MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (8 page)

To my great surprise, he does not get up to go to the bathroom.  I watch him as he reaches up to the lamp and flicks off the light.  We get under the covers, still on our backs.  In the dark, I imagine my expression must be exactly like the one I just saw on his face, an expression that says
how can something be this intense?

Our breathing winds down.  There’s about six inches of space between us.  I edge my fingers over and join my hand with his.

To my even greater delight.

Inspiring an immaculate blissful sleep.

He does not let go.

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWELVE

How the hell am I going to manage four weeks of Christmas break without the Professor?

This occupies my thoughts the evening of my first full day at home as I wait in my living room in Bethesda for Katia’s mom to swing by in her mini-van to take Katia and me to the mall.

I can’t help dwelling on that snowy night in New Hampshire, waking up in his bed the following morning.  He was all Professor Beard and I matched his formality.

No demands.

Just enjoy.

See you later.

I was able to keep the deepest feelings the Professor inspired buried in my own emotional lockbox.  Not only for that morning, but for the last two weeks of the semester, as we continued to have great sex, I studied my ass off for finals, got all my papers in on time, completed all of my grad school applications.

But there’s no denying what we felt that night, the way he held my hand until morning.  We connected in a way that had nothing to do with sex and it made me want to be with him even more, made me want to find some excuse to stay at Walls so we didn’t have to be apart at all, made me wonder if, with no classes and school work to encumber us, he would be willing to see me every day.

But I also can’t help thinking about how refreshed I feel after a twelve hour sleep in my own bed, in my own room after the long bus ride from New Hampshire, free of the burden of schoolwork.  I revisit the warm hugs and kisses my mom and dad greeted me with, their only child; the pancakes my dad made when I woke up, even though it was well past lunch time; the willingness of my mom to do my laundry even though I insisted that she not; the joyful anticipation that puts a glow on my face as I wait to hang out with someone I haven’t seen since August...my very best friend in the world!

My mom smiles at me from the kitchen.  She’ll pick us up from the mall.  Though she felt my misery because I failed my driver’s test multiple times, as did Katia’s mom after her only child also failed to pass, I suspect they are both pleased at this additional opportunity to carpool.

Katia leaps out of the mini-van onto my driveway before it even comes to a full stop.  At the same time I am out the door, in her arms, jumping and screaming with girlish delight. 

Hardly the woman who recently offered her most intimate place to her lover.

In the back seat of the mini-van, on the way to the mall, Katia gives me the
mom-appropriate
overview of her new boyfriend, a guy who plays the tuba in the school marching band.  She has put on even more weight but she never seems to sweat it, same sweet smile and shiny blue eyes that always seem to brighten when we’re together.  How could we ever have made it through middle school and high school without the other? 

If I’m going for Rihanna, she’s all Annie from the musical, always upbeat and bubbly, only Katia’s mass of curls are rarely a deep red, as she rotates yearly with fluorescent streaks of green, yellow, blue, or pink mixed with her original brown.  She wears a white blouse which is almost like an oversized man’s dress shirt, a loose multi-colored skirt, green socks, and purple Converse sneakers.  No matter how baggy the shirt, her boobs always look big and Katia has always gotten more attention from boys.  But it always seems to be the wrong boys, either too nerdy or too slick, out for one thing and then it’s as if they don’t even know her name.  I’m overjoyed to hear how much this new guy adores her.

As Katia’s mom wades through the heavy Saturday night parking lot traffic, insisting she take us right up to the main north entrance, we look out the window at the teenagers trudging along the concrete sidewalk.  In high school we rarely hung out here.  We actually spent a lot of free time looking down on all the mall rats with great disdain, which was more than half our high school population.  We hated seeing middle school girls wearing heavy make-up, high school girls with belly rings showing and their boobs hanging out, packs of boys roaming the floors, checking out every hot girl and starting yet another crude conversation. 

Most of all, we hated that when we did go to the mall—to do some real shopping—none of these guys had ever given us the time of day.

With a wave to her mom we are out of the mini-van, heading for the row of glass entrance doors.  I’m actually glad Katia suggested we go to the mall.  She wants to pick up a new skirt and top, something more womanly, more career-girl, now that we will be graduating in less than six months. 

But I know it’s more than that.

