MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (4 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Tonight.  Same time.

I see this note printed in black on a scrap of white paper resting on my usual chair as I am about to sit down in class on Thursday.  My heartbeat immediately revs to Autobahn speed. 

Via the internet I found out that his first name is Alan, that he graduated with a B.A. from UCLA and a PhD from Stanford, has published one book of poetry, taught at a community college on the west coast, and is probably twenty-nine years old.

I haven’t been doing much else but trying to keep up with my schoolwork and thinking about Professor Beard and my evening at his place.  I’ve even been blowing off Benjamin, someone who has been a loyal but vexing friend since last year.  I feel bad about it but it has been really difficult to hang out with him these days after all that has been going on emotionally. 

It’s the first time I understand what sex can be about, the connection, the feeling, the closeness, though I have to admit that as cool as I was at the end there’s no denying the Professor opened my heart and that I had to close it up real fast before I revealed some sort of possessiveness or expressed some inner need he’s not willing to fulfill...why Katia recently got dumped by the boy she thought was the love of her life.

I have difficulty concentrating on the class discussion about the Bloomsbury Group because my usual imaginary undressing of him is so much more vivid now that I know exactly what’s underneath.  The prospect of kissing him again, feeling his arms around me once more, taking him inside, leaves me fully perspired.

I’m more than willing to settle for mind blowing sex.

At 9pm I ring his doorbell, but there’s no response.  The door is slightly ajar and I step into the living room, call out for him.  The first floor is empty so I go upstairs.  In his room I find him standing, completely naked, feet balanced athletically apart.  I can’t help tracing my eyes along his body: the powerful legs contoured by thick quads and sturdy calves from all of the bike riding, the wonderful soft patch of brownish-blond hair on his chest, the wispy trail that leads down to his sturdy manhood, already partially aroused.

“I’ve been thinking of you,” he says seductively.

So fucking hot. 

I respond with, “I love your body.” 

Oops, I shouldn’t have used the L word.

“I love yours,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yes.  You’re beautifully shaped and have amazingly soft skin.  Your lips are wonderful and warm.”

I’m getting even hotter.

“Undress.”

I comply.

“Come here.”

I do, standing very close, my eyes directly opposite his muscular chest.

He says, “Kiss me.”

Hell yeah.  Once again on my toes, his warm mouth caressing me as our tongues slowly extend, meet, join.  For both of us it seems when we just kiss it conjures all of the raw connection of the first time outside the Fitness Center.

When we stop, regain our composure, he says, “You always kiss like you mean it.”

I look at his blue eyes.  “I do mean it.”

“Like you love it.”

“I do love it.”

“Tenderly.”

“I love that, too.”

“My baby girl.”

Oh shit, there’s no playing it cool when he talks to me like this. 

We’re still standing when he reaches for me again, pulls my nakedness up against the heat and muscle he possesses.  We kiss again.  Only this time his right hand trails down my body and then he presses his open palm between my legs on the place that is already moist with deep arousal.  I moan with pleasure, a sound that gets lost in the sensual joining of our lips.

“You like when I touch you there?” he asks.

“I like when you touch me everywhere.”

“You need this?”

“Yes.”  I need him. 

  “As do I.”

Even hotter.

My hips, as if they have a mind of their own, begin to rotate just a bit, sway slightly, seeking more force, perhaps some penetration from his strong sturdy hand.

But he keeps his pressure even, his tempo the same, making me throb that much more.

“You want this, Celine?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You’re a fast learner.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I respond dutifully, and he smiles at me, rewards me with a deeper rub between my legs as he licks my neck.  I swoon into his strong arms, glad he has one hand free to reach around my back and hold me up.

“Do you want me to make you come?” he asks.

“Yes, Professor.”

“Do you want me to make you beg for it?”

“I do.”  It’s true.  I never thought I had this bent, but I’m totally into his authoritative talk and artful teasing.

“You can’t come unless I give you permission.”

“I understand, Sir.”

He moves his palm up and down, faster now, my gush giving all the lubrication he needs.

I groan and bury my head in his chest, ready to give in completely.

“Control it,” he says cautiously. 

He knows exactly what I’m feeling, what’s happening, which turns me on even more, but somehow I know I must resist letting it go if I want his approval.

“Good girl.”

I want to be his good girl.

“Ask?”

“What?”

He quickens his pace, bites lightly at my ear, pulls me so tight his swollen cock rests against my belly as he edges me further. 

“You know what.”

