Hot for Teacher

by Barrie Abalard

  He pulled into his driveway, forcing himself to think about the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. He and three friends had rented a condo in Vermont. With any luck, there’d be snow and lots of skiing to distract him.

  Maybe even some après-ski opportunities as well.

  Chapter Eight

  Rosemary sat at her kitchen table, index cards and sticky-note slips and books and notebooks around her like the snow that covered her lawn. The paper for Dr. Kent’s class had been due the day before Thanksgiving, and here it was Sunday night, four days later.

  Four strokes of the cane.

  She shivered at the thought, caught between dread and desire. Thoughts of Jonathan -- no, they were more like fantasies -- interfered with writing the paper. So here she was, paper not done, mesmerized by the thought of the cane and the man who would be wielding it.

  Never mind the fact that they would never have a relationship. At least she’d have a caning to remember. That would have to tide her over until the right man came along.

  She stood. Some hot tea would help. While filling the kettle, she thought about the amount of socializing she’d done over the four-day holiday, when she should have been working.

  Thanksgiving had been better than she’d expected. She had no surviving immediate family, so she’d gathered her friends around the table. The turkey had been her responsibility, though she’d made a meatless lasagna as well, for the father of Brian Greene, Mark’s squeeze. Who would have thought that a man like David Greene, tall and powerfully built, was a vegetarian?

  Faith and Doug had brought broccoli, sweet potatoes, and mashed potatoes; Mark and Brian, two different pies -- apple and pumpkin; and David, salad and homemade bread, which had been to die for. Everyone, it seemed, had brought a bottle of wine. They ate and drank and laughed until long after the stars appeared.

  The teapot’s whistle interrupted her recollections. She poured hot water into her mug while remembering how Mark had kept nudging her and David together. In truth, Rosemary liked his smile and his intelligence, and his body was impressive. But she felt no spark, no recognition of dark erotic interests in the man. He’d asked her for a date, but she’d begged off, using her paper as an excuse.

  She’d begun to make progress on it when David had called her the next day, talking her into lunch on Saturday. She’d gone, and she’d had a good time. And his good-bye kiss on her doorstep had been okay, too. He was a decent kisser. But his kiss wasn’t the kind that enveloped her in a passionate storm. That kind of kiss depended less on technique and more on whom she was kissing.

  Faith, to whom she hadn’t breathed a word about her hot sex with Dr. Kent, had told her she was “an idiot” not to be interested in David. Rosemary smiled. Faith always was one to use extreme language.

  She agreed with Faith that David was a nice man, and that was exactly what was wrong with him. He was handsome, pleasant, and intelligent -- but without any edginess, without any hint of dominance, in or out of the bedroom.

  She didn’t need nice. She needed not-so-nice. She needed Charlie, only, damn him, he was dead.

  That left her with Jonathan, the cranky Victorian scholar who could fuck like a wild man. No doubt he could spank like one, too.

  Four strokes of the cane. Soon to be more, unless I get back to work.

  She sat down with her tea, deciding on a plan. She would have her paper done no later than Thursday and would drop it by his office. Then, after the last class on Friday, she’d ask him when and where the caning would occur.

  Thursday would mean eight strokes. She could barely wait.

  * * * * *

  Jonathan paced his office, occasionally stopping to scowl at the view from his window. The pouring rain was almost a personal affront, because he knew it would tangle traffic and make Rosemary even later.

  He sighed, checking his watch for the tenth time. It was five P.M. Yesterday after class, she said she’d be here by four-thirty with her paper.

  His heart still ached for the emotional pain he’d caused her, just as his cock ached to have her. He now knew, after several agonizing, sleepless nights, that Rosemary was the woman he craved. Needed. Loved.

  I have to keep working on my plan to have her and tenure.

  He sat in his chair and leaned way back, hands locked behind his head, attempting to wait patiently. Patience had never been his long suit. The word made him remember Patience Wilson, the woman he’d met the last night of his Thanksgiving vacation. From their first encounter by the enormous stone fireplace, her brains and charm had piqued his interest.

  They’d necked a little, but hadn’t had sex, even though the sight of her ass in tight jeans had aroused him. Now he had her phone number and she his. He’d been meaning to call her. Really. He’d just been busy, grading papers.

  However, as soon as he’d returned to his normal life, he’d known, with lightning-bolt certainty, that Rosemary was for him. So the beginnings of a plan, to have her and his job, too, had begun to form in his mind.

  He worried that, with all that had passed between them, not to mention her assault three months earlier, he’d never be able to convince her that he was serious. That he wouldn’t break her heart -- again. That, God forbid, he’d let her cane him before that happened.

  The swish of paper sliding across wood whipped his head around. Someone had pushed a term paper under the closed door. He jerked it open, startling Rosemary.

  “I figured you’d have gone home by now,” she said, her cheeks pink and damp. The wet weather made her curls wilder, and her body, even wrapped as it was in a shapeless raincoat, called to him.

  He smiled with teeth. “Why, Ms. Lockhart, were you figuring I’d be gone, or hoping I’d be gone, or perhaps arriving late on purpose, planning that I’d be gone?”

  He crossed his arms, waiting.

