Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

Touch me.

Here. Where you are looking.

Not with your eyes this time.

I’m sure he wants to tell me to go upstairs and put on a bra, but that’s not his way. Somehow, with a look, Lucy and I know when we have done something well or something wrong.

Except for right now, I have no idea. I can’t read the look on his face and it’s making my head feel spinny.

A string of tension sings between us, flames flickering around my feet, my rapid pulse ticking in my neck as he takes an uneasy breath.

“Lala!” Mama barks, calling me her pet name when I’m lost in la la land.

“Jesus, fuck, what?” I clear my throat, tearing my eyes from Papa as Lucy stands from her chair, her bowl empty.

“Don’t curse.” Mama points her spoon my way. “You clean up your grandfather’s dishes. Lucy and I are going to settle our dispute on the centerpieces. A decision needs to be made today so the florist can fly in the flowers and deliver them on time. Oh,” she rolls her eyes, sinking her spoon into the bit of soup left in her bowl, then finishes, “Mort left a note on the door about the reindeer pooping on his property again.”

Mort’s our less than friendly shotgun wielding recluse of a neighbor. He’s nearly half a mile away, but he’s the closest neighboring human to Grandpa’s property.

He hates Papa and his big mansion and his ‘for-een’ accent, but he hates the reindeer more; and somehow, they repay his hatred by sneaking over to his place and leaving him little gifts now and then.

Mama turns my way as she pushes at the door. “You take care of your papa, yes?”

I nod. “Yes.” I stutter, barely able to breathe.

Visions of crawling under the table and taking care of more than his dishes sends heat prickling up my legs and over my chest, as the crotch of my jeans soaks through.

Gennero

The idea of loving someone the way I love Carina was never in my plans.

No matter who was around me, I’ve been alone all my life. I enjoyed my fair share of company in my youth, but the demands were never worth the payoff for a man like me.

My time was mine and mine alone. As soon as someone started acting as though they had a say in what I did, when I did it, or how much time I spent with them versus everything else in my life, it was over.

But, not with my granddaughter. If she only knew how I’d cave to her every demand. I wish she would understand that for the first time in my life, I would take a knee in front of another human. Her.

I hear her voice everywhere. In the corners of my workshop. In the hallways. Outside in the whistling wind through the barn. In my fucking sleep.

Papa.

I hear her whisper my name a thousand times a day as I think of her soft, fragile body under me. How her barely-there tits would rasp against my chest, brushing in my chest hair, back and forth as I moved in and out of her while her elegant hands tore at my hair, begging me to stop one second, then in the next, to fuck her into forever.

But, if I give in, forever may be shorter than I think. For the first time in my life, I’m distracted to the point of pain.

Keeping her as mine is dangerous and unfair. But letting her go out into the world someday… it’s impossible. My sanity dangles by a thin thread already. If she was not by my side with her wide eyes and filthy mouth and the way she looks at me like a fucking God…

I wouldn’t last a day.

What if she kissed another man?

Let him touch her?

Would she marry and give her untouched innocence to someone else?

What would I do then? Track down the guy and mail his balls back to her in a box, letting her know the marriage was over?

Just knowing another man brushed his lips on her ivory flesh would send me into a darkness from which I would never emerge.

The world would be painted crimson. My revenge against all mankind would know no bounds.

No. She is never leaving here. It is safer for everyone.

On the planet.

Even if I never touch her, no one else will. If it takes chains and bolts and barricaded doors and motes laden with piranha to keep her, I will spare nothing to satisfy the burden of my jealousy.

I know it’s selfish. I know it doesn’t even make sense. But fuck if I care.

Anger claws at my chest, ripping through the muscle and flesh, breaking the bones of my ribs and my sternum to eviscerate my heart. Every move I’ve made in my life has been calculated. But around her? I’m chaos.

I pull at the arms of the dining chair so tightly the joint cracks, drawing Carina’s eyes.

She’s sipping only her fourth spoonful of the soup broth from her bowl. I’ve counted.Content is © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

I pray every night for her to find her peace with food. My inability to solve her own self-loathing is my greatest failure in life.

“Are you okay, Papa?”

Papa. Jesus, why does that word re-arrange my insides and turn me into the devil himself?

I’ll show you Papa, my little honeysuckle.

Not the one you know, but the one you’ve created. The one that will burn in hell for wanting to finger your ass while stuffing that pretty little pink dream full of every meaty inch of him, telling you to call him Papa and promise to keep our special playtime a secret.

“I’m fine,” I answer, my answer clipped, trying to find a fistful of control. I slide back from the table because being alone with her this close will end with her spread eagle on the table while I help myself to some sweet, juicy dessert.

There’s the clink of silver on porcelain as I turn, stumbling as the length of my throbbing cock presses upward like a dagger raised for battle putting me off balance.

I knock my thigh into the table with a wince, the sound of glass breaking as I grip the wooden edge to right myself, but a sharp hissing inhale from behind makes me turn. As I pivot around, the world stops spinning.

Carina holds her left hand upward, her other clasping her wrist, eyes wide, lips parted.

“I’m sorry. When you bumped the table, I dropped the glass. I tried to catch it but jabbed it into my wrist. I’m so clumsy.”

Fear rattles through me like an earthquake. I tug a white linen napkin from next to her plate and wrap it around her wrist.

I’ve never been a man that feared blood. I’ve seen enough in my life and hardly any of it was mine, but seeing Carina bleed…

The world goes soft around the edges as I drop to my knees in front of her, holding her hand high, swallowing against the lump in my throat. The only blood allowed in her life is when she’s having her period, and I intend to stop that soon as well.

I know when she starts and stops. I’m sure others would cringe and say I’m a sick man and that’s true, but when it comes to Carina, my sickness knows no bounds.

I have a whole fucking spreadsheet that tracks her cycle. She’s a pad girl, which in my twisted way makes me happy. The only thing I want inside her is me.

“You’ll be okay,” I say on a ragged breath as my pulse races and sweat breaks over my brow. “I have to see how deep.”

With fear piercing my heart, I curl the napkin upward just enough to see the spread of crimson soaking into the fabric, my gut rolling as I assess the location and severity of the injury.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I apply pressure, cupping her face with my other hand, brushing my knuckles over the pink warmth of her flesh.

“I need to get you to the back entry storage room. There are more medical supplies there. I’ll carry you.”

“It’s okay, I can walk.”

“No,” I bark, pinching her wrist under my fingers, daring her blood to escape. “Put your hand here, hold it tight, just like I’m doing. Fingers here, thumb over the top of the cut.” I replace my hand with hers, organizing her fingers exactly, pressing them downward until I’m sure the pressure is sufficient.