Obsession

It's not unusual for you to develop little obsessions like this--to find something that brings you pleasure and horde it. Or a secret. There was something delightful about pocketing a secret, an obsession between the folds of your skirts, under your tongue, braid it into your hair. But, this one? This one has to stop. There are three rules to obsessing over something:

1-It must not relate to your personal life.

2-It cannot be serious, lest someone finds out about it.

3-If it's something to achieve. It must be dropped immediately.

The easier ones were celebrities--Harry Styles when you were 15 or Paul Rudd at 19. The prohibition era after you read The Great Gatsby. The harder ones were people because if anything fuels an obsession, it's the delicious taste of an ache. People were a game until, well, they became something to achieve. An achievement was different. An achievement meant all previous rules were violated. Because what's more enticing to attain than a person?

The crucial skill to navigating an obsession is to avoid it turning into something you dream about. Because, when it does, there's no telling to what lengths it will go to. The dreams have only ever happened once--and that ended with the pop of a bottle, a drunk text message, a shattered windshield. Was it your fault? Directly, no. But there's always a perspective to find that devoids someone of blame. There's always a way to make it so that all great Neptune's ocean will wash blood clean from your hands.

Out of all of them, the one you harbored for Aleksander Morozov was by far the most alarming. Alek to his friends, Aleksander to those outside of his department, professor Morozov to you. Do you find it ridiculous that he feels it necessary to emphasize that he has a doctorate? Of course. But that doesn't mean you can't admit you find satisfaction in the way Professor Morozov slides off the tongue. And he lives up to the sort of prestige a man who insists on being called professor carries: he drives you to your very best. He teaches Gothic literature and, gradually, you let him consume your life. You spend your time hoarding the observations you have of him.

If he doesn't have a class he's teaching before yours--specifically, Wednesday--he'll walk from his office to the lecture hall with his nose buried in either the book he's reading or the paper he's grading.

His favorite book is Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, but his favorite to teach is Carmilla by Sheridan La Fanu.

He knots his hands in his black hair when he's stressed, causing a single curl to fall loose from the gel and rest on his forehead.

He keeps his beard short and most likely trims it on Thursdays and Sundays.

Most obsessions start by accident. You had spent months in Aleksander Morozov's class, and it wasn't until a Thursday afternoon that you came undone at the seams. The inkling of admiration you had for him splintered and out sprawled a curiosity that had to be fed. It was a spring afternoon, and the classroom grew hotter as the minutes melted by. The window closest to you was latched. Professor Morozov had declared it broken to the student who asked to open it. So, you and everyone else in the upper left section of the lecture hall were sweating miserably. From your seat, you could feel the slight flirt of wind on your face coming from the other side of the room. It was not enough to quell the way your skin felt dry and leathery, and claustrophobic. The room was stuffy, each intake of air noticeably hot, and pieces of hair that weren't swept up into the bun on your head came apart in messy strands. They plastered themselves to the back of your neck. Your body was covered in slight perspiration. It caused your thighs to chafe until they were raw. Without realizing it, you had spread your legs to ease the sensation. Your skirt rid up to the tops of your thighs. It was the kind of heat where no one gave a damn about what anyone else looked like.

Aleksander Morozov was lecturing about the finale of Wuthering Heights, his hair disheveled from mopping it back from his face. His cheeks were flushed. The fan plugged in next to his desk was useless. Professor Morozov had a particular thing for black, which you laughed about with your friends. He was a man dedicated to his aesthetics. He insisted on a chalkboard in his classroom, despite the university having any resource he could wish for. Yet, he was not to be questioned on his methods or style. Morozov had paused in the middle of his sentence when he dropped the chalk onto his desk. He turned around to look at the class and exhaled, "Excuse me, this classroom is oppressive." He slipped his arms out of the straps of his white suspenders, letting them fall loose around his hips. Then, he reached for the third button of his button-down shirt. He considered having three buttons undone already risqué. He was the only one in the department who insisted on dressing so formally and the only one to not go by their first name. With fluid motions, he undid his dress-shirt, and, just as his fingers grazed the fabric, his eyes snagged on you. Between your spread legs, to the hot pink of your undergarment. You wondered how long it would take him to realize he was looking. Keeping your eyes down at your paper to avoid him realizing you were aware of his attention, you would have customarily clamped your legs closed with humiliation. That is if Aleksander Morozov wasn't so damn beautiful under his white t-shirt.

