MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

On Friday evening I have my yoga class in the Fitness Center and it seems the love Gods are finally smiling down on me. 

As I sit in the yoga room trying to contort my body into extremely unfamiliar positions, Professor Beard comes in—clad in gym shorts and a loose gray tee shirt—heads immediately to the cardio room and plops that sweet ass down on a stationary bike.  The yoga and cardio rooms are closed in by glass walls so I have a perfect view of him as I breathe, hold, WATCH, exhale, stretch, hold, WATCH, and start all over again and again. 

As in class, he’s very focused, very intense, riding that bike hard, legs churning, shoulders leaning forward.  Soon a delightful sheen of sweat forms along his face and drips down his neck.  Oh to taste just one drop.  I try to follow the yoga instructor but my English teacher has all of my attention.  The vision of him pounding the pedals while I manipulate my own body rockets my pulse, leaving me feeling fully charged.

As an extra bonus, Professor Beard, without breaking rhythm, reaches his right hand down to the hem of his tee shirt, lifts it up to wipe the sweat off his face, treats me to the full sensual vision of an elegant washboard of abs.  I let out a soft moan...quickly glance around hoping my sound wasn’t too far off from an appropriate yoga groan.

How would Rihanna handle all of this?  Probably the same way she does in her videos: leave the class instantly, walk right up to the professor and ask that Rude Boy if he’s ready to boom boom boom.

But I’m no Rihanna.  The haircut certainly proves that.  But I am the new Celine, the one who needs to release this very horny mix of sexual desire and unrequited need before she explodes.

Class ends.  I reach for my towel, stand, dry off, about to head to the cardio room, but make the unfortunate mistake of looking in the wall of mirrors across from me.  I see a haircut that doesn’t fit my skinny frame and longish neck.  I see reflections of other girls in super-tight shorts perfectly contouring their shapely asses, in skimpy tank tops exposing full ripe breasts.  I see my baggy basketball shorts that make my butt look fat even though it’s not.  I see my meager breasts lost in the sprawl of my oversized tee shirt.  But the worst: sweat stains the size of half-moons under my armpits. 

All of it inspiring a revisit to

The girl who choked trying out for the high school tennis team.

The person who failed her driver’s test three times.

The smart student who dropped the ball every time she took the SATs.

The college freshman who vowed to overcome her shyness by making tons of eye contact, saying hi to almost everyone, engaging all who would listen in conversations about where they were from and what their major might be, only to come off even more nerdy.

I know perfectly well the odds are against it, but he told me himself to be bold, to seize my passion, to ignore rejection.

I turn to walk across the gym floor toward the cardio room, but become instantly disheartened because Professor Beard is gone.

But then I catch him out of the corner of my eye, sweatshirt on, exiting the building.

I rush to the locker room, splash some water on my face, put on my jacket, and bolt out of the Fitness Center.

I glance both ways and finally see him in the distance, walking in the dark along a secluded path, heading toward a near-empty parking lot.

“Professor Beard!” I shout.

He stops.

I jog over to him, mind in a whirl, breathing heavily, thinking about what I’m going to say:

--How do you like Walls so far?

--I really enjoy your class.

--Would you like to head over to the snack bar for a smoothie?

When I get to him, I stop abruptly, just inches away, so close my cheeks feel warmth from his breath.  He looks at me curiously, then recognition sets in and that sensuous mouth breaks into his friendly, sweet smile. 

“Why hello, Celine.  How are you?”

I’m immobilized for a second, my powers of speech completely failing me.  I’m afraid if I open my mouth with any of the things I thought of saying I will sound like a kindergartener again.  I want him to know the Celine he inspired last night, the one bold enough to express her desires while her roommate slept just steps away.

Without further thought I reach my hand toward his face, duplicating his move in the classroom, and brush the hair off his forehead.  Then I tip up on my toes, lean forward, and kiss him passionately on the lips.

He’s stiff at first, but soon gives in, responds.  I extend my tongue and he meets it with his. 

I love to kiss. 

At least I learned something from Roland. 

Professor Beard’s heat, his lips, his body touching mine, the feel of his tongue in my mouth creates a huge rush that travels down from my scalp and up from my toes, inspiring an overwhelmingly pleasant ache deep inside.  All of the emotions from last night—the hunger, the lust, the affection—seem doubled as he reaches for me, pulls me even closer, my arms going around those shoulders I had fantasized so intensely about. 

