MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (2 page)

Back to Senior Year

A boy I’m still trying to forget, one who managed to forget me, and another with the social demeanor of a rabid squirrel...not a lot to show for three years. 

I take another swipe with the hairbrush at
Rihanna gone wrong
. 

What was I thinking?  

I grab my backpack, bolt out the door, not wanting to be late for the first class of my final year of college. 

In some ways I envy Benjamin.  Because he can’t anticipate or
feel
the consequences of his actions until he’s done he’s free to do whatever he wants, act any way he wants while throwing all caution to the wind.  After six semesters at Walls I can not only see what senior year will be like, I can feel it: no jocks, no theater majors, no pre-meds, no boyfriend, no sex, no love, more potential boredom and frustration.  It’s all, unfortunately, quite predictable
.

Except I make it to Modern British Fiction on time, take my preferred seat in the back, and wait for Professor Beard, the new English instructor Walls just hired.  He enters without any obvious fuss or fanfare, yet there is a distinct stir among the girls.  He is tall, late twenties, with short brownish/blond hair, broad muscular shoulders, narrow sturdy waist, clad in khaki pants and a button down pale green shirt that brings out the most piercing, intelligent, sexy blue eyes.  It’s not just the bod and the eyes but the smile he bestows upon us, boyish yet manly, one exhibiting great confidence and warmth at the same time, one that completes the package of the hottest teacher I’ve ever seen. 

The way I shift in my chair, give in to the sudden urge to cross my legs tightly, feel the deep pounding of my heart in my chest, makes me think that, somehow, senior year just might be different.

CHAPTER TWO

“You should be as bold as Virginia Woolf in all of your endeavors!” declares Professor Beard the next time his class meets, as he lectures with great gusto on
A Room of One’s Own.
 

I can’t help watching the flex of his muscular ass as he walks past his students sitting at their desks.  Not only is he mega-hot, but he has the makings of one of my best teachers: already challenging us, expressing his distaste for sarcasm and sloppy writing, telling us how much he prefers a class of original thinkers.  Well I’ve been coming up with some very creative thoughts on how great it would be to have his strong arms wrapped around my naked body.

“Seize your passion now and shape it in a way that is yours and yours alone!” 

He’s right next to me, speaking to everyone from the back.  I want to avert my eyes so I don’t give anything away...like how I fell asleep last night to images of him kissing me all over, tenderly, like Roland had, only Professor Beard knew exactly what he wanted...me!  But I can’t look away.  His blue eyes beam even brighter when he lectures and I’m totally mesmerized.

Freshman year, sophomore year, junior year, no way would I even entertain the thought that he could be remotely interested in me, that I had any chance to sway his affections.  But this is my last hurrah.  The haircut was bold, but a failure, yet it announces that there is a new me on campus, one who is intent on having something monumental happen before graduation.

Why not hook up with this professor?

It’s fairly common this deep in the collegiate hills of New Hampshire where there is not much else to do aside from ski.  Every year there’s usually a scandal or two: student heartbroken the professor isn’t leaving his wife as promised, a professor stalking the student who rejected him.  But I haven’t traveled in those circles.  I’ve always been such a
good
girl.  I don’t seem to dress sexy, avoid makeup, need a serious lesson in flirting, have trouble starting up superficial conversations. 

No one has even noticed my haircut! 

“As Woolf had to do: ignore rejection, plow on, seize the moment,” says Professor Beard as my eyes
seize
his broad shoulders while he walks back to the front. 

I imagine slipping my fingers under his shirt from behind and running my hands over the hard curves of his chest while I rest my head on his strong back.  I can’t help crossing my legs once more, squeezing tightly, enjoying the delicious surge of moist pleasure between my thighs.

When he turns around and faces us again, flashes that sexy smile, it takes all of my willpower not to leap out of the chair, corner him by the blackboard, and whisper that if he’s interested in fucking I’m available.

