Hot for Teacher

by Barrie Abalard

  She did, and as soon as she did, he swept his desk clean with one long motion of his arm. His hands grasped her hips, lifting her onto the desk, holding her still as he thrust powerfully into her. She tried not to shriek -- she was so tight from lack of sex, and he was so thick. Wonderfully thick. Slowly he slid out, only to push back into her with force. She threw her legs around him, straining to move her hips, but he had her pinned. Being unable to move heightened her lust.

  “Don’t fight me,” he said. “Let me give you what you want, Rosemary. What you crave.”

  Unable to stop the frantic rocking of her hips, despite his hold on her, she sensed a great wave building from the place where her ache lived, a wave that had waited years for release. He took her, thrusting high and hard, relentlessly chafing her clit until she cried out her satisfaction. Then his mouth covered hers, absorbing the sound. He quit holding her hips down, instead grasping her bottom as he drove into her. He answered every desperate jerk of her pelvis with his own, pounding her so violently that each plunge hurt, yet drove her orgasm to new heights.

  She screamed against his mouth, and as her climax finally eased, he shuddered, ramming into her so forcefully that she felt herself slide across the desk. His mouth remained pressed against her own, and she sensed rather than heard his shout.

  A lifetime later, they both lay still. He loosened his hold on her bottom, and pulled his mouth away.

  She opened hers to say something, anything, but found no words inside her. Instead, she thought, Oh, my God, what have I done?

  Oh, my God, what have I done?

  Jonathan stared down, taking in details. Rosemary’s full breasts, the nipples puckered and crimson. Her slightly swollen lips. Her blue eyes, radiating panic.

  Both of them had made a mistake. But his was the larger one.

  While he tugged up his jeans, she pushed her breasts back inside her bra and buttoned her blouse. Neither of them spoke.

  When she bent over to grab her slacks, his palm tingled with the desire to slap the ivory flesh of her heart-shaped bottom.

  No! No! his mind screamed. I should think of my job. Think of how I’ve betrayed my professional ethics by sleeping with a student, a vulnerable student. Christ, I’m a piece of dirt.

  Rosemary brushed her hair quickly. “Thanks for the book. I’d better get home, start working on my paper.” She edged toward the door.

  He didn’t know what to say or do, so he simply nodded. “Good idea. See you in class,” he said.

  He watched her throw the lock, leaving his office without a backward glance.

  Well, what do I expect? I didn’t hold her or kiss her goodbye or even say how fantastic the sex was, how beautiful her body is. No, I said, “See you in class.” Loser.

  He couldn’t think straight with Rosemary’s fragrance still filling his nose. His office reeked of sweaty sex. He threw the window open, dumped the leftover coffee in the bushes, then made another pot to hide the telltale musky aroma. He’d barely settled in his chair when Mark appeared in the doorway. He sniffed a moment, then arched his eyebrows.

  “This a good time, Jon, to discuss my thesis? That is, if you’re not busy.”

  Mark’s coy expression irritated the hell out of him. “You see anyone else in here besides me and you?”

  “Just making sure. I thought I saw Rosemary at the end of the hall, practically running away. Was she, uh, with you a few moments ago?”

  “What’s on your mind?” he snapped. “Besides dirty thoughts.”

  Mark blinked. “Dirty thoughts? You’re my thesis advisor, and my topic involves little else but dirty thoughts. What are you talking about, Jon?”

  He sat there, fuming that Mark was pushing his buttons. He wouldn’t say another goddamn word to Mark Swanton. He gossiped like an old lady.

  A flock of young, squealing students passed by Jonathan’s door, apparently to see Granger next door about Freshman Composition. The noise annoyed him further.

  “If you want to discuss your thesis, push the door closed.”

  After forty minutes of sheer work, he and Mark hammered out most of the sticking points involved in proving his thesis. When they finished, Jonathan stood, eager to cross the street for a convenience-store snack. Making love with Rosemary had left him hungry, and lunch was a couple of hours away.

  Mark opened the door before throwing his arms around Jonathan.