We are finally forced to pull back, separate, to catch our breath.  His eyes search my face with a confused look.  I stare at him head-on, completely unapologetic.  I thought for sure that when I made my move he would immediately recoil and give me the same
back-off, perv
look I had given Benjamin the night he whipped it out.  Instead there was a softening, a yielding to the power of our kisses.  How wonderful to be a little
bad
.

He says, “You know I just bought a house here and I could lose my job.”  I don’t blink.  “But I must say, I’m in awe of your passion...”

CHAPTER FOUR

“You sexy bee-atch!” says Katia into my ear.

I giggle back into my phone as I lie on my dorm bed.  I had just given Katia the recap of my physical and emotional responses to my new English teacher, followed by the play-by-play of our magnificent kiss, just he and I, all alone on the discreet path heading toward the parking lot, ending with his glorious declaration of awe (I’m pretty sure no one has ever been in awe of anything about me).  “Then I just turned and walked off.”

“That’s even sluttier!”

“So true!”  I can’t stop laughing.  “But I was afraid it would turn awkward, or I would say something stupid and ruin the moment.”

“You probably came off even cooler.”

“Do you think so?” I ask, suddenly all serious.

“Yes,” says Katia firmly.  “You are cool.  You’ve just been hanging around with the wrong boys and now you finally made a move on a
man
who can appreciate you.”

Katia always seems to know what to say.  I’ve been enjoying reliving my delicious moment with my teacher, still a bit shocked that I finally made a bold move, but as Tuesday’s class looms in the morning, I feel ready to be sucked back to earth. 

Why would someone as dynamic as Professor Beard be interested in me?  Why would he risk losing his job for someone with such small boobs?  Perhaps for a moment we had connected when I felt him unable to stop and he freely shared his mouth and tongue, but when the reality of who I am sinks in it will be all business.

“You have so much to give,” says Katia, who knows exactly how my insecure mind works.  “You just need someone smart enough to recognize your awesomeness and the maturity to handle your intensity.”

The next day it rains.  A huge storm moves through New Hampshire, thunder exploding outside the classroom window, dark as night even though it’s mid-morning.  Professor Beard greets everyone pleasantly, but no discreet look, no special inflection in his “hey, Celine.” 

I try to concentrate on his lecture and he gives a good one about how important Woolf thought it was that a woman has her own space, her own control away from everything else.  I can’t help thinking though how sweet it is to be in a room full of people who have no idea how wicked the thoughts are that whiz through my brain, that I have turned my teacher into my own personal love object, moving in front of me for my pleasure, ripe for imaginary undressing, his commanding voice echoing in my ears as the most seductive of endearments spoken for my benefit.

But then class ends and reality sets it.  Sharon makes her usual foray to his desk for some flash and giggles and he soaks it all in.  Finally she leaves and the classroom is empty, except for Professor Beard and me.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that, for a moment, I forget that it’s time to leave, that I’m still sitting. 

I stand with a quick, embarrassing scrape of my chair, hastily stuff my pen and notebook in my backpack and head for the door. 

What more can I say? 

My kiss already spoke volumes. 

Truth is, I don’t know what else to say.  How does one take it from here after what has already gone down?

He stops me from exiting by intoning, “Seven Echo Lane, nine pm, tonight.”

I’m startled that he’s speaking to me, but even more blown away after I realize that he must be giving me the address to his house.

I stop, look at him.  We’re just a few feet apart.

“Do you have a car?” he asks.

“Bike.”

“It will do.” 

Then in his strictest professorial voice he adds, “Do not tell anyone, not your best friend, not your roommate, not a Tweet, not a post, or it’s not going to happen.”

I nod enthusiastically.  I will abide by all of his wishes, which means—is that my heart pounding or the storm outside?—that something
is
going to happen.

CHAPTER FIVE

“You look lovely,” says my professor, as if he really means it, as he lets me inside his house.

I had bicycled here in under eight minutes, left my bike in the backyard by the detached garage.  I have on jeans and an embroidered tee, a hooded sweatshirt, unzipped.  He wears jeans as well and a white tee.  I smile, lower my chin, try some deep yoga breaths to slow down my pulse.

The living room, like the house, is compact, sparsely furnished, connected to the small kitchen.  We sit on a brown, secondhand loveseat which barely has room for two so we’re already very close.  He gives me a Professor Beard look, as if I’m visiting to discuss concerns I had with an assignment. 

He says, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

I nod.

“I know your kiss was,” he adds, “but I want to make sure you are.”

I shed my sweatshirt, tug off my tee.  I’m not wearing a bra.  I stare straight into his blue eyes.  He stares at my erect nipples.

