HERDIRTYPROFESSOR
PENNYWYLDER
THE VIRGIN INTERN
PENNY WYLDER
Copyright © 2016 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the
author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's
imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses,
organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
CHAPTER1
GEORGIA
Normally I don’t pay much attention to the other students in my classes, but it’s
hard to ignore people while they’re watching porn in the seats right in front of me.
Two of them: a wealthy Abercrombie-type kid, and his sorority villain girlfriend.
Both Barbie- and Ken-doll blonde and spray-can tan. They huddle together, eyes
glued to an iPhone propped up against a beaker, snickering and whispering to each
other.
It’s a fairly large class with long science tables lining the room in two parallel
rows. I’m surrounded by Bunsen burners, flasks, beakers, stacks of notes and
flashcards, electric balances, and burets. The place always smells like rubbing
alcohol.
The distance between our desks make it difficult to see the little screen from
where I sit, but not so difficult that I can’t make out the two naked bodies humping
away at each other.
Dog-earring one of my notebooks, I glance over at Mr. Johnson, who’s lecturing
about alkaloids and chemical reactions at the front of the room, oblivious to the
perverts in front of me.
I continue to glance between the video clip over their shoulders and Mr.
Johnson. As far as I can tell, it’s normal porn. Two people in a staged room with
bright lighting, going at it. So why are the couple in front of me watching it in the
middle of class, laughing? Seriously, who watches porn in public? I try to stretch
farther for a better look, but I’m too short and the table is too wide. They either
know something I don’t, or they’re ridiculously immature. Whatever it is must be
worth the risk of getting caught, which only sparks my curiosity more.
For as long as I can remember I’ve always been an overachieving, overly curious
girl. It’s my Achilles heel. My mom thinks it’s an asset, but for me it’s a burden. I
can never seem to mind my own business. It’s great for academics, always wanting
to know what happens next in books, or how someone came up with an equation.
That inquisitiveness got me to the top of my class, earning me a spot as high school
valedictorian before I graduated last year, but when it comes to my social life, it
hasn’t helped me make any friends. I can’t seem to stop myself from butting in
where I don’t belong. I try to hold my tongue. It doesn’t stay still for very long. I’m
just too damn nosey for my own good.
As much as I tell myself to ignore it, I can’t help myself. I lean forward,
practically on top of my desk, tapping the girl on the shoulder. She slowly turns in
her seat, a glare already prepared on her face before looking at me.
“What’s so funny?” I whisper to keep Mr. Johnson from hearing me. He’s
wandered to the other side of the classroom with his back to us.
The girl—I think her name is Serena—looks like she puts on her makeup with
an airbrush, hair sculpted out of satin, nothing out of place. All of her clothes bear
logos and have French names. She’s alien to me. I can’t imagine a world where I
could afford a pair of shoes that cost more than my parents’ combined monthly
wage. I can’t even fathom for a second being her. I wouldn’t know where to start.
She looks at her boyfriend (I have no idea what his name is) as if she’s not sure if
she should tell me. He gives me a once-over like he’s sizing me up, then lifts a
perfectly waxed brow and nods.
Serena hands me the phone. I notice her manicure is perfection like the rest of
her when our fingers touch. “It’s Mr. Johnson,” she says.
At the top of the screen is an advertisement for a website called Rocket Cocks
that boasts nothing under eight inches. I don’t need to whip out a ruler to see that
the actor who my classmates believe is my teacher definitely fits the criteria in the
size department. Only thing is, he looks too young to be him. Before I can really get
a good look at him, Serena yanks her phone out of my hands.
Irritated, I glance up and find that Mr. Johnson has moved back to our side of the
room. He looks right at me and our eyes meet. On instinct, without meaning to, I
glance right at his crotch. In a split second I’m picturing him naked, with a dick as
thick as my wrist and long as my forearm when fully erect, pointed at me.
I jerk my attention back to his face. It’s too late. I’ve been caught. He has this
wide-open look of surprise on his face, and he stumbles on his words when he
starts to lecture again, as if he’s forgotten what he was saying. He’s quick to
recover and goes on to teach the rest of the class while I cuss inwardly for being so
damn obvious.
Serena giggles into her hand and whisper-coughs, “Busted.” Her boyfriend
quietly laughs along with her.
Leaning back in my chair, I grumble and try to ignore them the rest of the period
—which is extremely difficult when I keep hearing them say things like “biggest
dick I’ve ever seen on a white dude” and “I bet he makes barn animals jealous.”
Class is over at three. Thank God. I try to get out unseen. As I’m leaving, Mr.
Johnson calls my name. I close my eyes and let out a long sigh, then open them
again just in time to see Serena and her boyfriend smirk at me as they leave.
Bracing myself for the reprimand I fear is coming, I turn on my heel, walking slowly
through the dispersing crowd until I’m standing in front of him.
He leans against the whiteboard where the day’s chemical formulas are written
in green dry-erase ink in his scribbled teacher handwriting. He’s wearing a white
button-down and tan slacks and somehow manages to make it look good—not stiff
and boring like my other professors. He’s also younger than the rest of them too.
Mid to late thirties would be my guess. With short cropped hair, scruffy stubble,
and wide shoulders, he could be Tom Hardy’s twin. He’s tall, too. This guy really
lucked out in the genetics department. Sexy and with brains to boot.
After everyone leaves, he folds his arms across his chest. Here it comes, I think,
bracing myself for whatever is next. Of course he has every right to lay into me for
being distracted during his lecture on the dangerous chemicals we’ll be working
with this year. I totally deserve it. Doesn’t make it feel any better, though. I’ve
never been in trouble with teachers. They love me. In middle school I was teased
relentlessly by other students for being the teacher’s pet. I was never able to really
connect with kids my age. The thought of having Mr. Johnson mad at me has my
stomach turning inside out. This sucks. Especially since he’s my favorite teacher
and science is my best subject.
Instead of barking his disappointments, he surprises me and says, “I know
you’re here on a scholarship, so if those wealthy brats sitting in front of you are
dicking around, I can either move them or you. Whichever you would prefer.”
Speaking of dicking around . . .
My eyes slip back down to the mound bunched up beneath his slacks. If there’s
enough flesh gathered there to make that big of a bulge when he’s soft, I can only
imagine the prize awaiting whatever lucky girl falls into his bed when he’s hard. My
gaze only lingers a second before I look down at my shoes.
“It’s fine,” I say, kicking at a piece of petrified gum stuck to the floor. “Normally
they don’t bother me.”
He lowers his head, trying to get me to look at him. “I don’t think that gum is
moving. It’s been there since I started working here five years ago.”
I smile and try to stand still.
“Whatever it is that they’re doing—is it anything I should know about?” he
asks.
When he opens his mouth I notice his white teeth overlap just the slightest bit
in the front, making his lips look even fuller. “Georgia?”
How had I not noticed how incredibly handsome—and even hot—he was before?
I mean, I noticed he was good looking, but I must’ve been too absorbed in my
schoolwork to realize the extent of it. Guys and dating just really aren’t on my radar
these days. Like Mr. Johnson said, I’m on a scholarship and I can’t afford to blow it.
Relationships tend to do that. First they’re all fun and games, someone to go out to
parties and grab dinner with. Then someone gets invested and before you know it,
all you can think about is that person. I let it happen once in high school and ended
up getting my heart broken when he cheated on me with my best friend. After that
I decided to stay away. There’s no time for distractions. I have big goals. It’s not
enough to just keep my scholarship. I want to be the best. If I can be the
valedictorian of both high school and college, I’ll have graduate schools eating out
of my hands.
“No, it’s nothing,” I say. “Just dumb videos they were watching. It won’t
happen again.”
He presses his lips together like he doesn’t believe me, but instead of arguing
says, “Okay, then. I’ll leave things the way they are. But if you have any troubles at
all, you can come to me.”
“Thanks.”
He folds his arms across his chest again, making his shirt tight. That’s when I
notice the muscles giving his sleek arms definition. I don’t have to see him naked
to know there’s a gorgeous body hiding under those clothes. Suddenly I’m
breathing harder and feeling flushed. This calls for some wine and a cold shower,
though I doubt that would be enough to douse the warmth spreading through the
lower half of my body.
Time to go. Now. Before the wet spot growing between my legs starts to show.
As I’m walking out he says, “Don’t forget the assignment due tomorrow.”
It’s a good thing he mentioned it because now all I can think about is Mr.
Johnson and his, well, Johnson.
As soon as I get back to my dorm room, I get to my computer and look up the Rocket
Cocks website. My roommate spends most of her time with her boyfriend who lives
off campus, so I don’t have to worry about her showing up.
It doesn’t take long for me to find the video clip I’d watched in class. The male
actor—performer? I’m not exactly sure what to call him—looks a lot like a younger
version of Mr. Johnson. Same broad shoulders, intense blue eyes, slightly crooked
nose, and great ass—even in slacks, he can’t hide it.
The clip is only two minutes long. I watch it over and over, memorizing it. It’s
not nearly enough material for me to come to a conclusion on whether or not this is
my teacher. I want to see more, so I purchase the entire video. My bills still go to
my parent’s house. I just hope they don’t decide to go through my credit card
statements.
The female actor in the video has large fake boobs, wears too much makeup, and
has platform heels so tall she wobbles when she stands. She’s able to take his big
cock without even flinching. She looks almost . . . bored? Her eyes are lazy, and she
keeps glancing off to the side as if being instructed on what to do. Her mechanical
movements and the unnatural, almost robotic, way she moves into the different
positions make me think there’s a director off to the side choreographing their
coupling like it’s some kind of staged interpretative dance.
Without even taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being full, she starts to
ride him, bouncing with the hollow look of someone lost. Nothing about her
expression tells me she’s enjoying this one bit. The moans and dirty-talk are over
the top, and so obviously fake I’m embarrassed for them both. Though she has a
great body, it’s doing nothing for me. The male doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it
much himself, just going through the motions. The only saving grace is that he
looks so much like my teacher that I can’t help but get turned on. Watching that
giant dick sliding in and out of pink flesh causes an ache between my legs I can’t
ignore.
I slip my fingers into my pajama bottoms, beneath my panties, and start to rub
circles around my clit, imagining I’m the girl in the video and Mr. Johnson is
plowing into me. When the look-alike actor gazes directly at the camera, it’s as if
he’s looking right at me, teasing me. I rub faster, desk and computer shaking, until
I’m covered in goosebumps and being pushed over the edge. With my other hand, I
plunge my fingers inside, and that’s enough for the building pressure to burst, and
my entire body floods with pleasure.
Takes a minute for me to come down, for my breathing and vision to return to
normal. When I pull my fingers out of my panties, they’re sopping wet. On my desk
is the assignment due tomorrow in Mr. Johnson’s class. I stare at it a moment,
contemplating. Then I look at my sticky hand. Should I? It only takes a second for
me to decide that, yes, I should. I grab it, wipe my juices on it to give him
something to think about while he’s grading. I want my pheromones to call to him,
let his animal instincts take over. Force him to notice me. Drive him wild without
him knowing why.
In class the next day we’re doing labs, so it’s perfectly fine for people to talk.
Normally I work alone, the clink and clatter of background noise the soundtrack of
my workday. You’d think all that sound would be distracting, but I actually find that
it gets me in the mood to work. I have my routines and the noise is just part of it.
Except today Serena and her boyfriend are waiting at my table for me. This is
definitely not part of the routine.
Boyfriend is in my chair. He gets up slowly when he sees me and saunters back
to his own seat. He’s wearing perfectly pressed shorts that hit above his knee, a
yellow polo, and white shoes that look like Keds, but probably cost ten times more.
It’s an ensemble I’d imagine someone wearing on a yacht, except we’re about two
hundred miles inland. To anyone without money, he comes off like a douche and
looks like a character out of Dallas. Utterly ridiculous.
When I sit down, all I can smell is him. All wealthy people smell the same. It’s a
unique scent, a formula they’ve mastered that consists of clean pores that have
never been clogged with the sweat of hard labor, rubber soles that have never
touched the ground because why do anything on your own when you can walk
across the backs of others? Or maybe it’s just the smell of money. I don’t know. I’m
probably just being cynical because I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for
everything I have.
Serena doesn’t go back to her desk. Instead she continues to lean against mine,
staying far too close to my personal space than I’m comfortable with. Since she
won’t move, I guess I’ll have to. I roll my eyes and scoot my chair to the end of the
table.
Mr. Johnson glances over at us. He knows this isn’t normal, but he doesn’t say
anything, just wanders from desk to desk to see if anyone needs help.
“Did you watch the video again?” Serena asks.
I busy myself with my beakers and flasks, setting up my burner, trying to act all
casual, like it’s no big deal. “I did. But I don’t think it’s Mr. Johnson.”
“Are you kidding? It looks just like him,” she says. Serena is beautiful, but it’s
an out-of-date beauty. She’s too pristine, too put together. Her blonde hair is
perfectly curled, clothes pressed. Reminds me of what people in the eighties
expected pretty to be. I’m so tempted to dump my beaker of water on her head, see
what shape wet gel makes with her hair without the authority of a brush and comb
around to put it back in its place.
I seek out Mr. Johnson across the room, follow him with my eyes to make sure
he doesn’t sneak up on us while we’re talking about him. Somehow I think he
knows anyway. It’s like he can sense his own presence elsewhere. That old saying
about ears burning, or whatever. He continues to glance our way and I keep
averting my eyes to make it seem as though I was looking at the instructions on the
whiteboard instead of him.
“I looked at the full movie and the names in the credits; I didn’t see his
anywhere,” I say. “It wasn’t him.”
Boyfriend leans into the conversation and scoffs at me. “Have you ever watched
a porn before? They never use their real names.”
My face heats up. I’ve watched porn before. A little. Very little. Not that I’m
opposed to it at all, but when you share accounts and passwords with your parents
it’s difficult to buy or search for things on the internet you don’t want others to
know about. I guess I should’ve known the actors weren’t using their real names
since most of them have names like “Johnny Dong” and “Lana Gnitsif”—which I
thought was kind of a pretty name until I realized it was Anal Fisting spelled
backwards.
“The guy in the movie is way too young,” I say, doing everything I can to
convince myself and them that they’re wrong about the teacher I admire so much.
“Yeah,” Serena says, running her finger around the rim of my beaker. I swear if
she tips it over and spills water on my assignments, I’ll break the damn thing over
her head. I almost want her to, just to see if I have the courage to do it. “Because it
was made ten years ago.”
“Damn,” I mumble. I didn’t even bother to look at when the movie had been
made. By the low quality of the film, it makes sense that it was made ten years ago
compared to some of the other movies that were on the website. I can’t get too
down on myself for not paying attention to these things, though. After all, my
attentions were elsewhere—a couple times that night.
I look at Mr. Johnson again. Really look this time. The shapes his body makes
when he’s standing or leaning. The different facial expressions. He has the best
smile. Genuine. The kind that makes wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. The actor
in the video didn’t have those. In fact, he looked as though he’d never smiled a day
in his life.
Could it really be him? I can’t imagine why someone so brilliant would resort to
porn. I mean, unless he just really wanted to. Not that there’s anything wrong with
porn. It’s a perfectly satisfactory profession for a lot of people, and I hear there’s
good money to be made in something like that. I’m totally all for the sex-positive
movement. It’s just, he doesn’t seem like the type who would put himself out there
for the world to see. That’s a bell that can never be un-rung. When someone goes
into a profession like teaching, there are background and credit checks to be had.
Every decision you’ve ever made in your life is under scrutiny. You basically have to
be a nun or a priest in your former life. Squeaky-clean as fuck.
I’m doing the math in my head. In order for him to get to where he is now, a
professor in one of the best private universities on the west coast, he would’ve been
in college himself back when the movie was made. He also would’ve known videos
like those could eventually destroy his career if anyone were to find out. Why would
he risk his entire career?
“The only way to find out if it was really him,” Serena continues, “is if someone
sees the goods. Also, there’s that birthmark on his hip that would totally give him
away.”
There’s that, but I could tell just by seeing his dick. I would know it anywhere. I
watched the video several times and have it ingrained in my memory.
“How are you going to do it, just walk up and ask to see his birthmark?” I ask,
skeptical.
Boyfriend—I seriously need to learn his name; I think I heard Serena call him
Chet, or maybe Chad, once—laughs too loud, getting the attention of everyone
around us, including Mr. Johnson. I look down to avoid his irritated gaze. I hate the
thought of him thinking I’m fucking around in class and not getting my work done.
“Are you kidding?” Chad (or whatever) says. “I wouldn’t let my girl near that
summer sausage; I’d lose her for sure.”
Serena rolls her eyes and says, “I’m not going to find out, but you are,” she says
to me.
“He won’t show me,” I insist. I can’t even imagine how I would go about seeing
it. I picture the look on his face as I walk up and say, Good day, Mr. Johnson, how
about you show me that beautiful fuck-stick. The thought brings a fraction of a grin
to my face. Mostly because the voice I use in my head is British. I’m not sure why. It
just pops into my head like that. “He wouldn’t be willing to risk his job. He could
lose everything.”
“Trust me, for you, he would,” says Chad with a sleazy grin. Serena jabs him in
the ribs, giving him a dirty look. “What? He would. She’s hot.” Her angry look
continues to harden until he’s squirming. “But you’re hotter,” he says. The nasty
glare continues far too long until both me and Boyfriend are super uncomfortable.
After a minute she relaxes. The thin compliment seems to satisfy her enough to
move on.
When she looks back at me, there’s more heat in her gaze, as if it were my fault
her boyfriend called me hot. “I dare you to find a way to catch him naked and get a
look at it,” she says.
“How the hell do you suppose I do that? It’s not like he has a reason to strip
down in class . . .”
Or does he?
Ideas begin to fire off in my head. Situations. Possibilities. Probabilities.