“May I come, Professor?”

“Hardly convincing.”

“Please, Sir, please, I need it so bad, I need you so bad, may I?”

“Are you begging?”

“Yes.”

“Are you close?”

I’m on fire.  I can barely speak. 

“Any second...any time you tell me to.”

“Good.”

“May I?”

“No.”

I groan my disappointment but it doesn’t last very long because he pulls his hand away, presses the full dampness of it against my back, bends his legs, his other hand behind my knees, and with very little effort lifts me off my feet and places me gently on the bed.  Without missing a beat, in complete rhythm he is inside me, deep, my open moistness greedily embracing his penetration, timed simultaneously with his tongue darting down my throat.

And then we go at it again, for what seems like forever, writhing, twisting, bucking, kissing, hugging as I take him so deep inside he touches a place I didn’t know existed even in my most vivid fantasies. 

There’s no more talk, just the frenzied exchange of this intense passion that has been locked inside me while I knew somehow he was the man to release it, and, yes, match it. 

We grasp for air, grip each other around the waist and back as if we might fall into something completely bottomless if we somehow let go.

I don’t want this to end.

I can’t get enough of this.

But without realizing it I shout, “May I come now, Professor?”

“For God’s sake
yes
!” he screams, “you beautiful, sweet, sexy woman!”

Maybe it’s because I feel the full spurt of his feelings at the same time, maybe it’s because I’m so grateful he’s finally giving me permission, or maybe it’s just the sincerity and romance of his last words, but I explode an orgasm so deep it’s like an oil drill suddenly hitting the mother lode as it rises up between my legs and gushes out of my mouth in one monster roar.

He doesn’t seem to give a shit about the neighbors now as his explosive sounds match mine completely.

And then finally we’re apart, chests heaving with hard breaths, staring up at the ceiling.  I don’t know what he’s thinking but for me it’s like
what the fuck just happened?

We can’t possibly talk or move for several minutes until I sense he has recovered enough and is about to make his abrupt exit to the bathroom.  I manage to stop him with something that’s a major understatement, “You know this is very intense for me.”

“Same here.”

“Very new.”

It’s obvious it isn’t new for him.  He turns toward me.  “I can sense that on one level, but it blows me away how much you let go.”

“I guess boys at Walls haven’t really been into me.”

He sits up by the edge of the bed, sucks in another recovery breath, stands.  I can’t help branding his sexy body again with my eyes.  He smiles and says, “They’re just too immature to see you’re one hot babe.”

Wow!

He’s off to the bathroom for a shower.

I want to call him back, talk some more.  But I understand my time is up.  I want to ask why he’s so quick to close up after it’s over but I can imagine what he’d say:

“C’mon, Celine, look at our age difference, look at our time in life, look at the risk of teacher/student, what more can come of this relationship?” 

He probably feels that by keeping the romance and the more personal emotional connections out of the picture it will be easier to move on once the fire is out.  Yet I can’t keep opening up and closing like this without getting closer.  I’m only human.  And so is he.

Celine, Celine, chill,
I tell myself. 
Enjoy it for what is.  Enjoy it while it lasts.

Yet I can’t help getting out of bed to snoop at his desk.

I look through the half-graded papers and see that I received a B.  What?  Obvious there will be no favoritism from him.  With all of the distractions in class I probably deserve a B.  Of course Sharon got an A, but aside from being a sexy flirt she’s a good writer.

I open a few drawers.  I see a folded piece of pink stationery.  I know this is naughty, but there’s so little I understand about him.  I cock my head, hear the shower still running, then take a peek.  It’s dated over a year and a half ago.  I read:

Alan,

I’m sorry I couldn’t give you all that you need.  I will always love you.

Monica

Someone before he moved to New Hampshire.  West Coast.  Good.  Seemed pretty intense.  Didn’t seem to end well.  I put everything back as I found it.  I have no right to be nosy.  I have no right to be jealous or possessive.  He’s making it clear what this is, sort of.  I mustn’t develop expectations, nor make him feel as if I need more.  I want nothing to interrupt the intensity of what we do have.

The shower stops and I hustle back to bed.

He comes in.  I get up to pee.

He has on gym shorts and a tee shirt when I return.  He seems to enjoy watching me get dressed which makes me feel sexy.

This time, at the door, he at least kisses me lightly on the lips.

I fidget in my seat as I bike home, perhaps a bit sore, but eager to burn off the energy of all that we shared...and all that we didn’t share.