We’re college girls, home for Christmas break, and for the first time during this holiday season each of us have lovers back at school.  We’ll pretend to shop in earnest but for sure will check everyone out.  In high school, our disdain grew from insecurity but now it takes hold from self-confidence.  Why not share a good laugh over all that we left behind?  This is girl/boy stuff and we’re women.  We finally have some swag.

Not one hundred yards along the main floor of this cavernous fortress of commerce, a voice behind us says, “I say, ladies, jolly good to see you again.”

We turn our heads at the same time to confirm what we suspect after hearing the
faux
British accent: Clifford Adams staring at us with his sheepish grin.  We haven’t seen him since graduation.  In high school we hung out quite a bit because he was the secretary of the Harry Potter Fan Club, and then he had gone off to Hampshire College in Massachusetts purely because of their excellent Quidditch team.

We hide our shock well but we both know we’re thinking the same thing:
he’s still wearing the round black glasses
!...and he has 20/20 vision!  He also still has the bowl-shaped haircut with the bangs hanging straight down.  He acquired the glasses some time after the
Sorcerer’s Stone
.  The haircut, clothes, all seemed to follow.  He played the bass in a Harry Potter band.  From the looks of him, he’s still a member.  He has also won a national Harry Potter trivia contest.  All three of us used to dress up as our favorite characters and make every midnight book store opening for each new volume that came out.  But Katia and I have certainly gotten over it.  From the looks of Clifford it’s plain to see that the entire book series has been both a gift and curse to our generation.

We catch up on the last three and a half years.  Thankfully, he drops the accent.  Of course he’s heading to Orlando once again to see Harry Potter World, but is also doing his final semester abroad.  Where?  Where else?...England.

Once he’s out of hearing distance and we enter the first store, Katia says, “Shoot me if I ever become that obsessed.”

With my hand and fingers I mime firing a pistol in Katia’s direction and we both laugh.

Later, after Katia finally finds an outfit she likes and I purchase a pair of skinny jeans that look better than I thought thanks to my newly toned yoga body, we sit in the corner of the food court, munch on Pad Thai noodles, and watch the goofiness around us:

--An Emo boy and girl, with matching nose rings, make out while their friends chatter and eat at the same table.

--Almost a dozen high schoolers sit at another table, untouched food in front of them, faces buried in smartphones, texting.

--Girls who couldn’t be more than eleven try on recently purchased make-up.

--There’s still the perpetual long line at Jamba Juice even though Jamba Juice sucks.

--And there’s Randy Sawyer, graduate of our high school class, football quarterback, starting point guard, and slayer of more girls than your average NBA superstar, heading in our direction as if he’s late for an appointment.

We both stiffen, as if an icy wind is coming towards us and we anticipate remaining completely untouched as it whizzes by yet it’s important that we show no reaction.  But Randy stops suddenly.  He looks at me.  He surveys me up and down, exhibits no inhibition about steamrolling my body with his eyes, pausing briefly at my tight clingy top.  My face reddens. 

He says, “Weren’t we in General Chem together?”

Still flustered, I recover enough to say, “I don’t remember.”

This causes Katia to break into full hysterics because she knows damn well that I remember.  We were both in the class and spent more time checking out Randy’s body than listening to the teacher. 
Abs over labs
was our often repeated mantra that semester and earned me my first C ever.  We made fun of him every chance we got but secretly knew we would instantly jump into bed with him if he only snapped his fingers in our direction.

Katia’s not even a blip on Randy’s radar as he ignores her commotion completely.

He says to me, “Nice haircut.”

Now we both know something’s off because no one but Katia likes my haircut.

He looks as hot as ever, blond hair still long and straight, body tall and muscular.  He looks manlier, which makes him even hotter.  Last I heard he had dropped out of community college and had gone to work at his father’s garage.

“Thanks.”

“You look like Rihanna, only sexier.”

I can’t help milking this moment for all it’s worth as I say, “And your name is?”

“Randy,” he replies.  “Randy Sawyer.  We had to be in some class together.  I never forget a face.”

“Do you remember me?” asks Katia.

“No.”

This only makes us both laugh, which confuses Randy.

He takes out a pen and writes his cell number on a napkin, slides it toward me.  He says, “I’m meeting a buddy now.  Call me if you want to hang out sometime.”

Then he’s gone.  We both watch his muscled ass contour perfectly into his tight jeans as he walks away.  Once we have our fill I interrupt our ogling by saying, “So what’s the real scoop on Tuba Boy?”

