When he turned his focus back to the road, it was too late. The blue minivan had pulled out from the curb and there wasn't time to stop, nowhere to swerve. Gripping the steering wheel tight, he braced himself as he slammed on the brakes.
The sickening crunch of metal on metal seemed impossibly loud. His car rocked to a sudden stop and a cloud of steam floated up from the crumpled hood of his car. He shook his head. Did what just happen truly happen? It didn't seem real.
Nicolas glanced to the sidewalk. The four girls were staring at him. He felt a flush of embarrassment. He wanted to disappear, but it was impossible. Surprisingly, the girls turned and walked away. With his car a crumpled mess, his appeal to the girls was obviously gone.
Looking ahead, he watched the mangled rear end of the van becoming visible through the steam. The back gate was pushed in and a million pieces of shattered glass covered the hood of his car. He looked through the gaping back end of the crumpled van. He saw blonde hair. She wasn't moving.
Nicolas threw the car door open and ran to the van. He skidded to a stop beside the driver's side window. “Are you okay—” It was her. He'd rear-ended Ms. Barrett.
She turned and looked through him with a cold glare. If she recognized him, it didn't show. She just sighed, turned away, and shook her head. Shoving her door open, she knocked him back. She didn't look at him, she just stepped out of the van and walked to the back. Her heels clicked on the pavement, arms folded across her chest.
Staring at Ms. Barrett, Nicolas choked back a groan. She was wearing black, skin-tight leather pants and a bright pink tank top with spaghetti straps. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and it flipped from side to side when she walked. She also had on a pair of black stilettos with shiny metal tips that looked sharp enough to puncture the asphalt pavement. But it wasn't the shoes, pants, or tank top that shocked him, it was the tattoo on her left shoulder blade.
It was a design of a triskele, an ancient Celtic symbol of a circle with three interlocking spirals. It wasn't any ordinary Celtic triskele. The outer color of the wheel was a slate blue, which he knew represented steel and the inner fields of the wheel were solid black with a hole in the center of each where there was no color, just the pink tone of her flesh. It was the exact design he'd seen in the BDSM club near his college.
Flashing back, he remembered the research. He'd written a report about the BDSM lifestyle for his Psychology 101 term paper. In his studies, he'd discovered that there were many variations of the triskele, but only one true emblem recognized by those living the lifestyle. He also discovered the lifestyle seemed to fill a void in his sexuality.
Staring at the design, he knew the tattoo on Ms. Barrett's shoulder was the real deal. He just couldn't imagine that his old high school teacher would have a tattoo, let alone the BDSM triskele. It had to be an accident, nothing else made sense.
She turned and caught him staring at her shoulder. Ms. Barrett stepped closer to him and put a finger under his chin, pushing his head up. Her eyes were knowing and her left eyebrow crooked up seductively. “You want to try focusing for a moment?"
Nicolas heard himself mutter, “Sorry."
She tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes as she stared at him. “What's your name?"
"Nic, I mean Nicolas Adamson."
She smiled. “Nicolas,” she said, as if she was trying out its sound. “I haven't seen you in four years. Last I knew, you were in the English Program at St. Louis University."
"Yes, Ma'am,” he croaked.
She nodded as if his answer was acceptable. “So, are you back in town on summer break?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
Her finger was still under his chin and she languidly moved it in a slow circle. The wet, pink tip of her tongue slipped out, wetting her lips.
Nicolas was transfixed on her lips and saw them move, but he didn't hear anything.
The finger pressed up under his chin yet again, drawing his attention from her lips. “Hello. Did you take a hit on the head? I asked you if you have insurance."
He blinked and nodded.
"Which question are you answering?” She smiled, but it wasn't sweet.
"Um, yes, I have insurance, Ma'am.” He wasn't sure why, but it seemed right to call her Ma'am.
"Good boy."
He looked down and muttered, “Thank you, Ma'am.” He couldn't look her in the eyes.