Here’s where my curiosity will get me into trouble. I don’t back down from
dares, and in this case, I kind of don’t want to. I’m just as curious as everyone else,
and I actually think I have a plan on how to see him naked that might just work. I
look in my backpack to make sure I have what I need, and with a nervous smile,
realize that I do.
CHAPTER2
LOCHEJOHNSON
I’ve never been interested in one of my students. Never even been tempted. Not
until Georgia.
The first day she walked into my classroom I knew I was in trouble. All the
typical things played into it: A sexy mane of thick dark hair, silky pale skin, eyes
like bright blue planets that suck you into their world. But it was more than that.
I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life—been with plenty of beautiful
women. With Georgia it was different. It was chemistry.
Part of it was her looks. On more than one occasion I pictured brushing my
fingers through her locks. The full lips I’d love to kiss, and the curvy body I want to
taste every inch of. It’s everything about her. Looks, yes, but her personality too.
The inquisitiveness. That might not be all that of an attractive feature for most
men, but for a teacher there’s nothing better. And the fact that she devours my
every word, eyes stalking me as I cross the room. I’m used to students’ glazed-over
stares as they watch the clock above my head ticking by, waiting for the hour to be
over.
Not Georgia. She acts as though I’ve hung the moon, never questioning anything
I teach. I have her in my grasp. If she’s as quick of a study in bed as she is in the
classroom, she may just be the girl of my dreams. When it comes to sex, I could
bend her to my will, dominate her, and she would love every minute of it.
But the distracted girl in my classroom is not the same girl I’m used to seeing on
a daily basis. I’ve never seen her talk to Serena and Chad. Normally the Rockefeller
wannabes talking in the corner don’t rattle her a bit. For some reason they have
been for the last two days. And what was that, when she looked right at my dick
yesterday? Not that I’m complaining, of course. It just took me off my guard, and I
don’t like to be surprised in the middle of a lesson when I’m trying to get these
thick-headed students familiar with chemicals that could easily poison them or
burn their skin if they’re not careful.
In the months Georgia’s been in my class, she’s always looked me right in the
eye. Yesterday it was as if my cock was giving the lecture. After class I even checked
the front of my pants to make sure my zipper wasn’t down and that I hadn’t spilled
my lunch down the front of me. Seeing her look at me like that, I’d struggled to
keep from getting a hard-on in class. Struggle is putting it mildly. I had to force
Mrs. Chambers, the cook in the cafeteria—the one with the mustache and
blackheads the size of pennies—into my thoughts to keep my dragon down.
Because trust me, when I’m hard, there’s no hiding it.
Every time I look at Georgia, she’s looking back at me with bare curiosity, as if
I’ve done something so outrageous, so entertaining that it warrants all her
attention in case I do it again. I try to hold her gaze but she keeps averting her eyes.
Maybe I’m reading her wrong and she just needs help with the assignment, but I
don’t think so. I’m not sure what she wants and it’s driving me crazy.
The entire period is a struggle to keep my focus. When the class is finally over, I
sit at my desk and take papers from my students as they leave the room. When the
last student is gone and the door shuts, I get up to lock it. When I turn around, I
realize Georgia is still at her desk and she has yet to clean out her flasks and
beakers.
I stand up, not sure what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets.
She’s looking down at the paper in front of her as if she’s really struggling. She’s
my best student. She should’ve breezed through this assignment. It’s stuff we’ve
already covered throughout the school year. I’ve never known her to struggle with
anything since starting this class, especially things this easy.
Making my way across the room, I see last night’s assignment on her desk.
Though I’m looking at it upside down, from this angle it looks complete. In fact, it
looks more than complete. It looks as though she wrote out each of her answers
and explained why in the margins for good measure. She’s always doing things like
that, going above and beyond what I ask her to do when most students struggle to
write two words. I even had a student once answer a question with “just because.”
Not to name names, but his name sounds like Brad and he sits next to Serena . . .
“Georgia? Do you need help with something?” I ask her.
She startles at the sound of my voice, knocking over a flask full of blue liquid
that splashes onto my pants and shirt.
I back away instantly, sucking in a worried breath. Working with chemicals, I
know just how dangerous they can be. I once had a professor in college blow up a
classroom. Luckily no one was seriously injured in the accident. But that’s one
cautionary tale you don’t forget in this business.
Though we’re not working with anything explosive or particularly dangerous at
the moment, there are chemicals in this room that could cause nasty rashes and
first-degree burns. I don’t want to take any chances. As I strip off my clothes, down
to nothing but my boxer-briefs and socks, the area around me fills with the scent of
peppermint.
Georgia jumps out of her seat with a towel in hand, wiping off my bare chest,
and spending an exorbitant amount of time on the front of my boxers. If I didn’t
know better, I’d say she was trying to open the flap and see inside. I stop her by
grabbing onto her wrist before the effect she’s having on me becomes impossible to
hide. After she calms down, I let go of her. She apologizes for being so clumsy. She
is not a clumsy girl. Not in the slightest. And she’s not one to startle easily, either.
There have been plenty of times when I’ve stood over her while she was deep in
thought, and not once when I said her name did she flail her arms and dump
chemicals on me.
“God, I am so sorry, Mr. Johnson, it’s not a chemical, it’s just mouthwash.”
I pause with my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers. I was starting to think I
was better safe than sorry and should strip down to nothing at all and wash off.
I let out a sigh of relief.
“Mouthwash?” I say, confused.
Her beautiful porcelain skin floods with color. “The bottle broke in my backpack
so I dumped it in the flask so it wouldn’t get all over my homework.
I glance over at the sink attached to table right beside her, and the trashcan just
below it. She had two options of easy disposal, but decided to dump it in a flask
instead—for which she would have had to use a funnel in order to sift it through
the small opening. This is a smart girl with excellent problem-solving skills, not
whatever this character is she’s playing—who reminds me more of the ditzy Serena
she’s been sitting behind who barely squeezes through life on a C average.
I start to wonder if this has anything to do with the reason those two have been
talking in class the last couple of days.
“Can I see your paper, please?” I ask. I want to see if she really did need help
with her assignment or if this is some game she’s playing that I have yet to figure
out the objective of.
Her jaw clinches, and she takes the paper in her hand, hesitating as though she
might not give it to me.
“Georgia? If you don’t turn it in today, you don’t get credit.”
“Can’t I turn it in late?” she asks, looking up at me with those big innocent eyes.
The way she bites her bottom lip has me itching to grab her by the sides of her face
and bring those lips to mine. If she were anyone else but my favorite student, I
would have.
My voice stays firm even though I’d probably cave if she asked me for an
extension. “Highest grade you can get when turning something in late is a C.”
Her eyes go bright with fear, and I fight the smile bubbling up. Little Miss
Overachiever. I knew that would get her attention. She hands me the piece of
paper. Even with the smell of mint still lingering in the air, the scent on her paper
fills my head. I’m stunned at first, and glance over at Georgia who stares down at
her desk, chin bobbing as if she’s either about to cry or scream, or maybe both.
With the page to my nose, I fill my lungs with the sweet, earthy scent of female
cum. I want to close my eyes and live in this moment, stick my tongue out and taste
her. I would know this smell anywhere. Hairs stand up all over my body and my
dick strains against my boxers. Reluctantly, I put the paper down in front of me to
hide my arousal.
When I finally break the hold her scent has on me, I look at the page and realize
her work is flawless—like usual. So why had she been sitting there acting as if she
were in need of help, unless she meant all of this to happen? I have a sinking
suspicion that she was trying to get me out of my clothes on purpose, and that she
had every intention of having me smell her cum on these pages. The only question
that remains: is this brilliant student trying to start something with me?
I don’t know her well enough to say for sure that she’s not the kind of girl who
would carelessly try to hook up with a teacher and risk losing her scholarship, but
she definitely doesn’t seem like it. I would never try to do anything to ruin the
limitless options of her future, only I’m really struggling not to give in to her.
“Georgia, what’s this about?” I say, trying to mask the lust-heavy undertones of
my voice with authority. I don’t know how successful I am at it, but I’m giving it
one hell of an effort. “I know this wasn’t an accident. Does this have something to
do with Serena and Chad?”
She looks at me, but she can’t seem to hold eye contact. Her eyes start to wander
over my body, stopping at my hip. Her gaze lingers on the small birthmark shaped
like California, and her mouth drops open.
“What . . .” she says, her voice trailing off as if her mind is somewhere else.
I snap my fingers in front of her face to get her attention. “What is going on
with you?”
She hesitates. Whatever it is bears a heavy weight that makes her shoulders
droop.
“I can’t help you unless you tell me,” I say.
Taking a deep breath, she lets her head fall into her hands. “I’m so sorry.” She
looks up at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling and winces. I’m actually a little afraid of
what she’s about to say. With as much twisting and turning as she’s doing in her
seat, it can’t be good. “I was sitting behind Serena and Chad and they were
watching this video . . .”
She’d mentioned them watching videos before, but the way she says it now
leaves no doubt as to which video she’s talking about. Squeezing my lips together, I
stand straight as if my vertebrae has been soldered together. It was only a matter of
time before someone found the old movie. I hoped it would be long after I’d retired,
but luck doesn’t seem to be on my side. At the time, when the porno was first
made, it seemed like a needle in a haystack that someone I knew would come across
it. It was made in a tiny back-alley studio. The company was professional enough to
test for STDs prior to production and it paid well, but as these types of companies
go, it was like a mom-and-pop thing. The director wrote the script, did the lighting
himself, and ran cameras, while his wife and brother ran the others. I had no idea
they’d have the kind of distribution to keep videos out in the world after all these
years.
Now it has finally come back to bite me in the ass.
“Who all knows about the video?” I ask, sounding angrier than I should. It’s not
like it’s her fault that the students in my class found it, and I can’t blame her for
being curious enough to watch it. If the shoe were on the other foot and I found a
video of Georgia, I would definitely check it out.
“As far as I know, just us,” she says. “They were hesitant to even show me, but
I’d already seen enough to realize what they were watching. I don’t think they’ll tell
anyone.”
“No,” I say, resigned. Looking out the window at the clear sky, I see my entire
career—all those years of late-night study sessions and horrible part-time jobs in
greasy fast-food joints to earn tuition flash before my eyes.
That’s why I’d resulted to porn, because there were no part-time jobs that paid
enough. I was going through the job section of the newspaper one day when I saw
the ad for porn actors. I was young and thought, fuck for money? Hell yeah, I can do
that. But it wasn’t at all how I thought it would be. I showed up at the studio and
met my co-star, who, at the time, was smoking a joint because she couldn’t bear to
have sex with me sober. She was twenty-six years old and had already starred in
over fifty movies, some of them so extreme, according to her, that they had to have
a medic on set just in case. After that I was afraid, to say the least. There was
nothing sexy about any of it. She immediately went into the rules, what she was
willing and not willing to do. I was then instructed to lie on a bed with all eyes on
me. With the heat from the lights blazing down on me, and the cold mechanics of
the whole thing, I struggled to stay hard. They made me pop a little blue pill and
threated to kick me out and not pay me if I couldn’t perform. Somehow I managed,
but despite my hard cock, I wasn’t turned on one bit. Once I came, I was so glad it
was over I decided never to do it again, even after receiving a nice paycheck. It just
wasn’t worth it. And now, everything I’ve worked for, all of it could be gone because
I had sex for money on camera ten years ago.
Exhaling a long, exhausted breath, I say, “I don’t think they’ll tell anyone as
long as I give them something in return. Their parents are wealthy, so I doubt
they’ll want money, but I’m sure they will want As in this class. But you already
have a perfect grade in my class, so what will you want?”
I have a hard time keeping the irritation back. I thought Georgia was different.
Stupid me, I was actually starting to feel a connection between me and her. I
thought she liked me. Now that I realize she did all of this to blackmail me because
of the video, I realize how dumb I’ve been.
“I don’t want anything,” she says.
I watch her, trying to read her face. I’ve been teaching long enough to spot a liar
from a mile away. So why am I not picking up on anything? I want to believe her.
Those big blue eyes look sincere, and so does the shocked expression on her face,
but the way she continues to twist the straps of her backpack tells me she’s not
being entirely honest.
“You’re lying,” I say.
She bites her bottom lip, her eyes bouncing between my face and my dick, which
has finally settled down in the face of my ruin.
“Well, there’s one thing,” she says.
It’s probably money. Scholarship kids are always scraping by. But how much will
she want and how much is this job really worth to me?
“How much?” I ask.
She tilts her head to the side, confused. “How much?”
“Yeah,” I say, getting irritated with this innocent act of hers while she’s
committing extortion. “How much money will it take to keep you quiet about the
video?”
She leans away from me. Irritation warps her face. On anyone else, it would be
ugly, but I think it’s physically impossible for her to be unattractive. “I don’t want
your money,” she says, spitting out the words as if they’ve left a bad taste in her
mouth.
“Then what do you want from me,” I say, lifting my hands in surrender.
Shaking her head, she says, “I wasn’t trying to get money from you, I just
wanted to see your cock!” She slaps her hands against her mouth, eyes wide, as if
she’d spilled a secret she’d meant to keep.
A short burst of laughter escapes my lips. I can’t believe what she’s telling me.
“In exchange for your silence, you want to see my cock?”
I’ve never seen anyone’s face turn as red as Georgia’s is now. Seriously, is there
any blood left in the rest of her body?
“No,” she insists. “Not in exchange for my silence. I never planned to tell
anyone. You’re my favorite teacher. I would never do anything like that. I was
just . . . I bought the video and now I’m curious. It’s not blackmail. If you don’t
show me, it’s not a big deal.” She scrambles for her backpack. It’s adorable the way
she keeps dropping her books when she tries to shove them inside. “Never mind,”
she says, anxious to escape. “Just forget I said anything,”
When she tries to leave I grab her arm to stop her. “Sit,” I tell her. She stares at
my hand connected to her arm. At first I think she’s going to demand that I let her
go, or get pissed that I’m physically detaining her, but instead, she obediently sits
back in her chair without a word or even a hint of reluctance.
I take another step toward her so her face is right at the opening of my legs, just
inches from my boxer-clad dick. “You stayed to see it, so take a look,” I say.
She starts to fidget. “Maybe it was a bad idea—” she starts to say, but I cut her
off.
“Look at it.”
Her eyes shoot upward to meet mine, a look of stunned disbelief making her
look younger than she is, and somewhat nervous.
Her next words come out slow and methodical, as if she’s thinking really hard
about what to say next. “Okay . . . aren’t you going to take off your boxers?”
“No, you’re going to do it for me,” I say, my words curt, leaving no room for her
to argue.
I watch her, wondering if she’ll actually go through with it. She looks scared to
death.
She starts to laugh, as if I’m joking, but when my lips don’t budge, her laughter
trails off. “You’re serious.”
“If you want to see it bad enough, you get to do all the work. Now pull down my
boxers and look at my cock.”
I move closer so that the flap on my boxers is just a hair’s breadth from her
trembling mouth.
It will definitely be work trying to get these boxers off now that I’m getting hard.
The fabric starts to gouge at the skin of my waist and becomes uncomfortable.
She visibly swallows and reaches for the elastic waistband. Holy shit, she’s
actually going to do it, I realize, and I become harder still. Honestly, I thought she
would chicken out; she seems so innocent, so virginal, but this girl is determined. I
fight the smile wrestling my lips while she struggles to get my boxers over the head
of my growing prick. When that approach doesn’t work at first, she reaches behind
and slides them down my ass first. Always the little problem-solver.
Once my boxers are down in the back, she’s able to easily get them down in the
front. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t really need to,
though. The look on her face speaks volumes.
CHAPTER3
GEORGIA
Mr. Johnson has the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen. Straight with a slight arch
toward his belly button, everything proportioned nicely. And big.
Not that I’m an expert on the subject. I’ve only had sex once. I don’t think the
minute it took for my high school boyfriend to blow his load while still trying to
break my cherry qualifies me as a cock connoisseur, but compared to those I’ve
seen on TV and in movies, Mr. Johnson’s would win the trophy.
It was a formidable phallus on screen. In person, it’s downright intimidating. I
can’t help but wonder if he’s hard for me, or if it would be the same standing naked
in front of any girl. Pre-cum bubbles up from the opening of the tip and dribbles
down its length. I’m so tempted to stick out my tongue and lick the glistening
stream. I wonder how it tastes, how this amazing cock would feel cradled in my
gentle fist, nestled in the warm cushion of my mouth. I want so badly to touch him,
but I don’t want to step over any lines. He’s showing me because he thinks if he
doesn’t I’ll tell someone about the video. He’s not naked in his classroom, risking
his career because he’s willing to give it all up for me. Though my stupid fantasies
wish that were the case, it’s just not, and so I have to set up boundaries for myself
to keep from going too far.
Suddenly he reaches down and pulls up his boxers, cutting me off from his
beautiful member. I startle from the quick movement, breaking out of my trance.
I’m not at all prepared for this moment to be over. I need more time to memorize
it, take it all in. “Wait,” I say.
He shakes his head. “There, you saw it. Now we’re done.”
I’m taken aback by his abruptness.
“But—” I don’t want to beg or seem desperate, but I am desperate. I want to see
more, touch it, feel the silky skin coating the hard shaft, live out all those dirty
fantasies that stormed my thoughts while I was watching his movie.
He starts to laugh. I must seem so pathetic. Inwardly I scold myself for being
incredibly transparent, only I can’t help it. I want his cock. I want him.
He steps away from me and leans over my desk, scribbling something on a piece
of paper. He hands it to me. It’s an address. “Be there at eight tonight and don’t be
late.”
