Seduced by Professor

As I sat in Mr. Davenport's class, the space between my eyebrows ached from the constant furrowing as I struggled to focus on the lecture. It was my third time repeating the class, and I felt like I was drowning in a sea of equations and graphs, with no energy left to keep myself afloat.

My name is Ina Lovelace, an economic student who seemed to be struggling in more ways than one.

As I try to focus on the lesson, I hear the sound of Mr. Davenport's voice cutting through my thoughts. His tone is firm and authoritative, yet there's a hint of warmth in his words as he explains the economic concepts. Every now and then, his eyes dart over to me, and I feel a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach. It's a mix of anxiety and intrigue, and I can't help but notice that his gaze lingers on me for a moment longer than on the other students.

I try to brush off the feeling, telling myself that it's just my imagination. After all, why would a professor like him, who is years older and more experienced than me, be interested in a struggling student like me? But every time our eyes meet, I can feel my heart skip a beat, and I find myself more distracted than ever before.

Meanwhile, as Mr. Davenport continues the lesson, he seems unfazed by my distracted state, yet there's a subtle change in his manner. His usually stern demeanor seems to soften just slightly everytime our eyes lock. It's as if he's aware of my distraction and is almost enjoying it.

As class comes to an end, the other students begin to pack up their belongings and exit the room. I rise from my seat, gathering my own things, when suddenly, my foot catches on something, and I fall forward, sending my books and papers flailing to the ground.

I tumble forward, falling to my knees as my notes scatter in every direction. I scramble to pick them up, my face reddening with embarrassment as everyone else leaves the classroom, leaving only me and Mr. Davenport in the room.

I can feel his gaze on me as I struggle to collect my papers, my heart pounding in my chest from the fall and the nerves. I try to avoid looking up, feeling the weight of his gaze as I finally manage to gather all my belongings, feeling utterly flustered and out of place.

As I'm struggling to gather my belongings, suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching me, and then Mr. Davenport's voice breaks the silence.

"Need some help?" he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Without waiting for my response, he kneels down beside me and starts helping me gather my scattered papers.

I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as Mr. Davenport helps me pick up my notes, his presence so close to me making my heart race. I can't help but glance sideways at him, seeing the slight smile on his face as he concentrates on collecting my papers.

"You seem to be having a bit of an unlucky day," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I can only nod in response, too flustered to find the right words. As we finish collecting my belongings, he stands up and offers me his hand to help me to my feet.

I take his hand, feeling the strength and warmth of his grip as he gently pulls me to my feet. Standing so close, I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze, and I can see his eyebrows furrow slightly as he looks down at me.

"Careful there," he says, his voice soft and low. "Wouldn't want you to fall again."

His eyes linger on me for a moment, studying my face with a gaze that feels both intense and tender at the same time. I can't tell if it's concern or something else.

"Thanks," I manage to stammer out, my throat feeling dry as I stare up at him. I can feel the heat of his body so close to mine and I can't help but notice the subtle scent of his cologne.

Mr. Davenport lifts a hand and gently pushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers lightly brushing against my skin. The gesture is small, but it sends a shiver through my body, his touch so unexpected and intimate.

As he withdraws his hand, our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I'm struck by the depth of his gaze, the intensity of his stare making me feel both exposed and vulnerable. I can feel my heart racing, but I try to keep a neutral expression on my face, not wanting him to see the effect he's having on me.

"You sure you're okay?" he asks, studying my face intently. "You're a bit red."

I nod quickly, averting my gaze and taking a small step back, putting some distance between us. "I'm fine," I say, my voice coming out a bit shaky.

He doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he doesn't press the issue, instead giving me a faint smile that seems to 

hold a hint of understanding.

 "Alright then," he says, his tone still gentle. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

I murmur a soft "Thanks," and start to turn away, eager to escape the intensity of the moment. As I walk towards the door, I can feel his gaze on my back, and I can't shake off the strange mixture of emotions that his unexpected kindness has stirred within me.

As I reach the door, I glance back one last time, catching one final glimpse of Mr. Davenport watching me with an unreadable expression on his face. The weight of his gaze follows me out of the classroom, leaving me with a mixture of confusion and intrigue.

The classroom door closes behind me, leaving me standing alone in the hallway, my thoughts swirling. I had never expected a simple helping hand from my professor to leave me feeling so unsettled.

As I walked out of class, my mind was still reeling from my encounter with Professor Davenport. I tried to shake off the strange sensation his gaze had left me with, reminding myself that he was probably just being nice because he could tell I was struggling.

I hailed a taxi and headed back to the apartment, reaching for my phone to call my boyfriend, Steven. But when I called, his phone went straight to voicemail.

My frustration built as I realized that he must have turned off his phone again. I felt a pang of annoyance at his unreliability, but I tried to push it aside and focus on getting home. As I rode in the taxi, my thoughts started to race, wondering what he could possibly be doing that was more important than picking me up.

I arrived at the apartment and quickly made my way to the door, eager to lay down in my bed and forget about the long day. But as I stepped inside, I was greeted by a strange mix of sounds coming from the bedroom. They were soft and intimate, and they set my heart racing in a mix of fear and curiosity.

I walked towards the bedroom door, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. But nothing prepared me for what I saw as I opened the door. There, in our bed, was my boyfriend, naked and entangled with another woman.