The shirt was thin, see-through, and everything customarily swallowed by the black was suddenly visible. The fabric clung to all the right parts of his body. His shoulders were broad, and his muscles rounded perfectly beneath his sleeves. His skin was smooth and freckle-less, and the tendons in his arms later showed when he leaned against his desk. His chest was well-sculpted, defining his pectoral muscles in a way that made them strain against the cotton. You were embarrassed by the fact that his nipples were visible, their outline showing. He was too and crossed his arms over his chest when he spoke facing the class. The planes of his stomach were less-revealed, but you could make out the suggestion of defined abs upon staring closely enough. And, so, the obsession started with wondering if his sex lines made a visible V-shape you could drag your tongue across.

Like most, this obsession was instantaneous. It was reflexive, a second nature that your body said you had been a fool not to notice this earlier. But that is the way obsessions work. You had left behind Cleopatra a week ago, and it was time for something new.

Now, all your heart and body have space for is Aleksander Morozov. You manage the first two weeks with grace, following the standard protocol. You do your research, making sure that you know your topic of study to the best of your ability. Morozov grew up in the UK. He had studied at the University of Edinburgh and majored in English literature. He had then pursued his Ph.D. in Gothic literature. He had written multiple papers, and you read all of them in two days. His father was never in the picture, and his mother still runs her own carpentry business. You keep it well hidden, too. You erase your research history after nights spent learning. You multi-task throughout all the lessons. One part of you keeps track of all of his movements, his quirks. His crutch word is "therefore." You participate as much as possible and stay behind after class to ask questions. It doesn't matter if you already know the answer. You sit in the front row. See if he'll take the bait.

Last week you decided you were done giving Professor Morzov his perfect essays. Let him find some flaws and take the bite of a B. You'll overcome it quickly, anyway. So, you made sure there were holes in your argument. Things that he would consider sloppy by his standards and, as the obsession grew, you found yourself agreeing with him rather than grumbling in frustration when he criticized your work. Yesterday, you had asked him if you could visit during office hours when your paper was handed back to you. Naturally, Morozov had obliged--he was not the kind of person to deny a student like this.

And so here you are now. You resist pressing the paper to your face, even if it never carried the scent of his cologne: cedar and spice. You keep your eyes fixed on the hall, breathing deeply to restrain your anticipation. This time, you will truly be close to him. You run your fingers over the plaque next to the door, cherishing the script of the letters--their curves, rather than edges. When you finally see him rounding the corner from his classroom, you straighten and smile.

"Ms. Vega, good to see you. I appreciate that you didn't forget our meeting," he says, handing you his cup of coffee as he digs for the keys in his bag. You love the way he speaks to you: foreign and distant, occasionally allowing slips of warmth into the dialogue. But, with his colleagues or friends, he's relaxed. His voice becomes smooth and inviting rather than distant. He smiles more, too. His body is loose, Morozov's actions no longer so uptight. You wish you could have those moments to yourself, but, alas, they are not for you.

He welcomes you to his office. Light floods through the open window, accompanied by a soft breeze that has made the room slightly chilly. To the immediate left sits a black faux leather couch, and it has not gained any wear, the leather uncreased. To the right sits a brass coat stand that, at the moment, has nothing hanging from it. The desk in front of you is swallowed in books and a stack of ungraded papers.

A wire stretches from the plug to his computer and is pulled, taught at a perfect level for tripping. His black traditional desk chair is not tucked in and rests against the antique-cherry wood bookshelf. It looks as if he had stood up urgently before leaving for class. The shelf is unkempt, with books stacked atop others rather than tucked in properly. You remember there being an organizational method last time you were here. Usually, a mess would disgust you. But, you realize you don't mind his. Interesting.

"Excuse the mess. It's been a busy week," Aleksander says, watching you gaze over his things.

"No worries, I don't mind."

"Have a seat. Do you have a copy of your paper, or would you like me to pull it up on my computer?"

"I brought it with me," you respond, setting yourself in the chair on the other side of his desk. He places his coffee mug on top of a small stack of papers and his bag on the couch and begins to rearrange the desk. Then, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows, he takes a seat. He rolls around the side of the rectangular desk until he's sitting on the width side while you the long.