I spend the remainder of his lecture focused on what I’m going to do after class: gather all of my courage, go up to talk to him, ask a few bogus questions about Woolf, maybe tell him how much I enjoyed his lecture, maybe hang around long enough so we walk out together. 

I have another class, but wherever he’s going, I’m headed.

It starts out perfectly.  Class ends, the students immediately depart.  All except Sharon, THE GRADE MONGER from Thailand, an Asian beauty, English major as well who overlaps in many of my classes. 

She has the longest, silkiest, thickest straight black hair.  Her ass is perfectly pert and tight in every pair of jeans she wears, arced so nicely you could rest a teacup on it.  She seems especially proud of her breasts which are displayed through her numerous low cut tops no matter how cold the winters get, nipples perpetually erect.  Her lips are exquisite, her face completely symmetrical, and her perfectly applied makeup highlights almond shaped eyes that dazzle girls as well as boys.

While high-heeled leather boots set her hips into full sway she makes her way toward Professor Beard, her palms soon resting on his desk, which causes her top to blouse a bit, revealing more cleavage, and her ass to arch up even higher.  They chat so easily, so casually.  She smiles.  He laughs. 

I slink out of the room.

Who am I kidding?

In the middle of my next session of Modern British Fiction, while at least trying to enjoy some professor eye candy, the soft vibration of the phone resting on my backpack suddenly shifts my attention.  No way am I going to answer it in class, except it’s from my best friend on the whole planet, Katia. 

Since middle school we’ve been nerd BFFs, always having each other’s back, giving the pep talks, painting a rosier picture during our frequent social hard times.  She’s in school in Philadelphia, knows my class schedule, so if she’s texting me now it must be an emergency, or close to it.  I discreetly lean down toward the floor and snatch up the phone.

call me!!

in class
I text back.

got dumped!!

OMG!

I look up, see Professor Beard writing on the blackboard. 

give me 30 min

I put the phone away.

At the end of class, as Sharon makes her surge forward, I hurry toward the exit.

“Celine,” calls Professor Beard.

I stop suddenly, startled that he’s speaking to me, surprised he even knows my name.  I face him.

“Come here,” he says, calmly.

Sharon seems surprised, but recovers nicely, tossing me a friendly smile as she heads for the door.

I’m sweating bullets.  Is it because I sense I may be in trouble, or because Professor Hottie just asked me to come closer?

I approach his desk.  He studies me, his blue eyes so penetrating I have to look away. 

He says, “Celine, when you walk into this classroom it’s like you’ve come into my house and you’re on my time.  All I ask is for seventy-five minutes, twice a week, where I have your full attention and you leave the phone off.” 

He isn’t speaking harshly, but there’s a certain authority in his voice that’s intimidating.

“I, I’m sorry,” I stammer, like a kindergartener caught with a dirty desk.  “It was sort of an emergency.”

“Relax.”  His voice softens.  “I understand things come up and other professors might not mind, but there is really nothing that can’t wait until after class.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

I nod my head, then lower it, still mortified.

“Why do you cut your hair like that?” he asks, tone even gentler, obviously trying to lighten the conversation.

I look back at him.  He seems genuinely interested in my response.  “Going for Rihanna.  I think she’s really pretty.”

I study his face.  His skin looks so soft.  My hands tremble.  I want to lean even closer and just sniff him then come right out and tell him that he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen and I would do anything to be with him.  He seems completely at ease, just like when he lectures.  He stands so close that my knees feel ready to buckle.  He reaches his right hand to his forehead to brush back his side part, which causes me to duplicate the action and flip my own hair back at the same time, off my right eye, so now the brown of both irises are visible to him.  The simultaneous action makes it feel as if it’s
his
hand brushing
my
hair and I feel a strong jolt through my body.

He says, “Celine, you don’t need to cut your hair like that to look pretty.”

He gathers his papers on the desk.  I’m rendered speechless.  I leave.

