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

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I fucked up.” 

“With the Professor?” replies Katia over the phone.

“I told him I love him.”

“Ouch!”

“Couldn’t help it.”

“Been there.”

“I do, Katia.  Love him.”

“Are either of us experienced enough to tell the difference between love and extreme gratefulness?”

“Probably not.”  We laugh.  “But it feels like love.”

“Celine, you deserve love.  If he can’t give it to you, then fuck him.”

“Didn’t I tell you that when your boyfriend broke up with you?”

We laugh hysterically now.  “It’s still true.”

“I want what we’re doing.  I don’t want to stop what we’re doing.  It’s just that it would be even better if there’s love.”

“We’re both entitled.”

“Abso-fuckin-lutely!”

“Fuck boys if they can’t handle sincere emotions without the games.”

“We don’t want a boy.  We want a man.”

“If we could only find one our age.”

Another round of chuckles.

“I love you, too, Katia.  You make me laugh.”

“Life would suck big time if it wasn’t for you.  Enjoy that man as much as you can.  You only live once.  And be safe.”

“
Safe
?”

“The Hairslasher struck again.  Someone not only got snipped, but got cut this time, nothing major, just a few stitches.  It reached the news here in Philly.  Some parents are threatening to pull their daughters from Walls.”

“This thing has me so fuckin’ oblivious.”

“Just be careful, keep up the grades, and fuck him dry.”

“Who knew that the former president and vice-president of the Bethesda chapter of the Harry Potter Fan Club could talk so dirty and have such raunchy thoughts?”

“You know Draco was always my favorite.”

We laugh again and say goodnight.

On Tuesday, alone after class, unfortunately in his Professor Beard voice, he says he will see me tonight.  All of my rejection issues immediately swarm over me again as I begin preparing for the worst, promising myself that I won’t cry. 

At his house, I find him in the bathroom, hair damp from a recent shower, standing in front of the mirror, clad only in a white tee shirt and shorts, about to shave.  I was barely able to make it up the stairs my knees are so shaky.  When he sees me, he puts the razor down.

I sit on the bed.  He sits next to me, clearly still in classroom mode as he takes a deep breath and says, “I’m feeling a little guilty and I need some reassurance that you can handle this.”

Certainly better than Roland’s deadly
let’s take a break
. 

“Do I act as if I can’t handle it?”

He gives me that amazing sexy smile.  “Oh, you manage very well.”  How wonderful to see and feel his warmth again.  “I’m just concerned about the emotional effects...afterward.”

“’Cause I said
I love you
?”

“Yes.”  He studies my eyes, something he rarely does while making love, as he mostly studies my expressions and reactions.

I take a deep breath and say, “Spur of the moment.  You hit all the right spots, literally and figuratively.”

He chuckles.

“Maybe that’s where the guilt comes in.  I know you’re old enough to enjoy an intense sexual relationship, but what we do is, I don’t know...”

“...extra intense.”

“Yes.”

“Sure is.”

“Perhaps it takes a certain maturity to handle it for what it is.”

“What is it?”

“Something deep, I guess.  Something that can leave the Sub very vulnerable.”

He taught me that word, explained that he liked being the
Dom
, the one in charge.  The one not in charge is the
Sub
.

“Anything wrong with vulnerable?” I ask.

His gaze remains unwavering.  “Nothing wrong at all.  Vulnerability is a beautiful thing.  Without it, it’s impossible to have intimacy.”

I like this conversation.  It helps me understand.  It makes me think.  It’s like being in class.

“Yes,” I tell him.  “You’re right.  I do feel vulnerable and I long for more intimacy.”  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so forthright but he said he loves my honesty.

“This may be where the problem is.”

“I take it you don’t feel love here.”

“I feel affection and gratitude.  You’re amazing.”  It’s great to hear, even though I’m still not 100% sure we’re not breaking up.  “I love the passion you exhibit and bring out in me during our roleplay.”

“Is that all this is,
roleplay
?”

“I think you know what it is.”

“Why are you so sure you can’t love me?”

He looks away.  He says, “Because to love someone, to achieve true vulnerability and intimacy, you need to
know
someone first.”

“I understand.  I really don’t feel as if I know you, nor do I feel as if you know me.  Except we know how to please each other.”

“Precisely.  We have our time, the moments we pass together when we explore each other and ourselves.  But that’s just what it is, momentary.  There are too many obstacles for us to have more.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“I’m a little handicapped in that way.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer.  But I understand.  To understand
why
means I will
know
him better, perhaps learn some of his secrets.  To know him better, to have him know me better would lead to a vulnerability and intimacy that will mean pain in the end if it cannot be fulfilled with love.

I say, “You don’t have to answer.” 

He seems to appreciate that I let him off the hook.  But I certainly can’t let him go.  I want him.  I want this so much.  In just the short time I’ve been with him I feel brand new. 