At my room I have trouble sleeping.  I turn on my laptop under my covers—not wanting to disturb my passed-out roommate—log onto Facebook.  I smile at a photo Katia tagged of a little girl in a Wonder Woman costume.  I open my
edit profile
page. 

I’m not on Twitter and I know I can be discreet, though after tonight Katia will need the whole story.  Despite how weird it is, how quickly he can distance himself afterward, it’s still very exciting, especially because today officially makes it forty-eight hours, the unofficial Walls timetable for something more than a simple hook up. 

So, for the first time since going out with Roland sophomore year, I change my status from
single
to
in a
relationship
.

Though I’m still not sure what kind of relationship it is.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BEWARE OF THE HAIRSLASHER!

It’s a Saturday afternoon, I’m mindlessly checking my email, thinking about you-know-who when a new message pops up with this bizarre heading in the subject line.

I’m sure it’s spam.

The Professor and I have been seeing each other every Tuesday and Thursday evenings, the days Modern British Fiction meets, but I can’t even call us
Friends with Benefits
.  We’re not friends!  My usual two hours each of these nights are clearly the highlight of my week, but that’s all it is...
time together
.

I notice this new email is campus-wide, something sent from the Provost, so I open it.  I read about how an unidentified male in a full ski mask has been sneaking up on women from behind and cutting off locks of their hair with a very sharp knife then running away.  No one has been seriously hurt but the local police have been called in.  It goes on to request that any suspicious activity be reported and to recommend that whenever women are in a public place—library, cafeteria, computer lab—they sit with their backs against the wall.

The Hairslasher? 

Something about Walls, its isolation, its small student/teacher ratio, its reputation as a decent academic school that lets some in who are smart but not focused attracts a small population of eccentrics: germaphobes, closet livers, self-cutters.  In my case, it was the fact that they don’t require the SATs and my good grades earned me an academic scholarship.

Maybe this guy’s the one who cut my hair the day before my first class!

Though the haircut is growing on me: so different from any of my previous presentations.

In the coming days there’s another Hairslasher incident and the Professor offers to pick me up in his car, though it would have to be at a discreet place.  I’m happy his concern overshadows the risk of being caught but I tell him it’s not worth taking a chance and that I’m safer on a bike than walking the few blocks to meet him at a quiet spot on or off campus.

After each encounter I play it as cool as I can with him, often flicking my own inner switch before his usual dash to bathroom.  But once he’s in the shower I continue to investigate his room, desperate to understand what makes such a passionate man able to turn it on and off so easily, eager to know more about this teacher who plays my body and mind as if it’s his personal violin.

His computer is on one day and I can’t help reviewing his website and search history.  I see a Word file called
Untitled Fiction
and assume it something new that he’s writing.  I resist the temptation to open it.  I notice he read all of the local articles on The Hairslasher.

*******************

The next time I see him he announces that tonight I’ll only have use of one of his fingers.  I laugh, then realize he’s serious.  He orders me to undress.  I do, so well-trained that I react to his authoritative tone with a quick rise in my breathing.  He keeps on his shorts and tee shirt.

He chooses the index finger of his right hand and holds it to my lips.  He doesn’t have to say anything.  I kiss it, tenderly, licking, sucking his finger as if it’s his shaft.  The taste of his flesh, the hardness in my mouth makes me even wetter.

I fellate the finger for several minutes, then he begins brushing it along my face, moistening my skin with my own saliva, which suddenly has a strong sensuous scent.  He works his way deliberately down my neck, to my breasts.  I stare into his eyes, deeply, and he returns my gaze.  I desperately want to reach out and pull him to me, but I know better.  Last Thursday I had bucked my hips when he was inside me after he had commanded that I lie perfectly still and he aborted our session.  I will not disobey again. 
              This guy is Disney World.  I never know what to expect, but it’s always an adventure.

The finger circles my left nipple, still moist.  When it goes dry he has me re-lubricate with my mouth.  He teases my nipple unmercifully with just the tip and the sensations light a fire through my chest and I let out a soft moan, which pleases him.  He recently told me that one of his favorite things about me was that my emotions are always genuine.  Though I’ve certainly play-acted my coolness afterward I’ve never faked something during sex.  The veracity of what we share is a real turn-on for us both.  Everything he does stokes my flames.

Now the right nipple and they are both at attention.  My pussy aches for pressure, from his hand, mouth, anything to build on the deep tingles he has already inspired, but I doubt this will happen.  He always does exactly what he says.