You unpack all of your stuff, making sure to take your time. These are minutes to be savored. You place the essay on the corner of the desk, between the two of you. Your copy of Wuthering Heights is on your lap. Your computer in front of you to take notes as the two of you discuss.

As soon as Morozov begins talking, you allow yourself to shift into a semi-auto pilot mode. You keep conversation with him and take notes. At the same time, you survey every inch of him. His knuckles are smooth and devoid of hair. The nails are cut short, and there are no scrapes or hangnails to be found. Callouses line his palms. Morozov's deodorant smells cooling, in the same way, a glass of water tastes after minty toothpaste. His eyes are so dark that they reflect you so well you could use them as a mirror. You stare at yourself in them, at a slight unease of the angle he sees you at. His arm hair is dark yet thin so it does not draw attention. He has a few smattering of freckles on his forearms, only three or four on the one closest to you. Nor does Morozov have very many on his face. You quite like the one beneath his right eye and resist the urge to touch it. Another is on his left cheekbone, another a few centimeters away from the corner of his mouth. He does not pluck his eyebrows; they are defined but unruly, needing shaping. He's trimmed his beard either this morning or last night.

And, then, your eyes snag on a small stack of papers toward the center of the desk, the ones on which he placed his coffee mug. You cannot make out the script from here, but, at the top, you do see Morozov's name written. The rest of the paper is covered by the book, obscuring the text.

Catching you looking at his coffee mug, he says, "I wouldn't mind getting a refill. Would you like anything?" You tell him that would be ideal, a water please, and he stands to leave the room. The coffee mug is left behind, though. The door shuts with the soft click of the latch hitting the strike plate. By the time Morozov's back, you've already slipped the stack of papers with his name into your bag. As the conversation wears on, you make sure to spread your stuff out along the table so that it'll be easy to explain you accidentally shoving it into your bag with the rest of your belongings.

That night, you break all three of your rules. You dream about him for the first time. In the way, you did the last boy. You lie in bed, flat on your stomach. Aleksander Morozov is braced over you, pressed against your back, and you can feel the heat of his body through both of your clothes. You burn with the overwhelming sensation of him. Morozov's voice is an even hotter murmur, right in your ear as he grinds his hips against your ass. You get a complete impression of his weight, his size. And, you grind back, moving in tandem with his hips, allowing him to press himself further into you. When his knees straddle your hips, you feel yourself push into the mattress. His hand curves up and cups your left breast. He squeezes, and it elicits a soft sigh from you. You open your eyes to see his hand next to your head, tendons and veins bunched and visible.

So, you move with him easily as Morozov rolls onto his back and pulls you into his lap. You can already tell you're wet when his fingers brush the waistband of your pajamas. He snakes his wrist under the fabric, places his fingers twixt your legs, and finishes the job. You can feel him burning with want for you on your lower back. When you look at him, you can tell that although you're the one being pleasured, he feels as if he's won. That he cannot crave anything better than what he does now: you unfurled, unstitched for him. The look in his eyes says I cannot get enough, and you feel as if you're being consumed in all the best ways possible.

When you awake, you realize you need to know what Aleksander Morozov's lips feel like between your legs.

The next afternoon, as you watch his class empty, you wait outside. When the last student files out, you step into the room. It's cool, and goosebumps rise on your skin.

"Ms. Vega?" He says, raising an eyebrow at you. He sits on his desk, crossing a leg over his thigh. Aleksander gives you one of his stiff smiles--the one he reserves for students. Welcoming but not warm.

"Professor," you say. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I think I accidentally took something from your office yesterday."

"Oh?" He says. "I didn't notice anything missing. But, considering what a mess my desk has been, I wouldn't be surprised if our papers got all mixed up."

You reach into your bag, pulling out the manuscript you'd stolen yesterday. "I think it was just some...creative? writing."

His face pales immediately, recognition flooding his features. He stands up, reaching out for the stack of papers, but you step back. "It was well-written." You flip through the pages, and his body slackens in defeat. "I quite liked the peach memory."

"Ms. Vega, please just hand me back my papers. This isn't--"

"Did all of this really happen? Did she spill peach juice on her tits at that beach? Did you lick it off of her in public like that?"

He swallows audibly, his eyes narrowing. "I don't see how this is amusing."

"I never said it was amusing," you retort, flipping to your favorite story. "But this one? Story 5? Now, this one is my favorite. I like that you incorporated a fantasy in the collection. Allows us to see how your tastes have...adapted." You turn the paper around, so he can see what you're looking at.