We clean up, bring the trash to a waste basket then head for the escalator. 

“He’s just okay,” says Katia.  “I do like him but his teeth are yellow and he eats a lot of middle-eastern food which leaves him with permanent garlic breath, and on the whole he’s pretty boring.”

“What’s the down side?”

We’re chuckling again.  “Truth is I kind of want to break up with him.”

“But you’re afraid you won’t find anyone else and you don’t want to do your last semester solo so you’re stringing him along but have your eyes open in case someone else comes along.”

“Cynical bitch!” says Katia.  “Why do you know me so well?”

We’re still chuckling as we head toward the North exit where my mother has probably arrived early.

“Well, Katia, knowing that you’re happier all the way around when you’re seeing someone, and that in general people seem to find others more attractive when the person already has a boyfriend or girlfriend, I would recommend you try to make it work and not complicate things by being alone.”

“Unless someone better does come along?” says Katia with a big grin.

“Or...his breath goes totally toxic!”

We laugh with mouths wide open now and hook arms as we near the exit, not caring that we get the
lesbian stare
from a couple of local rednecks.

While shopping I had caught Katia up on most of the details of Benjamin as The Hairslasher, the Professor as emotionally limited.  I never fully detail how incredible our sex is and that just the thought of him moistens me, but she knows I’m in deep, bouncing up and down on the trampoline of great sex/unrequited love, always seeming to be one misstep from being tossed.

Perhaps that’s why, just before we reach the doors, Katia puts voice to the aura that has hung over us since our conversation with Randy, since experiencing some sort of parallel universe where everything is the opposite of what it should be and someone like me gets hit on by someone like Randy.

“You going to call him?” asks Katia.

“Why should I?  He’s totally full of himself.  Probably has an eighth grade reading level.  We were so invisible to him back in high school he didn’t even put in the effort to ignore us properly.”

“So you’re calling him.”

“Text.”

“Walls has turned you into a total ho!”

“And I love it!”

We burst through the glass doors with a final fit of giggles.

Great to be home.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ready to hang out.  Rihanna.

I wait the appropriate two days then send Randy this text.

I don’t have any great urge to go out with him, but he’s
Randy Sawyer
!  I would’ve killed for a date with him in high school.  Why pass up the chance now?  Even Professor Beard, unfortunately, advised me to see other people.  I deserve the opportunity to catch up on all I missed the previous seven years...or more.

He soon texts back:
mall tonight

boring

your right

Not really caring whether I go out with him is actually making me cooler.

I wish he would’ve at least used
ur
instead of misusing
your
.

He follows up with:
minigolf

w
orse than mall!

a
greed

He ends with:
pick u up 8 surprise u

I send him my address.

He picks me up at 8:25pm.  He must be used to not having to impress.  I’m glad he showed.  I thought I was getting stood up.  I texted Katia a few times, giving her the update.  My last message before setting my phone to vibrate is
he’s here
.

And damn if he still doesn’t drive a pick-up truck.  Not the same one as in high school, just another turbo-charged gas guzzler that tries to impress everyone with how big a dick he has. Though I heard he has the equipment to back up the truck.

And he sure looks good in his tight jeans and flannel shirt.

I deliberately take my time strolling in front of his truck to the passenger side, my shapely ass squeezed into my new skinny jeans, highlighted perfectly by his headlights.

He whistles when I enter the truck, nods approvingly.  I flash him a coy smile.

He takes me to a sports bar.  I would prefer the mall or mini-golf over this.  It’s loud, smells like peanuts, blinds me with the plethora of giant screen TVs, and I still don’t drink, the smell of alcohol forever associated with Starting Lacrosse Goalie.

But I don’t want to be exposed as Celine the Nerd from high school.

Should I order a beer and simply nurse it as long as possible?

Should I order some super-sweet drink that hides the taste of alcohol and lighten up just a little?

Fuck this shit!  The odds that Randy Sawyer will want to go out with me again are pretty slim and who the hell cares what he thinks about me?

With a firm voice I say to the bartender, “Cranberry juice.”  I stare at him hard, daring him to smirk.  He nods politely, serves Randy his beer, me the juice.  Randy doesn’t seem to notice my drink.  He holds up his glass and touches it to mine.  “To an epic evening!”

