Black Passionate Professor

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62657-783-1
Verlag: Olympia Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 184 Seiten

Any professor knows the unwritten rule of college life: Don't get involved with your coeds! But Winters was a young man with modern theories-including the theory that a little steady love-making is good for the health. And though Winters wasn't married, he did not lack for partners ready to experiment with this idea... Carol Coulter, a research assistant more interested in a diamond than a degree... Moira Dunleavy, a colleague's wife who preferred bedrooms to lab rooms... Teena Melage, nymphet student with one sure way to get a passing grade from any male professor... By the time the date for the annual Field Trip arrived, Professor Winters' zoology class was developing into a harem...

Autoren/Hrsg.

Black, Brian

Leseproben

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHILE coffee and liqueurs were being served in the library, Moira whispered to him, “I must see you, Jonathan. We must talk.”

But the warm touch of her hand on his arm hinted at something else.

“When the others have gone,” he said.

“No, no. That would look bad. Go with them. And come back.”

He inquired about Carol and Dunleavy. Dunleavy was working in the lab. Carol had gone home with a headache.

Jonathan did not wonder about it. Thoroughly befogged by the combination of alcohol and a tremendous release of nervous tension, he could not even think of frog eggs. His mind was a smiling thing, sunning in warm springtime. The long winter of work was suddenly ended. He did not care about publishing his paper, about Dr. Gelhorn, about his own future, or that of ontogeny. He was in a dream world where pale white Graves trilled like a coloratura soprano, and the rich, fruity red Chateauneuf du Pape that followed it was a cello groaning sweetly.

He left with the rest of the dinner guests, walking down the street, smiling to himself. He turned a corner and, finding himself alone, leaned against a garden wall. A flowering magnolia tree behind him sent out a cloud of fragrance. He lit a cigarette, feeling wonderfully well, and thinking how Moira must be in bed. That they were going to bed, he did not doubt. He pictured her lush breasts and swelling hips. He smiled.

Alone, leaning against the wall, smoking in the balmy night, he was unaware of any world but his own. So he was quite surprised by the intruder.

A small voice said, “Professor Summers.”

He glanced down and saw a girl, holding an armload of books. The dim light from the distant street lamp showed her as a smallish, roundish, blonde wearing flat-heeled shoes.

He lifted his hat. “Good evening Miss—”

“Button. Barbara Button.”

His mind was with Moira. Now, frowning with the effort, he struggled to remember the faces in his various lecture classes, trying to place Miss Button.

She said, “I wanted to talk to you about my roommate. Her name is Teena Verlaine.”

He nodded. He had it now. Verlaine and Button, the one with heels and the one with flats.

“Ah, yes. Miss Verlaine. Umm.” It then occurred to him that, since he had experienced such difficulty in identifying her—he still could not see her face—how could she have recognized him so quickly? And why choose a chance meeting on a dark street as a place to talk about her roommate?

She said, “I'm afraid Teena did badly in the quiz today. And she mustn't flunk out. It would be just terrible!”

With effort, he remembered that there had been a quiz in Zoology 101 today.

He mumbled, “Until the papers are graded—can't tell— you know, things look bad sometimes—” His voice trailed off. He did not know what to say. He hardly knew what they were talking about. He noticed the pack of cigarettes in his hand. He pushed the pack at her. “Cigarette?”

She hesitated for a moment, then nervously tore a cigarette from the pack. “Yes. Please. Oh, thank you.”

Her hand trembled so badly she almost dropped it Then she put the cigarette between her lips so close to the end that it teetered. He lit a match. Trying to draw on it, she blew the match out. Then she dropped her books.

They both bent down to pick up the scattered volumes. Jonathan stacked the books on the garden wall.

She said, “I'm so sorry—”

“For what?”

“Oh, I'm so clumsy, and I don't know how to smoke well—what I mean is, I quit smoking and I'm just taking it up again.”

Which meant the girl did not know how to smoke. Jonathan ht another match. Again she puffed on her cigarette, cheeks drawing in sharply as she sucked at it. He watched her face. She had enormous blue eyes. Very round ones, and the same could be said of her breasts. He took a deep breath and looked away.

Puffing at her cigarette more calmly now, the girl leaned back against the wall.

Jonathan said, “Miss Button, do you live on this street? Is that how we crossed trails?”

“Well, not exactly. I was going to see somebody. I live on Bradley Campus.”

“Just a chance meeting then. I was going to see somebody on this street. Perhaps the same people?”

