Cody and the Professor’s Wife

NOTE TO MY READERS: I do not intend for anyone to be offended by some of the language and things used in this story. A lot of my characters are actually based off of real-life people, both in appearance and personality, and I just wanted to bring them into a fictional world. Also, because the main character is a deep thinker, there is much more detail not only in the sex scene, but in the events preceding and following the sex. If you love a really in-depth story, this is perfect. Enjoy!

Here’s a more detailed version of Cody’s description and personality: Now 22 years old, he is about 6 feet tall, and has a slim figure, but a muscular build. He looks much like his brother Chris, but something about his face seems to give him a slightly meaner look. His eyes are a deep dark blue, unlike Chris who has more gray in his eyes; in effect they look like two pieces of ice, hence the cold, unfriendly look. He wears his hair long, and usually keeps it in braided locks. And he has spider bite piercings (two rings on either side of his bottom lip). Like Chris, he is covered in tattoos. He has a unique style; it’s like half thuggish wigger, half crazy metalhead. So he likes to wear baggy clothes, but often clothes of his favorite bands or rappers. He’s a hardcore stoner and a crazy party animal, but he takes his education very seriously. Overall a really cool motherfucker, loyal, humble, unselfish, usually chill, and a REALLY deep thinker. But he has a serious temper and anger issues that can cause him to be anti-social sometimes; issues that intensified when dealing with his sister’s boyfriend. Once that Irish temper gets hold of him, there’s no telling what might happen…

Dr. Lattimore, the main antagonist, is a 50-year-old Black man, dark-skinned, and rather heavyset. He keeps his hair cut very clean and has a very professional look about him. But the professional look conceals his true nature, pure hatred of anyone outside his race…


I could tell, going to a predominantly Black college, that I was gonna get some racism thrown at me one time or another. Surprisingly, I didn’t encounter much from my fellow students, not to say that there weren’t a few who were just simply jerks who like to harass the “crazy white boy on campus.” But hey, sometimes I can let my fists do the talking, and if they came too hard at me, I’d meet them off campus and show them that I was about that life. Some didn’t like me after that, but most of them became cool with me, or at least had respect for me, you know?

But after two years there, there was one who just wouldn’t let up on me, and it wasn’t even a student; my American Literature teacher, Dr. Henry Lattimore, was as racist as they come. He never hesitated to make snide remarks about me, and occasionally I’d pass by him and I’d hear him make racial slurs, and bullshit comments about how white people were “the devil’s work.” As if that wasn’t enough, he would never grade my work; he’d take it and in the next class announce that I “didn’t hand it in,” even when he, as well as the rest of the class, knew damn well I HAD handed it in. Even the other students and teachers complained about him; hardly anyone liked him. But of course, the school chancellor wouldn’t hear a word against him; Dr. Lattimore put up a pretty good show of being a “model teacher” otherwise. But for whatever reason, the man just hated non-Black people all around.

So I had to deal with him for the spring semester of my junior year; four months of taunting and slurs from both him and his 21-year-old son, Stanley, who was just as bad. Four months of watching him in his office, glancing at my schoolwork, seeing my name upon it, and casually putting it into his shredder, after which he would give me a sarcastic smile and say “Oops,” leaving me there seething with rage. Needless to say, he flunked me on purpose. If only I could get away with just beating the shit outta him without fear of expulsion…

So now in my senior year I had to take the fucking class again, this time with a fair teacher. My advisor, Dr. Richmond, called me into his office to talk to me on the very second day of the new school year.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said as I sat down in front of his desk. “I’d like to have a little talk with you about your grade in American Literature last semester.”

Of course, he had to bring that shit up. Luckily I managed to just barely hold my rage in check.

“Dr. Richmond, listen, I don’t know what Dr. Lattimore thought he was—”

But he held up his hand to silence me. “I know,” he said, and there was an expression of pity and regret on his face. “I just want to apologize for putting you through all that mess.”

My jaw dropped and my eyes went wide. “You knew?” I said, shocked.

“Yes,” said Dr. Richmond. “I knew he was going to give you a hard time last semester. Many of us teachers here know that he is very prejudiced. And some of us, when a non-Black student comes under our advisement, will try to humble him a little bit by putting them in his class for a semester. You, Mr. Cavanagh, have proven on several occasions that you are indeed a very intelligent young man who takes his education seriously. I simply hoped that Dr. Lattimore would look past that rough, thuggish exterior and that pale skin. Once again, I was proven wrong. So all I can do is offer you my sincere apologies.”

I sat there for a moment, filled with exasperation, and then said “Okay. Well I guess some people just don’t change.”

“Cody…” And now I looked up surprised, for he was usually professional and called me by my surname; rarely did he call any of his advisees by their first name. “Don’t let it get to you. Every school has that one teacher who tends to be a jerk. You’re not alone.”

“I won’t,” I replied. “But if that jerk son of his—”

“Try to put it from your mind for now,” said Dr. Richmond kindly. “And focus on your education.”

I sat with a bitter grimace on my face.