It’s impossible to talk much, which in a way is a blessing as I’m not sure what I would have in common with Randy Sawyer anyway.  The evening consists of multiple beers and juices while various sketchy guys come over to slap Randy on the back and catch up.  He politely introduces me to everyone.  I’m amazed at how many went to my high school yet fail to remember me, some starting conversations as if they’re trying to find out who I am, maybe set up the possibility of making a move at a later date. 
              My haircut doesn’t make me look that different. 

We’re simply back in that parallel universe and it does not compute for any of them that this Celine hanging out with Randy could be the Celine who had braces all through high school and was stuffed into her locker by the captain of the cheerleading squad and a few choice members of her posse.  I realize that coming here in the first place was probably part of Randy’s effort to impress me with how popular he still is. 

Hitching a ride on the Randy Sawyer express has suddenly turned me into a
babe
.

He finally suggests we go for a drive.  I welcome the fresh air.  In the truck he says, “You’re definitely cool.  I can’t believe we never hung out before.”

“I was pretty invisible in high school.”

“Or I was pretty oblivious.”

“You were.”

He laughs.

I laugh.

“Do you have a boyfriend now?”

“I’m seeing someone at school.  You?”

“Nothing serious.”

Now that I think about it, the only serious relationship I remember Randy having was with the cheerleader captain who stuffed me in the locker.  What a hoot!  She’d probably totally diss Randy if she heard he was spending time with me.  And you know what?  I don’t give a fuck.  I’m suddenly laughing again.

“Did I say something funny?” asks Randy.

“Life is funny sometimes.”

Nothing like getting laid regularly to give a girl a whole new perspective on things.

And speaking of getting laid, I realize Randy is steering his pick-up in the direction of Freehold Canyon, the official make out spot for Bethesda High School.

Not that I’ve ever been there. 

I just know exactly where it is.

He pulls into an area overlooking the canyon and a pool of water below.  We’re the only car in the dirt lot.  It’s a weekday.

It’s kind of sad that here it is three and a half years out of high school and Randy’s still hanging onto old habits.  Half of the conversations with his buddies eventually came back to some old sports glory story and a round of guffaws.

But I don’t pity Randy.  He actually seems to have it all in perspective.  His friends wanted to talk about the old days more than him and he politely indulged them.  He seems happy working at his dad’s garage and told me about an old roadster he’s restoring.  Most of his friends are already developing beer guts and losing their hair.  He’s in great shape and still has that beautiful silky blond mane.

He shuts off the ignition, looks at me and asks, “May I kiss you?”

I’m kind of shocked that he asks, that he’s so polite.  I expected him to reach forward in some kind of drunken lurch, whether he’s drunk or not I can’t tell, or just be super-smooth and pull me to him.  I like that he asks.  I say, “Yes.”

I’m certainly not looking for someone new.  I have very little in common with Randy.  This whole night is some kind of retro throwback to high school, only it’s someone else’s nostalgia because I really have no reference point for all of this, except the sex.

And maybe that’s what this is all about:
context
and
perspective
, something I learned the specifics of in Walls Freshman English.  Perhaps it all will help me understand what the Professor really means to me.  I have such flimsy history to compare and contrast our very intense situation.  Back home, in my usual environment, perhaps Randy could provide some perspective on what feels like deep true love.

We kiss.  His lips are thicker than the Professor’s and feel warm and soft.

I move from his mouth to passionate kisses around his cheeks and throat which bring murmurs of approval from him. We take a moment to disengage our seatbelts.  I like when he kisses my neck.

I run my hands over his hard body and marvel at the extreme contours and firmness of his chest.  I undo the buttons of his shirt and slip my hand inside.  He tugs off my jacket and I remove his.  I play with his bare left nipple.  The Professor always likes this.  So does Randy.  It arouses me that I excite him, this quarterback, this stud, this Bethesda Sex God.

His breathing increases; it’s loud in my ear, both of us on the front seat of his truck, at the supreme make out place, enclosed in our own passion.

The windows fog.

I pull the shirt off his body and catch a glimpse of his beautiful chest and abs, the moonlight reflecting off them.  The Professor’s in shape but this guy’s Mario Lopez.

He seems to like when I’m aggressive, as if he expects me to lie back while he does all the work.  I put my mouth to his nipple, lick, suck like the Professor showed me during one of our first encounters.  He moans, “Celine, you’re so fuckin’ hot!”