“But do know,” I continue, “that when I blurt something at the height of our passion it’s because that’s what I feel at the moment, motivated by the incredible vulnerability and intimacy you inspire.  But when I go home, I recognize that you’re the teacher and I’m the student.  I understand that you’ve clearly defined our relationship and that if I want it to continue I must remain within the boundaries.  And I certainly want this to continue.”

I sit up on the bed, on my knees, which raises my head above his.  I lean forward, take his face in my hands, and kiss him deeply on the mouth, once again recalling our first, probably the last time I felt as if I had specific control over his feelings.  I feel him yield to me, as he had done that night, his backbone soften, his hands reach to grasp my shoulders. 

But almost as instantaneously as he yields, he forces his mouth to pull back, then stands.

“Good,” he says, in the voice of the Professor.  “Now I must finish shaving.  You may follow me into the bathroom.”

I do, dutifully, one pace behind.

At the sink he removes his gym shorts then lathers his face with shaving cream.                “On your knees.”

I get down in front of him, between his body and the sink, hardly noticing the cold hard tile against my kneecaps because my face is right in front of his beautiful, shapely manhood.  He begins to shave. 

“Kiss it.”

I want to thank him, but I don’t.  At least not with speech.  But the way I press my mouth against his soft flesh, tenderly, lovingly, make the most delicate of sounds with the pucker of my lips, lets him know how grateful I really am.  I’m soon lost in the presence of his masterful member, burying my face even further, rubbing my cheeks over it, inhaling his delicious scent, kissing and licking, deeply grateful that he allows me this pleasure, especially after I was so sure I would be sent on my way.

“Suck it,” he commands.

I do.  I
really
do.  I may not be able to tell him again that I love him, but I sure want to show it.  I wrap my lips around the head and slide down as far as I can go, then up and down, repeating, sucking, grasping, then letting go.  I hear the sighs of his approval. 

Except at one point I get a little careless with my teeth and I feel him lurch then let out a sharp grunt.  I open wider, relax my throat even more. 

I’ve heard classmates talk about the labor of giving a blowjob, how they can’t wait to get it over with and only do it because that’s what they have to do to get what they want.  With the Professor it never seems tedious; pure pleasure to feel him grow in my mouth.  His pre-cum is like a gift, one savored then swallowed.

I know he likes my mouth, my rhythm.  I know he likes, maybe loves the focus I have on pleasing him as I feel both his width and length increase considerably...perhaps as large as I’ve felt him.

How great is this?

Going down on my man, tasting him, pleasing him, feeling the bush of his hair stroke my face, inhaling the overpowering aroma that is all Professor while he remains completely still, nearly impassive, seemingly focused on the shaving as he maintains his Dom persona and lets me know
he
is allowing this all simply as my reward.

Nevertheless when he is done and his cheeks are completely clean-shaven, before me is a supremely large hard-on fully inspired by my touch. 

He lifts me up by the hand and leads to me to bed.  He does not kiss me but lays me face down on the mattress.  He tells me not to move, as he removes his tee shirt and shorts, then takes off every stitch of my clothing, slowly, deliberately, forging a path to my most exposed places.  He rests his body on top of me, his nipples against my back.  I feel small, helpless.  His mouth is by my ear when he enters me from behind, deeply, with one, long hard stroke that easily penetrates all the way inside because I’m so fucking wet from sucking him.

He says, “You need this.”

The complete yielding of my mind and body communicates full accord. 

He doesn’t need to say any more because he claims me with each thrust, pins me with each surge forward, makes me totally complete.  I understand what all of this means, how the Professor’s actions reinforce Professor Beard’s words.  I’m free to love if I want but there will be only this from him.  I’m here for his pleasure and I have no other choices.  I’ll do anything for him.  He knows it.  I know it.  And this is the way he wants it.  I’m empty of resistance, empty of will as I continue to receive the wonderful gifts from my Dom.

He picks up his pace, licking my earlobe at the same time, something I never thought I would like, but he drives me crazy when he does it.  It all blends together: his licks, his bites, his thrusts, all of it shooting thunder straight to my pussy, the mattress muffling my screams as I squirm underneath him, coming hard as I feel him orgasm with me, groan in my ear, drain his fluid into the place where it belongs.

He immediately gets up, goes into the bathroom for another shower.

I bite my lip to keep from calling out to him.  I understand everything he’s doing but it makes me love him even more.

I miss his weight already.  I want to follow him into the bathroom and get down on my knees once again.  I finally turn over.  Our moistness mixes between my legs.

I can only rise and search once again, desperately seeking more information about this man who can do all of this to me, make me feel a passion and a longing that rivals a starving beast in search of her next meal. 