“Listen Cody,” he said, “I know it’s been a tough year for you, dealing with Dr. Lattimore, and then what happened over the summer with your sister—”

He fell silent as I glared at him sharply, now feeling really angry.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I forgot you’d rather not talk about it. Umm, I’ll just go ahead and let you go.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said coldly, and I got up and walked out of his office. I could see a slight look of fear on his face as I closed the door behind me. Yes, I respected him as a man, but I didn’t like people talking about what happened over the summer.

Many people knew a few of the details; my sister Donna was raped by her boyfriend, and I, along with my dad, my brother, and his friend ganged up and beat the fuck outta him. People knew how dangerous I was after seeing the video of the first time I had to beat that fucker’s ass for hitting her, and they heard that after she was raped, the family and I had nearly killed him, which was truth enough; we landed some pretty solid punches that night. At least no one knew that we had also given him a taste of his own medicine, taking turns raping him (my first and ONLY time fucking a dude). But after hearing the story, a lot of people looked at me in a new light; some in fear, others in admiration…

“What up, Cody?”

I hadn’t paid much attention to where I was walking, then I looked around and saw Travis, my roommate and one of my really close friends here at school. I jumped out of my tragic memories and put a smile on my face.

Travis was a really cool dude. I didn’t have too many black friends, not that I’m racist or anything, but he and I got on pretty good from freshman year. He was about an inch taller than me, with a slim figure, but not buff like I am, a bronzish skin tone, and an overall good-natured look about him.

“Hey bro,” I said, pounding his fist with mine.

“So what did Old Man Richmond want?” he asked.

“Eh, just to apologize,” I said the word with bitter sarcasm, “for puttin’ me in Lattimore’s class last year, knowin’ that fuckface was gonna treat me like shit.”

“Ah,” said Travis, frowning.

“Yeah, man,” I muttered. “Damn it, I don’t know why the fuck that motherfucker—”

“Cuz you a retarded ass, pale-faced bitch, that’s why!”

Travis and I looked around. Of course, it was punk-ass Stanley and a couple of his boys, listening to our conversation a few yards away. I clenched my fists tightly, glowering at him.

“Come on, Cody,” said Travis, grabbing my shoulder to pull me away. “He ain’t worth it.”

“Fuck outta here, let that nigga fight his own battles!” said Justin, one of Stanley’s friends.

“Cody—”

“Get over here and say that to my face, bitch,” I snapped back at them.

They laughed heartily.

“This white boy think he’s about that life?” said the other dude, Bernard.

I abruptly started walking back toward them, jerking out of Travis’s hold on my shoulder.

“Y’all don’t fuckin’ know me like that,” I snarled. Immediately they squared up. Travis grabbed hold of my arm and yanked me back.

“Yo Travis, don’t touch me right now, bro,” I said, shaking with anger. “I suggest you get off me.”

“I suggest you get off me!” said Stanley, mimicking my Northern accent. “Bitch, that’s not what your trailer-trash sister told her boyfriend!”

“Oooohhh…”

“Oh shit…”

“Uh-oh…”

“He done fucked up now…”

The words were going through the small crowd that had gathered around us. My rage peaked with the speed of lightning, and I yanked my shirt off.

“Cody, no!” yelled Travis, jumping in front of me to stop me jumping on Stan, but there was no need. Next moment, I was being restrained by someone much larger than me.

“Cavanagh, please just calm down!”

It was Mr. Gaston, one of the security guards, and he held my arms tightly behind my back, though I was putting up a fight, still trying to get at Stanley.

“BITCH I’LL FUCKIN’ MURDER YOU! COME AT ME, HOMIE! I’LL FUCK YOU ALL THE WAY UP!”

“CAVANAGH!” yelled Mr. Gaston, now starting to pull me away from him. “That’s enough! Calm your ass down! Lattimore, go to the security office NOW. I shall meet you in there.”

Two other security guards who had come with him escorted Stanley away, while the students all around us yelled at him.

“That was fucked up, nigga!”

“You lucky that white boy ain’t beat yo ass!”

“Just watch! He gone fuck you up next time he sees yo ass!”

Security was dispersing the crowd, but I was still struggling against Mr. Gaston’s grip.

“LET ME GO, GODDAMNIT! I’MMA FUCK HIS SHIT UP! TALK SHIT NOW, BITCH!” I bellowed at Stanley, who was still being led away.

“CODY,” said Mr. Gaston, in a low but firm voice. “Please calm down.”

I finally stopped struggling, but I was still shaking with fury. It was bad enough that Stanley and his boys taunted me, and even worse knowing that if I did anything to Stanley, Dr. Lattimore had connections with people that I knew could totally fuck my life up. But that was a low blow, even for him, to bring up my sister, let alone for the second time in one day!

“I swear to FUCKIN’ God,” I said, panting heavily, “If he says one more goddamn word about that—”

“Cody,” said Travis, in a slightly higher and somewhat more fearful voice. “He’s NOT worth the trouble, bro. Just let it go.”

