MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (11 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Don’t fuck with me, Celine!  Not in the classroom.  This is my job, my livelihood.  One stupid adolescent move and my career could be over.  THIS IS EXACTLY WHY WE NEEDED TO BREAK UP!  And I only invited you here to get a sense of whether you will go quietly or I really have a psycho bitch on my hands.

This is what I imagine him thinking as I stand in the center of his living room while he sits on the couch, stares at me, not a smile or even a warm expression on his face.

I’m wearing the exact same outfit that I wore in class this morning, most of it covered by my winter parka.  Only I added one of my roommate’s blond wigs, the one she uses when she wants to go from straight to curly blond.  Why not go all out?

I took a cab to his house, unable to manage the bike ride in this skirt.

He leans forward and glares, an elbow resting on each of his upper thighs, fingertips from each hand tepeed together in front of his mouth as he’s about to speak.

I silence him by reaching for the jacket lapels, pulling back, and letting the parka drop off my shoulders to the floor.

I stand before the Professor, let one knee bend slightly, place a hand on each hip, swivel slightly as I had done this morning in front of the mirror: tall, lean, shapely, sexy, exposed, available.

His left eye twitches.

I boldly sit on the soft chair directly opposite his couch, cross my long legs like a hot, blond, big-haired secretary from some 1980’s movie about to take more than dictation.

He continues to stare intently, pupils unwavering.

As I did in class I run my fingers along the sheer nylon embracing my thighs.

His eyes follow my hand.

I slide my skirt back just a bit. 

My fingertips play with the black garter straps running from the belt to the stockings.  I let my index finger slip underneath, pull it back, release it so it snaps against my thigh with a firm smack.

His chest heaves.

Deliberately, almost in slow motion, I lean forward and remove my heels.  My chest goes down, my head arches up.  My breasts hang heavy.

He can’t help watching every move.

I uncross my legs and, just for a second, let them stay wide enough apart so he can see down the full length of my thighs into the dark of my black panties.  I’m no longer someone who simply wears underwear, but a slut in lingerie.  I cross my legs again, this time putting the left one over the right.

I realize there’s full power in every part of my body, while at the same time feel disconnected, as if it were someone else’s legs and breasts on display.  Is this how a man feels when he flaunts his penis?

I stretch the fabric of my top down, and my breasts—all the way to the pink swollen nipples—are revealed as they rest in my bra.

The Professor sits back, drops his arms to his sides, which allows for a view of the swelling beneath his corduroys.

Yet he continues to remain silent, expressionless.

I run my finger across my lips once more, then extend my tongue, licking slowly from top to bottom as if it’s his shaft, reminiscent of the time he allowed me only one digit, only this time I have the power.

He crosses his legs tight.

Is he struggling between the lecture he would like to give on how great what we shared last semester was but now it’s time to break totally clean...and how much he wants to hold onto the electricity of teacher and student in our private classroom?

With the allure of the most practiced ingénue I very carefully reach for one end of the black cord that crisscrosses my corset top and pull at the knot, releasing it, allowing me with great ease—as if I’m sensually pulling at his strands of hair—to slowly unravel the string.  I hesitate, look up at him, wanting to make sure he’s seeing everything: my eyes, my hands, and finally the window I open as I part the corset top with my fingers, hook my thumb under one spaghetti strap at a time and seductively slide them off my shoulders, finally exposing to him the delicate white flash of my lean belly and the complete fullness of my breasts cupped into the black lace.

He lets out a soft shivery gasp.

And finally...

I uncross my legs and boldly spread them before him, the nyloned, gartered pathway wide and fully open.  My last siren call.  My release of a magnetic field from my body to his. 
This is yours.  Do you want it or not?

Almost as if he can’t help himself, as if there’s an unseen hand at his back pushing him forward, he slides off the couch onto his hands and knees.  He crawls along the carpet, stalking the short length from couch to chair.  He stops in front of me, rears up on his kneecaps.  He exhales a deep breath as he runs his hands along my legs, seemingly overwhelmed by the feel of nylon encasing the delicate curves of my taut calves and thighs.

I’m more than overwhelmed.  I’m delirious at feeling his touch once more, at knowing he has yielded to the massive power of our connection.  And I want to continue with this particular roleplay.  I want to remain the ingénue in charge and make him desire me so much he can’t possibly let me go.

But as the Professor masterfully strokes my legs, the pressure from his strong fingers starting just above the knees then deep along my inner thighs forcing a rush of blood to my center, I can’t help throwing my head back and welcoming him with a loud, deep, submissive moan.

He pushes my skirt all the way back, nearly above my hips.  He stares hungrily at the stockings, the garter straps, the belt circling by belly, the beautiful lace pattern at the bottom of my panties.  He lowers his head between my legs, takes a very deep breath, luxuriates in my scent, and begins licking and sucking through the panties as if he hasn’t eaten in a week and has just been presented the Feast of Celine.