"Those are just--"

"Confessions?" You question. "Y'know, I don't blame you. I could see how the idea of fucking one of my students could be appealing."

"Chloe," Aleksander growls as if your name is a threat. "I cannot keep myself professional if this conversation continues. Leave."

"Professor Morozov," you respond. "I won't hold this over your head. No, I won't. I just wanted to tell you how much pleasure I got out of reading your stories."

"Leave," he says, and it sounds more like he's begging than an order. You make your way to him slowly until you're a foot apart.

"'I find myself driving myself crazy with this obsession, enjoying this separation between reality and fantasy. The only problem is I can no longer bear to keep it as a story I used to satiate my hunger. I had once asked a partner if she would be willing to enact this reverie of mine but, upon the performance, I found myself dissatisfied.'"

"Chloe, you can either shut the fuck up or get out of my fucking classroom."

"Professor, what I'm trying to tell you is that I have the same fantasy." You watch as he deflates entirely.

"Chloe," he moans. "Please. I won't be able to hold myself back. I could--"

"I've always been good at keeping secrets," you interrupt. You take another step closer to him. "Don't pretend like you don't--"

Morozov cuts you off by grabbing you in his arms and, before you can register the repositioning, you're sitting on his desk. He's standing between your legs, hands resting next to your hips. "You asked for this." His voice is hoarse, hardly audible as he whispers in your ear. "I've watched you spread those fucking legs in my class. I see the look in your eyes as you raise your hand to volunteer at every fucking question. You've been dying for my attention. What do you think about when you're there with those pretty legs wide open?"

"You know very well what I'm thinking about," you respond. You wrap your legs around Aleksander, pulling him close.

"I want you to tell me what you're thinking," Aleksander says, nibbling on the shell of your ear. A rush of pleasure skates through you and shudders off your bones. You come undone so simply and effortlessly by this, by the tickle of his breath in your ear. It drives you insane with want, and you feel your breasts grow heavy.

"I've been thinking about you fucking me," you whisper.

A sigh of delight escapes Aleksander's lips. "Say it again."

"I've been thinking about you fucking me," you repeat, looking into his eyes. Your stomach somersaults the embarrassment of parroting yourself. "Right here on this desk."

"Again. Louder this time."

"Professor Morozov, I've been thinking about you fucking me."

"Not convincing enough," Aleksander says, his teeth gritted, and he slides the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Sir, all I can think about is you pressing me flat against my stomach on this table and fucking me. I want to feel every inch of you." Your voice echoes in the empty lecture hall, and your heart rate increases.

"Good girl," he whispers with a pained sound in his voice. "Where would you like me to touch you?"

"Everywhere," you answer immediately. "Wherever you like. However you want."

"However I want?" He echoes. He glances at your lips, then back to your eyes. Morozov reaches up and pulls your hair loose. It falls in a long curtain around your face. Bunching it up in his hands behind your head, he kisses you. The touch is hot, hungry, desperate, and he tastes like coffee and vanilla. He drags his free hand to your hips and digs his fingers into your skin. The slight sting makes you greedy for his touch, and you push yourself to the very edge of the desk. You moan in delight at the feeling of his erection pressed against your inner thigh. The hand on your hair tightens as he pulls your head back slightly, exposing your neck to him. Morozov presses his lips to its base and begins working slowly. His kisses are feather-light and intoxicating, and you sigh in content, pliant to his touch. He nips at the skin, and you jump. Aleksander laughs softly at this and does it again. When your reaction does not repeat, he presses his lips to the hollow of your throat. With the lightest touch, he drags his tongue from this crevice to your jaw. Your back straightens immediately, pushing yourself further into the contact. He does it again, slowly making his way, grazing his teeth across your throat. A moan escapes you. Morozov pulls the sound out of you once more by returning to the hollow of your throat and begins working on leaving a mark. The tightness of his hand in your hair is blissful. You refrain from rocking your hips against the bulge in his pants. All it would take is a slight manoeuver, and you could grind against him, finding your climax without him ever getting his. But you will not steal the achievement of the fucking for the temporary satisfaction of the orgasm. You need him to fuck you in a way that makes you feel whole rather than filled. The marks on your neck blossom underneath his teeth, and the look in his eyes are ravenous.