I open his closet door, a place I have not yet investigated.  On the floor, next to a closed hamper of dirty clothes, are some loafers, tennis shoes, sandals, and ski boots.  I see his dress shirts, hangers tucked inside creating a frame for each like his broad shoulders.  His Professor Beard shirts.  I pull a sleeve up to my nostrils in search of his scent.  This causes a parting of his wardrobe, revealing shelves along the back wall of the closet. 

That’s when I see along the middle shelf his collection of very sharp
PEARL HANDLED KNIVES
!

CHAPTER NINE

“Gotta go,” I mumble to the Professor as he comes out of the bathroom, just after I discovered his knife collection and managed to close his closet door in time. 

I stand frozen by his bed.  I can’t even look at his reaction, just dress in a flash, scoot down the stairs, then out the door.  I bike to campus in record time.

I like how we have sex.  I love it!  Yet, since the end of our first night at his house, in the back of my mind, I wondered how healthy a person can be to have such intense sex, in the same way, always in character?  How healthy can a person be who goes from zero to sixty then back to zero so easily and quickly?  At the end of tonight’s conversation it was clear he’s hiding something but what exactly does he not want me to know? 

Hiding something
yes
, but the potential for perversity
no
.  Professor Beard is an amazingly self-confident person, good at what he does, passionate about his work, compassionate toward his students.

How can someone like that be The Hairslasher?

But as little as I know about Professor Beard, I know even less about the Professor.

I can’t wait to get on the phone with Katia.

I’m stopped cold at my dorm room door.  A red ribbon is tied around the doorknob, my roommate’s signal that her new boyfriend is over, they’re doing it, and I need to stay away until they’re done. 
SEXILED
on the worst night of my college life!

Well, maybe not
the
worst.  Starting Lacrosse Goalie was pretty bad and it took me a year to get over Roland.  It will only be the worst if the Professor really is The Hairslasher.

I go down to the first floor lounge, which is, thankfully, empty, curl up on a couch and speed dial Katia.

“Holy Shit!” says Katia after I tell her about my discovery.  “Do you really think he’s The Hairslasher?”

“My gut says
no way
.  I can’t imagine getting so close to someone with this kind of potential.”

“Exactly.”

“Though perhaps the gratefulness we feel so strongly over any guy who pays attention can blind us to almost anything.”

“True.”

“But how can someone teach a full load, spend every Tuesday and Thursday with me, grade papers, work on his own fiction, and find time to cut off locks of hair?”

“Impossible.  Just no more face-down or doggie style.”

I lose it, laughing hard, deep, and Katia joins me, but by the end I’m sputtering, “It would be awful if it’s true.  I think I really love him.”

“Did the knives look used?  Was there any blood around?  Does he own a ski mask?”

“Didn’t have time to check.”

“Didn’t he offer to pick you up and drive you back to campus once The Hairslasher went serial?”

“Yes.  But I checked his computer once and he reads all of the articles about The Hairslasher.”

“Break up with him then.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Your gut has always served you well.”

“At least until I can find more evidence...”

As I enter his house on Thursday I hope he’s in the shower or on the phone in the kitchen so I have time to make a better search of his closet.  I don’t know how I’m going to relax enough to have sex with this man.  But, as always, he’s ready for me, this time sitting on the bottom edge of his bed, unclothed.

I try not to look, though it’s difficult not to do the usual MapQuest of his body. 
              “So, how was your day?” I ask awkwardly.  His legs are thrust boldly apart.  His cock seems to be pointing right at me.  I can’t help staring.

“Come here.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation, but as long as I’m facing him I think I can manage.

I’m drawn to the spot between his legs, as if being pulled by a long, well-shaped magnet.  I stand above him, but feel no sense of authority.  With one quick move he has my shirt off.  Then those powerful hands are at my back, pulling me closer.  He leans forward and, with his tongue, begins a light tracing along my abs, like a painter with his brush, circling my belly button, flicking at times, then long strokes, a master artist at work.  My eyes close.  My head goes back.  I moan softly, in rhythm with his licks.

The search can wait.

With his short-cropped nails, at the same time, he delicately scratches along my back, the lightness of his touch just right as he soothes the itch of the most tender spots.

“Turn around,” he orders and I’m immediately brought back to the moment.  I’m in his room that houses his sharp knives, already half-naked, and he just asked me to face away.  I hesitate.

He spins me half-way and I’m instantly looking in the other direction, blind to what he might do.  My body stiffens.  He finishes undressing me.  I’m comforted by the fact I can at least see most of what he does in the large mirror above his dresser, hung just a few steps in front of me.  I watch everything.

He uses his fingers where his tongue has been, stroking along my belly, circling between my legs, offering a hint that he might touch the spots I crave, but teasing in a way that leaves me unsure.  His tongue flicks along my lower back, adroitly following the arc of my butt cheeks.  He does this with such delicate care I don’t know how he cannot feel some love, at least at this time, these moments when we open ourselves so deeply.