I go back to my dorm, unable to keep Mr. Johnson off my mind. I’m supposed to
meet my study group at the library tonight. Fuck them, they’re on their own. I’m
not about to pass up the opportunity to spend real time with that lovely cock for an
English assignment that will barely make a dent in my grade. Besides, it’s already
mostly done. I only go to study groups just to get away from the dorm once in a
while, and because it’s time to get out and start making friends. Easier said than
done.
There are three hours until I’m supposed to meet Mr. Johnson. I go to my
footlocker that houses my tiny wardrobe. When I first started college, I was dead-
set against dating so I never bought anything too revealing. The closest thing I have
that’s worthy of a night spent trying to seduce an older man is a 1990s-style baby-
doll dress. But I’m not trying to look like a child. I want to look sexy for him.
Looking at my measly collection, it doesn’t appear that’s going to happen. Oh well.
No time to dwell on that. He’s used to seeing me in sweats and leggings most days
anyway, so anything I wear will be an improvement.
Next I completely pluck and shave my entire body. This takes up most of my
time. That’s when I realize I’ve really let myself go when it comes to upkeep. I
mean, I exercise because I want to stay healthy. Sick body, sick mind, they say. I
need my mind on top of its game, so a daily workout routine is essential.
Unfortunately, pruning isn’t part of that regimen. I don’t think I’ve shaved above
my knee since I was sixteen, and I’m starting to wonder if my poor razor is going to
crap out on me before I’m done. It doesn’t, but there will definitely be some razor
burn going on tomorrow.
Now, back to the perfect outfit, since I have yet to pick it out. I try on my one
dress. It’s cute. When I pull my hair up and add a pair of flats with it, it’s even
cuter. But cute is not what I’m going for. So I opt for a pair of jeans that fit my
curves quite nicely. It’s not going to knock him backwards when he sees me, but at
least it won’t give him second thoughts about our hook up—I hope.
As if telepathically sensing my dilemma, my roommate walks in. We’re not all
that close, but she’s let me borrow clothes before, and she’s tidy, so we get along
just fine. She also has impeccable style. She can throw together some of the most
random things and make it work. And she definitely likes to show off the goods.
She lifts a brow when seeing me standing in front of the full-length mirror.
“You have on your nice jeans. What’s the occasion?”
I look down at my “nice jeans”, as she calls them. The only thing that makes
them nicer than the others is that they’re the only ones I own without holes in the
knees.
Obviously, I’m not about to tell her about a possible hook-up with my teacher,
so I keep it vague. “I have a date.”
“With a man?” she says, skeptical.
“Yes, with a man.”
“Oh, weird. I thought you were a lesbian.”
I frown, looking at her over my shoulder. “Why would you think that?”
“I’ve never heard you talk about guys before.”
I shrug. “That’s because no one has caught my eye until now.”
“How long’s it been?” she asks.
“Couple years.”
She scrunches up her face. “You’re going on the first date you’ve had in a couple
of years and you’re wearing that?”
I look at my reflection again. I look fine, I guess, but nothing about this outfit
screams “rip off my clothes.”
“I don’t really have anything else to wear,” I say.
“This won’t do.” She goes to the plastic mobile closet she keeps in the corner of
the room. The dorms are terrible when it comes to storage space. Or any kind of
space for that matter. Our beds are practically on top of each other. Since we’d
never met prior to becoming roommates, we had to learn to not be shy really quick.
Privacy is not a luxury we have.
“I have the perfect thing,” she says.
She pulls out what I think is a shirt at first, before realizing it’s just a really
short, red, spandex-stretchy dress. “Try this on. The color will look stunning with
your dark hair,” she says.
I take off my clothes. I’ve been wearing my socks long enough for them to leave
a mark around my ankle that I hope fades before I leave. The dress hugs every curve
of my body and she’s right, the color really is striking against my pale skin and
brown hair. It’s shorter than anything I’m used to wearing, just long enough to hide
my butt cheeks. Every time I sit or stand, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t ride up.
I look good, but I can’t help but feel somewhat self-conscious. I don’t wear
things like this. Girls with confidence, girls like Serena and my roommate, wear
things like this.
“Oh, and you have to wear these with it,” she says, handing me a pair of black
six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos with red soles. It’s a good thing we have the same
shoe size as well or I would’ve been wearing scuffed blue flats with it. A bold choice
that someone other than me might’ve been able to pull off.
She takes in the entire package, nodding and making faces. “You look amazing,
but it’s not finished.”
She does my makeup next. She keeps my eyeshadow neutral, but gives me deep
red lips that make them look sensual. I feel like a completely different person. I’m
not sure if Mr. Johnson will even recognize me outside of my university sweatshirts
and jeans. Most days I don’t even bother to apply mascara, let alone full warpaint.
“I guarantee if you were to walk into a room full of men right now, every head in
the room would turn your way,” my roommate says.
I’m only looking to turn one man’s head tonight.
“Well, yeah, because I would be fidgeting so much they’d think I was up to
something,” I say.
She laughs. “Shut up. You look hot. If I wasn’t with my boyfriend, I’d totally
fuck you.”
I laugh nervously and let out a shaky breath. That’s not the kind of attention I’m
used to getting from men. Or women. I get looks sometimes, but the most attention
I get at school is guys asking for my help with assignments.
“Now,” she says, giving me one last once-over. “Go get laid. You deserve it.”
My cab takes me to the address Mr. Johnson gave me with two minutes to spare. It’s
not a neighborhood I’d expect someone to live at on a teacher’s salary. It’s a large,
two-story house with a big landscaped yard, mature palm trees, and a koi pond out
front. It’s nestled among other big beautiful houses of the same caliber on the
wealthy side of town. It’s a place I’d expect a politician or CEO of a small
corporation to live.
Then a terrible thought hits me: what if he’s married? If his wife makes all the
money, a house like this would make sense. What if she’s out of town and I’m
coming in like a one-woman homewrecking crew in a red dress?
In the year I’ve been in his class I’d never once heard him mention a wife or
even a girlfriend. He doesn’t have a picture of anyone on his desk like my other
professors do, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.
I decide to let it go for now. Once I’m inside I’ll know. It’s impossible to hide a
woman’s touch.
Walking up to the door, I feel the warning signs of panic pushing down on me:
heart racing, blurry vision, shortness of breath. I’m bombarded with questions and
worries. What if he doesn’t even live here and he gave me the wrong address to
embarrass me and put me in my place? I’ll get back to school and he’ll be like,
that’s what you get for blackmailing me, even though it definitely wasn’t
blackmail.
I start to regret sending the cab away. I guess if this doesn’t pan out, I’m close
enough to campus to walk. Or, if these miserably sexy shoes destroy my feet, I
could just call another cab.
A squeaky porch swing sways with the wind, and next door I hear the trill of
chimes. These sounds distract me from my rambling thoughts enough for me to
focus on the task at hand. Taking a deep breath, I fix my dress, check to make sure
everything is under wraps, and smooth down my hair. Then I knock.
The door is painted red and has a brass lion knocker. It’s a really pretty door. I’m
terrified it won’t open. Yet, at the same time, I’m terrified it will.
Feels like forever before the door opens, but it’s probably only been ten seconds
or so. The tension in my shoulders eases up just the slightest bit.
Mr. Johnson stands at the threshold and isn’t dressed at all like Mr. Johnson.
He’s barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a form-fitting baseball shirt that hugs his
toned chest and arms wonderfully. I never would’ve imagined him being a sports
fan. I guess with his athletic build, it makes sense. He probably plays sports, too.
I’ve never been attracted to jocks in any way, but for some reason, the thought of
Mr. Johnson all sweaty and pumped up after a game—doesn’t matter which kind; it
could be badminton for all I care—really turns me on.
I feel overdressed. Kind of like a call girl. What the hell was I thinking wearing
this thing? It’s so not me.
“Wow,” he says, blue eyes scanning the length of my body. He takes a step back
to get the full picture. “That’s some dress.”
I feel really stupid right now, so I try to make light of it. “This old thing? I
wanted to keep it casual, you know, just in case I decide to hit the gym after.”
He huffs out silent laughter and opens the door wider for me to enter. “I know
what you mean,” he says, “I always keep my mini red dress in my gym bag.”
I smile and roll my eyes as I walk in.
A few silly words exchanged and I’m feeling more at ease. I look around the large
room, taking it all in, trying to learn about what kind of person Mr. Johnson is
outside of the classroom.
The first thing I notice, besides a serious lack of décor, is the smell of rosemary
and basil. He’s cooking something, and whatever it is smells delicious.
The house is a total bachelor pad. From the ratty recliner that’s obviously his
favorite piece of furniture, to the posters and signed hockey jerseys on the walls.
The place is all male. He’s definitely not married.
Taking it all in, I realize just how big it is. The living room itself is three times
the size of my dorm room. It’s a lot of house for just one person.
“You live here by yourself?” I ask.
He looks around and shrugs. “Yep, just me and the cat. He’s around here
somewhere.”
Another surprise. I didn’t picture him as a cat person. I didn’t picture him with
animals at all, but if I had to guess, I would’ve thought he’d own a bulldog or
mastiff. Something macho to complement his size.
“I can’t picture you with a cat,” I say, unable to contain my smile. He’s just so
incredibly adorable, and nothing like I was expecting outside of the classroom.
“He’s not mine. He just comes around when he wants food.”
“I don’t blame him,” I say, sniffing the air. “Smells good in here.”
“Good. I hope you’re hungry. I made fresh pasta.”
And he can cook? Jesus, this man is perfect.
“Starving,” I say.
He leads me to the kitchen nook. The kitchen too is just as spectacular as the
rest of the house. Custom everything, including a fridge that matches the dark
wood of the cabinets, glass tile back splashes, and granite countertops. I’m not
much of a cook myself, but my mom would’ve sacrificed me to the nearest god for a
kitchen like this when my siblings and I were growing up. She always complained
about not having any counter space. The counters in here are big enough to land a
plane on.
The table has already been set for two. Champagne on ice, candles lit. When he
gave me his address, I was just expecting a longer version of the preview I’d seen
earlier in the classroom, and most likely—if I was lucky—an awkward quickie. I’d
satisfy my curiosity and that would be that. What I wasn’t expecting was a romantic
dinner. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just confused about what all this means. I
already told him this wasn’t a blackmail situation, so he didn’t have to go to all the
trouble.
He pours the champagne. I’ve had champagne once, at a wedding. It was gross,
like dry ginger ale, but worse. I try a sip. This isn’t gross, not at all. It’s sweet and
tickles the back of my throat. I want to down the entire glass, but hold myself back,
not wanting to be obvious about just how nervous I really am. So far I think I’m
really pulling off this whole confidence thing—to the point I’m actually starting to
believe it myself.
He pulls my chair out for me and I sit.
“Help yourself,” he says, pointing at the food on the table in bowls.
There’s salad, pasta with red sauce, and breadsticks that also look homemade. I
take a little of each.
“You’re not one of those girls, are you?” he asks, smirking at me from across the
table, the candlelight doing beautiful things with his face.
“What girls?”
“The ones who eat like birds on a date, then scarf down a pizza when they get
home.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Is this a date?”
The corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile. “No.”
“Well then, no, I guess not.”
I reach over and grab a heaping spoonful of pasta and plop it down on my plate.
He laughs and starts to fill his own plate.
He eats much quicker than I do. I’ve always been a slow eater ever since I choked
on a Red Vine in a dark movie theater; it put the fear of God into me.
“So, Mr. Johnson,” I say, trying to fill the room with sounds other than my
chewing. “Why’d you get into porn?”
His champagne glass stops on its way to his lips. I think he’s blushing but it’s
too difficult to tell in the dull glow of the room. “Call me Loche,” he says. “And I
did it out of necessity. I was a struggling student and I saw an opportunity to better
my situation and I took it.” He looks pointedly at me over his glass.
“I know what that look is for,” I tell him. It’s so obvious that he’s suspicious,
like he can’t believe I have all this information on him and all I want out of the deal
is to see his dick. “I’m still not blackmailing you, so stop looking at me like I’m a
criminal.”
His smile beats me over the head, leaves me breathless and incapacitated for a
moment. He’s so insanely handsome. He might even be better-looking than Tom
Hardy, if that’s even humanly possible, or maybe it’s just the champagne going to
my head. I don’t think so, though. I think I closed myself off to men because of my
workload for so long that I just forgot to look. Well, not anymore. I’m definitely
looking now.
My body’s reacting, but my mind is telling me if I go too far, it’ll ruin everything.
I want at least one mind-blowing porn scene of my own with him, but how will we
ever go back to our student-teacher relationship after that? How can I ever look at
him the same again? Things would get awkward. I’d have to switch classes and
teachers. What a pain in the ass. Actually, I probably wouldn’t even be able to
switch. I’m sure this far into the school year classes are full. I groan quietly enough
so he doesn’t hear. I’ve really got myself in deep this time, but there’s no turning
back now.
Loche stands and walks toward me. There’s something very commanding about
the way he moves. Apparently his authority isn’t reserved only for the classroom.
My fork still hovers in front of my mouth, but I struggle to move, mesmerized by
his every step as he gets nearer. With my empty hand, I reach for my champagne
glass and chug what’s left in it.
“More?” he asks, standing right in front of me now.
I nod because words fail me. He fills the glass and I chug it too.
He breathes out silent laughter. “Am I making you nervous?”
I try to roll my eyes and laugh it off, but I have no idea what my face is doing
because it’s completely numb. “What? No,” I say. He takes another step closer and
my voice starts to warble. “What’s there to be nervous about?”
I have a good buzz going and a slight headache. So much for feeling confident. I
shouldn’t still be this nervous.
“Are you still eating?” he asks.
I look at the fork in my hand. How could I possibly still think about food at a
time like this? I put it down on my plate. He pushes it off to the side and sits on the
edge of the table in front of me.
He touches my cheek, running his fingers along my jawline and caressing my
bottom lip with his thumb. “Time for dessert,” he says in a low voice.
Swallowing hard, I have a feeling he’s not talking about cake.
CHAPTER4
LOCHEJOHNSON
It’ll be a shame to see that dress go, but worth it to see what’s underneath. Though
it’s not like it leaves much to the imagination to begin with. Georgia has an
incredible figure. Nice round hips, small waist, flat stomach, and breasts just large
enough for a mouthful. I never really noticed her body before under the comfort-
style clothing she always wears to class. But damn, does she clean up well.
I was afraid at first that she wouldn’t show up after I gave her my address. Afraid
I came on too strong, had been too commanding with her. When she did everything
I told her to do without resistance or complaint, I was excited, yet still cautious.
Now that she’s here, and I’m seeing her wearing that dress just for me, I finally
believe that she’s not trying to blackmail me. I had my doubts. But now it’s clear
she doesn’t want my money. Just my cock. And it wants her too.
Seeing the way she looks at me, hungry and full of lust, has my balls about to
boil over. It’s a good thing I rubbed one out before she got here so I can last longer.
She sits in the chair in front of me, hands trembling on the table. She’s nervous.
For some reason that excites me even more.
“Unbutton my jeans,” I tell her. It’s more of a command than a suggestion. She
doesn’t flinch at the order, just gets her quaking hands to work. She fondles with
the button and zipper until they finally come undone. I stand to let her pull my
jeans down. When my boxers are down too she gets this dreamy look on her face.
Makes me think this girl hasn’t had sex in a while. She acts like she’s starving and
my dick is the only thing that can provide nourishment. By all means, have at it. I
have no intention of standing in her way.
“Stroke it,” I command.
Again, without hesitation, she reaches out, timid at first, before gently touching
the skin of my shaft. Chills race up my arms and legs and a moan rumbles low in
my throat. Her warm hands massaging my cock feel amazing. It’s been a long time
since anyone has touched me like this. Last girlfriend I had was over a year ago. It
had burned hot the first couple weeks then fizzled out within a month. Since then, I
hadn’t really been interested in anyone and haven’t had much time for the dating
scene.
Georgia seems to grow more confident in her ministrations, stroking with one
hand and exploring my balls with the other. I tilt my head back and close my eyes,
enjoying the sensation, but that doesn’t last long. I want to watch her work.
Each time she glances up at me, studying my face as if she’s worried she might
do something wrong, I feel myself getting closer.
“Lick the tip,” I say.
She leans over, sticks her tongue out and begins to lap at the opening, drinking
up my pre-cum. She then alternates between licking the rim of my head and
running her tongue down the length of me. I bite back the smile I feel pulling at my
lips. She’s enjoying this way more than I thought she would, making quiet sounds
of approval each time she opens her mouth.
“Now suck it,” I tell her.
She tilts her head as if thinking about the mechanics and mathematics of such a
task, measuring in her mind. She looks like she’s trying to solve a problem: how to
get her tiny heart-shaped mouth over my large cock head. Eventually, she opens
her mouth and spreads her lips, her teeth tucked safely behind them and begins to
devour me. I don’t how she does it, but she makes it work. When the head is
completely in, I see the shape of it in her cheek. I swear to God I’ve never seen
anything that sexy in all my life.
“Yeah, that’s good,” I say, brushing my fingers through her hair while holding
onto the back of her head. When my rod is halfway down her throat she starts to
gag, lets up a bit, then bobs down for more, pushing herself to go deeper each time.
The feeling of her throat opening then constricting around my cock is like heaven,
and the sight of those red lips stretched to fit is like art. I don’t push her onto me,
but I encourage her by moving my hips a little. I’m not bragging here; I have a large
dick. It’s just a fact. And it would be difficult for any woman to take. Especially
Georgia. Everything about her is small. From her mouth to her body. Still, she
impresses me by being able to take more than I ever thought possible.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I chant, pulling quickly out of her mouth. I’m on the verge of
unloading, but I’m not ready for that yet. So much for lasting longer. Maybe I
should’ve spent all day masturbating in order to get ready for this night.
