Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 46

Adrian’s POV

I stare at the closed door where Sophie disappeared, her name dying on my lips like a prayer I'm not allowed to finish.

The silence stretches between Lolita and me, thick with twenty years of unresolved history and the fresh wound of Sophie's horrified expression when she realized who this woman is to me. And I know she did. Sophie’s a smart girl.

Lolita's laugh cuts through the quiet like a blade drawn across silk.

"Well, that went exactly as expected," she says, settling onto my leather sofa like she still belongs there.

The casual way she arranges herself, legs crossed with deliberate grace, cigarette poised between manicured fingers, sends me spiraling back to memories I've spent decades trying to bury.

"What are you doing here, Lolita?" My voice is carefully controlled, each word measured, but she can read me better than anyone. Always could. It's a skill that once felt like intimacy and now feels like exposure.

"Business in the city." She takes a slow drag from her cigarette, eyes never leaving my face. "I couldn't be this close without saying hello to an old friend."

"Friend." The word tastes bitter on my tongue, like wine turned to vinegar. "Are you fucking with me?"

Her smile is enigmatic, the same expression that used to make my eighteen-year-old heart race with desperate need. "Not anymore."

This woman…

"What would you prefer? Former lovers? Teacher and student?"

The casual cruelty hits exactly where she intended, and for a moment I'm twenty years old again, standing in her empty apartment with shaking hands, reading the note that had simply said 'time to move on.'

No explanation, no goodbye, no acknowledgment of the two years I'd spent believing what we had was love.

"You look well," she continues, studying me with that familiar intensity that used to make me feel stripped bare and completely seen. "It seems I taught you well. Your collection is enviable, I've heard."

This comment makes my jaw clench, but before I can respond, memories flood back with devastating clarity.

Twenty years ago

I was eighteen and impossibly naive when I first saw Lolita smoking on my mother's back porch. She was twenty-three and devastating in a black slip dress that clung to curves I'd only dreamed about in my teenage fantasies.

Everything about her screamed sophistication—from the way she held her cigarette like an extension of her fingers to the confident tilt of her chin as she surveyed the world around her.

She'd looked up at me through thick lashes and smiled—not the sweet, nervous smiles of girls my age, but something knowing and dangerous that made my breath catch in my throat.

"You must be Adrian," she'd said, voice like honey poured over broken glass. "Your mother's told me you’re a very good son."

My mother called her ‘an old friend’, though I still don’t know how they knew each other. Little did she know, and still doesn’t know that her so-called ‘friend’ took my virginity in the hottest way possible.

The first time Lolita touched me was at one of my mother's summer barbecues. The backyard was full of laughter and conversation, guests clustered around the patio with drinks in hand while my mother played hostess.

But Lolita and I slipped inside to have our own fun, into a room that was lit only by a string of fairy lights my mother had hung around the windows.

"Good, obedient boy with dirty thoughts," she murmured, pulling down my jeans while I was sitting in the chair. "I can see how much you want this."

Her fingers wrapped around me first, stroking with a confidence that made me gasp and grip the chair arms. The fairy lights cast everything in a dreamlike glow, making her seem like some beautiful apparition designed to drive me insane.

"Tell me," she commanded softly, her hand working me with increasing intensity. "What positions would you like to have me in? How hard would you fuck me if I let you?"

My face burned with embarrassment and arousal, but her touch was driving coherent thought from my mind.

"I... fuck, I'd..." The words tumbled out in broken gasps as she leaned forward, replacing her hand with her mouth, her tongue working along.

Her practiced sounds, as if she was choking on my dick, drove me crazy. She worked me with the same methodical precision, occasionally pulling back to speak.

"Do you like this, Adrian?" she asked, before pressing herself closer, using her breasts to continue the torture.

"Yes," I breathed.

The combination of her touch and the forbidden thrill of what we were doing, guests just outside, my mother's voice carrying through the windows, had me teetering on the edge embarrassingly quickly.

I lasted less than five minutes before coming with a strangled groan, every muscle in my body seizing with pleasure I'd never experienced.

Lolita cleaned me up with tissues from the side table, her movements clinical and efficient while I struggled to catch my breath.

"Don't worry about the timing," she'd said, straightening my clothes like nothing had happened. "I'll train you properly. By the time I'm done with you, other girls will be soaked when they see what you've become."

Later that same week, she'd summoned me to her apartment with the kind of commanding text that made my hands shake.

I'd found her waiting in nothing but a silk robe, and before I could speak, she'd pushed me to my knees with a roughness that stole my breath.

"Show me what that eager mouth can do," she'd commanded, hiking one leg up on the windowsill while her fingers tangled painfully in my hair.

The position was awkward, demanding, but her grip kept me exactly where she wanted me.

She'd guided my movements with alternating praise and correction, her nails scraping against my scalp when I pleased her, she moved her hips, pushing my mouth closer to her, tugging sharply when I needed redirection.

"That's it," she'd gasped, pressing herself closer. "Good boy. Don't stop."

Present

"That girl looks like me," Lolita observes, pulling me back to the present with the casual precision of a surgeon's knife.

My jaw tightens involuntarily. "Sophie is nothing like you."

The comparison feels like blasphemy. Sophie, with her genuine vulnerability and fierce spirit, couldn't be more different from the calculating woman sitting in my living room.

Where Lolita had been all sharp edges and careful manipulation, Sophie is soft curves and honest emotion. Where Lolita had taken pleasure in my confusion and need, Sophie offers herself with a trust that still terrifies me.

"No?" Lolita's eyes glitter with amusement, and I recognize that look—the same expression she'd wear when she was about to deliver a lesson I wasn't prepared to learn. "Then why did she run the moment she realized what I am to you?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke from her cigarette, and I find myself with no answer that doesn't prove her point.

Because Sophie had looked at Lolita and seen exactly what I've spent twenty years trying to forget—the woman who taught me how to love through control, who showed me that emotional distance was the only way to survive intimacy.

"You trained her well," Lolita continues, crushing her cigarette in my crystal ashtray with deliberate slowness. "The way she submitted, the way she looked at you for permission before speaking. Very familiar."

"Get out." The words come out rougher than I intended, but I can't let her dissect what Sophie and I have with the same clinical precision she once used on me.

"Of course," she says, standing with fluid grace. "But Adrian?" She pauses at the door, looking back with that same enigmatic smile. "You can't run from what you are forever. And neither can she."

The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with the devastating realization that maybe Lolita is right. Maybe I have been recreating the same dynamic that destroyed me twenty years ago, just from the other side of the equation.