MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (9 page)

His penis, still a decent size, is flaccid, but nevertheless looks delicious.  He must think I can’t wait to have it.  I am quite eager.  He ducks his head so he doesn’t bang it against the ceiling and gives me a little nod downward.  I take my own shortcut—in anticipation of feeling such a deep thick penetration—and eliminate the licking and teasing and go right for some fast and vigorous porn sucking.

Perhaps he likes this as well, or it’s enough to have me down there again as he closes his eyes and seems to be reliving my last blowjob, because, incredibly, he’s soon as rock hard as the first time.  What incredible powers of recuperation!  Athletes really are super-hot!  He reaches into the glove compartment for a condom and soon has the wrapper ripped open and the latex sliding down his own personal Washington Monument.

He holds it in his hand, I hold my breath, as he thrusts it inside me.

Too fast!  It hurts.  Maybe because he’s so big, or maybe I’m not as wet as I thought.  The Professor always penetrated slowly at first, except after he had worked me over for what seemed like hours and knew I was soaked with anticipation.

Randy pumps me.  And I finally relax as he begins to reach my uncharted places.  I grab that beautiful hard quarterback ass and thrust him in even deeper.  Perhaps he likes where my hand is, or simply enjoys my aggressiveness, but he groans with pleasure and increases his efforts.

This should be enough for me: this beautiful blond specimen, this fantasy of so many girls I know, Katia and me included, the one who never bumped into anyone in the high school halls because his loyal fans always stepped aside, leaving him the widest of berths.  But it isn’t quite all I want.

Maybe it’s because there isn’t any power dynamic.  Randy has been aggressive and passive, but has no real dominant presence.  Or maybe he hasn’t given enough consideration to my body the way I’m used to.  The Professor always pays attention to detail and during each encounter expertly lays out a pristine path for all of my senses to connect, for all of my body parts to bond in the richest most explosive ways.  Having the Professor inside was just the final joining of all that had gone on before.

Randy breathes heavy, straining to find the relief of another orgasm, his face rigid with concentration.  It’s one thing to rebound so quickly, another to rally to completion.  He certainly deserves an A for effort, something he’s famous for both on the football field and basketball court.

I feel myself going dry.  The condom chafes my vaginal lips.  I want my own relief.  I close my eyes tight.  I see the Professor’s room; on Tuesday and Thursday nights, our room.  I see our bed, feel his body, receive him with wonderful submissive openness.  My wetness returns, Randy glides in more easily, and the added force of his substantial length and width inspire an even deeper reaction.  I cry out, half words, half moans, hopeful I didn’t say
Professor
, finally turning the sharp corner and heading for an easy downhill run.

Yes, I want my man, need my man.  Nothing can stand in our way.  I see it all.  Feel it all.  I put both arms around him and squeeze as hard as I can while I climax with great joy.

Exhausted, ready to stop, I finally open my eyes and see Randy’s face contort with even greater concentration, his eyes closed, perhaps enjoying my pleasure but still having difficulty garnering all he needs.

To help him along I whisper in his ear, “You’re so fuckin’ big and nasty.”  How the Professor and I love our dirty talk.  “You fill me up.  My pussy aches for you to come.  You hot fuckin’ stud!”  I remember the next line from the porn movie Benjamin asked me to watch: “I’m your baby boo and you’re my daddy.  You make my pussy so wet.  Come, Daddy, come for Baby Boo...”

And come he does, a wrenching rush to finish, a squeaking awkward action to find enough pressure and arousal for the final release as Baby Boo carries her man to his own personal promised land...after which he collapses on top of me in complete exhaustion and I take final pleasure in embracing his chiseled hard flesh, soaked deeply with our orgasmic sweat.

I immediately reach down, grasp the bottom of his cock, hold the condom tight to avoid any leakage, and slip him out of me.

After a few more moments of recovery, still resting on me, Randy finally lifts himself up and we both do our best to dress in this cramped space.  He says, “Rihanna has nothing on you.”