Though Georgia doesn’t seem all that experienced, she knows what she’s doing,
and does it with aplomb. Fucking hell, she’s hot.
I take her face in my hands. Her eyes are watery and she has this dazed smile
across her face. When I first invited her over, I told myself just a hand job, nothing
more. When I saw those red lips, I shrugged and thought, okay, blow job, but that’s
it. Nothing else. Now I don’t think I can stop. And judging by the look on her face, I
don’t think she can either.
I push my lips to hers, kissing her long and deep. Hands running along her body,
down her smooth curves, I grab handfuls of that plump little ass, kneading at the
soft flesh. My fingers inch beneath her dress until I’m touching satin skin. She’s
wearing a thong. I move the string to the side and slip my finger between her wet
folds. I’m not talking about damp here. Not just a bit of moisture. I’m talking
Niagara Falls, Slip ’n Slide, Hurricane Georgia wet. Clearly I’m having the same
effect on her that she’s having on me.
She lets out a long moan as I start to rub the delicate skin around the hard ball of
her clit.
“Tell me what you want,” I say.
“I want you.”
Again I say, “Tell me what you want from me.”
She looks at my eyes and swallows hard. “I want . . .” Her words trail off like
she’s embarrassed to say what she wants.
“Tell me, or this night is over and I walk away,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen and there’s a spark of surprise in them. I start to pull my hand
away from her clit, but she grabs it, holding it in place. “Tell me,” I demand.
“I want you to fuck me.” Her words are barely a whisper, and her face turns a
deep shade of red.
I fight the urge to smile. It’s so damn adorable how shy she is. “I’m sorry, I
didn’t hear you.”
Her lips pinch together and she takes a deep breath, eyes steady and
determined. “I want you to fuck my brains out.”
This time I do smile. I can’t help it.
I dig my fingers in deeper. Damn. I’m still mesmerized by how wet she is. I’ve
never had a girl this wet for me before. I bury my face into her neck as she starts to
hump my hand and beg for me not to stop. The horny cooing sounds she makes
sends me into a frenzy.
Stepping out of my jeans and boxers, I pull her up out of her chair and lift her.
She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. The heat from
between her legs cradles my cock and gets my balls stirring again. Her mouth
presses against mine in a heated kiss, our tongues twisting and writhing around
each other.
“I want you so much,” she says as we break our kiss.
I carry her over to the island in the kitchen, slapping away towels and forks in
my way to make room. They clamor against the floor as I lift her on top of the
granite slab. Her dress is around her waist, panties still on, but moved to the side. I
want to see everything, so I yank them off. She sits up so I can reach behind her and
unzip the dress. The straps slide down her shoulders. Her bra matches her red lace
panties. I reach behind again and unclasp her bra, tossing it to the side. With the
top half of her completely naked, I take a moment to enjoy the view. She has
beautiful breasts, small but full, and pink nipples standing at attention. I take one
in my mouth and slide my tongue against the hard tip, going back and forth
between sucking and nibbling.
She leans her head back, moaning as my mouth fully engulfs the breast and I
begin to gently suckle. I do the same to the other after several minutes. I could play
with her breasts alone all night, but my dick demands more.
“I need to be inside that wet pussy,” I tell her.
It’s like my words are the secret passage to unlocking her playhouse. Her legs
open for me, and I feel the warmth radiating from between them without even
touching her.
“It’s all yours,” she says, in a sultry voice, biting her bottom lip.
As much as I want to rip the clothes right off of her, I take my time sliding her
dress all the way off and unwrapping her like a gift. I pause to marvel at the
treasure between her legs. There’s not a speck of pubic hair. Good. That way I can
see everything. Her arousal has made her pussy swollen and a deep shade of pink.
Only a sliver of her labia peeks out beneath the outer folds.
“Spread your legs wider,” I say.
Her legs open on command. She’s still wearing her heels and it’s a lovely sight.
It’s like the most delicate flower landed between her legs to form her pussy. It’s
perfectly sculpted like a decoration on a cake. While the rest of her skin is matte,
her little cunt glistens. A steady drip of her thin cream runs from her opening,
down to her adorable little asshole. I’m almost afraid to touch her and ruin it. I’m
definitely afraid to fuck her. I look at her tiny opening and then down at my
monstrous cock, wondering how the hell that’s going to fit without splitting her
wide open. I want her to enjoy this, not be uncomfortable. Seems like a good
possibility I would hurt her if I tried entering her right now. Luckily there’s plenty
of time to stretch her out before the main event.
I bend over, kissing the top of her smooth mons. She’s propped up on her
elbows, lips slightly parted, watching me.
“You have the prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen. I want to fill you up with my
cock,” I say, breathless.
She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and gives me a mischievous grin.
I put a finger inside of her to see just how tight she really is. As expected, her
opening clamps down on me like a vice, suctioning, holding on like it doesn’t want
to let me go.
She rocks her hips as I move my finger in and out of her. “You’re so tight,” I tell
her with a feral edge to my voice. “I can barely get a finger in there.”
Now for the taste test. I dive right in, running my tongue along the pink folds.
She doesn’t have a strong scent; clean and sweet. And she tastes like whipped
cream. As I lick circles around her clit, she sucks in a breath. “Oh, God,” she
breathes.
Plunging my tongue into her opening, she cries out and starts to hump my face.
I sit back, spread her open. Her pretty asshole needs attention too. With the tip of
my tongue, I press against it and I’m met with resistance from the tight muscle.
“Oh, God!” she says again, screaming it this time.
I go back and forth, licking a trail between her cunt and ass, making sure each
has its fair amount of attention. Then I put a second finger inside of her. This one
goes in easier. Hooking my fingers, I feel the bumpy egg-shape of her G-spot and
begin to rub. Her eyes open wide and she gives me this confused look as I massage,
like she has no idea what the sensation is that she’s feeling. I wonder if anyone has
ever touched her there before, and feel a sense of pride and ownership knowing I’m
the first.
“What—” she starts to say, but then her eyes roll back in her head.
That’s when I try for a third finger. There’s some resistance, but I manage and
she doesn’t complain. In fact, she seems to be loving it as she calls out my name.
Hearing my name in her voice, the desperation, the yearning, I feel possessive.
She’s mine. No one else can have her.
As I massage faster, she’s panting, “Oh, oh, oh,” her voice rising until she’s
crying out, “Oh, fuck, yes!”
Suddenly her muscles clinch and clamp down on me, trapping my fingers inside
of her, crushing them together until they’re overlapped. I wince as she contracts.
Takes an entire minute before she relaxes enough for me to pull them out. When I
do, a lava flow of her juices pour out with them spilling on the countertop.
She lays flat on her back against the granite slab, spent and breathing hard. Now
that she’s loosened up, it’s time. I’ll give her a few minutes to come down, but I’m
nowhere near done with her yet.
“That was amazing,” she says. She sits up and reaches for my hand. I give it to
her. She puts my fingers—the ones that were just inside her pussy—into her
mouth and sucks them clean. “I want more.”
Holy shit, this girl is incredible. “Oh, you’re getting more.” I rub my raging hard
cock against her leg. “A lot more.”
She giggles as I lift her off the island. I carry her to my room for round two.
CHAPTER5
GEORGIA
I can’t believe this is the same man who stands in front of my class day in and day
out, preaching from the periodic table. It’s like I’ve stepped into some alternate
universe.
I’m draped over the side of the bed, face in a pillow, exposed and ready to receive
him. His sheets have a masculine scent that I’m learning to associate with him. I
take in a long, deep breath and hold it in my lungs, committing it to memory.
After my first mind-blowing orgasm, I’m ready for my next. He stands behind
me, rubbing his hands up and down my ass cheeks. I’ve always been somewhat
self-conscious. I was the girl at the pool who always wore the long T-shirt over my
bathing suit, or the one hiding in the stall to change my clothes during PE. Having
someone standing behind me, studying my backside, spreading my butt cheeks
apart with the light on, is, well, let’s just say it’s out of my comfort zone. And yet,
with Loche, I feel safe and secure, and more than a little turned on. All this
attention on my body makes me feel special and sexy, and so I roll my hips to urge
him on.
He says things like, “Yeah baby, give me a show” and tells me how pretty my
pussy is. It gets me so horny I can hardly stand it. He positions himself between my
legs and rubs the head of his dick on my clit.
“I want your big cock inside me,” I say, feeling bold. I’ve never talked like this to
anyone before. It feels kind of awkward at first, but I like it, and by the way he
growls and slaps my ass, I think he does too.
The head of his dick feels more like a fist when it pushes against me. I gasp. For
the first time since my dress came off tonight, I’m nervous. I’m wet as hell and yet
his leviathan isn’t budging.
Oh my god, it’s not going to fit. After all this build-up and anticipation, we’re
not going to be able to have sex. It’s disappointing to say the least, but it also
makes me a little sad. It wasn’t just about experiencing his beautiful dick and the
fantasies I’d had after watching his video. After spending time with him, it became
more about being with Loche, my teacher, a man I trust and admire.
He leans down, gently biting the back of my neck, and whispers, “I’ll be right
back.” His warm breath sends a chill down my spine.
“Wait, where are you going?”
His steps thump down the hallway. What the hell is he doing? He’s only gone a
few seconds. When he returns, I look over my shoulder and see that he’s holding a
jar of organic coconut oil. Taking a handful, he slathers it on his cock. I’m
momentarily entranced as I watch him slowly jerking his rod, the light catching the
oily sheen. It really is the most beautiful dick I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
He gets into position again. I try to relax as much as possible. I fill my lungs,
then slowly let it out. This time, when he pushes, the head slides right in. I jerk
forward, a bit surprised by the pressure and feeling of being stuffed to capacity. It’s
almost uncomfortable, how much space it takes up inside of me.
“Damn, your pussy’s tight,” he says, as he eases in more.
My eyes are pinched tight, and I bite his sheets. He takes his time, taking much
care not to hurt me. When he pulls out there’s a hollowness that make me feel
empty and I want him back inside, filling me up again. After a few minutes going
slow, my body has gotten used to this massive intruder and now it’s not enough to
go slow. I’m primed and ready for whatever he has to give. It’s time to take off the
kid gloves.
“Fuck me,” I tell him.
He pauses, and I think I’ve shocked him. There’s a smile in his voice when he
says, “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“Trust me, I’m ready.”
He squeezes my ass and gives it a hard slap before he thrusts harder into me. I
yelp at the sudden sting of pain, but I like it.
“You feel so good,” he says.
I grab handfuls of his sheets, trying to hold on as he pounds me into the bed.
Each time he does this, my engorged clit grinds into the mattress, reminding me of
those times when I was just discovering my sexuality and I would masturbate by
humping my pillows. It’s a thrilling, wonderful feeling to be full of cock while my
clit still gets plenty of action too.
That deep, aching throb is there again, waiting in the background. The same
sensation I felt when he was using his fingers in the kitchen. I’ve never had an
orgasm from being penetrated before—only from outer play. Having both, it’s
more intense, and way more powerful. It’s explosive.
I try to keep the orgasm that’s building up at bay by relaxing my muscles; I want
it to last forever. But it comes barreling toward me. There’s no stopping it. I cry out
as it takes hold. My entire body quakes, shaking the bed. Wave after wave of
rampant pleasure hitting me hard enough to make sparks in my vision.
Loche lets out a feral, animal sound and pushes hard into me, bottoming out,
almost painfully so, before going still. His cock pulsates as he dumps his seed into
me. I can feel the warmth of it coating my insides.
I’m not sure what to do after we’re done. I don’t want to overstay my welcome so I
stand up, his cum dribbling down my leg. My muscles have liquefied and my limbs
feel useless, barely holding me up. I can definitely see now why some people walk
funny after sex.
I look around for my dress before remembering I left it in the kitchen. Great. I’m
going to have to hobble through my teacher’s house naked.
Loche lies on his side, his hair tousled and sweaty, looking at me. “Where are
you going?”
He has welts on his arms from when I’d clawed at him during my first orgasm. I
vaguely remember doing that, but I was half out of my mind at the time. I feel like I
should apologize, but that seems a little awkward. Thank you for giving me the best
finger fuck of my life. I mean, wasn’t that the point of all of this?
“Back to my dorm,” I say, trying to maintain some semblance of grace even
though right now I just want to flop down on the bed, spread my legs to let the cool
air in, and just revel in the afterglow of amazing sex. Believe it or not, after all of
that, I could still go another round.
He laughs and rolls onto his back. “I see how it is. Use me for sex then leave,” he
says, mocking insult.
I feel myself blush. “I’m not familiar with one-night-stand etiquette. I don’t
know what happens next.”
This time he actually does look hurt. “One-night stand, huh?”
It’s difficult to maintain eye contact while I’m butt-ass naked and trying to
cover myself with my arms while not being obvious about it, but I manage. “Isn’t
that what all this was?” I ask.
He ignores the question and pats the space on the bed next to him. “You can at
least lie here long enough to catch your breath.”
I tell myself not to do it. Just go back to the dorm and normal life before I get
sucked into something I’m not ready for. I don’t want to develop feelings for
someone I can’t have. We had a fun night. That’s it. Just walk away.
But I don’t walk away. As much as I know I should, I can’t.
I nod and climb under the covers next to him. He kisses my neck, then my lips,
and then we’re at it again.
I wake up at dawn, the sun yawning above the trees outside the window. Loche has
his arms around me. The room still smells like sex and it’s turning me on. We’re
spooning. The clock by the bed says it’s not quite six in the morning. It takes me a
full ten minutes to unravel myself from his arms. Somehow I manage to break free
without waking him up. Our marathon must’ve worn him out. I’m exhausted
myself, but it’s hard for me to stay now that I’m awake.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I watch him sleep for a moment. The covers had
come off some time in the night. His flaccid dick lies across his leg. Even soft it’s
bigger than most get when they’re fully erect. I’m so tempted to reach out and
touch it.
His cheek is pressed against his pillow, giving him fish lips, and he snores
lightly. He’s so adorable. I want to lean over and kiss him, but I’m afraid to wake
him up. I need to get out of here before things get awkward.
Creeping down the hall, I grab my dress and put it on, holding my stiletto heels
in my hand to keep them from clicking against the tile. I can’t find my underwear
anywhere so I decide to leave it, and lock the door behind me when I leave.
Instead of calling a cab, I walk. It’s a comfortably cool morning, and I take that
time to think about the crazy night I had. I’m sore from the pounding I received,
but it’s a good kind of sore. The kind of ache I could get used to. Unfortunately, it
was only one night. I can’t imagine a world where I could actually have a
relationship with my teacher. Though I’m over the legal age of consent, there are
rules against student-teacher relationships and we broke every single one of them
last night. I can’t afford to lose my scholarship over a tryst.
The cold cement feels nice on my feet. Something cool between my legs would
be nice at the moment too. Some salve or balm, a frozen bag of peas, maybe. We
ended up having sex two more times before falling asleep. I couldn’t get enough,
and if it weren’t for the limits of my body, I would’ve gone all night with him.
As I’m turning the corner, around a wall of perfectly trimmed shrubs, I run right
into Serena. Takes me a minute to realize who it is I’m looking at and why she looks
so familiar. When it finally hits me, my breath catches and I fight the urge to run
the other way. She’s wearing a baby-blue, velour tracksuit, her hair pulled up in a
messy bun on top of her head, while a Yorkshire terrier at the end of a leash shits
on someone’s lawn. I look at the dog with its flashy blue collar and top knot, the
blonde fur with dark roots, then at Serena. They look oddly similar.
Figures that she’d live in this neighborhood. That must be how Loche knew she
and Chad were spoiled rich brats. They’re practically neighbors.
She immediately bursts into laughter when seeing me. “Oh my god, are you
doing the walk of shame right now?”
I have a feeling my face is as bright as my dress. “No, I always walk around in
heels and a dress at six o’clock in the morning,” I say, my voice dripping with
sarcasm. There’s no sense in denying what’s so completely obvious.
“Who could you have possibly hooked up with in this neighborhood? It’s all
soccer dads and retired people.”
“And Chad,” I say, raising an eyebrow. I’m only guessing he lives in this
neighborhood. It’s the only neighborhood of its kind in this town, and by the
expensive clothes Chad wears, I doubt he’s living in the slums.
Her smile immediately shifts into a snarl and I know that I’m right. “Chad
wouldn’t touch trailer trash like you with a ten-foot pole.”
“Are you sure about that?” I say. She glares at me as I walk away. I can feel the
heat of her gaze burning a hole into my back until I’m finally off that street.
It probably wasn’t a good idea to poke a coiled snake, but I’m in no mood for her
crap this early in the morning without caffeine.
When Loche was just my teacher, I never really thought about him outside of the
classroom except to wonder what he would think about the work I’ve turned in. But
now, after everything, I can’t get him off my mind. This is why I don’t date. It’s
distracting. There’s a pile of work on my desk that needs to be finished for my
English and math classes. But instead, I find myself pacing the floor, wishing he
would call. Takes me a while to realize that he doesn’t even have my number and I
don’t have his. The only number on file at school belongs to my parents, and if a
teacher were to call looking for me, they’d get worried, and then they might go
through my bills wondering if I’m in some sort of trouble, which would lead them
to my credit card statement and my recent pornography purchase. Now I’m pacing
the floor, hoping that he doesn’t call.
I need to get him off my mind. I do that by spending the weekend cleaning my
dorm, and catching up on my to-be-read list of books I’ve been putting off. It helps
a little. I meet up with my study group and finally whittle down my pile of
homework. Things are getting accomplished. There’s hope for me yet. Maybe I
could actually focus on school and date someone at the same time.
Stop thinking like that, I scold myself. I cannot start something with my
teacher. Besides, he probably wouldn’t want to anyway. He has his shit together.
