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Her Dirty Professor(10)

By:Penny Wylder

She lifts a brow when seeing me standing in front of the full-length mirror. “You have on your nice jeans. What’s the occasion?”

I look down at my “nice jeans”, as she calls them. The only thing that makes them nicer than the others is that they’re the only ones I own without holes in the knees.

Obviously, I’m not about to tell her about a possible hook-up with my teacher, so I keep it vague. “I have a date.”

“With a man?” she says, skeptical.

“Yes, with a man.”

“Oh, weird. I thought you were a lesbian.”

I frown, looking at her over my shoulder. “Why would you think that?”

“I’ve never heard you talk about guys before.”

I shrug. “That’s because no one has caught my eye until now.”

“How long’s it been?” she asks.

“Couple years.”

She scrunches up her face. “You’re going on the first date you’ve had in a couple of years and you’re wearing that?”

I look at my reflection again. I look fine, I guess, but nothing about this outfit screams “rip off my clothes.”

“I don’t really have anything else to wear,” I say.

“This won’t do.” She goes to the plastic mobile closet she keeps in the corner of the room. The dorms are terrible when it comes to storage space. Or any kind of space for that matter. Our beds are practically on top of each other. Since we’d never met prior to becoming roommates, we had to learn to not be shy really quick. Privacy is not a luxury we have.

“I have the perfect thing,” she says.

She pulls out what I think is a shirt at first, before realizing it’s just a really short, red, spandex-stretchy dress. “Try this on. The color will look stunning with your dark hair,” she says.

I take off my clothes. I’ve been wearing my socks long enough for them to leave a mark around my ankle that I hope fades before I leave. The dress hugs every curve of my body and she’s right, the color really is striking against my pale skin and brown hair. It’s shorter than anything I’m used to wearing, just long enough to hide my butt cheeks. Every time I sit or stand, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t ride up.

I look good, but I can’t help but feel somewhat self-conscious. I don’t wear things like this. Girls with confidence, girls like Serena and my roommate, wear things like this.

“Oh, and you have to wear these with it,” she says, handing me a pair of black six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos with red soles. It’s a good thing we have the same shoe size as well or I would’ve been wearing scuffed blue flats with it. A bold choice that someone other than me might’ve been able to pull off.

She takes in the entire package, nodding and making faces. “You look amazing, but it’s not finished.”

She does my makeup next. She keeps my eyeshadow neutral, but gives me deep red lips that make them look sensual. I feel like a completely different person. I’m not sure if Mr. Johnson will even recognize me outside of my university sweatshirts and jeans. Most days I don’t even bother to apply mascara, let alone full warpaint.

“I guarantee if you were to walk into a room full of men right now, every head in the room would turn your way,” my roommate says.

I’m only looking to turn one man’s head tonight.

“Well, yeah, because I would be fidgeting so much they’d think I was up to something,” I say.

She laughs. “Shut up. You look hot. If I wasn’t with my boyfriend, I’d totally fuck you.”

I laugh nervously and let out a shaky breath. That’s not the kind of attention I’m used to getting from men. Or women. I get looks sometimes, but the most attention I get at school is guys asking for my help with assignments.

“Now,” she says, giving me one last once-over. “Go get laid. You deserve it.”

My cab takes me to the address Mr. Johnson gave me with two minutes to spare. It’s not a neighborhood I’d expect someone to live at on a teacher’s salary. It’s a large, two-story house with a big landscaped yard, mature palm trees, and a koi pond out front. It’s nestled among other big beautiful houses of the same caliber on the wealthy side of town. It’s a place I’d expect a politician or CEO of a small corporation to live.

Then a terrible thought hits me: what if he’s married? If his wife makes all the money, a house like this would make sense. What if she’s out of town and I’m coming in like a one-woman homewrecking crew in a red dress?

In the year I’ve been in his class I’d never once heard him mention a wife or even a girlfriend. He doesn’t have a picture of anyone on his desk like my other professors do, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.