Office hour Professor Beard disappears.  He takes my hand, leads me upstairs.  There are two bedrooms, one completely unfurnished.  At the end of the hall is a small bathroom.  A queen-sized bed dominates his room and there’s a master bath just steps away.  On the other side of his bedroom window is a metal fire escape ledge and ladder.

We sit on the bed.

He swiftly removes his tee shirt, looks deep into my eyes, dazing me with his blue beamers. 

Am I in his bedroom, or in the classroom?  Am I imagining this, or is it really happening?  Am I really going to make my wildest fantasies come true? 

I scan his magnificently sculpted torso, clearly defined with the arcs and curves of lean muscle, sitting close enough so that when I take in a huge deep breath I’m made dizzy not by the after-shave/professor scent of class, but by the delicious aroma of his slightly perspired naked upper body. 

I realize, truly, that I am in his house, alone with my hot teacher.

As in class, he has the same confidence and passion, but as he eyes my youthful breasts and thickly swollen nipples, reaches forward, pulls me close, I feel his emerging desire and hunger...for me.

He lowers his face toward mine, at once greedy, but at the same time patient to recapture the magic of our first kiss.

It’s even better.

Better because we are completely alone, breast to breast, I love his body and he says, “You’re very beautiful.”

I’m not sure I am, but by the way he kisses me, the way his tongue delicately enters my mouth, the way he holds me close, I feel beautiful.

He guides me onto my back and lies over me, still kissing.  Gone are all thoughts of the classroom, replaced completely by the thrill of being in his bed, his arms.

He kisses my neck.  I pull him closer.  In between, we help each other undress completely and soon we’re fully entwined, naked.

I don’t have the nerve to look at his lower body, but I feel his hardness against my leg, which further increases my tremble.  I have an urge to reach down and touch it, but hesitate, remembering my fateful last evening with Roland.

We kiss some more.  I love his scent: outdoors strong and clean like pine, one of manly sweat and heat that seems particular to him.  His hair is a beautiful soft texture against my fingertips.  His hands, smooth callus-free teacher’s hands float over my body, touch me, caress me, bind me everywhere for pleasure. 

And he so elegantly takes his time about it.  Kissing, then licking, then sucking my nipples gently, then roughly, sending surges through my body.  No one has ever sucked my nipples before and I almost come.  He tells me that one day he will make me come just by licking my nipples, which thrills me, the prospect of it, and that he’s anticipating another time.

He works his tongue down my stomach and I cry out from pleasure.  He looks at me, for a moment curious, perhaps wondering if I’m still a virgin.

I want to tell him yes, I am, that this moment is so special, that I’m so grateful for what he’s giving me, but he licks small circles between my legs and I’m lost to an act so simple, so good that all of my words are swallowed instantly down my throat, replaced by a sharp rise of blissful sounds. 

I feel frozen, without will, as if there’s no way I can budge from his tongue and that he can stay here all night if he wishes, licking, and I would have no choice but to receive him.

And then even thinking goes out the window...because he makes me come, hard, twice, maybe three times; it’s just so powerful as I grip his hair with both hands and he licks me with complete passion and enjoyment.

He rests on his back, but I’m not tired.  I’ve been waiting a long time for this and no way am I just sitting back.  I begin to replicate for him everything he just did for me.

He tells me I’m wonderful.

I feel wonderful.

My mistake has been boys when I need a man, one who makes me feel like a woman.

I circle his manhood with my tongue, amazed at not only the thick, long size of it, but by its beauty, darkish in color, a perfect smooth head, delicious to taste, extra sweet. 

I touch his balls, stroke them.  To my amazement he lets out a loud groan and grows even larger.  I realize, somehow, despite my inexperience, that I have good instincts.

And then he’s ready.

When he’s ready, I am ready.  Totally ready!  Seems like forever that I’ve been waiting for this beautiful moment.

He’s back on top now, the tip of his penis touching my entrance.  He kisses me passionately and my eyes close.  Each of his touches has already erased so much from my mind: Starting Lacrosse Goalie, Roland, Benjamin and his flag waving dick. 

He holds it in his hand, completely relaxed and patient, somehow giving off the sense that he can remain hard forever.  He asks if I’m on the pill. 

I nod yes. 

He tells me he will use a condom if I like but he has been celibate for almost a year and recently gave blood with no problem. 

I spread my legs wider. 

He brushes the head against my opening and it’s electric.  He keeps doing that and as good as it feels I grow desperate for more, wanting this man deep inside me, filling the void that has grown wider with each passing year.  But he stays patient and finally I open my eyes again, look at his face, for a moment forgetting about
fantasy come true
and simply focus on who he is, really, this man.

“What’s your first name?” I ask.

