Please Harder, Professor - Chapter #5 - by itsvlada

The train back to campus always feels like surfacing from a three-day drowning.

I'm sprawled on my bed, staring at my color-coded planner like it's going to spontaneously combust. My phone's been buzzing all weekend—two days of this dangerous texting game.

Every message felt like he was still making me come apart with those ridiculously skilled fingers. Still no clue how he got my number or what his actual name is.

I kept responding like some kind of addict. Yesterday I finally cracked and asked what I should save him as in my contacts.

Me: How's your mysterious life of crime?

Unknown: Thriving. Your parents lecture you about responsible choices?

Me: Obviously. Speaking of which, what should I save you as in my phone? 'Random Hookup #3' feels a bit harsh.

Three dots. Forever.

Unknown: ‘Private Room Service’.

I actually choked on my coffee. Arrogant bastard knew exactly what he was advertising—and exactly what he'd left unfinished.

Me: You're unbelievable.

Unknown: But accurate. Five-star rating, I assume.

He wasn't wrong. Made my stomach do this annoying flip thing because we both knew exactly what kind of "service" he'd provided in that dim room before everything got interrupted.

Now Monday's here, and my phone buzzes again.

Private Room Service: How's the family rehabilitation going?

First smile in 72 hours. Pathetic, but I’ll take it.

Me: Survived another weekend of being the mom I never asked to be. Where’s my participation trophy?

Private Room Service: In the mail with your therapy bill.

Me: Bold of you to assume I’m not already in therapy.

Private Room Service: Are you?

Me: Can’t afford it. I spend all my money on wine and emergency Ubers for family crises.

Private Room Service: What happened?

I start typing about Madison’s tire-slashing incident, delete it. Try again with Abby’s Barbie decapitation saga, delete that too. Finally settle on:

Me: The usual family shitshow. My sister thinks vandalism is a love language.

Private Room Service: Runs in the family?

Me: Excuse me?

Private Room Service: The destructive tendencies.

I stare at my phone. Who the fuck says that to someone? I am so not destructive.

Me: You clearly don’t know me at all.

Private Room Service: Don’t I?

Before I can psychoanalyze that cryptic bullshit, Cleo crashes through our shared bathroom like she’s fleeing a crime scene.

“You look like someone ran you through a paper shredder,” she announces, towel-wrapped hair defying gravity.

“Feel like it too.” I don’t look up from my phone. “Madison went full psycho ex-girlfriend. Abby had a meltdown that lasted three hours. Dad burned dinner because he was distracted by Christmas lights.”

“Christmas lights? It’s March.”

“Don’t ask.”

“Your family makes mine look functional, and my mom once tried to sage away my period cramps.”

My phone buzzes again.

Private Room Service: You’ve gone quiet.

Me: Processing your weirdly personal observations about my alleged destructive tendencies.

Private Room Service: Hit a nerve?

Me: You wish.

Private Room Service: I do wish. Nerves are interesting.

What kind of psychological warfare bullshit is this?

“Okay, that face,” Cleo says, flopping onto my bed, “is definitely not family trauma. That’s sex-adjacent confusion.”

“It’s not—”

“Who are you texting? And don’t say ‘nobody’ because nobody doesn’t make you look like you’re solving quantum physics with your vagina.”

“Gosh, Cleo.”

The door explodes open. Ayden stumbles in looking like he wrestled a bear and lost.

“I’m actually dying,” he gasps, collapsing into my desk chair. “Coach wants us dead before regionals.”

“You smell like someone fucked a gym sock,” Cleo observes with the tenderness of true love.

“Your dirty talk always gets me hard, babe,” Ayden shoots back with a smile. “But seriously, three hours of hell because Georgie can’t remember basic plays.”

Another phone’s buzzings, that only means a new message:

Private Room Service: Still processing?

Me: Still wondering why you care.

Private Room Service: Maybe I’m curious about what makes you tick.

Me: Maybe you should find a healthier hobby.

Private Room Service: Where’s the fun in that?

