MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel)

MY HOT TEACHER

(Volume 5 of the
My Hot…
series)

(a full-length, stand-a-lone novel)

by Isabella Johns

Be sure to read
My Hot Quartet
, the collected edition of Volumes 1-4 of the
My Hot…
series:
My Hot Fireman, My Hot Ménage, My Hot Stranger, My Hot Biker
.

http://
amzn.to/1ihZIji

Copyright 2014 by Isabella Johns

Cover design by Willsin Rowe

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
 

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are eighteen years of age or older.
  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to Willsin Rowe for his beautiful covers and extraordinary artistic vision.

Thank you to Jeremy Edwards for his keen insights and thoughtful editing.

Thank you to my significant other…my guiding light, my muse, my inspiration.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Have you ever wanted desperately to fulfill your deepest needs but just didn’t feel secure enough to go for it? 

Me in middle school: nerd.

Me in high school: super nerd.

Right now, senior year in college, twenty-one years of age, staring hard into my dorm room mirror:

--
disappointed
with my wrinkled cotton skirt hanging limply over nearly straight hips.

--
fretting
over my blue tank top draped over smallish breasts.

--
downtrodden
from yesterday’s haircut chopped way too short, dyed black with pink streaks, and combed into a severe side part that doesn’t quite say
Rihanna
.

I thought for sure that when I left Maryland three years ago, arrived with complete anonymity at Walls, a small liberal arts college hidden in the hills of New Hampshire, that I would finally be transformed into someone secure, sophisticated, and—is this too much to ask?—someone sexy.

Hardly the case...

Freshman Year

“Wassup?”  A very handsome, well-built, buzzed cut, blond boy just walked over at my first off-campus frat party, plopped down beside me on the living room floor, spilled his beer on my leg, too drunk to notice.

After a moment’s hesitation I said, “This party rocks!” instantly regretting the number of teen movies I had sat through. 

“Freshman year way more epic.”

I needn’t have worried. 

“You’re a sophomore?”

He grunted affirmatively.  His eyes were a deep brown.  His Walls Lacrosse tee shirt was about two sizes too small and I could see the clear outline of his hard pecs against the cotton.  I told myself not to talk too much, not to fuck this up.  I had recently redone my Facebook page to have a more mature look, deleting all Harry Potter references, and now I couldn’t help feeling that losing my virginity might be a good next step. 

But the boy wasn’t saying anything, just staring at two other couples in the far corner making out, his eyes a bit glazed.

“You pledge here?” I asked.

“Starting Lacrosse Goalie.”

He said it as if it were his name, so I told him mine.  “Celine.”

“You’re hot,” he said.

“Really?”  This was just how I pictured it.

“Nah.”  Perhaps he could see my disappointment because he added, “But you seem nice.”  He chugged the rest of his beer, threw the empty cup onto the floor.  “Wanna go upstairs?”

No, this was not how I pictured it.  

He didn’t wait for my answer, just stood up and staggered toward the stairs.  Was he that sure I would follow?  Did he really think he was that hot?  Did girls just get up and follow college guys like that?  I rose to my feet.

Starting Lacrosse Goalie entered his second floor room, then pointed to his bed.  I sat.

He started to undo his belt buckle.

“Whoa, can’t we just hang out a little?”

He flashed a sloppy grin.  “You’re funny.”  Then he dropped his jeans and boxers to the floor and the first real-life, adult-sized penis I had ever seen hung limply in front of me.

He nudged it in my direction, as if he expected me to go to work, the vision of it and his stanky beer breath inspiring an immediate retreat backward.

Undaunted, he began stroking it.  I remained frozen, void of interest, not sure how to get out of this politely.

Finally, after no change, he dropped to his knees and found a porn magazine under the bed, pages sticky and torn.  He said, “Ready for you in no time.”  He stood up, placed the magazine on the mattress, jacked hard as he stared at the centerfold.

Fuck politeness!  I darted to my feet and bolted toward the door.