What would he want with some struggling student when there are probably a ton of
women out there with great jobs and no student loans to contend with, and no
nagging parents waiting in the wings? I would be a handful. A burden. Those
thoughts take the fire out of me for a while. But it doesn’t last long.
By the time Monday rolls around I’m more excited for school than I’ve been
since I started kindergarten. I have to suffer though my other classes before it’s
time for chemistry. Loche isn’t there yet, so I go to my desk.
Serena and her minion boyfriend are in front of me. They twist in their seats,
making it impossible for me to ignore them.
“So,” Serena says. “Did you manage to sneak a peek at Mr. Johnson’s Rocket
Cock, or what?”
I look down at my book so they can’t see me flush. “No, I didn’t. And I’m not
interested in your dare anymore. It’s obviously not him in that video.”
“I think you did,” Serena says, with a taunting lilt in her voice that instantly
puts me on edge. She takes my pencil, rolling it around on the desk. “I was thinking
about you this weekend, wondering whose house you could’ve been leaving that
morning. You trying to make me think you might’ve been with Chad was so
obviously a diversion tactic to get me off the scent of who you were really with.”
Chad smiles at me and waggles his brows. I cringe and look at Serena, who watches
me carefully.
She continues, “My mom knows everyone in our neighborhood, and my dad is
the head of the neighborhood watch. At first I thought maybe you were hooking up
with some married man, but that doesn’t really seem like your style.” Her
expression flirts somewhere between mischief and curiosity. She’s so clearly the
predator and I’m her prey, like I’m trapped in some kind of web but don’t know it
yet, and won’t until I realize there’s no escape.
“And since I know everyone our age living in the neighborhood, and they would
never keep their dumpster-diving exploits a secret from the rest of us, I know it
wasn’t them. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Mr. Johnson lives in my
neighborhood. Weird, right?” she says, feigning surprise. “Who would have
thought a teacher would live among the elite?”
My stomach drops onto the floor, then bounces right back up into my throat.
“I don’t care what you think, Serena. I wasn’t with Mr. Johnson,” I say.
It’s so obviously a lie, but I refuse to give in to her. She can’t prove it, and I’m
not about to throw Loche under the bus.
Just then he walks into the class. He immediately looks in my direction. I keep
my head down, not wanting Serena to see the emotion impossible to hide when I
see his face, the longing I’ve felt since I left his home Saturday morning.
Her laughter trails behind her as she turns around to face forward, and I’m
finally able to exhale.
I’m able to ignore Loche for the entire period, even though I want nothing more
than to see his face again. I just can’t risk it. The way Serena keeps looking back, I
know she’s trying to catch me in the lie, witness me giving him some longing look
or a furtive smile. I look at her from time to time and I finally see some doubt in her
expression. I give her the universal wide-eyed look of “what the hell do you want?”
before she turns around to face forward.
At first I think we’ve gotten away with it. That is until the end of class while
people are starting to leave and Loche says, “Georgia, could you stay behind,
please? I have some questions about Friday’s assignment.”
My shoulders fold downward and I hang my head.
“I knew it,” Serena says, chuckling. “Have fun with your boy toy. I can’t imagine
what Dean Meyer will think about this.”
My head snaps up. “Don’t say a fucking word, Serena. No one will believe you.
I’ll deny everything and it’ll look like you’re just some evil bitch spreading vicious
rumors.”
She shrugs with a smirk spread across her face. “We’ll see about that.”
When everyone is gone, Loche closes and locks the door and shuts the blinds.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I tell him.
He closes the last of the blinds. “Why not.”
“Serena knows about us. She saw me walking through your neighborhood, back
to the dorms after we—you know.” My face heats up with the mention of that
night.
He winks at me, seeming completely unperturbed by the threat. “I don’t think
she’ll say anything once she sees the glowing A-plus she got on last week’s test.”
“I don’t trust her,” I tell him.
He comes closer to me until there’s no space left between us. His fingers comb
through my hair and I just want to fall into his arms. A muscle ripples along the
edge of his jaw. “You let me worry about Serena. What I want to know is why you
snuck out Saturday morning without saying goodbye.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t want things to be awkward between us.”
“Like it is now, you mean?”
Things don’t feel all that awkward at the moment. Right now I just feel the heat
rising between my legs as he presses the stiff lump beneath his khakis against my
stomach.
My breathing comes in short bursts. I can’t help it. I reach out and touch his
stomach and feel that his breathing is rushed too.
He presses his lips to mine. The touch of his tongue is all it takes for me to open
my mouth and invite him in. There’s nothing gentle about his kiss. I feel his
anguish, his desire, in every stroke of his tongue against mine as they coil together,
tasting and exploring.
He reaches beneath my shirt, finding his way beneath my bra, and grabs my
breasts, kneading and pinching my nipples, which sends a torrent of lubricant
rushing down my leg. He lifts up my shirt, sucking one of my breasts into his
mouth. His tongue flicks my nipple. Each time he does this I feel a jolt that starts in
my belly button and races down to my clit.
I bite down on the sleeve of his shirt to keep from being too noisy. With one of
my nipples occupied by his mouth, he uses his hands to unbutton my jeans. He
dives right in, finding my cleft. “You’re already wet for me?” he says, sounding
somewhat surprised, as if he weren’t the most beautiful god-like creature I’ve ever
seen in my life that could summon my lust without a word.
Two fingers ease their way into me. I can tell I’m still swollen from our
marathon fuck last Friday, and there’s still a hint of soreness, but all of that is
nothing compared to the intense pleasure being thrust upon me.
“I’m gonna fuck you right here on this table,” he says, voice throaty and deep
with want. You want my big cock inside you?”
I nod vigorously, pushing my hips forward, urging his fingers to go deeper.
“I want to hear you say it,” he demands.
I let go of his shirt with my teeth. I’m barely able to get the words out, I’m
breathing so hard. “I want you to fuck me with your big cock,” I tell him, putting
emphasis on the word fuck so there’s no denying that I want it fast and hard.
Again, talking dirty feels kind of strange, but I’m getting the hang of it. Plus, it
makes me wetter and more uninhibited.
He laughs under his breath as I take hold if his slacks with force and pull them
and his boxers down, eager to unleash his massive cock. When it’s finally out, and I
see it stiff and ready for me, I let out a lusty moan and spread my legs for him.
“I need you,” I say. “Fuck me now.”
He holds it in his hand, shaking it, teasing me. “You think your little pussy can
handle it without me stretching you first?”
Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m feeling adventurous. “Do it.”
His sweet smile turns wolfish and he puts the head of his cock against my pussy
and with a hard thrust, buries it deep inside.
I scream, then I suck in a deep breath. He literally takes the breath right out of
me.
CHAPTER6
LOCHEJOHNSON
At first I think I’ve hurt her. After pushing my dick inside of her and hearing her
scream, then nothing, I look down at her face and it’s in utter shock. Her entire
body shakes. I hold still at first, afraid to move.
Her wide eyes find mine, her mouth open. I start to pull out, but she grabs my
waist to stop me. “Where do you think you’re going?” she says.
“I—um . . .” I’m used to taking command, but the look in her eyes and the way
she holds me in place tells me she’s the one in control right now. It’s cute, and I
like the swap in rolls for a change. “Nowhere?”
“Damn right, now fuck me.”
I bite back my smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
And so I fuck her. Sweat slicks our skin, and the room is filled with the pat, pat,
pat sounds of my balls slapping against her ass. I hold her legs in the air and watch
as I enter and pull out of her. Her clit was deceptively small when I first looked at it,
barely a little nub. But when she’s fully aroused, it grows, and is actually big for
such a small pussy; it stands up hard and proud. It’s so fucking sexy I have a hard
time containing my enthusiasm.
I drill firm and fast into her until she’s writhing and cussing and begging for
more. I lift her up and pin her to the wall, thrusting hard and fast. Her orgasm
detonates. Her tight cunt muscles clamp down on my dick until it feels as if she’s
going to cut off my circulation.
“Jesus Christ,” I say as she milks my cock with her pussy until I explode inside
of her.
My muscles turn to mush, and she slides down the wall. I stay inside of her as
her legs release me from their grip around my waist. I just want to roll up next to
her, hold her, and not let her out of my sight so she can’t escape again. But it’s only
a matter of time before a straggling student makes their way back to my class with
a question about their assignment. We can’t stay here. Being with her in this room
was reckless. It shouldn’t have happened, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Regretfully, I pull out of the warmth of her wet, succulent cunt.
“Go out with me this weekend,” I say as I watch her get dressed.
She looks at me like she’s confused, as if my words don’t make any sense to her.
“Go out?” she says with a laugh. “You mean, like on a date?”
“Yes, like, on a date.”
“Are you insane?” she says, but I can tell she’s seriously contemplating it.
“What if someone sees us?”
“We’ll leave town. There’s a restaurant I like to go to once in a while about a half
hour from here. It’ll be fun.” When I see the doubt still lingering on her face I say,
“It’s a tiny hole-in-the-wall. No one will ever see us.”
She’s quiet while she slips on her bra and shirt, thinking. With a long sigh she
says, “As long as you’re sure no one will see us.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say.
“Okay.”
CHAPTER7
GEORGIA
I can’t believe we did it right there in his classroom. Things are getting out of hand.
Serena knows about us. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the school does,
too. I doubt someone like her will keep it to herself for long. What does she care
about grades or getting into a good graduate school? Her parents are probably
alumni and she has a free ticket as long as she passes.
The next day in chemistry, Loche is late like usual. My eyes fall immediately to
his empty desk when I walk in the room. My gaze lingers there until laughter
around me grows loud enough to get my attention. When I look up to see what all
the laughter is about, my heart squeezes as if it’s being wrung out, and my breath
lodges in my throat. Tacked to the walls, covering every inch of blank space, are
8x10 glossy still shots from the porno Loche was in. Blown up big enough to see his
face and other bits too. Full-frontal.
No.
Serena and Chad sit on top of their desks, smiling and admiring their handy
work.
No, no, no.
I drop my backpack and immediately start to tear down the photos, crumpling
them into one large ball. How could Serena be so cruel?
She comes up behind me. I smell her perfume and know it’s her before she even
speaks. The room starts to close in on me. “What, you don’t like my art project?”
she says over my shoulder.
I turn around to face her. It takes all the willpower inside of me not to punch her
smug face.
“Why are you such a bitch?” I say, spitting the words at her. “This is someone’s
life. He’s not some plaything for you and your minion to tear apart.”
“That’s precious,” Chad says, examining his nails as if he’s already bored with
the show. “She’s standing by her man.”
Other students, getting only bits and pieces of the whole story, start to whisper
about my involvement.
I’m like a tornado spinning through the room, reaching, grabbing at photos,
pulling them into my vortex. My classmates watch me, doing nothing to help. How
can they all be so callous toward such an amazing teacher, one who puts up with a
lot of bullshit from a lot of ungrateful, trust-fund assholes?
I’d hoped to have all of the pictures down by the time Loche got back to the
classroom, but no such luck. He walks in, holding his leather satchel that he always
has with him full of our assignments. He shaved. It gives him a completely
different look, one that is more GQ than mountain man, but I like both looks
equally. At this point I think I’d find him beautiful even if he grew out some
gratuitous biblical beard. I want to go up to him and touch his skin, but, of course,
there are more pressing matters at hand.
His eyes skim the rows of photos I have yet to take down. He doesn’t look scared
or upset at all—maybe somewhat surprised, but only a little. He does nothing to try
to take the rest down. If it were me and those were my naked photos everywhere, I
would flee and never return, maybe have myself committed somewhere so no one
would ever see my face again. But Loche just stands there. His gaze searches the
room until he finds me in my corner, a large wad of paper in my hands and tears in
my eyes.
“I tried to take them down,” I say, my voice weak and desperate.
His mouth clamps down, eyes hard when he looks at me. My stomach drops to
the floor. He’s pissed at me. Somehow, this is all my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t been
so curious about the video in the first place Serena would’ve let it go. But I had to
open my big mouth and become a part of whatever this is. I’m so fucked. The
thought of him being mad at me scares me more than anything. That’s when I
realize my feelings for him run deeper than I thought.
“Georgia, outside. Now.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Now.”
My breath wavers and I swallow down the sick feeling in my stomach. Dropping
the photos in the trash bin, I head out of the classroom. On my way, people whisper
“good luck” and “you’re in deep shit now,” as if I did all this. They have to know I
didn’t do this. I would never. My furious gaze lands on Serena, but she’s not looking
at me. Her head is bent over a textbook as if she’s innocent.
Bitch.
Before the door even shuts behind me, I’m already trying to explain myself.
“Loche, I swear I would never—”
He grabs my shoulders, pushes me against the wall, and presses his lips against
mine in a furious kiss. I’m so stunned at first I don’t kiss him back. But as his warm
lips caress mine, I start to sink into his arms, and all the worry I’d felt flutters away
for the briefest moment. My tongue slides against his teeth, behind them, the roof
of his mouth. I explore, wanting to feel every part of him. He takes my bottom lip
between my teeth, gently biting before kissing me again. If we weren’t in the
middle of the school day, I’d be climbing out of my clothes right now. He’s
impossible to resist, even with the lingering fear of getting caught sitting in the
back of my mind.
When he pulls away I say, “I thought you were pissed at me.”
His lips and the skin around them are stained pink from the friction of our kiss.
Without the stubble on his face I’d never seen them like that before. If I wasn’t
scared to death about the consequences of those photos, I’d be smiling. But my
expression is incapable of doing anything other than showing fear.
“How could I be pissed at you?” he says. I’m left breathless by the adoring way
he looks at me. With the tips of his fingers he caresses my cheek. No man has every
looked at me like that before. “You were defending me in there. I saw the whole
thing. I was by the door. I heard what you said to Serena.”
He hugs me again, burying his face in my hair. I look up and down the halls.
We’re alone for now, but we won’t be for long. “We can’t hug and kiss like this at
school.”
“I know we can’t. Meet me tonight.”
“If I go to your house, Serena will see us,” I say.
“Then we’ll go somewhere else. I’ll pick you up in front of the bus station down
the street from the dorms at seven.”
“Okay.” I sigh, looking back at the classroom. “What are we going to do about all
those pictures?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
But he doesn’t have to, because by the time we get back into the classroom,
they’ve already been take down. My only fear is who has them and what they will
do with them next.
CHAPTER8
LOCHEJOHNSON
I’m excited to go on a date with Georgia. A real date. I pick her up at the bus station.
She’s already waiting for me when I get there at seven. She stands in the middle of
a cone of light cast down by a parking lot lamp, stunning in a sparkling black dress
with her hair pulled back, showing off her long, slender neck. I get out to open the
door for her.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
She smiles up at me, eyes shining. “So do you.”
I made an effort to dress up tonight, wanting to be worthy of being seen in
public with such a goddess. Still, no one’s going to be paying a damn bit of
attention to me with her standing there, other than to cast their jealous looks my
way.
I can’t help but stare. I can see this with her. Date nights, special evenings for
birthdays, anniversaries, and other big moments we choose to celebrate. I see a
future with this woman. I think I love her. That though paralyzes my lungs. I
haven’t had much luck with love. I’ve just never really connected with anyone
other than Georgia before.
Once she’s in the car, we drive a half hour out of town. I normally listen to blues.
She likes something a little faster, so we compromise on classic rock, though
neither of us are really listening to the radio since we talk the entire time.
Seems like we’ve only been driving a few minutes when I pull into the parking
lot of Bocelli’s, a restaurant I found by accident when looking for a place to eat on
my way home from a teaching conference. It’s hidden from the road, cozy, and the
food is delicious. We’re seated in the back per my request, at a table in the corner.
The dim lighting gives her skin a soft glow.
“What’s good here?” she asks when we get our menus.
“What kind of food do you like?”
“Burgers.”
I raise my eyebrows. Maybe I didn’t quite think this through. It’s been some
time since I was a struggling student myself on a burger budget. Since then my
tastes have become a bit more refined.
Looking at the menu, I realize nothing is in English. There are no burgers.
“The oysters here are great,” I say. Her face twists comically and I fight the urge
to laugh. “What, you don’t like them?”
“I’ve never had them, but I’ve seen people eat raw oyster shooters, and, ew.”
“These aren’t raw. They’re fried, and they’re fantastic. Haven’t you ever heard
that they’re an aphrodisiac?”
“Really?” she says, looking skeptical.
“How about I order the oysters, you order the steak, and we’ll share.”
“Sounds like a deal.”
After we order, the waiter brings out a bottle of wine. “So, how the hell are you
still single?” she asks after she’s a glass in. I pour another for her. I take slow sips
of mine since I’m driving.
“Just never met the right girl, I guess.”
“How is that even possible? You’re sweet, kind, and arguably the most
intelligent person I’ve ever met, and definitely the most attractive.”
I can already tell the wine is loosening her up. When we first walked in, she was
on edge, peering around the room as if to case the joint. Now she’s molded herself
into a comfortable position in the booth, and her gaze rarely leaves my face. Her
cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and she seems to be letting down her guard a
bit.
I blush at the compliment. Other women have told me I was attractive plenty of
times, but there’s something humbling about the way Georgia says it. Feels more
genuine when it comes from her versus others.
“I don’t know. There’s never been a connection before,” I say.
Until now. I want so badly to say it to her, but I’m not sure how. If this is just
some casual fling for her, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not ready. All my other
relationships have all been physical, but it’s different with Georgia. I can’t tell her
that, though. Men aren’t supposed to feel vulnerable and afraid. Except that’s
exactly how I feel when I start to open up to this girl. If she said it first, that’s one
thing, but I have a feeling her walls are up as well.
“What about you, why don’t you have a boyfriend? You’re brilliant and sexy.”
She looks down at her wine glass with the most beautiful, shy smile and fingers
the stem. “I guess I have the same reasons as you. I’ve never connected with
anyone, until—” she starts to say, before being cut off by the waiter.
