How To Read Literature Like A Professor Chapter 1 Summary Novels & Stories

I looked away from him and pretended to listen to the professor who was still engrossed in calling out names. How could she have paired me with a man I was trying so bad to avoid? Once she was done with calling out the names, she started to give instructions and filled us on the details of the project. "The history of literature, like I said would either cost, or gain you thirty percent of your grades." She began. "By the end of the semester, you will turn in your researches using a specific person of impact in the progress of literature today. That means, you have so much time on your hands, and I expect each and everyone of you to use their time wisely." She said.

“It’s about accepting that the world is meaningless, but still choosing to live. To find happiness in the struggle even when there’s no purpose.” He nodded once, flipping open the book. “Not bad. Let’s build from there.” And just like that, we launched into a discussion on literature like we hadn’t shared the most humiliating, confusing moment of my life just a few nights ago. Like he hadn’t burned yellow fire through me with a look. Like I hadn’t moaned his name into my pillow after he left. This was Mr. Philips, professor mode: precise, clinical, wholly unbothered. I hated how much that stung.

God, that’s the worst part. For a moment, she just stared at nothing, then exhaled. For me, sitting here in my safe space, it’s like watching someone walk willingly into a furnace and come out not burned, but forged into something new. Something terrifying and beautiful. At first, I was just horrified. What kind of monster is this professor? Using her mind, her ambition, her body, like some kind of lab experiment? The first chapter, where he just commands her to strip and… do that… for “applied theory”? It made my skin crawl. It felt like the worst kind of predation, disguised in intellectual bullshit. I wanted to scream at her through the pages: “RUN! GET OUT!”

Chapter 2: Chapter Two Thursday came too slowly and too quickly at the same time. I spent the entire week in a fog of constant arousal and anxiety. Every lecture I attended with Professor Hawthorne felt like foreplay. The way his voice wrapped around words like “submission” and “surrender” while discussing "Tess of the d’Urbervilles" made my thighs clench under the desk. I kept replaying the moment I swallowed his cum under his desk , the thick, salty taste, the way his hand had tightened in my hair, the calm way he answered the phone while I was still licking him clean.