My Professor Novels & Stories

Sunny’s POV “Miss Peruvian, would you like to see your grades for this semester?” My professor asked me as soon as everyone was able to step out of our classroom. “No ma’am, no need,” I spoke. My professor glared at me, her thick eyeglasses made her look like my real mom. We were both wearing thick round eyeglasses although she is definitely not my favorite prof, and so I am not her favorite either since I am not the smartest student in her class. “Miss Peruvian, you need to take this seriously, two years from now and the graduation will finally take place but we are not sure yet whether you’ll be involved in that ceremony or no

"Explain." "He treats me with kid gloves and I hate it." I said. "he's always all, are you sure, we need to take it slow, yadda yadda yadda. And he probably thinks he's just being a gentleman and all. Well, I think he's still trying to convince himself I'm not fifteen or something." "Let me get this right. The professor is treating you nicely and you don't... Like it?" She asked carefully. "You want him to what, slap you around and call you his dirty slut?"

Dangerous affairs with my professor. Author’s Pov. Chapter 22. The first lecture for the day had ended and it was time for the physiology teacher. Elena and Mira sat gisting as usual. “I am certain your home man would not take the classes today, that man is so not doing his job well.” “Don't talk to my home man in that manner.” Elena tried faking anger but she ended up laughing. “Someone is supporting him, have you been getting enough of him lately.?”

Chapter 2 I pouted and glared at her. "You're the one who can't stop teasing me." "It's not my fault you're the hopeless romantic who fell for your hot godfather," she joked again, but I couldn't help but smile. Our professor, Sir Ramon, entered silently, carrying a thick notebook and laptop. He was an older professor known for being strict, but he was easy to talk to outside of class. "Good afternoon, class," he greeted, checking the names on the attendance sheet.

Jack pats her shoulder, his face twisted in fake concern. I should feel something sympathy, worry but all I can think is: Now who’s going to tell me my art is empty? The dean gestures to the stranger beside her. "This is Mr. Laurent. He’ll be your substitute instructor for the remainder of the semester." And that’s when I finally look at him. Jerome Laurent is not what I expected. Young too young to be a professor, maybe late twenties with tousled dark hair and a sharp jaw shadowed by stubble. He’s dressed in all black: fitted slacks, a rolled sleeve button down, boots that look like they’ve seen more than just a classroom.

His dark brown hair was neatly styled, and his gentle gaze encompassed us all. He had gentle features yet there was something about him that attracted me to him. “Good morning, everyone,” he began, setting his materials down on the desk. His voice was deep and smooth, with just a hint of an accent that I couldn’t quite place. “I’m Professor Farid Reign, and I’ll be guiding you through Advanced Theoretical Physics this semester. We’re going to delve into the complexities of quantum mechanics, explore the difficulties of string theory, and discuss the latest developments in cosmology.”

He was my professor, a public figure and expecting him to act all lovey dovey was far fetched. “Professor Marison, I came here to make complaints about your class.” I paused and he nodded once. “I’m sure you’re aware of the massive failure from our class and we feel your assistants aren’t helping.” “How are they not helping? What they teach in class is what I give them. Are you trying to say my notes are not efficient for your class to understand?” I gritted my teeth. I was angry, very angry and he needed to act as if he was not being dense on purpose.

The professor stood there with a grim look on his face like someone had died. "Professor?" I stammered, clutching the door tightly. "What… what are you doing here?" He looked me over, his eyes lingering for a moment on my towel-clad form before meeting my gaze. "I could ask you the same thing. Why haven’t you been showing up to school?" I swallowed hard, my initial surprise giving way to annoyance "It’s a personal matter," I said, "And you didn’t have to come all the way here just to check on me. I know you don’t do this for your other students."

But that wasn’t the worst part. No. Because right beside him—arms awkwardly at his sides, expression horrifically neutral, eyes darting like a deer caught in a very inappropriate headlights—stood... Mr. Cristiano Wright. My professor. In his dark slacks and half-buttoned shirt. His perfectly composed face trying to calculate whether he’d walked into an emotional intervention or a domestic warfare documentary. I could see it in his eyes. That exact moment when his soul quietly whispered: “I am a dignified professor. I teach literature. I grade essays. Why the actual f**k am I here?”

"I'm not signing anything until I know what it is." "It's your life raft," one of the men in suits said. He didn't smile. "I'm Mr. Miller. I handle the Professor's legal affairs. These papers state that you are a Junior Fellow for the Blackwood Archive Initiative." "A Junior Fellow?" I looked at Caspian. "I'm a student. I don't even have my degree yet."