Until what?!
I want to yell at the waiter, tell him to go away. Was she about to say something
about me? About us?
Goddamnit.
By the time he leaves, the moment has passed. She’s all but forgotten what she
was about to say.
Instead, she pokes at the fried oysters with her fork as if they are about to jump
off the plate and attack her.
“I’m afraid to try one.”
“Be brave,” I say.
She looks at me with an eyebrow raised and a hint of a smile. “You first.”
I have a feeling none of us are talking about the food.
I’m not quite ready for that, so I take an oyster and pop it in mouth to get away
from the subject. She tries one next.
“It’s good,” she says, nodding her head.
“I told you.”
Our conversation picks up again. This time we talk about easier things. Our
favorite foods, TV shows, movies, and anything else we can think of to learn more
about each other. Spending time with her is easy. There’s never any uncomfortable
lulls in the conversation, and even when neither of us are talking, I just enjoy her
company.
We only pick at our food because we’re laughing and having too good of a time to
eat. She sips her wine and I switch to iced tea, and we talk until the restaurant is
about to close. When the waiter comes around and asks us if we’d like anything
else, I tell him, “No, thank you, just the check,” because I want to get this girl
home and in my bed as soon as possible.
The alcohol has made her flirty. I think she knows where I’m going with this,
because she gives me a sultry look with hooded eyes and a crooked smile, and she
touches my foot beneath the table with hers.
After I pay the bill, we get up to leave. I lean in and whisper in her ear as we walk
toward the exit, “I can’t wait to get you out of that dress and peel your panties off
with my teeth.”
She tilts her head up to look at me and whispers back, “I’m not wearing any.”
This catches me off guard, and I feel myself blush and laugh like a nervous
schoolboy. Maybe we won’t make it back to the house after all. All the different
locations I can take her in my car start firing off in my head. There’s a wooded area
off the highway a few miles down, or the bluffs where the students like to park.
Though having sex in a muscle car with bucket seats isn’t ideal, I’m sure we can
make it work.
I playfully bite her ear. She stops so suddenly I run into the back of her and have
to grab her waist to keep her from catapulting forward.
At first I laugh because I think she tried to trip me up on purpose, but when I see
her face frozen in shock, I look up and find Dean Meyer, my boss, standing with his
wife in front of us.
“Loche,” he says, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He glances at Georgia,
then back at me. Realization irons out the confusion wrinkling his face as he figures
out what he’s seeing.
While it’s not unheard of for a teacher to take students out to celebrate an
accomplishment in the class, it’s typically with a group or somewhere brightly lit
and very public, during the day. Definitely not a secluded, romantic restaurant.
I straighten up and take my hands off of Georgia’s waist. “Hello, Dean Meyer,” I
say.
He lifts his chin. I can tell he wants to get to the bottom of this right now, but
this is not the time nor the place. By the way his wife folds her arms over her chest,
it’s obvious she’s put out by the interruption in their night.
My blood drains and my hands turn clammy. I guess I didn’t need my sex tape to
ruin my career after all. There won’t be any wriggling my way out of this one.
I clear the lump in my throat and say, “I suppose I should explain myself.”
“Yes,” the dean says, “you should, but I’m out with my wife for our thirtieth
anniversary, so we’ll talk about this tomorrow in my office, first thing in the
morning.”
“Right, of course,” I say.
He turns and walks away without another word.
I glance at Georgia. She’s looking up at me with big, frightened eyes. My
thoughts are spinning. I can only imagine what’s going on in her head. It’s not just
my career that’s ruined over this. She could very well lose her scholarship too. I
won’t let that happen.
Georgia sits in the passenger seat with her bare feet propped on the dashboard. “I
can’t believe we were caught by Dean Meyer of all people,” she says.
I’m still sorting everything out in my head, thinking of a way to fix this, but I’m
coming up with nothing.
“You’re quiet,” she says. I can feel her eyes on me. I’m trying not to freak out,
punch the steering wheel and cuss like I want to. I don’t want to frighten her.
“I’m just thinking,” I say.
“Maybe you should just drop me off back at the dorm instead of both of us going
back to your place,” Georgia says, resigned.
I know I’m not the greatest company at the moment; I’m not the most
communicative person when I’m upset, but the last thing I want is for her to leave.
I won’t stop her if she doesn’t want to be around me, though. I wouldn’t blame her.
“Is that what you want?” I ask, hoping she’ll say no.
“Of course not. But if someone sees me at your house it’ll be worse for you.”
I look off into the distance, the muted glow of my headlights leading the way,
bugs darting in and out of their beams. “I don’t care about that. I just want to be
with you tonight.”
She’s quiet. When I glance over at her, she’s staring out the window. “Okay.”
Georgia hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes. I start to think maybe it would be
better if I took her home. Tonight was a lot to take in and perhaps it would be best if
we both took some time to process it. But as soon as we walk into the house, she
starts to take off her clothes. Shoes first, dress second, then others items follow.
I just stand in the doorway, waiting to see what happens next. “Do you want me
or not?” she says.
I don’t hesitate. Kicking the door shut with my foot, I immediately begin taking
off my clothes too. She waits for me by the couch. I kiss her, tasting the wine still
on her tongue. She makes fists in my hair, keeping our lips sealed together, pulling
our naked bodies closer together. She kisses me like her life depends on it.
Suddenly Dean Meyer and my imminent ruin have left my thoughts, and all there is
room for in my head is her. Her touch, her scent, her kiss. Her body.
She twists in my arms, exposing her backside to me. That round, pale, beautiful
butt. I bend her over the arm of my couch and kneel to worship her. I kiss the fat
fleshy mounds from top to bottom, then spread her open and bury my face in her
delicious pussy.
Each time I take a break to catch my breath, it’s stolen away again by the view.
Young and pink and vivid. The sweet scent of her arousal makes my cock twitch
with desperation. I want to be inside her where it’s warm and wet and safe from the
stresses of the outside world.
Once my lungs are no longer heaving, I go in for more, my tongue painting her
folds and the tiny split of her entrance. She moans and rolls her hips, pushing back
on me to drive my tongue deeper into her.
“Please fuck me,” she begs.
I pull back to give myself room to talk. “We’ll get to that, but right now I’m
going to eat your hot cunt until you cum on my face.”
Back in the fray, all it takes is a little dirty talk and a skilled tongue to send her
over the edge. She lets out a loud, desperate moan that turns into a cry. Reaching
behind her, she grabs the back of my head and pushes my face into her creamy
mound, smearing my face with her juices. I lick them up like a starving man.
When she finally lets go, I fill my empty lungs with air and catch my breath
again. Being on the verge of suffocation so many times has made me lightheaded,
euphoric. I never understood auto-erotic asphyxiation before, but I’m starting to
get it now.
Strings of her cum drip onto the floor. Normally I’d lick her clean, but we’ll need
that lubrication for what I have in store for her.
I sit on the couch. “Ride me,” I tell her. “I want to see your tits bounce and
watch your face the next time I make you cum.
Before she climbs on my lap, she puts on a little show, bending over, spreading
her ass cheeks, looking over her shoulder to watch my reaction. I immediately
reach for my dick and start to stroke it. She turns around to face me, climbs onto
the couch, standing over me with one foot on either side of my hips. Again she
spreads herself, her pussy this time, making it gape. It’s a small gape, but enough
for me to take a glimpse inside. I have to stop touching myself before I cum.
She squats over me, her ass hovering in the air a moment before she sits,
spearing herself on my prick. She holds onto my shoulders for leverage and slowly
begins her ride.
I feel the surface of her vaginal wall with the tip of my dick. She can’t go any
further. She’s taken as much as she can, and yet there’s still roughly three inches
of cock still exposed. She tries to push herself further, and somehow there’s a little
more give, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m about to fuck her cervix. There’s a
definite tightness there, but it feels amazing, and so I let her do what she wants to
do. She knows her body. She can make these calls.
Her mouth opens and whimpers spill out.
“It hurts,” she says, and yet doesn’t try to release the pressure by easing up. Her
legs start to shake. “But it feels so good at the same time.”
Just when I start to fear that I’m about to stab through her womb, she sits up
until only the head of my dick is still inside of her, then impales herself again. She
does this over and over until I can’t take anymore.
I grab her hips one last time and thrust hard and deep inside of her until I
explode.
She screams, her body writhing and twisting. Her pussy strangles my cock as her
orgasm rips through her with brutal force. Until she finally collapses against my
chest.
We sit like this a while, spent and useless. Me, running my fingers through her
sweaty hair, while she trails delicate kisses along my jawline. Not talking, just
being here together in silence. It’s not uncomfortable one bit. Just the opposite.
I’ve never been this comfortable with anyone in my life.
A half hour passes when suddenly I get my second wind. I’m still inside of her,
growing hard again as I lift both of us off the couch. Her legs wrap around me and
she giggles, trying to hold on. I carry her upstairs for round two.
CHAPTER9
GEORGIA
In the morning, Loche and I are awake before either of our alarms go off. Even after
several rounds, we’re not exhausted enough to sleep through the anxiety we both
face. I’m wrapped up in his arms. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay like this, in
the comfort and safety of him forever. But I have to figure out a way to get Dean
Meyer not to can Loche and take away my scholarship.
When I try to leave, Loche holds tighter. “I have to go,” I say, smiling as he
grumbles.
“Let’s just forget about everything and stay here. We can watch movies and eat
junk food and pretend we’re not adults.”
“As amazing as that sounds, you know we can’t. I’m gonna call a cab.”
“Let me take you back to the dorm,” he says.
“It’s too risky. I don’t want anyone to see us.” His midnight-black Camaro with
black rims and a V8 that can wake the dead isn’t exactly subtle.
“Fine,” he says, and finally releases me from his grip. “But find me later.”
“I’ll see you in class this afternoon.”
The thin smile on his face makes me think there might not be a class this
afternoon.
Before my first class starts, I make an appointment to see Dean Meyer. I’m sitting
in the waiting area with his secretary, going over a rough argument I prepared. It’s
difficult to focus with the clack, clack, clack of acrylic nails on the keyboard as the
secretary speed-types.
Every time I look up at the clock, five minutes have passed. I’ve been sitting
here twenty minutes so far. I just want to get this over with. Another five and I’ll be
late for English. I might even have to miss it. I’ve never missed a class before. Not
for illness or any other reason.
The phone rings. His secretary answers it and continues to type at the same
time. Finally, she puts down the phone, looks at me, and says, “He’ll see you now.”
I go into the dean’s office. No one else comes out. Twenty minutes. What the
hell was he doing in his room alone for twenty minutes? Maybe he heard it was me
here to see him and he just wanted to make me squirm. Well, it worked. Blood
rushes in my ears and my heart is like a caged animal thrashing in my chest.
This is too much. It’s more grownup than anything I’ve had to deal with since
graduating high school. I want to walk away and forget everything. The only thing
keeping me grounded is knowing I’m doing this for Loche. I’d do anything for him.
“Shut the door behind you,” Dean Meyer says. He sits behind an imposing desk.
On top of it are pictures of his wife and grown children placed in matching gold
frames.
He stacks a pile of loose papers in front of him. The task seems more important
to him than giving me his full attention. Funny how I used to really admire this guy,
but now that my scholarship and Loche’s job are on the line, I’m looking for the
horns and pitchfork hiding beneath that very obvious rug on his head.
Folding my hands in my lap, I say, “I wanted to talk to you about what you saw at
the restaurant last night.”
Not that what he saw could be misconstrued as anything but what it was. I’m
going to tell the truth, for the most part. I think that’s best. But in the hours
between when I got back to my dorm this morning and sitting here, I read the
entire manual on student conduct. I will inform him that there are no definitive
rules stating that a teacher cannot date an adult student. It’s only frowned upon
when it comes to ethics and morals. Unfortunately, by me pointing this out, I’ll be
saying Loche doesn’t have those qualities that this particular school finds
important enough to make as their motto. But, not having those things is not
grounds to terminate his job. Especially if that student will no longer be attending
that school.
The thought of leaving fills me with such a deep sadness, my vision starts to
turn gray. I shake my head and square my shoulders, pulling myself together. I
need to stay strong or I will never get through this without breaking down, and I
refuse to cry or appear weak in front of this man.
Before I can say another word on the matter, Dean Meyer stops me and says,
“There’s no need. Mr. Johnson already came to speak with me this morning.”
“He did . . .” I say, hanging off the edge of my seat.
“He resigned from his position.”
“What?” I say, voice rising. “He can’t do that. This wasn’t his fault.”
The dean stops what he’s doing and looks at me with eyebrows raised. “He did it
to save your scholarship. As I’m sure you’ve probably read in the manual of
conduct, students on scholarship can be released for any reason that might
jeopardize the moral or ethical reputation of this establishment. While it does have
to go in front of a board for vote before that can happen, I’m fairly certain having
an affair with a teacher will fall under that category. You’re welcome to roll the
dice, Georgia, but Mr. Johnson fought to save your scholarship. I think he’d be
highly disappointed if he threw himself under the bus for nothing.”
“But—” I start to say when Dean Meyer interrupts.
“I can tell by the look on your face that you’re willing to do whatever it takes to
protect him, because he had that same look on his face when he came in here to
protect you. I gave him the option to either end his relationship with you or leave
his job. He chose to leave. Let it go.”
I close my mouth. It’s been hanging open this whole time.
“Good day,” the dean says. “Please close the door on your way out.”
Unable to get words out, I stand and walk out of his room and close the door. His
secretary watches me leave, no doubt hearing everything.
I still can’t believe Loche would rather leave his job than end his relationship with
me. That’s more than a fling. I know that I love him, but I’d had my doubts about
his feelings toward me. Until now. I need to find him. Find out what happened. See
how he’s doing. This can’t be easy for him. You don’t just fill out an application and
hand it over to a manager to get a job as a professor as a prestigious university. That
takes time, money, commitment. He must be devastated. I have to be there for
him.
I go to his house, ditching my classes for the day. It’s probably the most
rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my life—well, besides sleeping with my teacher.
But I’m sure the world won’t stop and my grades won’t plummet for missing one
day.
I take a cab to his house. When I get there, he’s sitting on the porch swing with
his borrowed cat curled up on his lap. Loche smiles when he sees me.
“What did you do?” I say, trying to sound firm, but my voice withers away into a
pathetically sad sound.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he says.
“I had to come see you.”
“I take it you talked to Dean Meyer.”
Tears start to fall without me realizing they were even there. Suddenly I’m
imagining a life without Loche in it. No more seeing him every day in chemistry,
my favorite teacher just a favorite memory. What if he starts to resent me after
this? If he struggles to pay his bills or can’t get another teaching job, he’ll
ultimately blame me. I don’t want to lose him.
He stands up, moving the cat to the side. The cat glares at him a moment for
interrupting his comfortable spot before finding a different spot on the cushion.
Loche comes toward me. I should meet him half way but my legs won’t move.
I’m afraid if I try, they’ll collapse.
He pulls me into a hug and I breathe in his familiar scent, his warmth. Wrapping
my arms around his neck, I let the tears flow freely now. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him,
trying not to be too loud even though my body is going through the motions of
wracking sobs.
“It’s okay,” he says, kissing my forehead and rubbing comforting circles across
my back.
“No, it’s not okay. I doubt Dean Meyer will give you a letter of recommendation
after all of this.” I look up at his beautiful house. I can’t imagine living like this,
then having to move into an apartment or something worse.
“I don’t need one,” he says.
I pull back to look at him. He wipes tears from my face with his thumbs. “What
do you mean? How will you get another teaching job? Without a letter of
recommendation, you’ll be asked why you left and you’ll have to tell them the
truth. No one will hire you after you slept with a student—even if it’s perfectly
legal.”
“I know,” he says.
I shake my head, confused. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t need a teaching job. I don’t need a job at all. I was only teaching because
it was something I worked so hard to do, but honestly, I don’t love it anymore.
There are other things I’d rather do with my time.”
“What do you mean you don’t need a job? How will you survive?”
His cheeks flush and he looks at his hands that are now on my shoulders. “After
I got paid for being in the movie, I used some of that money to patent a formula I
came up with for a longer-lasting lubricant. It ended up changing the sex industry,
actually. I made enough to where I don’t need to work anymore.”
I just stare at him, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”
He smiles and shrugs.
“Let me guess, does it involve coconut oil?”
He laughs. “Maybe a little.” His gaze finds mine and he gets this serious look on
his face. “I’m excited to see where this thing between us goes. I want to be with
you.” He bites his lip, looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen him.
“What?” I say.
“I’m in love with you.”
I hesitate, but only for a moment, my muscle memory still fearing someone will
see us. But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore. I launch myself into his arm and
kiss him. I don’t want to stop kissing him, but the words are fighting to get out of
me. “I love you too,” I say, more tears spilling down my cheeks, but this time with
laughter falling shortly behind.
We can be a couple. He actually wants that from me, and I want it too. More than
anything.
He takes me by the hand and leads me into the house. We’re barely through the
door when I start to take off his shirt, and I kiss his nipples, sliding my tongue
across them. I’ve heard men’s are just as sensitive as women’s. The way he groans
make me think they really are.
While my tongue is busy, I unbutton his jeans and pull them down, along with
his boxers. He steps out of them. I don’t touch him right away, wanting to make
this moment last, prolong the pleasure. Instead, I touch everything but his dick.
Tickle his belly button, run my fingers along the trail of hair beneath it. Follow it
down to his trimmed pubes and brush my fingers through it.
His breathing quickens and his cock twitches. But still I don’t touch it.
Crouching down, I kiss his stomach and make my way down. My lips hover over
the head of his cock, breathing lightly, softly blowing on it. He shivers.
“You’re driving me crazy, you know that, don’t you?” he says.
