches hers, and I realize I cannot do this. I cannot stay away from her.
“Look what you do to me,” I rasp. My free hand grips my erection through my pants, squeezing my cockhead almost to the point of pain.
Emma’s eyes drop and widen even further. And then she licks her lips.
I release my hand from the door frame and take one step closer. Since Emma is my height, I can slide my cheek ever so gently against hers, just a whisper of a touch. “Your hand?” I ask.
She gives the barest of head shakes, and wisps of her gray hair tickle my nose. “A toy,” she whispers, and my dick twitches in my hand. I inhale deeply through my nose, and I smell her floral shampoo, the tanginess of light sweat, and the barest musk of her arousal.
Someone opens the door downstairs, and voices filter in to pop our bubble. I step back, and our gazes lock.
“Bring it with you this weekend. Let’s go away together.”