It takes much strength not to slip off the chair, onto the carpet, into a pond of liquid need.  My eyes close.  My head stays back.  I place both hands on his head, gather my own force of will, and grip and pull and fist his hair in bunches, guiding him all over my most tender spots.

Not that he needs guidance.

He devours me.

He licks and sucks with such force, such pressure that I writhe beneath him, whimpering like a needy kitten.  His tongue shoots fire through my body, expanding my nipples, dilating my pupils.  He lets out his own animal sounds, deep, guttural, as he swallows me into his mouth.

Never felt this desired. 

Never felt this hungry for someone’s attention.

I’m brought immediately to orgasm, immersed in an uninhibited shout that falls on no one’s ears but our own.  Our place.  Our world.  I can’t do without this!

My orgasm does not stop the intensity of his licking and I finally have to use my hands to cast him off lest he steal my remaining breath by stoking incessantly with his glorious tongue the most amazing sensitivity I ever felt between my legs.

He straightens up on his knees again, stares at me.  My blond wig feels askew and some curls hover over my eyes.  But I can see, I can feel all of the appetite in his eyes as they swallow me with the same lust his tongue exhibited.

A night in Randy’s pick-up truck is humming a few bars.

This is a full opera.

He picks me up, his arms so powerful, my body so weak, and carries me up the stairs to his bed.  He tugs off my top, unsnaps my bra, showers kisses on both soft breasts. 

I want to undo his belt buckle, rip off his shirt, but feel frozen by the sheer intensity of his need and desire. 

He tears his own shirt off, undoes his pants, shoves them and his boxers down to his ankles, mounts my body, crushes me with a deeply passionate pressing of his lips against mine as he slides my panties aside and penetrates my rich moistness.

We fuck.

I’m still the slut in a blond wig, sheer nylons, skirt hiked up, he the hungry beast unwilling to take the time to disrobe completely, his body so famished.  Nothing about this is foreplay.  Nothing is slowly sensual.  It’s pure animal fucking by two people who have been sentenced to exist apart but have been granted a glorious reprieve.

Whatever power I felt in the classroom today, on his living room chair as he watched, while holding his head between my legs, melts away like butter on a hot skillet.  I’m all Sub, yielding to what my Dom does, however he wants to do it.

And the first words he speaks, coupled with my passionate, submissive response, confirms the true backbone of our relationship.

“You’re mine, Celine.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You can’t do without this!”

“No I can’t!”

“You understand that this is all I can give and nothing more?”

My hand slides down his back and firmly grips his left ass cheek.  “It won’t stop me from loving you.”

He slides his hand under my ass and lifts me up from the bed so he can enter even deeper.  He goes all the way up inside me and when he withdraws he presses his shaft upward, creating more pressure against my clitoris, making me tremble for more Professor.

He gains momentum and power as his thrusts increase in tempo.  He lies against my chest, his lips by my ear.

He whispers, “If you’re sure you can handle it then I don’t want to quit.”

“I’m sure!  I’m so sure!” I dot his head with kisses.

Which cease once he picks his neck up again, stares straight down at me with his blue lasers, and adds with a slight shift in tone, “But you can’t bring it into the classroom ever again.  If you do, I promise it will definitely be over.”

I nod, whisper back, “I never want it to be over.”

Then he ducks back down and sucks my nipples, giving each one equal attention.  He’s all Professor as he continues to penetrate me deeply and says, “You’re so fucking sexy.  I feel as if I’ve been hard ever since class.”

“I never stop wanting you.”

He shifts into one more gear, some sort of sexual overdrive.  Lifting his chest by pushing up with his palms on the bed, he thrusts again and again, with a powerful energy that sweeps me completely away, forcing me to close my eyes, moan uncontrollably, and receive him again and again.

As my orgasm nears, using his incredible sixth sense that reveals how to pleasure me, he turns me slightly to the side, exposes my ass, and, in the same rhythm of his thrusts, spanks me with an open palm.

This exquisite punishment—for being so naughty in class—takes me over the top and I writhe, moan, scream, inspiring a huge expansion of him as his sensual smacks at my bottom add explosive fuel to the bonfire he has already created...

As we climax together. 

As my threshold has none of the usual building and building to one grand release but encompasses wave after wave of sensation and pleasure without end in sight.

As he continues long after he is drained of fluid, maintaining his erection and energy to give me the swirling, flooding ecstasy my young womanhood demands, relishes, rejoices from, over and over and over.

As I gasp with complete surrender and joy from having him in my arms again and say, “I love being your lover...”

The extra benefit of this rocket-fueled lovemaking is that he’s too exhausted, or perhaps too sated to leave right away.  He rolls onto his back, breathes heavily, as I cuddle into him and he holds my face close to his breast. 

His heart thunders in my ear. 

I kiss his breast.

He strokes my hair.

I examine myself, eyes sliding downward: stockings in shreds, panties torn, garter straps hanging freely, skirt twisted around my waist, blond wig so crooked I just take it off and drop it over the side of the bed; the lipstick feels smeared all over my mouth.