  “I’m sorry to be late, sir,” she said softly. “The traffic was terrible, and --”

  He held up one hand. “Don’t give me excuses, Ms. Lockhart, they only irritate me further. But lateness does deserve its own punishment, does it not?”

  He heard her suck in her breath before saying, “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you agree. Meet me here, tomorrow after class. We will discuss your punishment for lateness, which will be added on to your eight strokes of the cane. You haven’t forgotten about the cane, have you, Rosemary?”

  Her eyes were round and shining, her lips slightly parted. He leaned toward her as her perfume filled his head. They were falling, it seemed, into each other. He uncrossed his arms to reach for her face, to caress her cheek before he kissed her.

  Her cell phone trilled a tune he recognized as Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik. She grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. “See you tomorrow, Dr. Kent,” she said, hurrying away from him to answer her phone.

  Jonathan swore colorfully at the missed opportunity. He longed to tell her that he wanted her to be his. Still, he had her paper -- and that meant his plan was in motion.

  * * * * *

  Rosemary never looked Dr. Kent’s way once during the entire Friday morning class, though she sensed his eyes on her. As soon as the lecture ended, she hurried to buy a cup of coffee. She needed to hold onto something, something tangible like a coffee cup, before she met with the man.

  It wasn’t the caning that made her jumpy. No, she’d been caned several times, by Charlie. She knew it would hurt. She could deal with that. It was more about how her heart might sting once the caning was over, because it would be their last contact. She would take no more courses from him. Her current study path was veering towards twentieth century American literature, not the Victorians.

  So, that was that. She’d earn her Masters and forget about Jonathan. Maybe she’d try again with David Greene. He was fun to be with, and his body was muscular, tasty-looking. Having sex again some time in the millennium was something she definitely wanted, even if it wasn’t preceded by spanking and dominance. She wouldn’t mind trying sex with David, if only because his
large physical presence would make her feel a little submissive. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe she couldn’t have another relationship of the kind she’d had with Charlie. Maybe just having a regular relationship with a regular man was what she’d have to settle for.

  Besides, no one said she had to give up her fantasy life. And her upcoming caning ought to be good for months, maybe years, of fantasies.

  She gave Jonathan fifteen minutes to get back to his office, then dawdled over her coffee five minutes more. When she was certain he would be in his office, she headed across campus.

  While climbing the stairs of the old building, she fantasized that she could hear the echoes of scholars from two hundred years ago, trudging to their professor’s offices for judicious layings-on of the cane. Their imagined cries wafted through her mind as she approached Jonathan’s door. The days when she had thought of him as Dr. Kent were long gone. She raised her fist to knock.

  Her hand stopped in mid-air. A creamy vellum envelope, of the size and texture that would contain a formal invitation, was taped to his door. In black ink it was addressed, simply, “R. Lockhart.”

  She removed it from the door and read.

  Dear Ms. Lockhart,

  I regret that I could not be here to meet you in person as we had planned.

  If you are not busy this evening at six, would you please meet me at the restaurant Islands, on Route 9, in the bar?

  Simply write “yes” or “no” at the bottom of this note, insert it into the envelope, and slip the envelope under the door. If your answer is “no,” I will be in touch with you.

  Again, I am sorry I could not meet you here.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Jonathan Kent

  Tonight in the bar at Islands?

  Rosemary felt faint. While leaning against his door for support, she tried to stop hyperventilating.

  What does it all mean? Does it mean anything?

  She decided she could make a fool of herself at Islands as easily as she could in his office. Besides, meeting him in public would prevent her from doing something stupid, like propositioning him.

  Scribbling “yes” at the bottom, she shoved the note back in the envelope. She slid it under the door and walked away quickly, her thoughts focusing on one word.

  Tonight.

  Jonathan waited by the door, barely breathing. He heard someone take the envelope from the door. He fancied he could smell Rosemary’s perfume while he waited. Silence for a minute or two, then the envelope glided under the door.

  He waited at least two minutes before allowing himself to open it. Her “yes” heartened him.

  He’d wait until she was safely in her ten o’clock class, then leave campus. He had much to do before six.

  Chapter Nine

  Rosemary arrived at Islands twenty-five minutes early. She sat in the parking lot, listening to the radio, until she could no longer bear it. So what if it was only five forty-five? She could have another beer on top of the one she’d drunk at home to give her courage.

  She stumbled while navigating the gravel-covered parking lot in her heels. She hadn’t worn real stilettos much since Charlie died. She hoped her clothing was appropriate; Islands, despite its casual name, was an upscale restaurant. She’d gone for classic, but sexy -- a long-sleeved sheath of emerald-green silk that highlighted her hair and caressed her curves. A perfect strand of pearls reflected light on her creamy skin. The dress’s neckline was low, but no more than a hint of cleavage showed. She’d gone to great pains not to look cheap and available while still enhancing her best features. No demi-bra tonight -- her nipples were firmly hidden by a slightly padded push-up bra.

  In anticipation of her caning, she’d donned green silk tap-pants with a matching garter belt and neutral stockings. She suspected Jonathan would appreciate her undergarments before he removed them.