With an aroused tremble in his voice I heard him say, “Wait, I’m ready.  Don’t go.  Oh, no!  Shit...”

I never looked back, grateful at least that I had been given the motivation to exercise greater patience when it came to such an intimate act and had sidestepped the eternal embarrassment of full exposure to a really bad case of
premature ejockulation
.

Sophomore Year

“Let’s do it tonight,” said my boyfriend Roland just before Christmas break, nearly three months after we had started going out.

I was keenly attracted to his intelligence.  He was a theater major, very tall, short dark hair, toothy smile, lean from skateboarding.  His small nose and regular features almost made him handsome.  My roommate told me that he was not someone she thought was typically hot but take the same face and body and put that on a pro athlete or a famous actor and he could easily be Ryan Gosling with shoe lifts.

His looks didn’t matter to me.  He was genuinely nice.  He thought I was funny.  He liked that I was smart.  He was very affectionate.  And how he could kiss.

The first one was heaven and it only got better after that.  He had this way of touching my cheeks and caressing my mouth with his velvet soft lips.

And now he wanted to make love to me tonight.

I had been very cautious since Starting Lacrosse Goalie and was grateful that Roland had put no pressure on me.  But I was in love.  And now it would finally happen.

In his single dorm room, he stripped to white briefs, I to panties and tank top while we settled passionately on the bed.  I craved the feel of him, the way he held my body when we kissed.  I grinded up against him a little harder.  He seemed extra zealous with the hickeys he liked to give along my neck and shoulders.  So much lust hovered between us, along with our beautiful love.  For the first time I began kissing down his belly toward his penis.

I knew he was shy, but I wanted him to know that I was ready, that I appreciated his patience, and that this was the way I had truly wanted to do it: get to know my boyfriend really well, be doubly sure he liked me for who I was and wasn’t just using me for sex.

And boy was I ready.  I had never felt this moist, this open, this achy for pressure and penetration.  Roland was also a virgin, I was on the pill for my acne, so there was no need for a condom.  It was going to be pure and lovely.  Kissing even lower, I simultaneously peeled back his briefs and was about to take him fully into my mouth.

That was when Roland started breathing funny.

I popped back up from under the covers and immediately asked, “Are you okay?”

He seemed terribly short of air.

I flicked on the lamp above the bed.  He was nearly unrecognizable, breathing shallow and rapid, face blotchy with red marks.  “I can’t feel my fingers!”

I reached for my smartphone to call 911.  “No!”  He seemed to will himself to slow down his breathing.  “Shut the light.”

I did.  We lay on our sides, faced each other in the dark.

“Just a panic attack,” he said.

“Have you had one before?”

“Occasionally.”

“No problem.  I’m glad you’re feeling better.  Let’s just lie here.”

We did.  At one point I tried to entwine my fingers with his, but he pulled them away.  I knew something was up, but was too nervous to say anything, content to stay like this until morning.

Except Roland delivered the dreaded words of pain: “I think we should take a break.”

My
breathing became shallow.  “We’re taking
Christmas
break.”

“From this.”

I waited another long moment, not wanting to reveal the heavy feeling in my body, the sudden sweats I was getting, but my words came out choked anyway, “Are you breaking up with me?”

He turned onto his back, lay still, didn’t answer.  Finally I had to ask.  It was something that had crossed my mind because he was so sensitive, took everything so slow, never pressured me to give him an orgasm which made him unlike any other guy I knew.

“Are you gay?”  It had crossed my mind, left my mind.  Look at how he kissed me, held me.  And what about all of the hickeys?

There was a long silence.  Finally, choosing his words carefully, he said, “I’ve never had sex with a man.”

And I was sure that was it.  Any guy I knew would be denying up and down and get pissed I would even think that.  But Roland was one confused boy who had panic attacks when girls touched his penis.

“Do you want me to go?”

