Hot for Teacher

by Barrie Abalard

  Had she done something to indicate she wanted him? Somehow communicated that she had the hots for him?

  She turned accusing eyes on herself. Tight jeans and a scoop-necked cashmere sweater were not exactly a nun’s habit. Could she be responsible for today’s kiss, the way she felt responsible for her sexual attack? Regardless of what everyone told her, she did feel her choice of clothing had led Steve on. Perhaps she’d done the same to Dr. Kent. Not that he’d tried to force himself on her. No, she’d been eager, had shoved her tongue fully into his mouth, had turned wet when he touched her backside.

  She’d wanted him, but her previous attack had caused her to be sick to her stomach, even during pleasurable and desired sexual contact.

  What was wrong with her? When would she be normal again?

  The doorbell startled her. A peek out her curtain revealed Mark. He’d begun walking away from the front door by the time she opened it.

  “Hey, come back here.” She pasted a smile on, but her lower lip trembled with the effort.

  They hugged once he was inside the house. “How are you, sweetie?” he said.

  “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream.” Rosemary pointed towards the kitchen. “Something to drink?”

  “I’m fine. You’re not, apparently. Tell me about it.”

  They sat on the loveseat.

  “Dr. Kent kissed me today.”

  “So why the long face?”

  “I think it’s my fault.”

  Mark patted her hand. “How is a kiss anyone’s ‘fault’?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I kissed him back.”

  “Yes?”

  “But then I remembered Steve and the parking lot. I wanted to throw up.”

  “Sweetie, your reaction is normal. Give yourself time to recover.”

  “Do you think I led him on?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She sighed. “I don’t either. Never mind.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “My wrists are healing, and most of my bruises are gone.”

  “But inside, you’re raw.”

  “I am. How do I make this go away?”

  “Time, only time. And counseling. You can talk with me anytime, but you might need more, an expert.” He stood. “Anything I can do for you right now?”

  “Take me out for a drink. Housebound is not my favorite state.”

  * * * * *

  Rosemary stood staring out her kitchen window into the dark. A few trees scraped the indigo sky. The drink with Mark had been fun, but now here she was, back home.

  Alone.

  She’d called Faith, but reached only her voice mail.

  Doug must have her occupied.

  Rosemary reached for the liquor cabinet, but stopped her hand before it reached the handle. She’d been hiding in alcohol too much lately. Still, she craved a stiff drink.

  No, the stiff thing I need isn’t a drink, but a dick.

  “Charlie,” she whispered. “Oh, Charlie, how I miss you. How I need you. How I need a good man like you.”

  She slipped her hand inside her clothing, petting herself while recalling Charlie, recalling his spankings, his hard cock, his ability to fuck for an eternity.

  Suddenly, she found herself remembering Jonathan’s kiss. She shut her eyes, fantasizing that he was touching her. He’d suck her nipples until they were diamond-hard, then use his tongue to tease her engorged, sensitive clit. Yes, oh, yes. She could almost feel him sucking her down there, his fingers jammed inside her, their action demanding that she come and come hard.

  Her fingers slipped in and out and around as she stood there, knees shaking, climax building. She hadn’t masturbated in weeks, hadn’t wanted to, not since --

  Steve’s ugly snarl invaded her mind’s eye just as she began to come.

  “No!” she screamed, her orgasm ruined by thoughts of her attacker. She jerked her hand out of her panties. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right; the asshole was spoiling her private pleasures now, too.

  I am one fucked-up woman.

  She sank to the floor and lay there, weeping.

  Chapter Six

  Rosemary shivered. Seven in the morning was unbearably early to leave the house, especially on a November Monday that felt more like January. She backed out of the driveway, each breath a lingering fog inside her car.

  She hated November, hated the way clouds covered the sun for days at a time, hated the inevitable rain that foretold the arrival of snow and sleet.