The distant wail of a siren echoed in the morning air. Ms. Barrett lowered her hand from under his chin and stepped back away from him. He felt the loss of contact more than he thought possible. She stepped to the front of her van and pulled out her purse.
Nicolas used the chance to scan her body again. As before, she caught him and crooked that eyebrow up again. She chuckled softly. “You sure have trouble focusing. That's something we're going to have to correct."
He gaped at her. He wasn't sure he'd heard her right, but didn't dare ask.
She stepped up to him again and leaned in. Breathing in deeply through her nose, she closed her eyes partially. She let it out slowly. A softly whispered, “Nice,” brushed across the side of his neck.
Turning, she said, “You'd best get your license, registration, and insurance card ready."
"Right. Thanks. Ma'am.” He dove into his car and grabbed the registration and insurance cards. No sooner had he fished out his driver's license, than Sheriff Gregg pulled up in his patrol car.
Ms. Barrett whispered, “Let me do most of the talking."
Nicolas glanced at her, watching her slight nod. He heard himself say, “Yes, Ma'am.” A quick smile flashed across her face, in the briefest of moments.
"Is everyone all right?” the sheriff boomed.
Ms. Barrett stepped forward, “Yes, Carl. We're fine. Just a bit rattled."
The sheriff dropped his gaze below her face. It was as if she had some power over him and he wasn't allowed to look her in the eyes.
She handed him her papers, glancing at Nicolas. He understood and followed suit with his own.
Sheriff Gregg scanned the wreckage and said, “Looks obvious to me what happened. This shouldn't take but a moment to write up a report."
Ms. Barrett stepped up close to Sheriff Gregg and whispered something Nicolas couldn't hear.
He straightened and looked around her at Nicolas. He whispered back to her.
Nicolas tried to read his lips, but only managed to pick out, “...he's the Nicolas?"
She nodded and the Sheriff returned her nod.
Why would the Sheriff ask a question like that? It made no sense. But nothing seemed to be making much sense about the whole scene.
Nicolas watched them whisper for a few more moments. Suddenly, Sheriff Gregg turned and walked back to his patrol car without another word. Stephanie moved to stand facing Nicolas and answered his unasked question. “Sheriff Gregg is calling a tow truck for your car. He's not going to write up a ticket—provided you're willing to make things right."
He was dumbstruck. Make things right? What did that mean? He expected he'd get a ticket for following too closely. Instead, it looked as if he'd get out of this with little trouble—if by making things right, she meant using his insurance to fix her van.
Looking up to her face, he saw something in her eyes that told him there was more on her mind. She stared hungrily at him. He guessed it as that. Nothing else seemed to fit.
Her voice was low and husky when she said, “Once we get your car towed, you need to come with me so we can work on your making amends."
"Yes, Ma'am,” was all he could say.
* * * *
Nicolas watched his car being towed away. Until that moment, the reality hadn't hit him. His most prized possession was gone. His decision to carry the minimum insurance coverage had bitten him on the ass.
Ms. Barrett put her hand on his left shoulder. “It'll be all right."
He nodded, but didn't believe it.
Handing him her keys, she said, “You drive."
He l
ooked from her to the damaged van. The rear end was caved in, but all four tires still held air. The tow truck driver had secured the back gate down with winch straps and told them it was okay to drive, but not too fast. Nicolas turned toward the driver's side door, but Ms. Barrett clearing her throat stopped him mid-step. He knew by the way she glared at him with her arms folded across her chest, that he'd erred. Before he could ask what was wrong, she looked at the passenger side door, then back at him. He darted around the van and flung the door open. Her smiled was brief, but he knew he'd guessed right.
The drive to her house was mostly silent, only broken by her intermittent directions. All the while, he tried to focus on the road. His brain scrambled to guess what she had in mind for him to ‘make things right.'
Eventually, he was directed to turn down an unmarked gravel road. He'd seen the road before, but always thought it was a driveway. He was right, but it wasn't like any driveway he'd seen before. At least a mile long, it weaved along under a canopy of pine trees. He felt as if he was traveling through a tunnel.
