The Professor Read Online Free PDF

or prohibited from actually saying. You can give perspective that many cannot, that indeed many would kill for.’
    ‘Would
you
kill for it, Professor?’
    ‘In what way exactly? What do you mean?’
    His tone is so sharp suddenly that I look up from the spot I chose to focus on – a postcard pinned to the wall of a woman with hair as black and shaggy and thick as my own. And I’m glad I do, too. I get to see his eyes narrow, as though I made an accusation of some sort. I made him feel guilty, despite never intending to do anything of the kind. I didn’t even think about what the question might mean.
    Until he reacts like this to it.
    Like I said
would you kill to know my thoughts
, instead of anything more innocent.
    ‘I mean, would you like to be able to perfectly describe what women desire?’
    ‘I have no desire to ever write anything at all.’
    ‘No, not in terms of writing. Just in terms of how you feel.’
    ‘You honestly believe I have any kind of feeling about anything.’
    ‘A week ago I would have probably said you were made of granite.’
    ‘A week ago you were obviously far wiser than you seem to be now.’
    ‘Because I believe you might be made of flesh and bone?’
    ‘The granite guess was a great deal closer.’
    ‘You say that, but you have just spent hours and hours of your time trying to convince me that I should let imaginary women experience pleasurable sex.’
    His eyes spark again – more obviously now.
    So obviously it makes me shiver.
    ‘That hardly says anything about my emotional state.’
    ‘You don’t think so?’
    ‘I rather find it my civic duty.’
    ‘I see. In what way?’
    ‘I find it of vital importance that men are not permitted to go away believing a woman can orgasm from the most basic of attentions. Or worse: that it doesn’t matter if she orgasms at all.’
    ‘That almost sounds like passion. Not really a civic duty.’
    ‘Not at all. Not in the least.’
    ‘Are you quite sure, Professor?’
    He pauses before answering – though I’m glad he does. My heart is hammering too hard for me to carry on doing this for much longer. I feel as though it might be showing – that it might be juddering visibly through me. In fact, it seems to be going harder than when he spoke to me about sexy things.
    Or so I think, until he says the sexy things again.
    Quite abruptly, as if he understands what will happen when he does: I will lose focus. I will stop asking him questions he maybe doesn’t want to answer.
    And he’s right.
    ‘On page fourteen you write about him coming in her mouth,’ he says.
    Then I forget every single thing we were speaking of before. I forget the delicious idea that he might feel, beneath his cold, calm exterior. I forget how tense he suddenly looks, how bright his eyes suddenly are, how his hand goes to his tie as though checking it’s still there. The only thing I know is that he just said ‘coming’.
    And is about to say more.
    ‘I think it’s lacking. It seems to me that you shy away from the idea at the last moment – as though you cannot quite bear to include such a crude thing in your story. In fact, several times I had that impression. That you wrote, “I taste him on my tongue”
when what you really wanted to say was something far more visceral, and explicit.’
    ‘No, honestly, I –’
    ‘Something like: “He floods my mouth.”’
    ‘That…OK, that…seems like…’
    ‘Or perhaps: “He glosses my lips with his come.”’
    ‘I suppose I…I mean –’
    ‘Or what about: “His cock swells, thick ribbons surging from the tip to stripe my face and my throat, each one hot enough to sear and so slick it sets my senses on fire. Everywhere it touches seems suddenly more sensitive, more alive, and especially when it gets to the tip of my tongue. The taste of him is bitter and sweet at the same time; the idea of him filling my mouth enough to set my own sex on edge
.
” Though of course I would defer to you on how it feels