I smile.

The ride to my house is quiet.  Perhaps we’re both too exhausted to speak. 

I like him.  He’s less stuck up than Katia and I thought.  He tried very hard to please me.

At my driveway I lean forward, kiss his cheek, and just before exiting say, “General Chem, eleventh grade, period four, Mondays and Wednesdays.” 

During the rest of Christmas break Randy texts me several times, telling me how much he enjoyed our evening together and asking when he can see me again.  I’m friendly in my responses, pretty inexperienced with this end of it, but carefully avoid another date.

I limit my discussions on the matter with Katia, not wanting to make it that big a deal.

The outing certainly gives me all of the
context
and
perspective
I need. 

I can’t wait to return to Walls and collapse into the arms of my beloved Professor.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Celine, may I see you for a moment?” says Professor Beard after our first class back together, knowing full well I will follow his public lead as the obedient student.

We look at each other as we wait for the last boy to leave.  I can’t help smiling, can’t help taking in how sexy he looks, that hot body under his teacher clothes.  I’m glad Modern British Fiction is a year long class, thrilled to be alone again with my man, eager to confirm that
yes
I’m able to see him tonight.

“How was your break?” I ask.

“Good.  And yours?”

“Very relaxing and fun to spend time with my best friend Katia.”  It seems best to leave the Randy Sawyer part out, at least on school property.  Perhaps one day in bed I’ll tell him about my high school role reversal.

“Celine, I don’t know any more decent way to tell you this.”

How can a tone of voice and a few random words make my throat close so tight and my heart beat so violently?

“I didn’t want to do it over the phone,” he continues.  “And if we were at my place I’m not sure I’d have the willpower to follow through.”

OMG!
  I can’t help thinking about Katia and how much it would suck to be alone for my last semester at college.  But I don’t really care about being alone.  I’ve had plenty of practice with that.  All I care about is being with him, listening to him, kissing him, having him inside me, anticipating yet another fantastic adventure every time I bike to Seven Echo Lane.

I begin to breathe rapidly, throat constricting even further, garbled sounds surging up from chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks.  “Do you need water?”

He quickly reaches into his briefcase for his brown bag lunch and dumps the sandwich, apple, juice box, and napkin onto his desk and hands me the crumpled bag.  “Breathe into this.”

I do.  This has never happened before.  I feel like such a total nerd, an adolescent who can’t handle her emotions. 

I’m sure that’s why he’s breaking up with me in the first place! 

I never should’ve called him to pick me up that crazy night!! 

I never should’ve held his hand while we slept!!!

Covering my mouth with the bag, breathing in and out, expanding and collapsing the brown paper does the trick and my breathing returns to near-normal.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say.

“I don’t want it to be like that.”

“What do you want?”

“I had a lot of time to think over break.  As discussed, I’m worried that this is too intense for you.”  Hyperventilating at first sniff of a break up hardly helps my cause.  “It’s not just that we’re having sex, but
how
we’re having sex.  It’s super-intense for me as well, but I’ve had these types of relationships before and keep it in perspective.”

“And in this case our perspectives are different?”

He nods.  It’s true.  But so what?

It’s not like I want to marry him.

Though the thought has crossed my mind: setting up house in the White Mountains, me tending the garden while editing his manuscripts and taking care of the children.  But that’s just a fantasy.  What I want most is the interlocking of my naked body with his.

He probably wanted to break up after the night I called him to rescue me and revealed how deep my neediness ran but is going with the classic use of an extended separation (whether summer or Christmas break) to soften the blow and keep it clean.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“How do you think I feel now?”

“I don’t want it to be even worse.  I can’t help myself when we’re together.  I love exploring our dynamic with you.  You turn me on completely.  We would end up going deeper and deeper and that wouldn’t be good for you.”

“Can’t I be the judge of that?”