Still snarling, I allowed Mr. Gaston to push me down onto a bench. I was so angry, I was almost crying, which is extremely rare for a tough motherfucker like me.

“Here,” said Travis, handing me a cigarette and a lighter.

“Thanks, bud,” I said, lighting up. Travis and Mr. Gaston managed to talk me down, and the cigarette was relieving my stress and anger. Mr. Gaston was one of the guards who was cool with me, not to mention he had experienced a situation similar to mine (a female family member getting raped), so at least he understood my rage.

“There’s nothing you can do about what happened, Cody,” he said sympathetically. “And I don’t like people talking about things like that anyway. I’m going to see if I can get either you or Lattimore moved out of your dormitory building. The best we can do is keep him as far from you as possible. I don’t wanna see you thrown in jail for killing that bastard.”

He didn’t like Stanley or his father either. Like most people at school, he hated the Lattimores’ racist behavior.

“Keep an eye on him,” Mr. Gaston said softly to Travis, who nodded. I tossed my cigarette butt away and stood up as Mr. Gaston walked away.

“You good, my nigga?” Travis asked, patting me on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “I’ll be alright. Let’s go to the room and burn a couple of blunts before dinner.”

And indeed, later, after smoking some good weed and getting my stomach full, by the time I headed back to the room that evening, I was in a much better mood. What was more, Stanley was forced to move across campus to another dormitory hall and was banned from mine. I watched him with a cold grin on my face as he lugged his stuff across campus.


The next day was the monthly student assembly, first Wednesday of each month. Travis and I walked to the auditorium, frankly uninterested in anything the people visiting had to say. Serious about my education though I was, the assemblies were generally boring, and often I’d just sit in the back puffing on my hash oil pen and browsing Facebook on my phone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Dr. Jones, the school chancellor, “may I present Dr. Henry Lattimore.”

There was a light applause all around, except from Stanley and his gang, sitting farther up front, who cheered loudly and proudly.

“Yeah that’s right, kiss up to him, Daddy’s little boy,” Travis muttered beside me, and we both snorted with laughter.

Dr. Lattimore began to speak, and my attention wandered. I could give a fuck less what he said about anything. I hated the man nearly as much as I hated my sister’s ex-boyfriend.

“And as to that,” said Lattimore, “I’d like to bring out a couple of people to assist me. Let me present my brother-in-law, Mr. John Murrey, and my lovely wife, Mrs. Sylvia Lattimore.”

Mr. Murrey came out, and then Mrs. Lattimore, and I felt my jaw drop.

I wasn’t usually attracted to black women, just a sexual preference, but that changed when I laid eyes on the professor’s wife. 45 years old, she was tall and slender, with long, wavy black hair, and her skin was the color of fresh caramel. She had big, light brown eyes and full lips, and very white teeth, the perfect beautiful face. And her figure, man I had hardly ever seen a woman with such a perfect hourglass figure, her large, uplifted tits (she had to be at least a 32-D), her slim waist, and her ass… I’d never seen an ass like that! You could argue that it was an ass like Nicki Minaj, but I could somehow tell that Mrs. Lattimore’s ass was all natural. And her legs, her long, slender legs only emphasized it. She was wearing a tight black dress that made her look even more delicious…

Lust pelted through my body like it never had before, and I could almost immediately feel my dick growing in my pants.

“Damn!” I whispered, a little too loudly, for a couple of people looked around at me. Travis snickered beside me.

“My nigga,” he said, amused, “Slow the hormones down there.”

But I was hardly listening. I couldn’t stop staring at Mrs. Lattimore, thinking of the dirty things I could do to her, wishing that she wasn’t married, and those thoughts kept me so distracted, that I barely felt Travis pulling my arm sometime later, and not until he gave me a sharp jab in the jaw, did I realize that people were getting up and starting to leave. The assembly was over.

“Oh shit, my bad homie,” he said as I looked at him like he was crazy. But he was my bro, so I merely laughed and followed him out of the auditorium. But I kept glancing back at Mrs. Lattimore, who was now talking to Dr. Jones, while her husband put his arm around her waist.

“What does she see in him?” I asked Travis a moment later, as we removed ourselves from the crowd. “Lattimore’s wife? A beautiful woman like that married to an ugly, racist bigot?”

“I don’t know, bruh,” he replied. “Who knows, he might be forcing her to stay in the marriage. If you ask me, she don’t look too happy.”

Looking back, I could see what he meant. Though Mrs. Lattimore was smiling, there seemed to be something forced in her smile, as though she was feeling anything but happy. I pitied her; perhaps she, too, was unhappy with her husband’s bigotry and hatred, perhaps just not happy to be with him at all…

“The fuck you lookin’ at, whitey?”

I looked around to see Stanley walking towards me. I tensed up in defense, but I knew nothing would happen; we were right by the security booth, and Stanley wasn’t fool enough to start a fight right there. And sure enough, Mr. Gaston came walking out a second later.

“Yo, Gaston,” he said, pointing at me. “Tell that fool to keep his eyes to himself!”

I gave him a sarcastically puzzled grin.