MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (12 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He almost looks like a different person when he enters the classroom on Tuesday sporting a four day growth of beard. 

His cheeks are usually baby smooth.  The brownish-blond hairs covering his face, melding with his short sideburns, make him look closer to his age, even older.  Any age he’s handsome.

Tuesday is now my only night.  I wonder what he does on Thursday nights.  I wonder what he does every night.

That evening is cold and brisk and my heavy wool scarf is wrapped heavily around my neck and mouth.  I struggle biking through the icy streets into a stiff wind.  All I can think about is the comfort of the Professor’s warm arms.

Maybe
comfort
isn’t all I’m thinking about.

After entering his room, before joining him in bed, I use the bathroom.  I pee.  While flushing, I run the tap.  As quietly as I can I open his medicine cabinet.  I’m relieved not to discover Prozac, or any similar prescription meds.  Perhaps those troubles are behind him.  Growing up in multiple foster homes couldn’t have been easy.  To his credit he managed to find a way to get a quality education and become a brilliant professor.  The showers are a little OCD and I notice each product in the cabinet has its label facing out, but who doesn’t have quirks?

After exiting, I notice the Professor still fully reclined on the bed, clad in his teacher clothes, head propped on a pillow.  Only instead of his hands resting on his flat stomach they now hold a rectangular red-ribboned gift box.

He hands me the box and says, “Merry Belated Christmas.”

I let out a girlish shriek, fully expressing my glee.

I wonder if he bought the present over the break but couldn’t give it to me because we broke up, or perhaps when I visited last time he was planning on delivering the
grow up
lecture so a gift would’ve been a little awkward, or maybe since we’re back together—though in modified form—he just recently decided to buy me something.

You think too much
! I tell myself as I attack the bow.

“But I don’t have anything for you!” I exclaim just before lifting the cover off the box.

“Oh, but I think you do,” chuckles the Professor.

From under some tissue paper I remove a crimson colored silk scarf.  “It’s amazing!”

I mean it.  It is. 

I immediately run to the mirror and tie it loosely around my neck.

He says, “I didn’t intend it to go there.  At least not tonight.”

It isn’t long before we’re both completely naked.  I lie on my back.  He takes the scarf and covers my eyes with it, tying it tight enough at the back of my head so I can’t see anything, but not so snug as to be uncomfortable.

He holds my arms out to the side, hands facing up.  With a set of fingers at the center of each palm he begins a slow rhythmic caressing.

I feel instantly vulnerable, as I always do with him, perhaps even more now because I can’t watch him and can only imagine how he looks hovering over me.

I would only allow myself to be naked and blindfolded in front of the Professor.  He’s my lover and we know each other so well, in this place, in this circumstance. 

I would not allow it with Professor Beard or Alan.  Not so much because I can’t trust what they will do, but because I don’t know what they will do.

The beautiful tenderness at my palms, causing surges down my body, is all the Professor’s exquisite touch.  He strokes the inside of my arms, lightly, and I squirm.  It’s such a gentle, delicate tease, yet it seems even more heightened while blindfolded on my back.  I feel the mattress move first, then welcome his warm lips as he leans down and kisses me deeply. 

The roughness of his beard is unfamiliar but his tongue is a best friend.

I say, “I don’t need to see to know how handsome you are.”

He whispers, “Sometimes you don’t need eyes to see.”

He rests his body gently on top of me.  I sigh, welcoming the warmth of his flesh, the sensual blanket that’s his body.  He kisses my mouth, neck, throat.

Though a side of me does not take to being an object existing simply for male pleasure, it’s thrilling to be like this: on display, so available to the whims of my Dom.

His lips touch my breasts and my sigh becomes a moan.

All through high school I had such ambivalent feelings about my boobs.  I so desperately wanted them to grow larger, but they refused.  They attracted sarcasm simply because of their petiteness.  He showed me that they are glorious, full, responsive, and the bequeather of many amorous gifts to the rest of my body.

My nipples seem to have a life of their own.  Just the anticipation of his mouth or fingers approaching equips them with springs that launch every time to greet the Professor’s touch.  He kisses them, licks them, sucks them, bites them lightly.

The more he leads me on this sightless journey the better I understand the reason for my blindness.

Without the barrage of light, without the search for his features and reactions, my other senses become intensely more heightened.

And it’s wonderful.

So completely available as he takes complete advantage, wandering down my stomach with the lightest of kisses.  I groan now.  Does it seem so loud because of all the pleasure I receive or because of my elevated hearing?

I want that mouth on my pussy.  I’ll do anything to have his tongue on my spot.

It doesn’t surprise me when he says, “You would do anything for this, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” I murmur.  “Yes!”

He massages my legs.  He’s a master at making me wait, building my expectations, and delivering at my neediest moment.

His forceful hands spread my legs, exposing me even more.  Then his fingers are at the soles of my feet, kneading, caressing.  He knows exactly how to rub my feet, not so rough that it hurts but not so light that it makes me flinch.  It makes my heart soar.  I’m so grateful to be back here, with him, to know, at least, that he wants me with the same passion.  There’s nothing else right now but this room, this bed, his body, his touch, my body, my man.

He lifts the right leg up and the wetness of his mouth is so intense as his lips come down on my big toe...and suck.  There’s darkness in front of my eyes but the full brightness of pleasure behind them.

“I’m yours, Professor.”