I’ve been totally manhandled in the most splendid of ways, gobbled up, gorged on, inhaled, ravaged.  There’s nothing sexier and more intense than feeling as if you have lost something forever then finding it once again and discovering it’s better than ever.

I cuddle into him even tighter.

But then he releases me, full separation accomplished when he stands by the side of the bed and gazes down.  He says, “I’m glad we’re back together again.  I’ve missed you.”

I coyly turn on my hip just a little, smile seductively.

“But I hope you understand we have to keep it under control.” 

He uses the tone that instantly causes my heart to ram my ribcage: 

“So if it’s okay with you I would like to keep this to just once a week.”

He heads to the bathroom, turns on the shower, and—more firmly than ever—closes the door behind him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

No, once a week isn’t all right with me!  But do I have a choice?

As the cab driver seemingly goes out of his way to hit every pot hole from the Professor’s house to my dorm the rehashing of our recent
dénouement
boomerangs through my brain like the bumps in the road.

Something had to have changed over Christmas break.

Was it really how needy I had acted the night I stayed over?

Did he do some serious soul searching and decide he’s taking advantage of my youth and experience?

With me gone, more free time on his hands, did he become overwhelmed with guilt because he’s my teacher?

I would like to have asked him, point blank.  But him and his damn showers.  He’s like clockwork. 

Why is he so eager to rid himself of sex with me?

I would’ve asked him when he returned from the bathroom if he wasn’t so closed up, I hadn’t just had the best sex of my life, wasn’t still glowing from the joy of being back in his arms, and didn’t have cautionary thoughts that told me I better not press my luck or it might mean a return to the lone loser on the library steps.

I at least should have some educated guesses, some solid speculation.  He’s my lover after all.  But I really have no idea.  And it’s really because, aside from understanding his excellence as Professor Beard, possessing tremendous insight into satisfying the sexual needs of the Professor, I still really know nothing about the inner ticking of
Alan
.

Alone in my room I log on with my laptop.  My roommate’s staying at her boyfriend’s.

I tell myself to be happy.  I tell myself to focus on the delightful reconnection.  I feel his handprints all over my body, relive the pressure of his tongue devouring me, flashback to his weight on top of me, his deep penetration into my body.  It’s all so vivid.  Yet I can’t help picturing myself as such a side thought to a man I love deeply.

And this pains me.

I log onto Facebook.  After checking messages and posting on Katia’s wall, I click on my
edit profile
page.  Even though we’ve been broken up for almost four weeks I haven’t had the heart to change my profile from
in a relationship
back to
single
.  Yet I feel the urge now to correct my status.  I can’t call this a relationship.  Two hours a week?  The option
single
stares back at me like a bully mocking in the schoolyard.

But instead of clicking to make the change my hand slides the cursor to the top of the screen and I open a new tab.

After some quick research I log onto a website called Peeple.net, sign up for the deluxe package, one guaranteeing to reveal
all
about the person of your choice.

It goes on late into the night: public records, court records, places he lived, his publication history, some medical history, cars he owned, bills he paid late, background checks performed, graduation pictures (awkward in high school; better in college).  One search leads to another.  Many things surprise me, some don’t.  It all adds up to Alan Beard...

--Raised until age eight by a single mom who is bi-polar, and, ultimately, was committed to a state institution.  Not clear if the mom is still alive.  No mention of a dad.

--Age eight to seventeen he lived in a number of foster homes.

--Does have an uncle who died and left him some money and possessions.

--On no social media.

--His collection of poetry is called
Odd Boy Out
and was published by a university press and is currently out of print.

--He was cleared of a DUI at the age of twenty-two.  The court records explain he got off because he had not been drinking but had a bad reaction to doctor prescribed Prozac.

After a quick Wikipedia search I discover that Prozac is used to treat OCD, among other things. 

Maybe the habitual showers aren’t about me?

Does he still take medication?

I finally log off and go to bed.  I fall asleep understanding that he has not had an easy life, but I’m still not sure why he prefers such a narrow relationship with me.

My last conscious image of Professor Beard, imagined just before I fall into a restless sleep, is the hard seal of his lips as I pleaded while he broke up with me at the beginning of the semester, followed by the tight moistness in his eyes, the emotional tremble in his hand.  I saw sentiments he wanted to control, but couldn’t.  I saw compassion for me. 

And perhaps our situation also touched a nerve reflective of
his
difficult journey.

I’m not sure.

I am sure, if he does only see me once a week, counting the weeks between finals and graduation as well, that I have only about twenty-four hours left with the Professor. 

One full day! 

I am sure that if there isn’t some kind of breakthrough my lingering frustration will not abate and nothing more will come of this relationship aside from great sex.

If even that continues.

The next morning, after downing a bowl of cereal in my room, and before my film class, I text Katia a complete update of the
Professor situation
, as she likes to refer to it.

In her infinite BFF wisdom Katia’s final exchange of the morning states:

let’s face it, u want a boyfriend