She said, “Well—”

“Whom were you going to see?”

She stammered, “Somebody I know. Their name is— uh—”

He knew now that she had been following him. He knew that girl undergrads were prone to have crushes on their male instructors. He had experienced it before and had heard a hundred stories about it. Women so often fell in love with men in positions of authority—secretaries with their bosses, nurses with doctors. But in college teaching, the one sure death was to become involved with an undergraduate. Jonathan guessed it happened at times, but no mouth was ever sealed so tightly as that of a professor who had been involved with one of his students.

They stood there, silent, leaning against the wall, with the scent of spring magnolia all about. Behind the wall was a lawn splotched with lilac bushes and other flowering shrubs, and a big, dark house.

Now she asked, “What were you doing here, Professor, all alone? Waiting for somebody?”

He took a drag on his cigarette, to avoid replying.

Before he could say anything, she added, “Oh, I'm sorry. It's one of my business. I just wanted to talk to you, because of Teena and all, and I'm so worried about her. When I saw you here I thought, see with such big classes you never get a chance to talk and like communicate. I mean, there's no communication, is there? You might as well be a tape recorder talking about Zoology—”

“Am I that bad a lecturer?” he asked.

“What I mean is like you reach but there's no contact. See, Zoology isn't just a study, is it? It's got to be humanized. If it hasn't got people, why it's just dry learning, sort of empty. You see what I mean?”

Jonathan saw very well what she meant. Another girl undergrad was in love with the boss-figure of her instructor.

Brusquely, he said, “Perhaps, Miss Button, we can talk as we walk toward the Mansion, where I five—it's not far from Bradley.”

“Oh. Yes!” she cried. She reached for her books. She forgot the cigarette, which broke in two when it hit the books, spraying sparkling embers over her hand. She cried out.

The books fell off the wall, landing on the lawn on the other side.

Jonathan laughed.

Barbara Button burst into tears.

She put her hands to her face, and shook with her sobs. He suddenly understood. In knocking the books over, she had made a fool of herself before her boss-professor image. Jonathan was not proof against feminine tears. He almost reached out his arms to comfort her but he saw her round, soft little body too clearly. He drew back, knowing where danger lay.

He said, “Don't fret, Miss Button, I'll get the books.” He swung a leg over the wall. It was a long stretch. He put his hands on the wall, and vaulted himself over. He bent down, feeling for the books. He picked up some of the scattered books and papers.

He heard her say, “I'm coming too.”

He looked up to see a bare leg against the sky. Then an arm. Then the girl was on top, and then she cried out. She was slipping, falling.

He caught her, but from his crouching position, he could not brace himself properly. She landed in his arms and knocked him flat.

They lay on the ground, tangled together, she clutching him, he with an arm around her back and the other holding a firm young thigh.

Her eyes, wide, were inches from his.

He asked, “Are you hurt?”

Her lips pressed against his.

Jonathan was paralyzed. He felt the warm crush of her breasts against his chest, and the sleekness of her thigh in his hand, and the sudden wet moaning hunger of her mouth. He was a professor, but he was also a man and very human. For a long moment, he stood rigid and then the wine and Barbara Button were too much for him.

He kissed her back. He rolled her over, without breaking the kiss. Her arms clung about his neck. There were tiny noises in her throat, her mouth, which her lips translated into a terrible young hunger, greedy and insatiable, pleading with the silken stab of her tongue, begging. There was no sophistication in her kiss, only need. He thought how Moira's mouth would have moved, expertly, calculating, to excite him. He did not want to think of that, not with this achingly sincere, pleading hunger.

He closed out the world.

He slipped his hand under her sweater, and cupped his hand over her breast. She cried out, kissed him even more fiercely, then tore her mouth away and kissed his neck feverishly, down the line of his throat.

“Jonathan!” she cried. The word was an avowal of love. Her hand came from his neck and moved to his hand under her sweater, pressing urgently. Then, voice choking, she begged, “Please, please call me Barbara, not Miss Button.”

“Barbara,” he said.

She kissed his lips again. She rolled over slightly, twisted her left arm about and pulled up her sweater. Her hand fumbled with the hooks of her bra. She groaned with frustration, unable to unfasten it in that awkward position. Jonathan did the job for her, flicking the catches apart. Then he slid his hand under the bra to her naked breast. He teased the tiny nipples until they hardened, and she squirmed under him, gasped in his...