Suddenly, the canopy and shadows fell away. Nicolas spotted a large farm house on a hill, and without asking, knew it was hers. He followed the narrow road and came to a large metal gate. In the middle of the wrought iron gate was the same design that was on Ms. Barrett's shoulder.
A thought flashed through his mind, what if she did know what the symbol meant and it wasn't just a coincidence? The thought made his cock swell. If she was into the lifestyle, it meant she was much more than just his former teacher. Her reaching up to press the button on the overhead console caught his attention. The metal gate swung out of the way and he drove through
As they neared the house, she said, “Drive around to the back. We'll get it to the shop later."
"Yes, Ma'am.” The outside of the house looked just like any one of a hundred farm houses in the area, but something told him there was more to it.
He rolled to a gentle stop behind the house. He jumped out of his side of the van and ran to the other side. He flung her door open and held out his hand, offering to help her out.
She didn't move to take his hand or get out of the van. She just stared at him for a long moment, as if assessing him. Finally, she said, “I love your enthusiasm, but there's a lot to be said for measured patience and control."
She then took his hand and stepped to the ground. “You do learn fast. That's a good thing.” Moving past him, she released his hand and brushed hers across his chest. “Yes, a very good thing."
The touch jarred him and he looked down at his chest. It wasn't just an accidental brush of her hand. Shed curled her finger so her nails scraped his shirt.
He stood there for a moment too long. When he looked up he saw her waiting for him. He shut the door and muttered, “Sorry, Ma'am."
Putting her hand back on his chest, she stopped him. “Why are you sorry? I want you to explain it for yourself as much as me."
He started to answer, but the words caught in his throat. They wouldn't come and he wasn't ready to tell her the real reasons he was sorry. How could he tell her he was sorry for wanting her when he was her student? Even more so, how could he tell her he was sorry for not telling her all those years before?
She looked up at him, her hand warm on his chest through his shirt. Her eyes searched his, as if gauging him, or trying to make a decision. Suddenly, her fingers curled into a fist, wadding his shirt in her grip. Her mouth opened slightly and a warm breath fanned out across his neck. A deep groan rumbled in her chest, but she held most of it in. She hardened her stare and moved her face closer to his. “You think too much. You're going to have to learn balance."
Releasing his shirt, she turned and climbed the steps up to the back porch. At the top, she glanced back. “You can come in or stand out here all day. It's your choice.” She pulled a ring of keys from her purse and was inside the house before Nicolas could think to move.
He took a step to follow her, but stopped. He recalled her expression before she left him standing in the driveway. It hadn't been a simple look. She'd looked angry and excited, hungry and impatient, and resigned and unsure all at the same time. He thought that for a brief moment, she could have slapped him or kissed him with equal ease.
He was as conflicted as she'd looked. Glancing up to the back door, he felt compelled, drawn inside as if some power he didn't recognize was controlling him. He remembered her words, “You think too much.” He decided to trust her. What was the worst that could happen?
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Chapter Three
Nicolas stepped through the door, but kept his fingers curled around the knob. He wasn't sure why, but he felt like a fly standing on the edge of a large spider's web. Scanning the mud room, he couldn't see her. Still, he felt her presence as if she was watching him.
He took a deep breath and released the doorknob. He stepped slowly, tentatively across the linoleum floor, making his way down the hall toward another room. Stepping around the corner, he saw an average looking living room. It had the usual sofa, loveseat, recliner, and tables that any one of a million houses would have. He chuckled. Why had he expected any different?
"Something funny, Nicolas?” her voice echoed from around the corner at the far end of the room.
"No, Ma'am. I just thought...” He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Thinking again?” She peered around the corner, a wry smile on her face. It seemed to deflate some of the tension. “What did you expect from an English teacher? A room full of books? Papers piled everywhere? A bunch of whips and chains?"