My face stays at crotch level while I look up at him with only my eyes. “That’s
the point.”
He moves my hair off my face so he can watch as I lip the silky skin of his balls
and take one of them in my mouth, rolling it around softly with my tongue.
He tilts his head back. “Oh, God,” he says in a husky, breathy voice. He doesn’t
stay that way long, eager to keep watching the action.
Snaking out my tongue, I take turns licking and kissing up the shaft of his prick
until I reach the head. A few rings around the rim and I’m putting the entire thing
in my mouth. I poke the hole with the tip of my tongue, tasting the salty goodness
of his pre-cum. He massages my shoulder as I swallow him down, going slow while
trying to breathe through my nose so I don’t have to come back up for air.
Relaxing my throat, I take more of him. The more he groans and gets excited,
the faster I move, until he’s thoroughly fucking my face. I feel just like one of the
girls in porn, taking as much as he gives, and it’s so fucking hot that I keep going
even after he warns me that he’s about to cum. I want it. I want to taste it, drink it.
He lets out a guttural sound and grabs the sides of my face, holding me still
while his cum fills my mouth. Strings of it hit the back of my throat. There’s a lot of
it, and it’s hard to swallow at first, but I manage.
It takes him a minute to recover. He sits down on the couch to rest, a silly smile
on his face. “That was amazing,” he says. He grabs my waist and pulls me toward
him.
As he undresses me, there’s a familiar pressure deep in my groin that I only feel
when I’m with him. It’s that need to have him inside me. A yearning ache.
He pulls my pants off and my panties. He does the same thing I did to him,
teasing, toying with me. His fingers flutter over the top of my mons, tickling me.
Then his finger dips into the cleft, finding my clit. Swaying, I enjoy the sensation of
being touched on that most tender part. His narrowed, hungry gaze slides over my
body, before he pushes me down on the couch. He grabs my knees and pulls them
apart, then positions himself and sinks into me. I squirm beneath him, bucking my
hips as he envelopes my breast in his mouth, flicking the tip of my nipple with his
tongue.
The way he bends and folds my limbs like some kind of marionette is welcomed;
I have no control over my body. I want pleasure and don’t care how I get it. At one
point he flips me over onto my stomach and enters me from behind. While pushing
into me, I feel him spread my butt cheeks apart with his hands. His wet finger
glides along the cleft of my ass, back and forth several times until coming to a stop
at my hole. There’s a distinct pressure that I’m not expecting. Is he . . . yes he is.
His finger enters my asshole. I’m so stunned by the sudden intrusion that I’m not
sure what to do. At first I just lie here, doing nothing. His dick in my pussy feels so
amazing, and surprisingly, the addition of his finger in my ass only enhances it. So I
let it happen.
I’ve always wanted to try anal, but never thought it would be for me. That’s the
kind of thing brave, outgoing girls do, not shy bookworms. As he pumps his finger
in and out, getting me closer to my orgasm, I start to think maybe I’m one of those
brave girls, after all, because I’m loving it. I arch my back, urging him on.
“You like that?” he asks.
“It feels so good,” I moan.
The second he enters another finger, I’m coming.
“Yeah, baby, cum for me,” he says.
I’m crying out his name, unable to contain my voice. He pulls his cock out of my
pussy and puts it up against my asshole. At first I think he’s going to try and shove
his monster inside of me and I’m genuinely terrified. But he doesn’t. Instead, I feel
the wet, sticky warmth as ropes of cum spit into my open asshole.
I lie where I’m at, flaccid, and happy.
When he’s done, I roll onto my side, and he lies down beside me so we’re facing
each other.
“Move in with me,” he says.
I laugh. Clearly he’s still in a postcoital haze. “Funny.”
“I’m being serious. I don’t live that far from campus, and since I’m not working
I can drive you there. And this way I still get to see you every day. My house is
plenty big enough for the both of us, and . . .” The cutest smile stretches across his
face. “We can fuck like rabbits every night and just fall asleep in bed. You won’t
have to worry about going home at night or sneaking off in the morning.”
“Aww, I see where this is going. You just want your own personal blowup doll
around whenever you want to get laid.”
He playfully slaps my ass. “You know it.”
“I see how it is.”
His smile slips away and his expression becomes serious. “Really though, I want
you to move in with me. I love you. I want to have a life with you. I wouldn’t have
given up my job if I wasn’t serious about making this relationship work. I’ve never
felt like this about anyone in my life.”
The air grows heavy in my lungs. I love him too, more than anything. My parents
will freak when they find out I’ve left the dorms and moved in with an older man—
my former teacher, nonetheless—but I don’t care. I want to be with him.
“Yes, I will move in with you.”
He kisses my forehead, the tip of my nose, and then my lips, and I’m the
happiest I’ve ever been.
EPILOGUE
LOCHEJOHNSON
One Year Later
Georgia comes into the bathroom, where I’m brushing my teeth and grabbing the
things I forgot to pack and putting them in our overnight bag.
“Are you sure you feel up to meeting my parents?” she asks. “I can tell them you
have the flu.”
I spit out toothpaste and rinse my mouth. “It’s been a year since you moved in
with me, I think it’s finally time I met them.”
She fixes my collar and kisses me. I take her hand. “You ready?” I ask her.
“I think so,” she says with a deep breath and a smile.
We double-check our packing list and head for the airport.
After a long flight and a four-hour layover, our plane finally lands. This will be
my first time meeting Georgia’s parents, but I’ve actually talked to her mom
several times on the phone, just friendly chatter to get to know one another more.
When she sidelined me, asking me to come to their Thanksgiving dinner, I wasn’t
sure what to say, and so I just said yes.
“Why would you do such a thing?” Georgia had asked, panicked out of her mind.
She’s concerned about what they’ll think about me being ten years older than she is
and a former teacher at the university she attends. Not that she never planned to
tell them; she just wanted to ease her way into the conversation.
After a year of us being together, the subject could’ve found its way into a
conversation sooner, but I never said that—they’re her parents and she can deal
with them how she wants. Of course we won’t tell them that I was her teacher and
our relationship is the reason I’m no longer employed there. If they don’t ask, I
won’t bring it up. If they do, I’ll just explain that I found opportunities elsewhere—
which is true. I’m now working in a lab, creating chemical formulas for cosmetic
and skincare companies. Sort of a dream job, utilizing my skills as a chemist
instead of teaching others how to hone theirs. Had I not met Georgia, it might not
have ever happened.
I pull the rented car up to a small, quaint house with the all-American white
picket fence out front, and a giant oak tree with a tire swing hanging from its limb
that has been there so long the tree has started to grow around the rope itself.
Must’ve been left over from Georgia’s childhood. I can imagine a younger version of
her, with knobby knees and sun-kissed, long, awkward legs, as she kicked at the
ground to push herself higher. Early Christmas lights are hung, gearing up for the
holidays, and pumpkins and Indian corn decorate the porch. There are several cars
in the driveway.
“My brothers are already here,” Georgia says.
I have to admit, I’m a little intimidated by the idea of meeting her entire family
at the same time. There are three brothers in all, two of them fully grown, married,
and with kids of their own, as well as a younger brother still in high school.
“Great,” I say. “Can’t wait to meet them.”
I’d hoped to ease into the situation by meeting her parents first and getting
them to like me, before meeting the older, protective brothers. I figured if I had the
parents’ approval, the brothers would follow suit. Now I have to impress everyone
at the same time. I just hope I have it in me.
I’m carrying two bottles of champagne in my arms, the same Dom Perignon that
I’d bought for my first evening with Georgia.
The Christmas lights flicker on and the front door opens before we’ve made it to
the porch. Her parents crowd in the doorway, their smiles beaming at their
daughter.
“George,” her dad says. The nickname is funny and suits her, in a way.
Her dad is older than I was expecting, probably in his late sixties, with silver hair
and a kind face. Her mom, on the other hand, can’t be older than early fifties, with
long dark hair and streaks of blond that twist up in a bun. Maybe the age difference
between me and Georgia won’t be an issue, since it’s clearly the same situation as
her parents.
“And you must be Loche,” her mom says with outstretched hands. I take her
awaiting hands and she gives mine a squeeze.
“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Brightly,” I say.
“Please, call me Angela.”
“Come on you two, let’s go in before the food gets cold,” her dad says.
It’s probably already cold. We were supposed to be here and hour ago, but with
our delayed flight, there was nothing I could do.
Inside, the house is exactly how I pictured it would be: cozy, lived in, pictures of
their family covering all available surfaces. We go into the dining room, where the
table has been set. The rest of her family has already taken their seats and are
waiting on us.
It’s a large table with an elegant lace tablecloth and gold runner down the
middle. Large clear vases filled with cranberries and dried flowers in fall colors
make up the centerpieces, and the entire room is lit with candles. It’s comfortable
and homey, filled with tvoices, laughter, children, and memories being made.
“This is my oldest brother, Cameron, his wife, Jenny, and their two kids, Marley
and Trixie,” Georgia says, introducing me. Cameron is well groomed, a kind of
nerdy looking guy, his wife a bit overweight but pretty. Their two small children,
neither of them over five, keep reaching for the candles, their mother patting at
their hands.
The middle brother’s name is Blake. He eyes me skeptically, but it’s a bit over-
rehearsed, like he’s been practicing at being intimidating. If he wasn’t nearly a foot
shorter than me and about seventy pounds shy, it might’ve had the desired effect.
His wife has a terrible case of resting bitch face and looks as though she’d rather be
anywhere but here at the moment with her young children arguing over silverware
at the table.
The youngest, London, sixteen, has sort of a goth thing going on, wearing
eyeliner and black clothes. He wears headphones and plays a handheld video game.
I feel like I already know these people from everything Georgia has said about
them.
“Hi, everyone. It’s good to finally meet you,” I say.
I go around the table, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries until I get to
London, who ignores me. We sit down to eat. Mrs. Brightly brings out a large
turkey, and there’s every side dish I can imagine. They go about the table and say
what they’re grateful for. The two older brothers say their jobs and family.
Georgia’s parents say the same. London says “tits” and his dad threatens to send
him to his room, and the younger kids who know what tits are laugh.
This causes enough of a distraction so that the family forgets that Georgia and I
haven’t said what we are thankful for, but I lean over to her and whisper, “I’m
grateful for you.”
“Funny, I was gonna say the same thing about you,” she says, nudging my arm
with an elbow.
We start eating. I’m in and out of different conversations with the older brothers
when Georgia’s mom asks, “Will the two of you be staying in Georgia’s old room
tonight?”
Her dad’s eyebrows rise as if it just now occurred to him that Georgia and I might
be sleeping together.
London looks up for the first time, his black eyeliner gooped up in the inner
corners of his eyes.
“I better not hear you going at it tonight,” he says.
“London!” cries Mrs. Brightly.
Cameron slaps him on the back of the head and tells him not to talk like that in
front of the children.
Georgia’s dad just shakes his head like he’s used to this kind of behavior.
It’s quiet for several uncomfortable seconds.
I’m not sure what to say. Not about London, and not about our sleeping
arrangements. We hadn’t made prior plans. I wanted to get a feel for the place and
Georgia’s family, gage my comfort levels before deciding what to do and what
options were available to us. I just assumed I’d be sleeping on a couch somewhere,
which is fine since we’re only here for a couple of days.
“Actually,” Georgia says, “I figured Loche and I would find a motel in town. That
way the little ones will have a place to sleep.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Brightly says. “There’s plenty of room. We can bring out
the air mattresses. I don’t want you to spend any more money than you have to.”
“We’re sure, Mom.”
After dinner, we head toward the Hilton. Being around her family was nice, and I
enjoyed hearing stories about Georgia’s life when she was younger, but the
screaming children were a bit much. One day I’d like to have a few of my own with
Georgia, but until then, I’ll enjoy the silence.
Once we’re in a suite, Georgia goes to the mirror in the bathroom and takes off
her earrings and washes off her makeup. “I’m so sorry about my family. They can
be over the top.”
While she’s busy in the bathroom, I take the engagement ring out of my pocket
and put it in my overnight bag among my toiletries. Then I take off everything but
my boxers and prepare for bed.
“Are you kidding? I like your family. Your brother London was a trip.”
I was going to give her the ring tonight at dinner with her family watching, but
with her little brother being a tool and all the kids running around screaming, I
couldn’t find the right moment. Both Georgia and I are quiet people, more intimate
than outlandish—other than the time I made that porn. I suppose it comes from
years with our heads in books. I don’t think Georgia would appreciate some public
spectacle of a proposal like I’ve seen from others. Something more intimate seems
closer to her style. Something genuine, from the heart.
I’ve scraped my brain for ideas on how to propose. If this keeps up, it’ll never
happen. I decide just to go for it.
Even though I’m closer to my bag than Georgia is, I say, “Babe, could you grab
the ibuprofen from my overnight bag, please?”
Concern touches her voice. “Why, are you all right?”
“Just a little headache.”
She goes for the bag. The ibuprofen isn’t in there. She’ll search through every
inch of the bag before realizing that.
She was in the middle of changing into her night clothes when I called on her
and is only in a thong and bra. I smile at the sight of her gorgeous round ass
spreading as she squats to look inside. The content of my bag is being tossed aside
as she searches.
“I don’t think . . .” Her voice trails off. She must’ve found it, but I can’t tell for
sure because her back is to me.
The waiting is giving me heart palpitations. Seems like forever as she sits there,
silent. She’s probably wondering if she was supposed to see it. If maybe she found
it by accident and had ruined some great surprise I had planned. But after a year,
she knows me better than that.
I get up off the bed and walk toward her. She slowly stands from her crouch and
turns toward me. The velvet box is cradled in her hands, tears shimmer in her eyes,
and her nose turns pink.
“Is this what I think it is?” she asks, her voice thick with emotion.
I take the box from her and kneel down on one knee.
Her hands cover her mouth and the unshed tears spill over.
I show her the ring. A two-carat princess-cut diamond solitaire with a platinum
band. She stares into the box, eyes growing wide.
“Georgia Brightly, will you marry me?”
She lets out a quick sob, a burst of sound, before clamping her mouth shut, and
nods vigorously, unable to get words out. Then she simply says, “Yes!”
I take the ring from its cushion and slip it on her finger. A perfect fit like I knew
it would be. I’d taken one of her other rings to the jewelry store when I was having
it sized, just to make sure.
As soon as I’m on my feet again, she throws herself in my arms, and we both
tumble onto the bed in a heap of entwined limbs with me on top. Her arms wrapped
around my neck, she kisses me hard and deep, her grateful tongue searching out for
mine. Her tongue tastes like strawberry—it’s always sweet even without chewing
gum or eating candy. By the time I release her mouth from mine, my dick is at full-
mast and aching to be inside her.
Sitting up, I dig beneath her until I find the clasp of her bra and unleash her
from its burden. The small, delicious mounds of her breasts are too inviting to
ignore. I lip at a puffy pink nipple, sucking it into my mouth, while my other hand
pinches and pulls at the other.
She clings to me with her silky thighs, moaning and arching her back to push
her panty-clad pussy against my steel cock.
I release her breast from my mouth and kiss the hard tip. I spread her legs apart.
When I position myself in front of her, I grab her heels and place them on my
shoulders, and I slowly rock into her. She moans as I slide my hands down her
narrow waist. I reach for her full hips and take hold, pulling her closer, pushing in
another inch.
Once I’m fully engulfed by the velvet walls of her vagina, I lean forward, folding
her in half, our faces nose to nose. Gently kissing her soft mouth, I tell her, “I love
you so much.”
I want to burrow beneath the satin layers of skin, crawl between her wet folds,
be so deep inside of her she feels it in every fiber of her being.
She looks up at me with the most radiant smile. “I love you too.”
THE END
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THE VIRGIN INTERN.
Chapter 1
The door to my new office hits me in the back as it closes too quickly, and I nearly
take a dive into the carpet—heels, boxes and all. Of course, when I say ‘office’ I
really mean to say ‘small, out-of-the-way converted broom closed where it’s easy
for my uncle to hide me from his colleagues.’ I sigh, putting down the small box of
personal items I brought from home and the huge box of new work files. It’s a year.
Just a year. A year here, and I can move to a different firm. One year and I can leave
this city and get out of my uncle’s house. He doesn’t want me there anyway. All I
have to do is survive.
A picture of my father goes on the desk, my paralegal certificate goes on the
wall. There’s a short filing cabinet in the corner—one that I can’t imagine will hold
everything I’ll need in this job—next to the trash can. That’s about all this tiny
room can fit besides a desk. I should be grateful to have an office as a paralegal, but
the more I think about it the more I realize it’s probably because my uncle wants
me out of sight. At least there’s a window.
The door flies open, rattling on its hinges. Speak of the devil, it’s my uncle,
Roger Grayson. He’s tall with graying hair and beard, and a glare that could finish
melting the polar ice caps. That same glare is searching around the tiny office. “Are
you settled in?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, holding back a sigh. After so many years I should stop
expecting the small courtesies and affections that the term ‘family’ usually implies
—like asking how I like the office or how my first day has been going so far—but I
can’t help wishing things were different.
“Good. There’s a stack of files on my desk. I need copies made for my meeting
with the partners at three. Check the schedule for who will be there and make a full
set for each.”
“Okay.” I nod, and glance at the clock. It’s two o’clock now. Should be plenty of
time.
He turns and leaves without saying anything else. Before I can stop it, a wave of
anxiety crashes over me. I try to pep talk myself out of it. You can do this. You can
do this. You can do this. That’s going to be my mantra for the rest of the day. Hell,
the rest of this year.
I check the schedule and count seven partners attending the meeting. I step into
my uncle’s office and get the files—he’s on the phone and doesn’t even notice me
—and realize that I may have been wrong about getting this job done in an hour.