The sight of them together hit me like a wave of cold water. I stood there, frozen in shock and disbelief, watching as they scrambled to cover themselves. The pain and anger seethed inside me, but for a moment, I couldn't bring myself to move or speak. My heart raced and my mind reeled as I tried to process what I was seeing. I felt violated and betrayed, but at the same time, a part of me couldn't help but feel hurt and confused. How could he do this to me? Hadn't I been a good girlfriend?

I stood at the doorway, my heart shattering into a million pieces at the sight of him with another woman. The words came out in a strangled whisper, "Why?" I wanted, no, needed an explanation, anything that could make it make sense.

But he just stared back at me, seemingly at a loss for words. His eyes darted between me and the other woman, and I could see the guilt written all over his face. He had the decency to look ashamed, but it did little to ease the pain that coursed through my veins.

I felt my body trembling, torn between the urge to scream and the need to break down in tears. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction, so I clenched my fists and dug my nails into my palms, trying to hold onto my anger instead of succumbing to my heartbreak.

With every ounce of strength I had left, I spat out the words, "You know what? I saw this coming, but I didn't think you'd stoop this low. You two deserve each other. Take him. I'm done babysitting him." And with that, I turned on my heel and walked out of the apartment, not daring to look back.

My heart felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as I stepped out into the cold night air. I felt like a fool for not seeing the signs earlier, for being so blinded by love that I had missed the obvious red flags. The tears threatened to spill over, but I refused to let them fall. Not here, not now.

I walked through the darkened streets, the cold air biting into my skin. It was a shock to my senses, but in some strange way, it was also soothing. The numbness that came with the cold mirrored the emptiness left by his betrayal, and I found a strange comfort in it.

I didn't have a destination in mind I just kept walking, my steps taking me further and further away from the scene I had just left behind. The city noises faded into the background as my mind replayed the scene over and over again, each time the pain and betrayal cutting deeper. The tears came as I walked, silent and slow at first, then building up into a steady stream. They rolled down my cheeks, mingling with the cold night air and leaving a trail of sorrow in their wake. I didn't try to hide them; there was no one to see, and the pain was too raw to contain.

"I need a drink," I murmured to myself, my voice hoarse from the sobs that had wracked my body. My eyes caught sight of a bar a few steps ahead, the warm light from within beckoning to me like a beacon in the night.

With a determined stride, I made my way towards the bar, my mind set on drowning my sorrows in something strong and potent. The neon sign above the door flickered, as if inviting me in for a night of oblivion.

As I pushed open the heavy door, a blast of warm, humid air hit me, along with the sounds of music and voices. The place was a good mix of half-empty and half-full, leaving a few stools at the bar open for me to take. I sat down on an empty stool, grateful for the anonymity that the dimly lit bar provided.

The bartender approached me, a bored look on his face. "What can I get you?" he asked, wiping a glass with a towel.

I thought for a moment, weighing my options. "Whiskey, straight," I replied, my voice firm. "And make it a double."

The bartender raised an eyebrow but said nothing, going away to prepare my drink. I leaned back against the stool, my eyes roaming the bar, taking in the scene around me. The sound of clinking glasses and the soft hum of conversations buzzed in my ears, and I felt a pang of envy for the people around me, blissfully unaware of the pain I was carrying within me.

The bartender returned with my drink, setting it down in front of me with a slight clink of the glass against the countertop. I picked it up, the amber liquid swirling inside, and took a big gulp, wincing as the strong flavor of the whiskey burned its way down my throat. The alcohol stung my throat but provided a momentary numbness to my pain, a welcome distraction from the thoughts and images that haunted me. I took another sip, relishing the heat that spread through my body as I swallowed.

I lost track of how many drinks I downed, each one blurring the edges of my pain and bringing me closer to the brink of oblivion. My head was pleasantly light, and my thoughts became hazy and unfocused.

As the night went on, the bar slowly emptied, leaving me alone in a sea of half-empty glasses. I signaled for another drink, my words slurred and my vision slightly hazy. The bartender looked at me with a mix of pity and annoyance, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

I sat alone at the bar, nursing her glass of whiskey, a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts. "Miss Lovelace?"

I turned around, my bleary eyes trying to focus on the figure that stood behind me. It took a moment for me to recognize the man, but when I did, my eyes widened in surprise. "Professor Davenport?"

Xavier stood there, looking concerned as he regarded my disheveled appearance and the empty glasses on the bar. "Are you alright?" he asked, taking a seat on the stool next to hers.

I let out a bitter laugh, the alcohol loosening my tongue. "Do I look alright?" I said, gesturing at the state I was in. "I just caught my boyfriend cheating on me, and I'm trying to drink my pain away. So no, I'm not alright."

Xavier frowned, his eyes filled with sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said softly. "But getting drunk won't help you feel better."

I let out a scoff. "Oh, yeah? What would you suggest, then? Take a relaxing bubble bath and practice yoga?" Her words were biting and sarcastic, the alcohol making me reckless.

I leaned closer, a sly smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "I think I know what will make me feel better," I whispered, my voice slurred but still sultry. "Let's go back to your place and have some fun. I haven't had good sex in years, and I could use some distraction from my stupid ex."