Forbidden Literature

8| Fever

The trip to the lecture was an interesting one. Especially since the elevator ride now hosts many steamier memories that I can't escape from. Just looking at the walls and floors knowing what happened here last night made me squeeze my thighs tighter.

Get it together, Allison.

I was surprised that during our entire trip to the lecture Sara didn't interrogate me. Instead, she remained silent, clearly hungover, as we trudged towards the familiar ballroom. For once I actually needed her to speak so I could focus on anything but the hammering in my chest as we approached possibly the most awkward situation in my life. But even when we took our seats, the most she did was let out a loud yawn and plop her head on the desk.

Oddly, the room was silent as well as all eyes locked onto the source of my spiked nerves. Dr. Andrews was behind his desk scanning a leather journal not paying attention to the people in front of him. I noticed his glasses sitting near the edge of his nose, his clothes messier than usual. The disheveled look suits him well, I noted. But there's a very limited amount of looks he can't pull off.

Pushing the thought down, I realized something I didn't take note of before--he's reading someone's journal. As in the journal he told us he would check at the end of the week. Wait, is he going through them now?! Now I had a whole new reason to panic.

The room remained silent a beat longer, everyone watching Dr. Andrews' bored expression hold strong. It was almost uncomfortable and I briefly wondered how much material he was reading before he finally opened his mouth.

"It's very dry," his tone was just as bored as his expression. "I fail to see the point of you writing so vulgarly about sex if you clearly have no experience. Someone who has had sex does not say the word 'lady parts' or 'male genitalia' when talking dirty. Can you even say the word 'pussy' with a straight face?"

Dr. Andrews looked up expectedly at a guy in the front row.

"Umm . . . do you want me to, sir?" he looked utterly mortified, sweat beading down his face.

"Only if you take this workshop seriously and want to become a better writer." Dr. Andrews crossed his arms leaning back in his chair. "You must learn to get over your fear of a simple word that you've been avoiding for about six pages."

After adjusting his glasses, the guy suddenly took on a very determined look as he spoke up quietly taking on the challenge.

"P-pussy."

Jasper raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Pussy," he said more prominent this time.

The professor sighed exasperatedly. "And here I thought you wanted to write decent poetry--"

"Pussy!" he screamed making me jump slightly.

I looked back to Dr. Andrews who was clearly amused. "Much better. Now I advise you to properly fuck someone before writing something so intolerable. And stop saying such vile things as 'woohoo' instead of 'sex'." He handed back the leather journal to the now humiliated guy.

Prescribing getting laid was the last thing I would expect to receive at the convention, but I suppose I could see his logic. If only faintly. But then again . . .

Tonight, I'm going to fuck you with my mouth.

I wondered how odd I would look banging my head against a desk right now.

This was going to be a very, very long week. I was lost in thought once more when a familiar figure paused at my desk. My heart plummeted.

"Ms. Miller," came his all too familiar voice. "You and Ms. Kuto are on time today."