  She also hated her continued attraction to Dr. Kent, hated even more that she needed to ask for an extension on her paper. Ever since their kiss, they’d not spoken except when required. Now she needed a book to complete her research, one she knew he had, because he’d mentioned in class he’d checked it out of the library.

  She could request the book through the library and thereby avoid talking to him. But she also had to request permission to turn in her paper late. She figured she’d have a better chance of receiving an extension if she also asked him directly for the book she needed because it would demonstrate her seriousness as a student. Or so she hoped.

  She found a legal parking space just one block from the classroom’s building. Perhaps it was a sign that her day was looking up.

  “Rosie, wait.”

  She stopped to allow Mark to catch up with her, saying, “Don’t call me Rosie. Makes me feel old.”

  “All right, PST.”

  “‘PST’?”

  “Parsley, sage, and thyme, Rosemary.”

  She groaned good-naturedly. “I’m sorry I asked. How do you know that old Simon and Garfunkel tune?”

  “The ’rents, of course.”

  “Now I really feel old. How was your weekend?”

  “The thesis has kept me hog-tied to a chair. I normally like being tied up, but not by ideas. How’s therapy going?” Mark slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  She shrugged. “I take my meds, I show up, I talk to her. At least I’m not having nightmares about Steve any more. The therapist tells me that’s a good sign.”

  “Your interest in men come back?”

  “Well ...”

  “Kiss anyone lately?”

  “What do you mean by that?” She glared at him.

  “What do you think I mean? It’s not a difficult question.”

  “No.”

  “No, you haven’t kissed anyone?”

  “No, Mister Nosy, I haven’t kissed anyone.”

  They walked in silence until Mark said, “I know a man who’d be perfect for you.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Who is he?”

  “The father of the man I’ve been seeing.”

  Rosemary stopped, whooping once. “You’re dating? I didn’t know. Must be serious, if you’ve met his father.”

  “His name is Brian, he’s a writer, and he’s almost as hot as I am. As for serious, it’s a definite maybe.” Mark skipped once, features lit with excitement. “Anyway, his father’s name is David, David Greene. Shall I arrange a meeting? He said he wants to meet you.”

  “You didn’t.” She whacked him on the arm. “Without asking me?”

  “Ow. Stop that. Yes, without asking you. I hate seeing you down, wandering around campus in frumpy clothes. You’ve got to get back on the clothes-horse and ride, Ro.”

  “I don’t look frumpy. Check it out.”

  She pirouetted under his gaze just outside the classroom door. Mark nodded approval. “Okay, maybe not today. The blouse is a keeper, but you’re definitely matronly in those pants. Though I like that you got rid of your glasses.”

  “Don’t know why I never tried contacts before, but I love them. Thanks for the confidence booster about my pants. What’s my alternative?”

  “Jeans. You look stupendous in them.”

  * * * * *

  Jonathan whistled while walking from the faculty parking lot to his eight o�
��clock class. He’d had a decent weekend, remarkably free of fantasies about Rosemary. He’d traveled to New York City and spent most of his time with a colleague who taught at NYU. A female colleague. Though their friendship, which had begun in grad school, was platonic, he’d enjoyed their mild flirting as much as their bitch sessions about the trials of the academic world.

  When he turned a hallway corner, the sight of Rosemary stopped his steps. He realized he’d been hoping she’d wear something attractive today. But no, she was still parading around in those ugly clothes she’d favored ever since their kiss. One little smooch from him, and she began wearing dreary, asexual clothing.

  If it weren’t for his past successful relationships with women, he’d swear he was poison.

  Successful relationships? Then why am I alone?

  He entered the classroom, stealing another look at Rosemary when she bent over the desk, her blouse pulling tight across her breasts, its opening revealing creamy cleavage.

  Wow, is that lace I see inside?

  The pants might be ugly, but the blouse worked for him. Mmm, mmm.

  He opened his attaché case for lecture notes, pretending to ignore her as she approached.

  “Yes, Ms. Lockhart?” He didn’t look at her and kept his voice cool.

  “I, um, need to talk with you after class. About the paper.”