“Sophie’s having a whole-ass relationship via text,” Cleo announces to Ayden.

“I am not—”

“Speaking of relationships,” Ayden perks up like a gossip-hungry golden retriever, “did you guys hear the latest Professor Lewis tea?”

Here we fucking go.

“Ugh, not you too,” I groaned.

“What ‘me too’?” Ayden grins. “I’m just saying Sarah from stats claims her roommate hooked up with some senior who swears Lewis has a whole Red Room of Pain situation.”

“Stop.” Cleo literally moans. “I can only get so wet.”

“You’re both disgusting.”

“I’m horny,” Cleo corrects. “There’s a difference. That man could read me the phone book and I’d come.”

“He’s our professor.”

“He’s also criminally hot. Those suits, that voice, the way he intellectually murders people…” She fans herself. “I’d let him give me detention any day.”

Private Room Service: What are you doing?

Me: Listening to my friends discuss our professor’s alleged sex dungeon.

Private Room Service: Interesting topic.

Me: Welcome to college. We gossip about everything.

Private Room Service: Including your professors’ personal lives?

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t make me sound like a complete disaster, Ayden throws a pillow at me.

“That smile is definitely not nobody,” he says. “You look like you’re planning either an orgasm or a murder.”

“Why not both?” Cleo adds helpfully.

***

Walking into Professor Lewis’s lecture the next morning feels like entering a gladiator arena where the weapons are words and the casualties are GPAs.

I’ve actually done the reading this time, which in Lewis’s class is like bringing a knife to a nuclear war—better than nothing, but still probably insufficient.

The man himself stands at the front looking like he stepped out of a fucking magazine spread for “Professors Who Could Destroy You Academically and You’d Thank Them.” Charcoal suit, perfect hair, expression that suggests he’s mentally cataloguing everyone’s intellectual deficiencies.

His eyes find mine immediately.

Shit.

“Miss Hale.” His voice cuts through the room’s chatter like a scalpel. “Since you seemed so… engaged in personal matters during our last discussion, perhaps you’d like to redeem yourself today.”

Every head in the room swivels toward me. Great. Public execution it is.

“I’d love to,” I reply, matching his tone.

“Wonderful. Foucault’s disciplinary power. Modern surveillance state. Connect the dots.” His smile could freeze hell. “Take your time.”

I can feel the trap, but I dive in anyway. “Foucault argued that disciplinary power creates compliant subjects through surveillance and normalization. The panopticon model—constant potential observation controls behavior even without actual watching.”

“Adequate.” The dismissal stings. “But you’re missing nuance. Self-discipline’s role?”

“Self-discipline becomes internalized surveillance,” I continue, irritation building. “People police themselves based on perceived social expectations.”

“Better. Still surface-level.” His eyes never leave mine. “Contemporary applications?”

My face flushes. “Social media platforms function as digital panopticons. Users perform their lives for invisible audiences, creating voluntary surveillance that reinforces existing power structures while creating false illusions of freedom.”

“Marginally improved.” The condescension makes my jaw clench. “Perhaps less time on personal conversations, more time developing sophisticated analysis.”

Direct hit. The entire room watches this academic bloodbath unfold.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Professor,” I say, sarcasm dripping.

“See that you do. Class participation: thirty percent of your grade.” His smile is predatory. “Hate for you to disappoint yourself.”

As he turns to terrorize someone else, I sink into my seat, heart hammering.

Cleo leans over: “Holy shit, he just intellectually throat-fucked you in front of everyone.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re totally turned on right now.”

“I am not.”

“Your face is redder than my worst period, girl.”

“Miss Hale,” Lewis’s voice cuts across the room again. “Since you’re determined to continue disruptions, share your insights on voluntary servitude.”

I meet his gaze dead-on. “I was discussing how some people mistake control for competence, Professor. Fascinating psychological phenomenon.”

Something flickers across his face—almost like he’s fighting a smile. “Indeed, Miss Hale. Indeed.”