Then he sits me on his lap, strokes my hair with one hand, delicately tantalizes my clitoris with the other, and says, “You’re such a good girl.”

To hell with the search!

It’s not long before he places his hands on the sides of my ribcage, lifts my body up, and parts his legs.  Instinctively I grab his already engorged member and he allows me to guide it in as slowly as I like, letting me get used to his thickness.  I’m drenched.  Once all the way in this angle brings a new depth and penetration, almost as if he’s up to my chest.

“My God,” I whisper.

“Work it,” he orders.

I go up and down, slowly at first, feeling my insides contract with each withdrawal, then explode with recognition as my inner walls welcome him.

He’s quiet, just using his hands, caressing my belly, playing my breasts, which heightens every bit of pleasure as I lower myself onto him.

Perhaps if he started out asking me to undress and turn around and mount him I would be too wary to follow through, but his tongue, his hands, the sight of him soon had me in his zone and there is nowhere else I would like to be, nothing else I would like to be doing.

My eyes stay focused on the mirror.  I’m perfectly situated to see my body on top of his.  I see his broad shoulders above me, a bit of torso extending inches wider than mine, but his face is hidden behind my bobbing shoulders.  I can see his hands and I can see my face.

He knows I will watch in the mirror! 

He always knows what I will do.  He always has something in mind for me, as if he prepares lesson plans for Tuesday and Thursday nights as well. 

He caresses my nipples, rolling them between his fingers as I rise up then down time and time again, melting to his touch, helpless to the power of his swollen cock deep inside me.

I see what he wants me to see, something I’ve not seen before: my face rippled with needy passion, a succession of feelings that rise joyously through my cheeks, my mouth, the crinkling of my eyes.  This feels so damn good: my lover inside me, his hands fondling my body.  I feel so close to him, because he does this to me, because he knows my secrets, what I like, what pleases me.  There’s so much affection because I’m so willing to give into having this teacher inside my body. 

I also like how fucking sexy I look doing my man. 

I recall the one adult move Benjamin had pleaded with me to watch on his laptop.  When the couple had made love in this position he told me it was called the
reverse cowgirl
.  I feel as if, indeed, I am galloping on top of my cowboy, my curvy figure matching any porn actress out there, aside from my diminutive breasts. 

I’ve always been thin but the weekly yoga class has given my shoulders and abs more definition,
sexy shapes
as the Professor has called them.  Even my boobs look beautiful basking in so much tender attention from his elegant hands and strong fingers.  The thick triangle of my dark pubic hair looks lovely as I receive him.  He slides his tongue along my neck with long sensual licks. 

I quicken my pace. 

He encourages me with his pleased grunts and the sharp elevation of his hips now as he meets me halfway, causing a greater surge within as each penetration is heightened by the weight of my falling body and the rise of his strong cock going deeper, harder, faster. 

In a final frenzy I begin my orgasm, which causes him to pour himself into me, his passion erupting onto me, my juices flowing over him.  I see my final facial expression: the uncontrolled flutter of my eyelids revealing my
full submission
to him, his manhood, his body...and then I close my eyes, focus on extracting every last bit of sensation to hold me over until next Tuesday, the long break that’s almost unbearable.

Done, he slips out of me, kisses me on the mouth, says, “Your instincts are incredible!”

He needs no moment to recover.  I certainly did most of the work.  I collapse on the bed as he makes his way to the shower.

I am exhausted, sated, the mix of my anxiety and full release inspiring me to do nothing else but lie on the comforter and get lost in the scent of my lover.

I don’t want to find any more evidence.  I don’t want to risk discovering something that will make this end.

But his abrupt departure at each completion of our bi-weekly ritual quickly does its job.  The door to the bathroom is like the door closed between us.  With no anticipation of a romantic return, the deep sensual embrace or kiss I long for, I have no choice but to close up.

Which allows my anxiety to return.

Which makes it easier for me to rise from the bed, return to the closet.

There’s a slight tremble in my hand, a shallowness in my breathing.  I look immediately for the knives, study them closely in the velvet-lined tray where they rest.  They’re completely clean, blades shiny, handles immaculate, as if they’ve never been touched, though the tray has clearly been opened. 

I look in the other nooks and crannies of his master bedroom closet, reach up to a top shelf where winter scarves and gloves lie. 
             

No ski mask.

A huge surge of relief flows through me.  How could I think he’s capable of such aberrant behavior?  He has given me so many wonderful gifts.  It’s my nerves, the newness of all this, my insecurity that causes me to imagine such a preposterous notion.  I welcome my calm.

Almost absentmindedly, I open the hamper to the left of the shirts, sift through dirty clothes, completely convinced this is a total waste of effort.

But then I find a white tee shirt stained with blood.