Outside the building, I keep my messages limited to the current drama in Katia’s life when I really want to text about what just happened, the way I felt touched, the way he spoke to me, the way my heart hammered then and now. 

I want her opinion about Professor Beard’s last line.  Was he speaking in general, as in “one doesn’t need to cut one’s hair like that to look pretty,” or was he speaking directly about me, as in “
I
don’t need to cut my hair like that to look pretty,” which would infer that he thought
I
was pretty?

I prefer to believe it’s the latter and hold onto the exquisite feeling this inspires for the rest of the day then take it to bed with me that night.

I wait until my roommate is deep asleep and starts her usual snore.  I slip off my tee shirt and remove my pajama shorts, wanting to be completely naked.  My head settles deeply into the pillow, my eyes close.  I run my fingertips along my upper chest, lightly, the way his fingers might feel if he had actually brushed the hair off my eyes.  I circle my breasts, then cup them entirely, making them feel large and full in my hands.  I resist the temptation to slide my palms lower, instead delicately twirl each nipple between my thumb and index finger, relishing the sensation of them growing under my touch, how they point stiffly toward the ceiling. 

I have all night to embrace the emotions inspired by Professor Beard, all night to touch myself wherever I want, to imagine anything I want and use it exclusively for my own personal joy.

We’re completely naked in the classroom.  I feel
his
hands move over me as I replicate his caresses with my fingers.  There’s so much inside me waiting to burst, just needing the tiniest bit of
healthy
encouragement. 

Starting Lacrosse Goalie had been like a temptation to mount a dangerous horse, but his actions were so crude, so lacking in intimacy, it was like being thrown to the ground. 

It was baby steps, really, to get back on my feet with Roland, and he came very close to unlocking it all, but his actions at my most vulnerable time left a scar far deeper than my freshman year bruising. 

And Benjamin, I don’t know what to think.  Every time I’m with him and he does something stupid I feel like such a loser.

Not now as my fingers dance along my belly, enjoying the feel and texture of my skin.  My hips squirm.  My pussy aches for contact.  Yet it is a pussy,
my
pussy: sexy, passionate, and I imagine my teacher saying this.  I can take my time.  I can enjoy it.  I breathe in with a shudder and exhale a deep source of feeling from within.  Then I touch my pussy.

Caressing it, loving it, stroking it, pressing my palm against it as he would do.  I tease my clitoris and it feels powerful, swollen.  I enter myself easily, the moisture slick against my finger.  I truly want to take him inside, to feel him, to look at his face while being penetrated not by a boy penis, but one full of the strength and vigor of a man, a real man, one who isn’t fucked up.

And he wants me, too!  I can feel it.  The way his tongue responds to my kisses, the way he looks at me.  I’m sure of it now.  He seemed eager to talk to me today, enjoying the boldness of his
pretty
comment.  It’s so clear how he needs to be inside me.

I imagine this as I continue to rotate my finger.  He thinks I’m pretty.  I am.  But even more than that I’m full of passion and desire, a longing to be with him this way, the way I’ve dreamt about with every serious crush since high school.  A moan escapes my lips and I slow down, listen to make sure I haven’t awakened my roommate.  Then I go back to my rhythm, his rhythm, both of us naked in the classroom, standing, body to body, all sensuous touch of skin and heat.

As much as I would like to make this last until morning, this inspired masturbation charts its own course.  Soon my hands and fingers are flying with full pressure and friction.  It’s not just our lust I feel, it is some genuine feeling, some tenderness, some affection shared with our intense desire.  It’s the vision of even more happening, all of it for real, that causes my head to jerk back, my chest to get warm, my left hand to pinch my nipple, my hips to buck as my all-time orgasm whooshes from my body in a frenzy of movement and deep moans that all the willpower in the world can’t hold back.

My roommate stirs, asks sleepily, “Something you ate?”

“Must have been,” I sputter.

There has got to be a way to make this happen!