Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

She’s the Vogue to my plain Jane and I do envy her effortless sense of style.

I’m far better at decorating my room than I am myself. My room is warm and quirky, like a blend of Town & Country meets Seventeen Magazine. Papa spares no expense when it comes to pretty much anything we want. He says very little, but a quick nod of approval at some minor or major request makes my stomach light with the wings of a thousand butterflies.

The coffered ceiling of my room is painted with clouds and blue sky and the walls are a fresco of a winter forest through a haze of pink and purple, like a Kawaii scene from Frozen.

I have a fuzzy white beanbag the size of a compact car in the corner by an enormous bay window, where I spend hours reading the stacks and stacks of books Papa lets me order.

We have no sort of spending limit, but I do know that he approves every order we place and sometimes I wonder what he thinks of the bevy of man chests that decorate the covers of many of my book orders.

My stomach rumbles as I twist my wet hair into a tight bun while Lucy gives me a look. My jeans hanging low on my hips as my shirt lifts exposing my belly. “You’ve lost more weight. If I can tell, he can too.”

“It’s just nerves. This year our performance on the new stage, I feel like it needs to be spot-on, fucking perfect. I don’t want to embarrass Grandpa.” I don’t tell her that my shameful anxiety about my growing attraction to my grandfather makes it next to impossible to eat, more so than usual.

She inspects her blush-colored nail polish, still bouncing absentmindedly on the edge of my canopied king-sized bed covered in an antique chenille pink and white bedspread. “You could never embarrass him. Besides, he doesn’t give a ripe reindeer shit about any of those people that come to the party. He just does it because-”

She stalls, then shrugs, twisting a golden strand of her hair in and out between her index and middle finger. “I don’t even know why he does it.” She back-peddles, her tone hints that she’s hiding something. “Whatever, comeon.”

She nods at the door on one last bounce before standing, her blonde beach waves perfect as always, splitting over her shoulders and down her back. She’s the Elsa to my Anna. Always in control, total type A, tall, lithe, elegant in a perfectionist sort of way, where I’m more artist than engineer. Even in our style of dance.

She’s technically without flaw; whereas I may miss a step or improv a move, but I’m more fluid. More in the moment instead of planning them all.

I tug on my red elf slippers with the jingle bells on the toes and follow Lucy into the hall. The entire mansion is a holiday wonderland like it is every year at this time. It’s the one holiday that Papa goes completely bonkers. He hires an entire crew to come in and decorate from the tops of the chimneys down the gates of the driveway.

Gates that are formidable enough to rival The Wall in Game of Thrones.

We have every movie and TV show available here on DVD and on this weird private streaming service. Papa says it’s because there’re no other good channels up here, but that doesn’t seem plausible.

He makes sure we have access to the internet for ordering anything we want, but the controls on our computers block most of the other worldly sites. News and live TV are blocked. Any sort of other websites for deliveries from the big mega online retailers or small Etsy shops and man chests galore are A-okay.

Maybe, now I’m 18, he’ll loosen things up, but he hasn’t mentioned it. And honestly, what do I need the news for, anyway?

Lucy grabs at a spring of holly on the endless garland draped along the banister as we descend the mammoth carved wooden staircase to the main level and sticks it behind her ear. “You excited for the party? Gonna be so extra extra this year.”

I nod on an exhale as the bells on my toes make soft tingling sounds with each step. “Yes, I just want it to be perfect.”

“You gotta give up perfect, girl.” Lucy waves a hand at my face in all her Barbie Doll glory. “It’s an illusion.”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

Ironic. Because she’s the one person I see as perfect. When we first met, she was a bully. Her father was her entire world since her mom disappeared when she was a baby and was later found… sleeping with the fishes, if you get my meaning. Seems she decided to turn on the family, thinking she could get a better set up elsewhere.

Pretty sure that did not work out how she planned.

So, for Lucy, having her dad marry my mother was not in her plan. I wasn’t a superfan of the whole deal either, but I wanted my mother happy. My father had died just the year before in a car accident and my little girl heart thought if Mama’s happy, maybe I get to be happy.

Surprise. Their marriage was not about happy. Nor were any that I saw since then.

Marriage is for business, not pleasure in the Sabato world.

As things became clearer over the years, Lucy shifted from resenting me to protecting me; because in the mix of danger and power, our parents abdicated their positions as caregivers and Lucy turned her anger towards them into a fierce guarding of me.

From there, we wove together a sisterhood and a friendship made up of fear, our mutual love of ballet, trashy romance, K-dramas, and grief.

Aside from Papa and me, the only other person she trusts is Mama. Our babysitter, housekeeper, and volunteered grand-nana of sorts. This is our chosen family. Mama and Papa, as we call them. They are our stand-in parents, and if I’m being honest, they do a far better, if not unconventional, job than our own did or would have done.

Lucy blathers on about the angle of her back arch as we walk my toes making music as we go while the candles flicker in the wall sconces and soft instrumental Christmas music plays on the sound system throughout the massive log cabin. A flush covers me as we enter the dining room, like it does at every meal.