I squirm and moan as he marks me with his fingerprint.  I don’t know why I hadn’t anticipated that he could do all of this with a single digit; nothing at this point should surprise me.

He rubs, teases, twirls, flicks, pausing only to allow me to re-lubricate.  I hate when the pressure leaves my nipple, but love when he enters my mouth, only to regret when he goes back to my nipple while getting lost to the sharp sensations surging through my chest.  Just as I think I might actually come from this he starts to work down my stomach. 

I open my eyes and stare at my Professor again, wondering where he got this advanced degree in exquisite foreplay.  I cannot read a thing in his intense blue eyes as he watches his finger trace my belly.  Except that he seems eager to satisfy me, explore what will get a reaction, and, even better, make me lose control.  I’m not sure what arouses him more: me being pleasured by him, or him being pleasured by me.  I’m not sure if he dominates me to open my mind to new sensations, or because he has a need to control.  There’s an edge to him sometimes in how he withholds my pleasure if I don’t follow his instructions exactly.  But he’s always pleasant before and after.  Yet he perpetuates his role as the Professor throughout our lovemaking, never breaking character. 

If it is a character.

He turns me on my side and works the finger down my spine to the full curve of my ass.  The electricity of his touch along my butt cheeks makes me jump and he smiles.  It’s all so dirty and intimate at the same time.

He says, “One day I might tease you there.”

I look at him with hunger.

“But not tonight.”

He brings the finger back to my mouth for re-lubrication and I smell the aroma of my flesh mixed with his and it increases the tremble in my thighs.

Early on I realized he takes me to some sort of sexual zone where all of my senses are heightened, as if under hypnosis.  His whispers in my ear are like melodic thunder.  The scent of him brings an overwhelming rush of sensations that quicken my pulse.  Swallowing him is a taste both sharp and arousing.

And now the scent of his finger is intoxicating. 

I can never quit this man!

He lowers his finger to my pussy.  He takes his time again, circling it as he did with my nipples.  I whimper now, a wet pool of lust and desire as he makes my pussy feel so alive it’s as if it’s another being.

He enters, barely, and I groan loudly.

Always slow, always patient, but the need there’s just so great and I’m so overjoyed to feel him inside that I can’t help emitting completely unfamiliar harsh throaty sounds.

He works it in, deeper, deeper, at a snail’s pace.  I don’t know where he gets his patience, as I would be humping that finger at least thirty minutes ago.

The finger faces up as he enters but instead of going in and out as he has done in the past he curls the top half of the finger back as if it will retreat above where he entered.  Then it finds this place, this slight ledge to rest on inside me, and the sensations become so acute that my whole body writhes and twitches.

“Your spot,” he says.

“What spot?” I manage.

“My spot now.”

“Yes.”

“My G-Spot now.”

“Everything’s yours.”

He crouches now, between my legs.  He moves the fingertip inside me, on the spot, side to side and I quiver helplessly, jello throbbing in the mold. 

And I begin to moan, because truly I have never felt anything like this and somehow the touch there revisits every place that finger stroked this evening: from my mouth to my lips to my nipples to my belly to my back to my butt cheeks...and now this inflamed spot.  I cry for release, but he remains slow, making my body do the majority of the work, which it does, until finally, uncontrollably, I begin to come. 

It is not my usual orgasm, but a deep sensation that vibrates inside me, takes on a life of its own, and spreads through me at gale force, so intense it causes me to spurt fluid while he teases my spot over and over, without break in rhythm, as the two minute climax rises to its full peak.

He smiles, savoring my arousal and his reward as he withdraws then licks his soaked finger with his tongue.

But the acute sensations within me don’t abate and my body continues to spasm and shake on its own, inspiring a moment of panic.  Instantly intuiting my helpless reaction he goes against tonight’s ground rules and uses both hands to pull me forcefully into his arms, smothering my body against his, lost against the firm, furry fullness of his chest while he strokes my hair and says, “Everything’s wonderful, baby girl.”

And I know everything
is
wonderful because I’m in his arms and despite how distant he can be sometimes I never feel so taken care of, so secure, as when he embraces me fully, always inspiring the supreme wish that he never let go.

There’s no play-acting, no chance to flick my switch to
off
...as all of my deepest needs bubble and rise, casting off every remnant of denial as I mouth into his breast, “I love you, Professor, I really do.”

Instantly I know my words can be some kiss of death.

But there’s nothing I can control tonight.