  He lifted his head, the better to intimidate her with his gaze.

  “I hope you aren’t planning to ask for an extension.”

  “Well, actually, sort of.”

  He enjoyed watching her cheeks turn pink with stress and couldn’t resist smiling at her. “How about coffee after class? My treat. I sense this might take a while.”

  “I need a book you have, too,” she blurted. “A library book you said you had checked out.”

  “In that case, coffee in my office will be better.”

  She colored more deeply. “All right,” she said.

  As she returned to her seat, he watched her marvelous bottom jiggle. The slacks weren’t as frumpy as he’d first thought, not at all. The silky fabric revealed every tiny movement of her delectable bottom. If he’d been in a crowd and perfectly anonymous, he would have whistled. To hell with those who thought that was sexist.

  Damn it all, now he had a raging hard-on. He moved behind the lectern to hide himself from his students. It was still three minutes before eight, so he let his thoughts run free while waiting for the rest of his students to show up.

  Why did he feel so pulled to Rosemary? He pined to order his student to drop her slacks and bend over, the better to discipline her before taking her from behind. Thrusting and bouncing against that delightful posterior ... The thought made him swallow hard.

  He rearranged his papers, forcing Rosemary from his mind before starting the lecture. No erections troubled him again until after class, when she approached. Once he took a good look at her form-fitting blouse, his cock sprang to attention. He stepped back behind the podium to keep his erection out of her line of sight.

  “Are you ready, Ms. Lockhart?” he said.

  She bit her lower lip, nodding. He watched her, wanting to be the one nibbling on her full lip, sucking it into his mouth. After he worked on her lips, he’d move to her nipples, tonguing and biting them till she screamed with sweet torment.

  He carried his papers low, the better to hide his tented jeans.

  Say something, you overeducated geek.

  “As I said before, I have a coffeemaker in my office. We can discuss your paper, if you want, over a mugful.”

  “Yes. I’d like that.” She stopped sucking on her lip. The red swelling left there drove him insane, so he averted his eyes.

  She remained silent all the way to his office. Once he’d started the coffee dripping, he pulled two mugs from a shelf.

  “Cool mugs,” she said. “Where’d you find them?”

  Her sudden speech snapped his head in her direction. She was smiling, and her smile made his groin feel heavier and needier than ever.

  He looked at the mugs. He liked them, but never thought they were special.

  “I found them at the grocery store,” he confessed. “You really like them?”

  “The swirl of hunter green with pumpkin orange reminds me of fall in New England.”

  “So that’s what shade of green that is,” he said. “Men don’t know fine shadings. The basic eight are about all I recognize, along with modifiers like ‘dark’ and ‘light.’”

  She laughed, a rich sound that made him think, inexplicably, of butterscotch.

  Christ, I’m losing it.

  He poured the coffee. “What do you take in it?”

  “Black, please.”

  “Black? Me, too,” he said, then felt stupid. He sounded like a lovestruck teenager.

  As she leaned forward to take the mug he offered her, two middle buttons on her blouse strained against the buttonholes. How he wanted to pop the buttons and see all that luscious flesh underneath. He again spotted a bit of lace under the blouse’s thin, white fabric.

  He sat behind his desk, willing himself to stop thinking about sex. He sipped his coffee once. “So, Ms. Lockhart, what’s your topic?”

  She leaned forward again. He gripped the edge of the desk to keep from touching himself -- or from reaching out to touch her.

  “You’ll think it’s silly.”

  “Better to find out what I think now, instead of after you hand it in.”

  When she took a deep breath, he concentrated on eye contact so he wouldn’t ogle her breasts straining against the fabric.

  Her voice was husky. “The role of female buttocks in Victorian erotic novels.”

  Female buttocks. Christ, just what I need to think about right now, with a woman I’d walk barefoot over broken glass to fuck. He shifted in his chair, coughing once. “Interesting topic. What gave you the idea?”