  “Hey, Jon, thanks. Want to go for a beer one of these days? We haven’t gone this semester.”

  He smiled a real smile at his best student. “You’re right. How about next week some time?”

  Just then his department head, Furbish, appeared. He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something stinky. “Jon. Got a minute?”

  Oh, shit. He’s the last person I want in here, smelling sex in the air.

  “Sure, Percival. Mark, we’ll talk later about that beer.” Jonathan waved Furbish in, making a show of pouring coffee for himself. “Want some? It’s fresh.”

  Furbish’s only reply was to close the door.

  Hell and goddamn, I’m about to be fired. Or at least thoroughly reamed.

  His department head sat down, looking anywhere except at him. “Jon, as you know, you’re up for tenure in the spring.”

  Here it comes.

  “Yes.”

  “Also, as you know, those who teach here have a burden, a moral burden, not to cross the line with students.”

  His heart battered itself against his ribs. “Yes.”

  Furbish frowned. “It smells funny in here. Get Facilities to investigate. Maybe the carpet needs to be cleaned. Considering how often you spill things, that’s probably it.”

  He can’t resist zinging me about my clumsiness, can he?

  Jonathan stared at Furbish. “Fine. I’ll do that. You were saying?”

  “Ah, yes. Our moral duty to keep a particular distance between our students and ourselves at all times. A distance that I’ll admit can be extremely difficult, with some.” The older man cleared his throat. “Jon, it’s rumored that you are spending too much time with a certain student. One who’s in your eight o’clock class. So far it’s only a rumor, but I have heard that you two, ah, spend time together, eating, drinking, and, ah, well ...”

  No doubt about it, he knows about Rosemary. I am so screwed.

  “I need you to end anything, uh, inappropriate immediately. Otherwise, you can forget about tenure.” Furbish’s stare felt like an ice pick being shoved into his brain via his eye sockets. “Do we understand each other, Jon?”

  “Crystal clear, sir.” He wasn’t one inclined to blushing, but his face felt hot as a sunburn.

  The older man rose. “Be grateful for the tongue-lashing you received, and keep your nose clean from now on.”

  Inside him, Jonathan chuckled over Furbish’s mixed expressions. But it was deep inside him, so deep he nearly didn’t pick up on it. The rest of him swirled with humiliation, anger, and, yes, gratitude.

  Thank you, sir, may I have another?

  I haven’t been reamed. I’ve been soundly spanked.

  “Yes, sir. I promise,” he said.

  Furbish left without another word, leaving the door open behind him.

  Jonathan exhaled in a rush at the bullet he’d dodged. Sex with Rosemary had been better than he’d dreamed, but the price he had to pay roiled his stomach. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t pursue what they’d started, or report him to the university’s administration. And though he disliked that Furbish had damaging information about him, he shuddered to think how he’d used a trusting student, how he’d nearly thrown away his career by having an affair with an older woman.

  When he was a doctoral candidate, he’d fallen for his advisor, a woman ten years his senior. He’d hinted about his attraction to her until the day she’d driven them both to a local motel, where he’d spanked and fucked her thoroughly. They’d both looked forward to a long-term affair, maybe even marriage, until the photo had arrived in her university mailbox.


  Someone had taken a picture of the two of them leaving the motel, their arms around each other, their body language screaming of recent sex. The note accompanying the photo threatened public exposure of their affair unless they ended it.

  For both their sakes, she’d insisted they do so. Thankfully, the photo had never been made public by that unknown person. And, painful as it had been to do so, they’d remained uncomfortably platonic while he worked with her on his dissertation. Not to mention they had to keep seeing each other in classes and in the same building. Yes, sex with students was fraught with danger.

  Who said all Ph.D.s are smart? I’m dumb as a block of wood, doing my thinking with my little head instead of my mind.

  After grabbing his attaché case, he ran to his car, desperate to escape the scene of his crime.