Though, seeing my grandfather sitting at the head of the table, always waiting, also wraps me in a familiar cloak of safety. He’s our rock. He’s no marshmallow, as they say, but he is reliable.

The slick varnish on the walnut Chippendale table reflects the lighting from the woven antler chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. The entire house is an exercise in contrast.

It’s essentially a log cabin on steroids. I don’t know about square feet, but it’s as big as a small hotel and decorated like a Georgian plantation, accented with bold modern artwork and expansive windows.

An original Miro hangs above the buffet to my left and a matching set of black and orange Rothkos fill the opposite wall from floor to ceiling.

There are always fourteen candles in sterling candelabras standing in line down the center of the table, at lunch and dinner. They flicker and give off the scent of persimmons and oranges.

There’s a tick in the muscle above my grandfather’s left eyebrow, the furrows in his brow deepen as we enter. He’s perfectly still wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, his hair and beard thick and calling for my fingers to weave through and whisper all my secret wishes into his ear.

My toe bells give off one last jingle, and I don’t need to look at the Ormolu gold leaf table clock on the buffet to know we are late.

“It’sherfault,” Lucy announces as she slides into her chair at Grandpa’s right side.

His blue eyes make my heart speed, blood pumping through my veins in a greedy rush to swell the knots below my belly button.

His gaze drifts over my chest, a flicker passes over his sharp features as my braless nipples tighten, flirting with him from under the thin fabric of my shirt.

God help me, I’m so turnedon. My horny body is making promises to him I could never keep, but the heat in my core is hopeful.

He lifts his hand, gesturing to the seat to his left and I slide into my place as Mama bumps her round rear into the swinging door separating the dining room from the kitchen, pushing it open with a gigantic silver tray in her hands.

“Always late, you two. You should not make your grandfather wait. It shows disrespect.” She chastises in her thick Italian accent as she shuffles toward Papa with a thin smile, her white lace-edged apron pulled tight across her bosom, setting the tray down on the buffet before presenting a bowl of pasta fagioli to my grandfather.

He gives her a nearly imperceptible nod of approval and she sets down the bowl, then brings one to each of us before scurrying back through the door, muttering to herself in Italian. A few moments later, she returns with a carved bread bowl full of steaming rolls covered in two white linen napkins.

Once she’s satisfied with the placement of the bread in front of Papa, she fists her hands on her chubby hips. Her hair is always pulled tight into a gray bun at the back of her head, with pearls adorning her neck and bright red lipstick.

“Your tutors delivered your grades today.” Mama locks her jaw, shooting a glare my way while I watch Gennero deliver the ornate silver soup spoon to his perfect lips and draw in the broth from the soup and oh God, I want to be that spoon.

As he swallows, his Adam’s apple moves in his throat south of where the line of his silver-gray beard stops on his neck. He holds his spoon frozen in place above the steaming bowl of pasta and vegetables, turning first to Lucy, then to Mama.

“And?” He asks, dipping his spoon back into the rich red soup, scooping up two curled fusilli and a sliced carrot as I stare at his perfect fingers. “How were their reports?”

Lucy and I have not been to school since we arrived here. Our grandfather arranged for tutors and even though we both have technically graduated high school, he insists education never ends. Since we are stuck here with only rare and supervised contact with the outside world on approved outings, our studies have continued into broader and more challenging territories.

Like contemporary art, which I enjoy.

But, also Latin. And the study of economies and how money flows around the world.

Or, equally as entertaining the corruption of the world bank and who really is in charge of the federal reserve.

Gag. But what Papa wants, Papa gets.

I only wish that was me.

“Well.” Mama reaches for the last bowl left on the tray, waddling to the other end of the table and placing it on the linen placemat, then sliding the chair out and settling in the seat with a wiggle.

She trades a hard stare with Lucy, who shrugs going back to her soup, grabbing a roll with her other hand, nodding at me to push the crystal butter dish her way. Mama sniffs, the corners of her mouth turning south, then goes back to her soup for a single slurp before spearing me with her dark eyes and I freeze.

She holds me there for a long moment that seems to stretch into eternity as I imagine my Latin tutor, exasperated and nearly in tears because I can’t conjugate worth a fuck.

Then she pinches her fingers to her lips on a kissing sound, and breaks into a rare smile, showing off her crooked teeth with a missing incisor.

“Perfecto.” She grins, winking at me, and I throw up my hands with relief.

Papa looks my way with stern approval and my insides melt into warm honey. Lucy doesn’t even acknowledge his nod as the heat between my legs turns molten and I soak the seam of my pants considering the no-underwear choice may have been a bad one.

His gaze sticks on my chest and I thrust out my tits instinctively , while Lucy and Mama start back on their ongoing argument about whether the table decorations for the party tomorrow night should include variegated poinsettias or not. Mama says they are an abomination. And Lucy says plain red is for old farts.

Papa’s shoulders square as he sits up, his shirt pulling across the flat muscle of his pectorals, his eyes still on my chest, tongue on his lower lip as my nipples do battle with the red snowflakes on my shirt, his spoon is sinking in his fagioli, a torn piece of bread pinched between his fingers as time seems to stop.