“Don’t make me turn to clichés, but you really do deserve more than I can give.”

I expect more of the standards: “I’m the one who’s fucked up.”  “With me out of the way I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.”  Or even worse some half-hearted attempt to
friendzone
me!

As my eyes moisten, I plead, “
Why
?  Why can’t
you
give me what I deserve?”

His lips, literally, seal hard against each other, eyes tightening as if forcing back his own tears.  He inches his hand toward mine, our fingers touch on his desk, and I can feel his deep emotional tremble.  I want to throw my arms around his waist, press my face against his chest, kiss him deeply on the mouth, tell him once again that I love him and that the intensity of what we share has to make everything all right. 

But then suddenly his hand pulls away.  He averts his eyes, remains silent.

Before I yield fully to the frustration and sorrow I feel, before it deteriorates into the lowest common denominator and I accuse him of being fucked up, him and his secrets, I turn and leave.  Once out the door, my tears flow.

If Roland had been a hammer, this is a wrecking ball.

At the dorm, in case my roommate shows up, I tie the red ribbon on the outside doorknob to our room.  It certainly isn’t a sexiling, just a self-imposed exiling back to the world of losers, back to being the kind of person men can do without.

I text Katia the news and she leaves her class early and we’re on the phone while I bawl my eyes out.  This really hurts.

Katia explains that life’s different now.  I’m more self-confident.  I have newly acquired sex appeal.  Look what happened with Randy Sawyer.  I will find another hottie before the week’s out.

Katia says all of the right things to make me feel better...but none of it works.

I don’t want another hottie. 

I want the Professor.

Sure there’s some truth to his words, and I believe he’s genuinely concerned about not hurting me, but how can
he
do without me when
I
so desperately need him?

I’m miserable all week and miss his Thursday class and a few others.  My eyes are red from crying and I wear sunglasses wherever I go.  My roommate is deeply sympathetic but her response is an offer to take me shopping.

I eventually drag myself back to life, which includes attending all of my classes, including Modern British Fiction.  I had returned to school with so much optimism, so sure, how ever slow, that my relationship with the Professor would grow.  I even promised myself to get an A in his course, as his B+ from last semester was my lowest grade, though a fair one considering what a huge distraction he was.

Professor Beard is not unfriendly, but treats me like any other student.  Once in awhile he seems to make the effort to catch my eye, to exhibit a bit of regret or sadness, or maybe he’s just offering a more intimate
hello
.  But afterward I’m sure it’s just my imagination.

Is all of it my imagination?  Is feeling that I’m deeply in love with him a mere fantasy?  Randy made me even surer that what I had with the Professor was different.  But how can someone I love, at our last parting at his house, make love to me in a way that was so completely passionate and beautiful then just toss me aside after a short four weeks apart when nothing between us has changed?

Or has it?

Perhaps I’ll never know. 

I do know I can’t spend the rest of senior year being miserable, something I’ve been on and off the last three years, hyper-dwelling on every little nuance of Starting Lacrosse Goalie, Roland, Benjamin...and now the Professor.

And I don’t want to be an hysterical Walls girl after a bad break up and text everyone I know a giant
FML
!

So I work hard to get a well-deserved A on my first
Dubliners
paper... without having to lean over his desk and flash like Sharon.  I stop tearing up at random moments, lose the red around my eyes, and get rid of the sunglasses.  I take pleasure in hanging out with my roommate, commit fully to my
advanced
yoga class, and look forward to hearing from grad schools.

On the outside I’m like last semester’s Celine, the one with the bold haircut, the one with confidence, the one who’s friendly but does not feel the underclassman urge to go out of her way to impress.

On the outside I’m determined to prove that I don’t need the Professor to determine who I am, to define my status, to make me golden.

But on the inside I know how much he helped me gain insight into the
woman
I am, or at least can be.

On the inside there’s a place that remains sad.

On the inside I can’t help feeling undefined, immature, and back to square one.