In My Professor's Arms

The strange thing that happened the other time had been sitting in the back of my mind since that moment. I was trying my best to always not think about it, but I couldn’t let it go, and it made me feel the exact same way every time.

The syllabus had clearly stated Professor Graham’s office hours. Every lecture was open to all students taking his course, no appointment necessary. But even at that, he was a very respected figure and considered a very strict, no-nonsense person by other students, so he was one of the least-visited professors in the school. But I had to, and this wasn’t even about class—it was for myself.

I stood in front of my mirror, brushing my hair for what felt like the hundredth time. My heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. The thin sweater I wore hugged my curves just enough without being too obvious. My jeans were fitted but not tight. Casual. Harmless.

Except I didn’t feel harmless.

I felt like I was walking straight into the lion’s den, and I didn’t know if I wanted to run away or be devoured.

I grabbed my notebook off the counter and shoved it into my bag, convincing myself this was about school. Just a question or two about the lecture, I thought. Something simple, something that wouldn’t raise suspicions. I didn’t even think about what exactly I wanted to ask. The thought of being with him was overwhelming on its own.

As I walked to campus, my stomach twisted with anticipation. My legs felt shaky, and my palms were clammy. I kept imagining the moment I would see him again—the way his dark eyes would look up from his desk, how his lips would form my name.

What are you doing, Lily?

The voice in my head tried to reason with me, but it was useless. I was already here, standing outside the philosophy department office. The hallway was quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound. I swallowed hard and adjusted the strap of my bag.

The door to his office was slightly ajar, and I could hear the low murmur of his voice inside. My breath caught. For a moment, I considered turning around and leaving. But then I thought of the way he had looked at me in class, the way his voice had softened when he said my name, and I couldn’t walk away.

I knocked lightly on the doorframe.

“Come in,” his voice called, deep and smooth.

I was surprised as to why he didn’t lock his door. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. He was seated at his desk, a stack of papers in front of him, pen in hand. When he looked up, his dark eyes met mine, and my stomach flipped.

“Lily,” he said, leaning back in his chair. His lips curved into a faint smile. “How may I help you?”

I froze for a moment, my mouth suddenly dry. “I—uh—I had a question about the lecture,” I managed, gripping the strap of my bag like it was an inspirational tool.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I obeyed, my legs feeling like jelly as I sank into the chair. The room felt too small, his presence overwhelming.

“What’s that?” he asked, his tone patient but curious.

I fumbled with my notebook, flipping it open to a random page. “I wanted to ask about—um—the example you gave about moral relativism. You said it was tied to a cultural context, but I wasn’t sure if…”

My voice trailed off as his eyes settled on mine. He wasn’t looking at my notebook or my hands. He was looking at me.

“I see,” he said slowly, leaning forward slightly. “You’re wondering if the cultural context undermines the concept of moral universality.”

I nodded quickly, grateful he had saved me from my own incoherence, because the question had just flown out—not that I had prepared something tangible before. I could have disgraced myself if he hadn’t.

He launched into an explanation, his voice measured and thoughtful. But I could barely concentrate. The way he leaned forward, the way his hands moved as he spoke, the way his tie rested just slightly loose against his chest—it was all too much.

My body betrayed me again. I could feel shivers through my spine. My nipples tightened beneath my sweater, my thighs clenching together as heat pooled low in my stomach. I tried to keep my expression neutral, nodding occasionally to feign understanding, because I felt that was the best thing I could do, but my mind was racing.

When he finished speaking, I managed a weak smile. “That makes a lot of sense. Thank you, Professor.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on me, dark and searching. The air between us felt thick, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re very attentive in class,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

My cheeks burned. “I—I try to be.”

The reaction my lips gave wasn’t even up to a quarter of what my pussy would say if it could talk.

A small smile tugged at his lips, but there was something in his expression I couldn’t quite read. Something that made my breath hitch.

“Do you have any other questions?” he asked, his tone almost inviting.

I shook my head, but I didn’t move to leave. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and electric. He shifted in his chair, his gaze flickering briefly to my hands resting on the notebook before returning to my face.

“Lily,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a secret.

“Yes?” My voice came off soft like a whisper.

For a moment, I thought he was going to say something else, something that would shatter the careful line between us. But instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable.

“Keep up the good work,” he said, his voice once again professional.

I nodded, my chest tight as I gathered my things and stood. “Thank you, Professor,” I said, my voice trembling.

As I turned to leave, my foot caught the edge of the chair leg, and my notebook slipped from my hands, landing on the floor embarrassingly.

I already knew you were going to embarrass yourself, my mind spoke to me.

“Let me,” he said, rising from his chair.

Before I could stop him, he bent down to pick it up. Our hands brushed as he handed it back to me, and the contact sent a jolt through my body. My breath caught, and when I looked up, his eyes were locked on mine.

Neither of us moved.

The moment stretched endlessly, the air between us heavy with tension. My lips parted, a soft gasp escaping me as I felt the heat of his gaze travel over my face.

This triggered me more.

“Lily,” he said again, his voice low and almost hesitant.

I couldn’t respond. My heart was pounding too loudly, my body frozen under his gaze.

Finally, he straightened, breaking the spell. “Have a good day,” he said, his tone neutral but his eyes still holding that flicker of something else.

I nodded numbly and turned to leave, my legs shaky as I walked out the door.

It felt like I just escaped a haunted place.

As I stepped into the hallway, I pressed a hand to my chest, my pulse racing. The tension in that room, the way his eyes lingered on me—it wasn’t in my head. It couldn’t be.

And the worst part?

I wanted more.