All Chapters of SUBMISSION 101: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Is he going to beat me up in here? I think for a brief moment.With motions that aren't quite my own, I reach out and lock the door, wondering why he’s always singling me out. Why he'd humiliated me in front of the entire class.I turn around to face him. With a sigh, he leans back on the front of his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose before motioning for me to approach him with two fingers.I take a single step forward.He raises his head, eyes meeting mine, and the meaning of it all sinks in. I'm alone. With him. And he is staring straight at me. I don't know whether to be thrilled or terrified, so I don't choose between the two.I'm both."If you are going to come to my class hungover and unfocused, it would be better if you did not come at all."My jaw sets. For a moment I don't say anything. Then, it strikes that maybe it isn't appropriate for a professor to mansplain my own personal life to me."I'm not hungover."He looks at me flatly. "The bags under your eyes are dark eno

He kisses me again, roughly, moving one hand back to his cock, stroking it as he teases my entrance."I'm going to fuck you on this desk," he growls into my ear, "and I'm going to fuck you hard. And I'm going to wrap my hand around your throat and choke you while I'm doing it. Is that what you want?"Letting out another whimper, brow furrowed, I nod."Fuck, yes. Please, professor, I want... I need you to fuck me, to choke me, I want you to control when I breathe, I..." my words are a jumbled mess. I'm finally melted, a dribbling pool of lust and wetness and want.And in one swift, rough motion, Professor Harlan slides into me, newly free hand going to my throat and squeezing.I gasp at the intrusion, my tight pussy clenching around his cock, forced to accommodate his length. Fuck, it stings, I'm so tight, and he...He rests on his elbow, face inches from mine. I like that, like how close he is, like how his chest is pressed against mine as he fucks me. He tightens the grip on my neck,

I swallow thickly, fighting the urge to run, never look back, and bury myself in a hole deep in the woods beyond campus.Here I am, chasing after my professor at night when he likely has no desire to see me again. That much, he has made clear.I saw him Wednesday and earlier today for class. The way he acts – or doesn't act, rather – is like the whole thing never happened. The way he so poignantly ignores my presence indicates that he must have seriously regretted what happened between us."Yeah, sorry," I breathe. "Not to be difficult, but you said you'd have our formalism essays back today, and I'm having trouble studying without feedback.""Perhaps you should take more thorough notes then, Ms. Shaw." His eyes don't lift from his paper.My jaw sets. "Perhaps you should turn in our graded assignments when you say you're going to," I shoot back.That causes him to look up at me.For a second, I regret talking back to him. But there they are... those eyes of his, burning into mine. The

The answer is studying.Lots and lots of studying.I groan and throw my head back as soon as I hear the words, "Let's start with the essay you never turned into me." And not in the good way.I came in half-expecting him to bend me over a table again, but after an hour and a half, I'm still sprawled on the floor, my legs out to the side and my laptop and notes in front of me. He spends the droning, endless minutes pacing behind me, asking me if I've remembered to consider and include such and such, and then snickering when I sigh in defeat, realizing that I've completely forgot about such and such, and honestly don't really care about such and such because I hate deconstructionism. Something about it just puts me to sleep.But for the most part, Harlan sits behind me, flipping through a book on philosophy and remaining a resource for my few questions.But before I hit the two-hour mark, and after too many "wrong's" voiced from Harlan behind me, I tear off my blue-

Harlan remembers walking back towards his office from the conference room after his meeting with Dean Vance. He remembers rounding the corner. He remembers feeling himself shaking uncontrollably, how his clenched fists rattled at his sides inexplicably, so forcefully that for a moment, he wondered if they were experiencing an earthquake before realizing, he was the one shaking, so hard he couldn’t stop; it was him, all him.He remembers the other professors hustling past him in the opposite direction, remembers someone brushing against his shoulder, someone else telling him to have a good evening but the words ringing, almost indiscernibly, in his ears.It is 5 PM and all the professors are heading out for the night; Vance has at least done him that favour, though even that much surprises Harlan. One would think Vance would have made every effort, come to think of it, to place this meeting during the busiest of office hours of the day so everyone could see young and accompli