Professor Black Novels & Stories

My fingers clutched my pen like it was the only thing anchoring me to this chair. And he didn’t look away. For a second — just a second — I could have sworn something flickered behind those eyes. But then it was gone. Buried. Like it had never happened at all. He finally spoke. “Good morning, class,” he said, and his voice… Fuck. He wrote his name on the board with perfect, terrifying ease. Professor Adrian Blackthorne.

Feeling wet and uncomfortable, I don’t focus on most part of the lesson as my eyes are glued to this man. Professor Quinn? Standing tall in front of the class in a pair of classy black dressed pants, square rimmed glasses that makes his nose pointier, and his beard. Everything about this man screams wealth and dangerous mixed together. I should focus, but I find it hard when my Professor is the same man who had had his fingers rubbing my panties until I cum shamefully, screaming profanities at the same time. With rosy cheeks, I lift my head from my desk to face this man, and I gasp when I notice his eyes on me.

Large windows glowed with a dim, amber light. I didn't even have to knock. The front door opened before I reached the step. Professor Adrian Black stood there. He had ditched the blazer and tie. Now, he wore a black button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone, and dark slacks. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand. "You're three minutes early," he said. His voice was low, blending with the night air. "I didn't want to be late, Sir," I managed to say.

I could get used to this—being treated like a queen. As we descended the stairs, I took in more of the house’s splendor. The place was magnificent, every detail carefully crafted. My eyes landed on a large portrait of him hanging on the wall—Professor Maverick, his piercing gaze staring back at me. He was so damn hot, even more in that portrait. I thought I had hit the jackpot when I started dating Fenris, but Professor Maverick? This was beyond jackpot.

Will she really be seeing them all the time, as far as she knows, two of them are her professors. "Good morning. My name is Alistair King. I will be your professor for this year. You may only call me Professor King, and if I call on you, the reply is Sir, nothing else. Now in this class, I want contribution, utmost respect for me and eachother. This class is going to be difficult and if you feel like you can't handle it, walk out now. I will not be dealing with complaints at the end of any test or exams. Assignments will be given at the end of the week, individually or in groups, and every mark counts."

Roy questioned, his facial muscles projecting an aura of deep, unmitigated concern. I systematically engineered an immediate, artificial smile, deploying a defensive wall to shroud the chaotic nature of my internal calculations. "The situation is entirely managed," I fabricated smoothly. I shifted the display screen to reveal the call logging interface to his position—an operational maneuver safeguarded by the reality that I had long since codified his identity under the digital pseudonym of 'The Killer Professor.' "Look... my primary academic advisor has suddenly commanded an emergency review session. It appears the most optimal tactic is for my frame to secure an independent commercial tax

“That’s ridiculous, Professor Lang. Dr. Black is just helping me with my thesis. Late nights happen when you’re passionate about the work.” She smirked, stepping closer so her voice stayed low. “Passionate. Sure. People have seen you leaving his office flushed, clothes messed up. The dean is hearing rumors. Formal investigation if it keeps up. You should be careful before your future gets ruined over some power trip.” Her words twisted in my gut as I hurried away, heart pounding. By the time I reached Dr. Black’s office that evening the campus was quiet and dark. I slipped inside without knocking, locking the door behind me. He was at his desk, tie loosened, looking every bit the controlled

“You’re late.” The door clicked shut behind me, and I felt that familiar rush of forbidden heat flood my body. I turned to face him. Professor Damien Black leaned back in his leather chair like he owned the entire university. His dark hair was slightly messy, the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to reveal powerful forearms, and the top buttons were undone, giving me a dangerous glimpse of his toned chest. At thirty-eight, he was the kind of man who made intelligent women forget their own names.

She stared at him in utter, paralyzed disbelief, her mind screaming in absolute panic. No... No, no, no... This can't be happening! The man buttoned his dark, impeccably tailored suit jacket, adjusted his gold glasses, and turned to face the room. His deep, smooth baritone voice echoed effortlessly through the vast space. "Good morning. I am Professor Adrian Kingsley. I will be handling your advanced tactics and theory curriculum for this term." The moment he spoke, a sudden, excited murmur erupted through the classroom. The surrounding students…the very same students who had been acting arrogant and bored just minutes ago were now leaning forward in their seats.

For some reason, my mind went straight to Professor Hale. I opened my browser and typed: Vincent Hale. Search. I scrolled… and nothing. Well, almost nothing, just a few unrelated results. No pictures of my professor, no social media accounts, no articles, no embarrassing college photos, no gossip. Nothing useful. I frowned. “Very unpopular.” I searched again with Blackthorne College. Still nothing. I leaned back against my pillows. That was strange. Everyone at Blackthorne knew who Vincent Hale was. Students talked about him constantly, girls practically forgot how to breathe whenever he walked into a room, so how did the internet have almost nothing about him?