  At the gym, he punished himself with the treadmill for forty minutes before heading to the barbells. He’d long since apologized to Scott and the weight room manager, but he still felt like a fool for his antics that September day. He loaded the bar with weights, double-checking that they were locked in place. Then he lifted, concentrating all his thoughts on proper form. After he finished, he removed his T-shirt, using it to mop his face while considering his body’s progress in the mirror. He’d never looked better, because his obsession with Rosemary drove him to the gym at least four times a week. Other than slamming doors, breaking mugs, and his right hand, he didn’t have any other acceptable outlet for his frustrated desire.

  Everyone says you should follow your heart. So far, that’s brought me nothing but misery.

  Chapter Seven

  Today wasn’t the day she had a class with Dr. Kent, but Rosemary had to see him. She chewed her lip while her car crawled along with the rest of the traffic on the Mass Pike. After some thought, she framed what she’d say to him.

  Dr. Kent, I --

  No.

  Jonathan, I --

  Better.

  Jonathan, I’ve been thinking about yesterday. We have something special --

  Oh, come on, Rosemary. Cliché City. Be honest and bold.

  Jonathan, I’ve been thinking about yesterday. I haven’t had sex that good in years. Literally. I’m willing to keep it a secret and continue, if you are.

  She chewed her lip some more.

  That is, Jonathan, if you aren’t seeing anyone. I don’t want to break up a relationship. Look, I’m not asking for a promise, just a chance to see you outside of class --

  Wow, that’s needy.

  -- I want to see you outside of class for the sex, and for other things, too. Caning seems to interest you, and I admit it does me. As do other, similar practices.

  She took a deep breath. That was good. She was laying it on the line. Not much room for misinterpretation.

  The traffic ahead of her broke free. Jerking the steering wheel left, she slid into a hole left by a less-alert driver and sped to campus.

  Have to do this now. Can’t lose heart.

  She parked in a lot, not willing to spend time searching for a cheaper spot. She set the alarm on the run, hustling toward the Humanities faculty offices. Dr. Kent held office hours till eleven a.m. If her luck held, he’d be there, alone.

  After stopping briefly in the bathroom to reapply lipstick and tousle her curls, she removed her coat. If her words didn’t grab his attention, perhaps her sky-blue sweater and tightest jeans would. Her flimsy demi-bra revealed stiff nipples, clearly visible through the thin, clingy sweater.

  And in her purse, she carried a wooden hairbrush, flat-backed. The very brush Charlie had used on her willing bottom, the very brush that had made her cry and made her horny. She needed a spanking today. Immediately. Followed by a liberal dose of Dr. Kent’s, uh, Jonathan’s hard, wonderfully thick cock.

  Dare she fantasize his penetrating her anally? Her vagina clenched, throbbing at the thought.

  Kent’s door was closed. She knocked. No answer.

  She knocked again, louder.

  Got to see him. Before my courage fades.

  Her hand grasped the doorknob and twisted, but it was locked. Her heart plummeted.

  Shit. He’s not keeping office hours today and --

  “Ms. Lockhart?”

  Kent opened the door, standing before her in all his bookish glory. His scholarly body language. His large, capable hands. His steel-colored eyes glinting at her behind his glasses.

  His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing powerful forearms. But she couldn’t see his tight little tush, damn it all.

  “Dr. Kent. Jonathan,” she corrected herself. “May I speak with you in your office?”

  “Certainly.”

  He motioned for her to enter first. He didn’t close the door behind him.

  She swallowed. “Would you mind if I shut the door?”

  Wary tension settled over his features as he sat behind his desk. “I’d prefer not to, Ms. Lockhart.”

  “I have something to say to you, and I’d like to do so in private. Please.”

  He sighed. “No. I cannot allow it.”

  Oh, fine, then.

  Rosemary sat in the chair adjacent to his, not the one across from him.

  His expression ratcheted from wary to alarmed. “Ms. Lockhart, I’d much prefer that you sit with the desk between us.”

  The words she’d rehearsed fled her mind. But she didn’t move. Instead, she opened her purse to withdraw the hairbrush. Holding it out as if it were a precious offering, she said, “Here, Jonathan. I’m sure you know what to do with this. Where can we go to use it?”