The last line jarred him. It was so out of context he didn't know whether she was joking or serious. It fed his earlier daydreams about the symbol and the possibility that she was into D/s.
She stepped out of view again, “Like I'd leave those things out in the open."
Suddenly, an image of her in leather chaps, a whip trailing from her dainty fist flashed into his mind. It was one of the many visions he'd conjured during those long nights in his lonely dorm room. How many times had he dreamt of her in leather gear? Too many to count.
"You want something to drink?"
He croaked, “What have you got?"
"Tea, water, coffee. I have beer and wine. I guess you're old enough.” She peered around the corner again.
"Water's fine.” He had the sense to know he'd best keep his wits about him.
A few moments later, Ms. Barrett came out of the kitchen with a glass of ice water in one hand and a clear goblet, half-full of red wine, in the other. She moved to the love seat and sat down, placing each on coasters on the coffee table. She leaned back into the cushions and patted the empty spot beside her. “Have a seat. Unless you're in a hurry to leave."
He moved toward her as if he was a marionette and she was the puppet master. Settling on the sage colored love seat, he reached for the glass of water. The ice clinked as his hand shook. He wondered if she put ice in the glass knowing it would reveal how nervous he was. Pushing the thought away, he took a sip and sat the glass back on the coaster. He remained leaning forward, unsure of himself. Her hand on his shoulder, guiding him back, answered the question.
"Relax."
He rubbed his palms across the soft micro-fiber upholstery and let out a long exhale. His mind was still a jumble of questions and thoughts, but he tried to look calm.
"Better.” She trailed her fingers down his arm, letting them rest on the back of his hand. “You have an answer for me?"
He looked at her dumbly.
She reached for her wine. “You forgot the question already?"
He searched his mind, and for a moment couldn't think of the question. Then it hit him. She'd asked him to explain why he was sorry. Looking up at her, he said, “I'm sorry for crashing into your van."
She shook her head. “Not good enough. Try again. Go deeper."
Did she want him to beg and grovel? He tried to find some way to apologize for what had happened, but nothing seemed to
fit. Finally, he admitted, “I don't know what to say."
"Honesty, that's a good start. Admitting your shortcomings is a step in the right direction.” She took a sip of her wine and said, “Go on."
"I-I wasn't paying attention and didn't see you until it was too late."
"Why weren't you paying attention?"
He grimaced, but knew he had to continue with the confession. “I was watching some girls on the sidewalk. I was trying to get their attention."
"That worked well for you, didn't it?” she said, laughter in her voice. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?"
What else did she want him to say? That's how it happened. She took another sip, then set her goblet down on the coffee table. She let her hand linger on the glass for a moment, and then turned it on the coaster. There, on the side, was the same symbol he'd seen on her shoulder and the front gate. He tore his gaze away from the glass and looked up at her. She stared back him, her face unreadable. “Let me help you out,” she said. “You're not just sorry for crashing into my van. There's a lot more going on in that head of yours than a simple accident. There's plenty you're not telling me, or yourself."
Was it possible she knew about his wanting her? Could she be leading him to confess his desires? A thought flashed into his mind. Did she want him, too? It made sense. Why else would she insist he drive her home instead of dropping him off at his parent's place?
He looked into her hazel eyes. She gazed back at him with the same expressionless mask. Slowly, her lips curled into something less than smile. She turned away and reached behind her head. She pulled the hair tie off her ponytail, letting her hair fall down on her shoulders.
It was the first time he'd seen her with her hair down. Strawberry streaks highlighted her blonde locks. He marveled at how it framed her profile, making her seem even more beautiful. He suddenly wanted to kiss her. He licked his lips; almost sure he could imagine her taste.
Just then, he heard a voice—a male's voice. It sounded familiar, but distant. The man told of how he'd wanted Ms. Barrett for years and still did. When she snapped her attention toward him, he realized the voice was his. He stopped himself, but it was too late. It was out. He'd confessed that he was sorry for wanting her and not telling her.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. VI Page 21