I realize these are the only words I’ve spoken since entering his home.  Perhaps overwhelmed by it all, or simply afraid again I would say something so stupid, so adolescent he would direct me right back out the door.

He smiles and says, “In class it is Professor Beard.  In my bed it’s simply Professor.”

With that he enters me with just the thick head and I cry out a shivery, “Professor...!”

“You’re so wet!”

This is the exact instant my life has been given a clear dividing point: all that has occurred so far and all that will happen from this moment forth.

This is when the Professor says, with full sensuous authority, “Ask me for it.”

“What?”

“All of it.”

“Ask you for all of it?”

“Yes.”

“May I have all of it?”

“Excellent grammar, but no, not yet.”

“Why?”

“You’ll find out.”

He gives me a little more, I feel more firmly penetrated, and I cry out.

“Do you need another inch?” he asks.

“I need it all.”

More sternly, he says, “I asked if you needed another inch.”

I open my eyes, respond meekly, “Yes.”

“The proper way.”

“
Professor
, may I have all of it?”

“Good girl.”  He gives me another inch, which I greedily latch onto with an inner tightening, grateful that he approves of my response, grateful that he gives me more length.

“Will you do anything for more?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whimper.  I really will.  I want him more at this moment than anything I have ever wanted in my life.

“Show me what this means to you.”

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

In a frenzy of words, an explosion of action, I grab him by the ass and shove him all the way in while I moan,

“Please, please fuck me, Professor.  Goddamn your cock is so fucking big and beautiful and I need it so fucking bad and I’ve been waiting so fucking long for this so please, Professor, please, fuck me deep and hard and for as long as you want and come in me as many times as you want because this is absolutely the sweetest fucking thing in the universe!”

Damn, if the Professor isn’t my stallion and I his rider, my outburst like a good swift kick because he does everything I ask, going all the way, deep, hard, thrusting uncontrollably, trying to match the passion he ignited with his sensuous touch and forceful wordplay.

We wrestle, grab, clutch, moan, scream, and fuck as if there’s nothing else going on in the world but this nuclear bit of lovemaking.

We both come.

He cries out.

I scream, tearing through the flesh of his back with my nails as he presses his nipple into my mouth to keep me from disturbing the neighbors or maybe just to give me one more taste of his delicious saltiness as I suck his nipple hard while exploding into wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure.

And then we’re done.

He rolls off me, we have to separate, lest we catch fire.

Rapid heart beats slowing down.

After a few long moments our breathing returns to near-normal and we look at each other.  He smiles.  I smile.  I reach for him, ready to embrace my lover for the entire night, eager to share with him all that I’m feeling.

He gets up and goes to the bathroom.

I hear the shower running.

While eagerly awaiting his return I take in his bedroom, fully, for the first time.  There’s a desk in the corner with a computer on it, bookshelves full of many volumes, mostly fiction, stacks of our first short assignment on his desk.  I wonder where he’s from, what brought him to Walls, what he dreams of, wants, if he has ever been married, if I am the first student he has been with.  And what
is
his real first name? 
Professor?
  I laugh.

I can’t wait for him to return so I can ask him everything, so I can be back in the arms of this man who has taken possession of my virginity and makes me feel so completely satisfied and happy.

Except he comes back to bed, stands over me and I reach for him but he just leans down, gives me a simple peck on the cheek, then straightens up, giving a clear non-verbal signal that it’s time to go.

There’s a part of me that wants to protest, that wants to explain that this is my first time and there would be nothing sweeter than to lie in bed with him all night, talking, cuddling, embracing, kissing...and then maybe go at it all over again. 

But some instinct takes hold, perhaps the same one that got me this far, that helped me act instead of talk, an inner voice that tells me that would be the old Celine, the one who hangs with college boys.               

The new Celine needs to keep her emotions in check, take one step at a time, recognize the mature thing to do.

“I need to get going,” I tell him.  I dress.  He walks me to the door.

Even there it takes all of my willpower not to leap into his arms, scissor my legs around his waist, shower him with kisses, and tell him how awesome this night has been.  He nods, smiles, plants another kiss on my cheek, and then I’m heading down his steps, around back for my bike.

I pedal home at a furious pace, wondering if I will be invited to his house again.  I realize I have no idea what he’s thinking right now, what all of this means to him.  I’ve been exposed to Professor Beard, made love to by the Professor, and bid farewell by the opaque man who held the door open for my departure...and still know very little about him. 

One thing I do know: as passionate as he was when we made love, he seems equally as matter of fact about closing up shop.

I guess only fantasies are perfect.