Not just the Professor feels this way!

He kisses my mouth one more time, slipping his tongue inside, while sliding my top off then expertly unsnapping my bra.  He sucks my nipple, then bites it.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

He licks the nipple as if trying to soothe it, warming me all over.  The Professor bit my nipple once but that was after I had been seduced into my submissive zone and the sensation of pain and pleasure gloriously sent me through the roof.

I push him back against the driver’s door and lick down his belly.  As I get closer to his crotch, Randy goes completely passive.  I undo his belt, the button on his jeans, slide down his zipper.  He does help me pull off his jeans, boxers, and boots. 

His monster is at full attention and it quickens my pulse. 

Definitely bigger than the Professor’s and close enough in size to match the most vivid descriptions I’ve heard. 

I look at him.  He’s grinning...perhaps gleaning that I’m impressed after being presented with His Highness.

I lick around it, make him wait for my touch.  His penis jumps.  He leans his head against the door, closes his eyes, does nothing more except rest his hands on my head.  I lick up the shaft, from the base to the head, a long and tasty journey it is, and now his hands grip me hard, and from his mouth bursts, “Oh, Celine!”

Nothing like giving a boy a blowjob, seeing him so needy and vulnerable, to give a girl confidence.

I lick, occasionally suck, but as dictated by my natural instincts I mostly tease, everywhere, and when I lick his balls he’s like a helpless bear caught in a trap as he squirms and squeals.  I find this spot under his balls that he seems to love (his B-spot?) as I tongue him and place pressure there with my nose.  I make a mental note to try this with the Professor.

Led by light pressure from my nose, my wet pointy tongue flutters along his delicate spot, up along his balls, only to start over again from the bottom up.  Randy can’t help reaching down and grabbing himself in a meaty fist then beginning a vigorous self-jacking.

I don’t mind.  All part of foreplay.  The Professor and I spend so much time on foreplay, the licking, the touching, the caressing, the kissing everywhere.  Our entire bodies are giant playlands for the other.

But old Randy Sawyer can’t help himself.

He enjoys this too much.

Or I’m just too good.

Because it isn’t long before his hand is a jackhammer and I feel it well up from his balls, spasm through his mighty shaft, and explode in ropey spurts over his muscular chest.  He cries out in ecstasy, calling out my name, which thrills me.  Despite being disappointed that this might be the finale to the entire evening, I drive him hard past the finish line with extra forceful licks and deeper pressure with my nose, wanting to give him maximum pleasure, my timing well-honed in the hills of New Hampshire.

Done, immobilized with satisfaction, hands to his side now, no move to clean anything, Randy lets out a breathy compliment: “No one has ever done shit like that, Celine!”

I smile, lean back against the passenger door, stare at him, kind of amazed and pleased that the Professor isn’t the only one I can elicit this type of reaction from.

He says, “I bet you’re disappointed that I came already.  Like I’m just leaving you hanging.  Well once isn’t enough for old Randy Sawyer!”

I’m pleased he isn’t done, though I question his sudden shift to the third person.

I’m well-moistened from causing this reaction to such a robust male organ.  And
yes
I will be disappointed if I don’t get all I deserve, the final act to help me fully understand the complete
context
and
perspective
. 

But can he really perform again so soon?

The only time the Professor ever did it twice was that snowy night, with several hours in between.

Randy reaches into his glove compartment for a fast food napkin and cleans up.  I notice several packets of condoms.  He repositions so that his feet face the driver door and his face points toward me.

He kisses my face, neck, breasts, nipples, and stomach, moves quickly from one to the other.  I always love how the Professor takes his time.  Randy probably does his best, for someone who just came.  But it kind of reminds me of the art kit my aunt bought for me when I was ten that included picture outlines peppered with enclosed numbers that indicated what color to use.  It doesn’t take much effort or thought but when you’re done you have a painting.

He helps me take off my jeans and panties.  He kisses and licks me between my thighs. 
Now you’re talking
!  My body relaxes against the door.  When done right I like this so much I can see myself floating away on some erotic cloud while letting a man enjoy me there all night while I rise and swell into multiple delightful spasms.

He suddenly rises up on his knees. 
No, please
,
just a little more,
I want to say,
we’re almost there!