  After she checked her coat, she shut her eyes briefly and reminded herself to breathe before seeking the bar.

  She was ready to take a seat when a wave caught her eye. He was already here, and he’d snagged a private-looking table in a back corner. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look unhappy, either. He simply looked the way he usually did.

  She liked that.

  Forcing herself to walk slowly for fear of tripping on the plush rug in her unfamiliar stilettos, she took five years to reach his table. He rose when she arrived, to pull out her chair. His suit showed off his athletic build and large shoulders. The wool’s dark gray, combined with the low lighting, made his eyes smoky and mysterious.

  “Ms. Lockhart. I am so glad you could join me. Please, let me,” he said, pushing her seat in as she sat. After he resettled himself, he said, “I’m drinking pale ale, though if you prefer wine, I’d be happy to buy us a bottle.”

  She swallowed. Her mouth felt dry and sandy. She swallowed a second time before speaking. “Pale ale would be wonderful. I prefer beer to wine.”

  A genuine smile flowed across his face. “That’s great. Me, too.”

  After he’d flagged the waiter down and ordered for her, he said, “I brought these for you.”

  From the dark recesses of the corner, he revealed an exquisite crystal vase filled with roses, larkspur, lilies, irises, and other flowers she didn’t recognize. The overblown bouquet was breathtaking and quite Victorian in appearance.

  “Please take them, along with my deepest apologies for the way I treated you in the office that day. I was a fool. You understand to which day I’m referring?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. The flowers were astonishing in their beauty. Oddly, she felt tears prick her eyelids as she accepted the vase from him.

  “Thank you,” she managed to croak. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  Her ale arrived, and she soothed her dry mouth with a large sip.

  “Say you’ll listen to me, please,” he said.

  “All right.”

  “First, we must have the flowers taken to our room.”

  She nearly spit out her mouthful of ale. “Our what?”

  He spoke while motioning to the waiter. “I’ve reserved one of the private dining rooms for us. That way, we’ll be able to talk without fear of being overheard.”

  “Dr. Kent, really, it’s too much. I can’t afford --”

  “You don’t have to worry about affording a thing. It’s my treat. You deserve it.”

  “But, why?” she said while they followed the waiter to the private room. “Why do I deserve all this?”

  He hesitated. “Just hear me out. That’s all I ask.”

  The private room was small, barely ten by ten, but a sideboard contained a wealth of gourmet treats from appetizers to salads to main courses. The waiter placed the flowers in the spot meant for them, saying, “Enjoy your dinner. Maurice will check on you in a few minutes.” He closed the door behind him.

  “Do you like it?” Jonathan said.

  The elegant and inviting room was Victorian in theme, but with fewer frou-frous than she would have expected.

  She didn’t know what to say beyond, “Thank you. This is lovely.”

  “I have something else to give you, Ms. Lockhart, before I speak.” He handed her a nine by twelve manila envelope. “Your paper. It’s quite good.”

  She withdrew it from the envelope, unable to suppress a small cheer when she saw the grade. A.

  “Thank you, Dr. Kent.” Immediately she read the comments, smiling all the while.

  “No need to thank me. You earned it.” He cleared his throat before he continued. “I spent part of the afternoon grading it. As the course has no final exam and today was the last class, you have completed the requirements for the course. You are, as of this moment, no longer my student.”

  Her head snapped up from the paper. “That’s right.”

  “With that in mind, we may enjoy ourselves tonight as two adults. Therefore, I would like to call you Rosemary, and I wish you would call me Jonathan.”

  “Okay, Doc-- I mean, Jonathan.” Her
heart thudded against her chest wall.

  “However, just because you are no longer my student does not mean you won’t be punished for lateness, and caned as well. Will you honor your commitment to this?”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled. “Is that the real reason you engaged a private dining room?”

  “Absolutely not. Your discipline will take place somewhere else that is completely private. Rosemary, really, I’m disappointed you would think I’d engage in such a watershed moment for us, here.”

  “Us? What us?”

  She stared at him, gulping the rest of her ale to steady herself. On her empty stomach, though, it was having the opposite effect. Jonathan seemed to read her mind, spooning some jerked shrimp onto a plate and bringing it to the table where she sat.

  “Here. You need something in your stomach. And I’m getting ahead of myself. I fear you’ll start hyperventilating any moment.” He grinned at her, but the grin faded as she ate. He took a shrimp from her plate.

  “Two can play that game.”

  She was about to ask, What game?, when she noticed how he sucked the shrimp from the shell, his cheeks hollowing. He licked his fingers deliberately, never losing eye contact with her. She remembered the way he’d sucked on her body, the way he’d licked her. The memories, along with his suggestive actions, were quite arousing.

  She realized that she’d been doing similar things with her own shrimp, the sucking and licking. Now she understood his “game” reference.

  She smiled to see the light sheen of moisture on his brow, no doubt from sexual tension. “Would you feed me a bit of those mashed potatoes, Jonathan?”

  She licked her lips elaborately before blowing him a kiss.

  Dr. Jonathan Kent is aflame with desire, as a Victorian would say.

  Hell, he would say he was hot for the lady and dying to fuck her.