  “I was thinking about how society’s ideal body types for women have changed since then, and how in one of the books we’ve read, a man talks of wondering whether a woman’s ‘bum is big.’ That led me to consider what large buttocks might mean to a Victorian male and what they might symbolize in the literature.” She stopped, taking another deep breath that nearly made him moan.

  “I think I can help you research the topic. You did mention I have a book you need?”

  “Yes, from the library -- Ellen Bayuk Rosenman’s analysis. Would you let me have it long enough to finish the paper?”

  “Of course.” He stood, found the book on a shelf next to her, and handed it over. “There. Now, did you say something about the paper being late?”

  She sucked in her breath, trying not to faint as he loomed over her in a way that aroused her submissive side.

  “Yes. I need another week.”

  “And why should I grant you an extra week that the other students don’t get?” he said with steel in his voice.

  “Please. It’s been a rough semester. Besides, you said you’d give me extra time if I needed it.”

  “True.”

  She was almost eye-level with his crotch. The bulge she saw forced her to shift her eyes, afraid she’d reach out to cup him. Instead, she gazed upward, taking in the squareness of his jaw, the icy gray of his eyes, and found herself sitting taller, willing his lips to drop to hers.

  But instead of kissing him, her traitorous mouth said, “You can cane me for my lateness.”

  He jerked as if reacting to an electrical shock. “Cane you? Did I hear you correctly?”

  No backing out now.

  “Yes. A stroke for each day the paper is late.”

  His smile had an edge to it. “Rosemary, are you sure you know what you’re offering?”

  Rosemary. Not Ms. Lockhart.

  She stood, scant inches separating them. “Yes. And on the bare, too.”

  She knew without looking down that her nipples were erect, showing through her bra and clothing. After all, wasn’t that why she chose her flimsiest bra and clingiest silk
blouse this morning? So her nipples would show when they hardened?

  “A proper caning is always on the bare, as you know,” he said. “And I am a stickler for protocol.”

  I’ll just bet you are, Professor.

  The two of them froze in place, leaning towards each other, yet not reaching out. When she finally raised her hands, it was as if she were watching herself unfasten all the buttons on her blouse. After shrugging off the blouse, she undid her slacks, letting them fall in a puddle at her feet. Her flesh burned as she felt his eyes, first on her lace bra, then on her complete lack of panties.

  Part of her filled with horror at her actions, but she knew she had to have the man now. She hadn’t wanted any man the way she wanted Dr. Kent -- Jonathan -- since Charlie.

  “Hell,” he said. He bolted to the door, closing and locking it, before returning to her. She continued to stand under his stare, trembling with the effort not to cover herself with her hands.

  With a sound between a growl and a groan, he pulled her to him, his mouth hard on hers, his tongue demanding entrance. Rough hands pulled the bra straps down her arms before dipping into the cups to free her breasts. He pinched and twirled her nipples between his index fingers and thumbs. His mouth moved to the sensitive area between her neck and shoulder, where he sucked and bit and tongued while he tormented her breasts. The combination of pleasure and pain brought on an ache deep inside her, an ache that craved pounding in order to be released.

  “Rosemary, you are a very naughty woman,” he said as he jammed his fingers inside her vagina, moaning when he encountered her wetness. She cried out wordlessly as his teeth rolled each nipple between them in turn, the occasional nip all the sweeter for the twinge it produced. His fingers, slick with her arousal, winnowed between her inner lips, circling her clitoris with velvety strokes.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered as he finally caressed her engorged, hungry nub.

  She whispered something that sounded like, “Yes,” and tore at his clothing.

  “Wait.” His voice was hoarse, deep. He let go of her long enough to grab a condom from his attaché case. She tore it from his grasp, saying, “Let me.”

  She undid his pants, and her fingers grasped his smooth hardness. He was longer and thicker than Charlie, and she knew that taking him in would hurt, just a little, and that knowledge made the throb at her core stronger. She stroked him, thinking of going down on him, until he growled, “Put the condom on so I can fuck you, naughty one.”