He didn’t answer so I knew he did.  I dressed and left, tears streaming down my face as I made the walk of shame back to my dorm room, too embarrassed even to explain when my roommate asked what was wrong.

When I awoke in the morning and noticed the brown hickey marks on my shoulders I felt nauseous.  How could he give me so many hickeys while he knew he was gay?  Was this his way of proving to me or himself that he was straight?  How could the person I loved reject me like this right before the moment of our deepest passion?

I sure hoped he was gay because otherwise that meant it had something to do with me and my self-esteem was in no position for another battering.  But maybe he wasn’t and
taking a break
didn’t mean we were officially broken up?  Perhaps it meant we would just reevaluate when we got back from Christmas vacation?  I would give anything to have it like it was before I was touched his penis.

I got my answer over the next three final exam days.  Roland did not answer any of my text messages and one afternoon walked right past me on the campus green as if I was a complete stranger.

Junior Year

u on ritalin?
 

I had just texted this to Benjamin, the boy sitting next to me in the crowded movie theater.  We had met in a study group and he had asked if I wanted to hang out tonight, but he was constantly fidgeting and seemed unable to focus on the foreign film on the big screen.  His took the vibrating phone out of his pocket, quickly texted back:
adderall

take it tonight?

not sure

wanna go?

awesome

There really wasn’t much to do at Walls.  I didn’t like bars or bowling.  I had sworn off frat parties.  So we headed back toward campus from town.  Benjamin seemed more focused when we walked.

The New England air was crisp and I actually enjoyed his company by appreciating his silence.  I did find out he was from Connecticut, was allowed to take tests untimed because his ADHD rating was so high, and that he preferred research over becoming a doctor.  He was short, my height, wore contacts.

We ended up in front of my dorm.  My roommate was at her boyfriend’s off-campus apartment.  I still wanted some company, it was too early to go to bed, wouldn’t mind spending more time with Benjamin, but if I invited him to my room he would surely think I wanted to have sex and I wasn’t the least bit attracted to him.

“You play Fruit Ninja?” he asked.

“Once or twice.”

“I have it on my iPhone.”  He grinned.  He had very white teeth.

I motioned with my head to follow me inside.

We sat on my bed, played game after game and he wasn’t very good, going crazy as each new fruit popped up, slashing across the screen with his right index finger like a madman, inadvertently blowing up every bomb that appeared.  I kicked his ass.  He didn’t seem to mind.

About a half-hour into our Fruit Ninja-thon I asked if he wanted an ice tea Snapple.  He said sure.  I went to my mini-fridge and scooped out two.  When I turned around, Benjamin was on his feet, grinning maniacally, his dick poking out of his fly, his right hand waving it wildly like a floppy cheese roll.

“Put that away!” I commanded.

He sat on the bed, tucked it back in, zipped up his cargo shorts.

I was about to add that it was time for him to leave and nice knowing you but he looked at me with this great big sorrowful puppy expression and whimpered with deep regret, “It’s not easy being a nerd.”

Tell me about it. 

“That doesn’t mean you can do things like that.”

“I know.”

This was the first time I was exposed to the particular ADHD quality Benjamin had, something fairly common among his scientist peers.  Intellectually, he understood all of the things he shouldn’t do—like mime a blowjob with his tongue in his cheek at a girl in the cafeteria—but somehow couldn’t imagine, or feel the negative emotions that would flood him until he actually did them and was called on it.  Then there was always deep regret and the confession that he was an asshole.  This self-deprecation somehow made him tolerable, and relatively harmless, even at his most inappropriate times.

One winter evening, not long after our movie night, I lay on my bed on another boring Saturday night exchanging texts with a friend.  Benjamin, as usual when we hung out, sat in my desk chair and busied himself with yet another game on his iPhone.  My battery suddenly went dead and I tossed the phone on the bed in frustration.  Benjamin looked up from his game, saw my annoyance, smiled encouragingly, and immediately tried to cheer me up by saying, “You know, Celine, it’s great that we found each other.”