“Yes,” he mouths between sucks.

He’s so patient, giving every toe on each foot equal attention.  No paint by numbers with this guy; his brush is simply his hands, mouth, tongue, body, and elegant manhood.

Done with the toes, he holds my right leg up and licks behind my kneecaps.

“I love you, Sir,” I say during an involuntary spasm.

“The power of your emotions, the openness you achieve makes you absolutely wonderful,” he responds...with a surprising touch of envy.

Feeling is all I absorb.  I can’t see.  It’s dark but oh so clear.  How awesome to hear his praise.

Then the same spot behind the other knee.

My pussy is so damn wet and he hasn’t even touched it! 

His hands caress the insides of my thighs.  It’s as if I lie in the dampness of my own great desire and any part of him that grazes, like a bared electrical wire, sends jolts from head to toe.

If I get any hotter I will set off the room’s smoke alarm!

Then he’s off me and I hear him at the bottom of the bed then feel his warm breath between my thighs.  I part my legs wider for him.  He touches me there.  The breath that has been so warm turns cool as he blows lightly on the surface of the lips, stoking my already swollen passion.

How I squirm.

“Please,” I murmur.

“Please what?”

“Lick my pussy, Professor.”

“You like this?”

“Love it.”

“You need this?”

“Always,” I say with force.  “Every time,” I say with conviction.  “Every day,” I say with longing.

As if rewarding the intensity of my pleas he begins to lick the bottom of my pussy, then makes slow, deliberate circles around my opening: up the sides, along my belly, back down to the bottom tender spot.  It makes me open like a flower about to bloom, one spilling rich nectar.

With no visual distractions, with only sensations in the dark, this teasing, this patience, this glorious attention literally makes my body and heart
ache
for more.

“You’re my only teacher,” I whimper.

Then he licks me straight from bottom to top and I cry out.

How can I have this pussy for so long without knowing that it can make me feel this good?

He doesn’t give in to the temptation to plunge deep, go fast, and respond to the need within me.  Always patient.

He just licks, lightly, and it makes me shiver.  He circles my clitoris the way he did my pussy and I would beg him to take it into his mouth if he gave me permission to beg.

He flicks the tip of his tongue and I groan deeply, so fucking hungry for whatever he wants to do to me, however he wants to open my body and mind.

He finally enters and lathers his thick moistness against my inner walls and my fingers clutch the sheets, balling the material tightly into my fists.

I come instantly, but he refuses to go with my flow and finish me with frenetic thrusts or licks.  He remains ever so slow and I scream as my body makes up for his lack of force and I arch my hips and mash against his face and force him to end in a style that make my fingertips tingle.

He’s smart enough to pull back when I’m done because any further contact would heighten the extreme sensitivity he has already produced.

He emits sounds of pleasure and I imagine him smiling at the art he has created. 

Yes, a true artist. 

Where did he learn all of this? 

How can I ever have sex with anyone else? 

How can I ever be in someone else’s arms?

Then without fanfare, as if he can’t wait any longer, he’s on top of me and deep inside my pussy which welcomes him with full elation.

I love how hard he always is around me whether I touch him or not.

He kisses me deeply at the same time.

We make love.

It is love. 

I know he has to feel love to do it like this.

I feel so close to him at this moment, so intimate, that I want to share everything.

I want to tell him that one day a week is not enough.

I want to tell him about my online search into his past and apologize for it.

I want to ask him if his inability to love has to do with me or is it that he can’t love anyone?

Right now it doesn’t feel like a Dom doing his Sub, just two people making love with deep tender feeling.

Then, almost as if he understands where my mind’s going, or perhaps because his is going to the same place, he presents a sharp detour.

With his face right on top of mine I hear him say, “Imagine another woman is here.”

With his lips almost closed he touches his mouth against mine with the fullness of the facial hair surrounding it.  The he pulls back. 

“Imagine she is here, with us, and lowers herself onto you.” 

He leans forward again.  He extends his tongue just a little and I feel its soft moistness against my mouth emerging from the bush of his beard.

He’s so close his lips graze mine as he speaks.  “She is here.  She wants to give pleasure to you.  She wants to receive pleasure from you.  She wants you to lick her.”

The tip of his tongue parts my lips and his hair presses against my mouth once again.

I can’t see the woman, but I feel her presence.

This is absolutely the last thing I ever pictured myself doing and had anyone asked before this moment if I find this concept arousing I would’ve laughed and said
no way
.

Yet I lick the tip of his tongue just as he licked the tip of my clit then I enter his mouth as I would a pussy.

He continues to drive into me, his penetration going deeper and with more purpose.  The idea that we’re making love and another woman is sitting on my face being pleasured by my mouth is hands down the dirtiest thing I can think of.

Perhaps why all of it makes me so hot!

Maybe it’s the powerful energy of his ingress, maybe it’s the loss of sight, maybe it’s the eroticism of my first (almost) threesome, but I lick the feminine shape of his mouth, tongue, hair with great passion as I feel his cock swell, spasm, spurt into me as we both come with a rough hard force that causes us to bellow deeply with uninhibited pleasure.

He withdraws, collapses next to me.  He gently removes the blindfold.  I shield my eyes from the light.  He studies my face.  “You okay?”

“Where did you come up with that one?”

“Just a bit of fantasy.”

“A real one?”

“Is it for you?” he asks.