  “Nowhere, Ms. Lockhart. Put that back in your purse.” He slid his chair away from her.

  No, can’t give up.

  Her eyes held his. “Jonathan, listen to me. I want you. You want me. I think we both enjoy similar pastimes in the bedroom. We can keep it secret, if that’s what you need.”

  She sat quietly, maintaining eye contact.

  His face was impassive. But the bulge in his khakis spoke volumes. She watched one hand rise from his lap, palm open and fingers reaching for her, for a brief moment. Then he fisted the hand and dropped it. He cursed under his breath in German. She recognized the word Sheiss, shit, because Charlie used to say it.

  “Ms. Lockhart, I was out of line yesterday, to say the least, and you have my deepest apologies for it. I’m grateful that you want to keep what we did secret. However, we cannot continue talking about this subject. We are never going to repeat yesterday’s activities again. Do you understand?”

  No, no, no!

  His eyes seemed to mirror her pain. Rejection pierced her heart through and through. She’d let her emotions and body run rampant. She’d bared her soul for this man, and it was all for nothing.

  Somehow she put away the brush and fled his office. Somehow she drove home, though later she had no recollection of doing so.

  Once inside the house, she tore off her sexy clothing, the garments that emphasized Jonathan’s rejection of her.

  What changed his mind? Was he just using me? No, I don’t believe that.

  But he’s not mine. He’ll never be mine. And, damn it all, I think I love him.

  After donning a ratty chenille bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, she grabbed her bottle of Grey Goose and a sturdy tumbler. She sat in her favorite chair, drinking, and wept until her throat hurt.

  * * * * *

  Jonathan agonized over the way he’d pushed Rosemary away. Every molecule of his being had screamed in protest at his blunt words. But he’d had to say what he did, because it would have been cruel to give her any glimmer of hope. He shut his eyes while waiting at a stoplight, a headache building in his temples.

  His own suffering, of course, gnawed at him. But it was a nibble compared to the misery gobbling his soul every time he recalled how her face had crumpled when he’d spoken the word never.

  Nasty bits of ice hit his windshield as he traveled west. The closer he was to his house, the worse the weather would become, living as he did on the edge of the
495 snow belt. He loved Boston, but not the weather, and he couldn’t afford a house closer to the city.

  Maybe he should forget about tenure and start over at another school. Some place he wouldn’t be held hostage by winter six months of the year. Or maybe some place far away from both Rosemary and Boston, say, San Francisco. It had a rep as a kinky city. He’d fit right in.

  Coming to grips with his own sexuality had not been easy, and had taken him till his mid-twenties. But on some level he’d always known he wasn’t what kinksters called vanilla, and he never would be. Because of that, he had a much smaller pool of women available to him at any given time.

  Rosemary was so perfect, so right for him. But he’d worked years to reach the possibility of tenure. He pounded a fist on the steering wheel, his dilemma raging in his mind when it should have been on his driving.

  Realistically, he knew he was a shoo-in for tenure, despite Furbish’s animosity towards him. He’d finished his Ph.D. at a mere twenty-five years old. The book version of his dissertation had appeared the following year, and he’d hit some modest success. Nothing like Camille Paglia, of course, but he didn’t care to become a public person the way she had.

  He ticked off his good points. His third book would appear next fall -- that would be three books in seven years. Plus, he’d published dozens of articles, scholarly and popular, on erotic literature and the Victorians. He was a wunderkind. Even Harvard had come sniffing around, briefly.

  If he didn’t gain tenure, though, his career would take a huge hit, maybe even end. The pool of available positions for his specialty was small and limited mostly to the large top universities. Not to mention that a top school wouldn’t want a teacher who couldn’t manage tenure the first time out.

  But never to have Rosemary? He needed a life apart from his studies, too.

  Maybe he could try the vanilla route again?

  No, he’d read online how that didn’t work and that a relationship with a partner who didn’t share the same bedroom interests was doomed to fail. He’d seen it in his own life, in his early relationships, back when he’d been in denial about who he was and what he wanted.