The pile of paper is huge. Looks like it might be three separate case files. And
although I know what I’m doing when it comes to paralegal work, my copy machine
game is not strong. Doesn’t matter. I have to do it.
Luckily the copy room is empty, and I can’t help noticing that it actually looks
bigger than my office. But what I also notice is that there’s only one copier for this
entire floor, and I can already imagine the copying back-ups on days when there are
urgent cases. I’m really going to have to stay on top of things if I want to keep this
job.
I hum to myself as I get the copier up and running. It’s sweet and soulful,
something I worked on during one of my last jobs as a songwriter. I actually sang
back-up on that one too. It’s new but reminds me of the classics. Has a
Temptations vibe. I can’t wait to buy the song when it’s finally released. Probably
about as close to hearing myself on the radio as I’ll ever get. I try to shake myself
out of any lingering wistful feelings. Clearly that ship has sailed. Time for the big
girl pants.
I’m about halfway through the stack of files when I hear a noise that no copier
should ever make. Scratch that, no machine should ever make that sound. It’s a
sickening crunch and grind followed by the squeal of gears and the full stop of the
copier.
Shit. Shit.
I check the screen and see that the power to the machine is still on, so it’s not
completely fried. Paper Jam, the little screen says. No kidding. Must be one hell of a
paper jam to make that kind of sound. Having been through many similar technical
difficulties in the past, I confidently open the drawer of the copier and feel around
in the back, certain I can fix this before it becomes a real issue. I find nothing. None
of the usual culprits; no crumpled paper, no shreds caught in the feeder. Nothing in
the second paper drawer either.
Shit. I glance at the clock, rapidly losing my cool. I have thirty minutes till the
meeting and no time for this. I guess I don’t have a choice. I kick my heels to the
side and hike my pencil skirt further up my legs. Wrong day to wear this skirt.
I take the paper drawers all the way out and stack them to the side. Looking up
inside the innards of the machine, I think I can just see the bottom corner of a piece
of paper in the rolling mechanism. I open up the door to expose the rest of the
machine—POOF!
Okay, apparently it’s more than just a paper jam. I blink to get the toner out of
my eyes. Of course this would happen on my first day, on my first assignment. It’s
so perfect I can’t even think of an appropriate swear word. At least I see what the
main problem is. A bunch of papers that got stuck together have snarled in the
gears, twisting to make everything come to a full stop. Toner be damned, I am
going to get this machine working again.
The only problem is, the paper doesn’t want to move. I mean, it’s really stuck. I
keep ripping off little pieces accidentally because the mess just doesn’t want to
budge. Finally, I shove both arms into the machine, grabbing whatever pieces of
paper I can get a grip on, and pull.
The paper releases all at once and I go sprawling backwards onto my butt. Over
the machine making chirping and clicking sounds of resetting itself, I hear
laughter. Male laughter.
Dear god, just kill me now.
“If I had known what kind of view I’d be getting, I’d visit this floor more often.”
I turn my head and…
Staring. You’re staring, Naomi.
But when someone looks like that it’s almost rude not to stare, right?
Wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and cheek bones that belong in a magazine and not
in the copy room. The copy room.
Suddenly I realize what he’s seeing—why he’s smiling. I’m barefoot, sprawled
across the floor with my skirt hiked up almost to my hips, my face and chest
covered with a fine spray of toner powder. I can feel all the blood run to my face.
Say something, you definitely say something right about now.
Nope, of course not. There’s no voice there. He still looks amused though.
“Do you need help?” he asks, reaching out a hand.
I grab it, using his firm grip to get to my feet less than gracefully. “Thanks,” I
say, pulling my skirt down to normal.
He chuckles, “No problem. But I have to ask, was there really a problem with the
copier or were you gearing up for something more intimate?”
“Um…no,” I say, my pulse kicking, “It was a paper jam. Really bad one.”
“Well, if I ever get jammed up I’ll call you to help me loosen up.”
He’s still holding my hand. My fingers run along his wrist and feel the taut,
smooth muscle under his skin before I can stop myself, and he grins. I force my
voice out. “I’m not really that good with copiers.”
“Who says I was talking about my copier getting jammed?” He goes to the water
cooler and fills one of the paper cups, and then hands it to me along with his
handkerchief. He actually carries a handkerchief. “Here. Looks like you might need
that.”
I look down. Crap. I quickly brush as much powder as I can off my shirt, knowing
that if I touch the toner with the water it will be a complete disaster. My skin,
however, is a different story. I wet his handkerchief and quickly clean my chest and
neck. Nothing says professionalism like ink all over you.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and I glance up to find it’s his turn to stare. At
me. My entire chest now damp, my button down shirt pulled wide open at the neck.
I step into my high heels, and try to pick up the paper trays as smoothly as
possible, though I can’t ignore that I’m giving him yet another view of my ass.
“Naomi,” I say as the machine comes back to life again now that it has paper.
“Here, wait,” he says, and takes the handkerchief from my hand.
Then he moves into my space and when I look up into his eyes I suddenly can’t
breathe. “What are you doing?”
He smirks a little as he raises the cloth. “You’ve got some toner on your face,
and I don’t see a mirror in here.”
“Right.”
He gently wipes my face with the damp cloth, across my cheekbones and down
to my chin. He drags it across my lower lip, and I think my heart stops. I haven’t
been this close to someone in a long time. Okay, maybe I’ve never really even been
this close. I find myself looking into those blue eyes again, and I allow myself to get
a little lost, to think that this moment means more than it actually does.
The cloth passes over my lip again, and his gaze drops to my mouth. My heart
picks up and I think for a moment that he might actually kiss me. That would be…
Who are we kidding here, that would be amazing.
Instead, he says, “There you go, beautiful.” He gives the wet hanky to me.
“Thanks.” I swallow and take a step back, breaking that connection. Wow. My
flirting brain kicks on, and I smile at him. “It’s always nice to know a man who
isn’t afraid of a little cleaning.” Really? That’s what you come up with, brain?
He laughs. “I’ve had more than one bad experience with a copier, myself. The
ones here are especially picky.”
“That’s good to know,” I say, trying to hide my real relief. “It’s my first day, and
I was about to fail my first assignment because of that copier.”
“That explains why I’ve never seen you before.”
“Yes it does.”
“Well,” he says, “if that one ever gives you trouble again, you can use the one on
my floor. I’m downstairs on eleven.”
I look at him, and he doesn’t seem to be kidding. “Thanks, that’s really nice of
you.”
“No problem. We’ve all had first days. I could tell you some stories that would
make this one look tame.”
“Oh?” Please tell me something that makes me feel better.
He grins, “Let’s keep that for after your first day is over so we can fully
compare.”
“I’d like that,” I say. I smooth my skirt, trying not to look awkward.
“I’ll see you around.” He nods and starts to turn away.
“Don’t you want this back?” I hold out his handkerchief.
He’s grinning again. “It’s easier for you to explain that you borrowed it than it is
for me to explain that it got wet by cleaning your breasts.”
My mouth drops open, and my brain short circuits on the image of him cleaning
my breasts.
“I’m all out of handkerchiefs, but if you find toner anywhere else,” his eyes roll
down the length of my body, “I’m sure that I can find something else to clean you
with.”
The little smile on his face tells me he’s not talking about a towel. My whole
body heats and I feel like the room is now a sauna. I’ve never had a man look at me
like that before—like he’s ready and willing to take me right there. I know I should
probably feel offended.
I don’t.
It feels…hot.
He’s holding my gaze, and I can’t move. It’s almost like he knows that he’s
making me squirm and he enjoys it. Of course now is the time when my brain
absolutely refuses to come up with any witty comebacks. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I
murmur.
If lightning could strike me dead, that would be great. The most attractive man
you’ve ever seen is hitting on you, and you’ll keep it in mind?
“Believe me, I will too.”
I think I might actually be on fire, and I start babbling to keep my mouth from
dropping to the floor and to keep from thinking about the fact that he’ll be
thinking about me. “Thank you again for offering your copier. And thank you for
touching me. I mean, cleaning me off. No. I mean—”
Just then the door opens, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s my uncle,
bursting in with his usual sharpness. “There you are,” he says to me, sounding
annoyed. “I need this added to the files for the meeting.” He hands me another
stack of paper, and I manage to hide the handkerchief in my hand. I don’t want him
asking questions about it. I catch sight of my attractive rescuer’s face, and he looks
like he’s about to burst out laughing. Probably at me. I flush red again.
“Sure.” I turn and add the stack to the copier’s queue. I take the opportunity to
breathe, and maybe make it look like I just wasn’t blatantly flirting with someone
at the firm.
“Andrew,” my uncle says, “What are you doing in here?”
“Just visiting the water cooler,” he replies. Andrew. His name is Andrew. Good
to know, even though I now feel like an idiot for not asking. He asked my name.
“And I see you’ve met my niece.”
I give a tight-lipped smile. Andrew also smiles. “Yes, I did. She is lovely. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you in the meeting.”
Andrew gives me a final glance—that totally steals my breath away—and leaves.
I go back to my stapling, desperately hoping that my uncle won’t see the residual
embarrassment—or toner—hanging off me.
“Naomi.”
“Yes?”
“That’s Andrew Finch.”
In my head, everything clicks. My uncle has been going on and on about a senior
partner named Finch whom he can’t stand. In Uncle Roger’s words, the partner is
an upstart who’s angling to take over the firm and always sticking his nose where it
doesn’t belong. I always liked the sound of anyone who could ruffle my uncle’s
feathers. Now I can see it’s not just that he’s an upstart, it’s that he’s young and
handsome and already very successful at his job.
“You’re going to be seeing a lot of him,” my uncle goes on, “because he and I are
working the Sterling murder case together, even if I don’t like it.”
I shuffle several more papers together and clear my throat. “Why put him on the
case if you dislike him so much?”
“Keep your enemies close,” he says grimly. “He’s going to try to make a move
for name partner, and maybe managing partner. I want him close by so I can see
what he’s doing before he actually does it. And make no mistake, if he sees an
opportunity to use you against me, he’ll try. So watch yourself, for my sake and
yours.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Of course.”
He looks at me a moment, and I think he’s going to ask about what just
happened with Andrew before he came in. But he doesn’t. I breathe out a sigh of
relief as he turns to go.
“Bring those in as soon as they’re done,” he says.
I snap back, “I will.” Even though he’s already gone and can’t hear my reply.
Miraculously the copier doesn’t break again. Seven ridiculously large packets of
paper coming right up.
The meeting has already started when I finish, but just barely. For the record, I
would have been perfectly on time without the paper-jam-and-handkerchief
fiasco. Thankfully no one even looks at me when I come in. Actually, that’s not
true. Andrew looks at me. He swivels brazenly toward me with a smile that makes
butterflies magically appear in my stomach.
I place each packet in front of a partner, trying my best to be quiet and invisible.
When I finally get to Andrew, he takes his packet directly from me and says,
“Thank you, Naomi.”
My uncle stops, and looks at us, and I feel all the air get sucked out of the room
at once. “Yes,” Uncle Roger says, “Thank you, Naomi. That will be all.”
I drop my eyes and nod as I hand my uncle his original files and make for the
door. I look back just before I leave, and see that Andrew is still staring at me. He
winks, and all the butterflies in my stomach drop dead as my stomach falls right
down to my shoes.
I practically run back to my office, where I flop into the chair. It feels like I’ve
already been here a year, and it’s only been half a day. ‘Believe me, I will too,’
Andrew said. Which means he’s going to think about me, or more specifically, how
he’d get me clean.
Can’t really get cleaner than me, virgin that I am. Which is why it will never
happen. Men like that never want women like me—inexperienced and shy. The
minute they hear virgin they run for the door. That’s probably best in this case.
Besides, my uncle would murder me, and it’s my first day. I’m new to the law
world, but I’m pretty sure a paralegal screwing a senior partner is something that’s
frowned on.
I’m going to think about it though. Think about him and all the non-existent
possibilities. Think about what it would be like to be wanted by someone like that.
Someone powerful and sexy and totally unashamed. Think about him thinking
about me, and what that means.
Believe me, I will too. His words echo in my mind and far too many fantasies
spring to life in my mind. I squeeze my thighs together under the desk and press a
cool hand to my hot cheek.
Man, am I in trouble.
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Chapter 1.
Alyssa
These shoes were the wrong choice for this party. Not even an hour in, and it feels
like I'm stepping on nails. Big ones. But, given everything, the party isn't as bad as
I thought it would be. Let's be honest, who actually wants to go to work parties--
especially for a company they haven't even started to work for? But I didn't have
anything better to do tonight. If we're honest I rarely have anything to do that's
social. Sigh.
But the music here is actually from this decade and Saxon Hotels, Inc. didn't
skimp on the alcohol. It could be worse. I look across the room for Molly--the girl
from HR who let me know I was hired and invited me tonight. She greeted me and
then promptly abandoned me, which is why I am currently making my permanent
residence the shadowy corner by the drinks table. But, like I said, it could be worse.
A blonde girl wearing a pink dress approaches the table of drinks. The dress hugs
curves on her that are frankly just unfair. As if she can sense me thinking about her
she's suddenly looking at me, and then she's gliding over. "You're Alyssa, right?
Molly told me we had a new hire, and you're the only person I don't recognize."
"Yeah, that's me." I smile, "I figured I'd skip the awkward first day and go
straight to getting drunk with my coworkers."
"Solid choice." She says, "We do enjoy getting drunk. Though this is nothing
compared to our New Year's Party. People usually don't make it through that one
unscathed." She scans the room, "You see that guy over there? That's Mark. He's
the typical bender guy--you know every office has one. Last New Year's he got so
drunk he bought everything in the vending machine and woke up the next day
shirtless and covered in cheetos."
I choke on my drink, "Wow."
She gives me a small conspiratorial smile and scans the room again. "Over there
in the blue? That's Chelsea. A couple of years ago she ended up in the mail room
with more than one of the interns." She gives me a look that leaves no doubt about
her opinion on Chelsea.
I force a laugh, and pray I never get on Jennifer's bad side. I'm glad I'm finally
feeling my Cosmo start to relax my body. "You seem to know everyone's dirt."
"Oh, I know everything." She smiles smoothly, "I'm Jennifer, by the way."
I shake her hand. "Nice to meet you. You already know my name."
"I do, but I don't know what desk you'll be at tomorrow."
"Executive Secretary for Charles Saxon." I take a sip of my drink.
"Wow."
It doesn't seem like a happy or friendly 'wow.' "Is there something wrong with
him?" I haven't met him, but his name is on the door, so I figure he can't be that
bad.
"No, no." She says a little too quickly. "Have you met him yet?"
"Not yet. He was out of the office for meetings today. Molly said that he signed
off on my resume. So I guess tomorrow will either be really great or really terrible--
no in between."
She presses her lips together. "Can I tell you something, just to make it easier
for you?"
"Sure. I mean, you've already proved that you know everything." I wink,
knowing she's already decided to tell me.
She doesn't laugh. "Listen...it's just that Charles has a certain...reputation with
women."
"What do you mean?"
She reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder, I can tell she wants to look
concerned. "I mean that you're very pretty, and he's very charming. He's also
incredibly hot. So just be careful."
I laugh, "Don't worry. I've known more than my share of men like that. It takes
more than charm to get under my skirt. I'll set some boundaries as soon as I meet
him."
She nods. "Good."
"There you are!" Molly appears from out of nowhere, slinging her arm around
my shoulder, clearly having already had more drinks than I have. "I'm so happy
that you came, did I tell you that? And I see that you met Jenn. She's my eyes and
ears. Whatever you need, she'll help you."
"She will indeed." I say, smiling. I take another sip of my drink only to find it
empty. "Be right back, I'm getting a refill."
Molly switches her chatter to Jennifer as I step away and make myself another
drink. Definitely not bad. If everyone is this friendly and relaxed I think I'm going
to like working here, even if I have to keep the boss at arms length. I'm sure he
won't be the worst I've had to deal with, and he’s probably too old to do anything
much anyway. I glance up to find to find a gift from the gods staring at me.
Gorgeous, delicious, eye candy. And the alcohol must be really hitting me now if I
say things like eye candy.
Dark hair, dressed in a button down that is designed to look casual but probably
costs my first paycheck. Broad shoulders, tall. Total dreamboat. I let myself look,
staring at his arms, the fabric of his shirt is clinging to them and his chest in a way
that tells me I'm going to like what's underneath it. His face is an odd mixture of
angles that come together in just the right way to make him fit for one of those
way-too-sexy perfume ads. Damn.
Get it together, Alyssa. You're not going home with someone from the first
office party. You're barley hired yet. But my imagination always gets a little wild
when I'm tipsy, and speaking of tipsy, I can just imagine him tipping me back and
kissing me. Moving from my lips down to my--holy shit he looked at me. I'm too
far away to see what color his eyes are, but they're dark, and they are for sure
looking right at me. That little mental fantasy takes on a new element as I imagine
his approach across the room towards me. That's a pretty thought.
Of course it's interrupted by Jennifer.
"I told you he was incredibly hot."
I look over at her. "That's Charles Saxon?"
"The one and only."
"I thought he was old!" I genuinely thought I had a job working for a man in his
mid-fifties. Charles Saxon is in his mid-thirties. If that.
"Nope...just sinfully delicious."
I laugh, "Well, sometimes it's the money that makes you attractive."
"Not this time--Who cares about money with that body?" Jennifer clinks her
glass against mine.
"No, not this time. Well, shit." I say. Jennifer laughs. "I warned you."
Charles Saxon. Charles Sexon would be a better name. I mentally pour a bucket
of water on myself. "You were right. Tight boundaries it is."
She raises her glass to me, "Well, you can start right now, because he's heading
this way." Then she's gone so quickly I've completely lost her in the crowd.
I turn around to find Charles approaching me. "Hello," he says in a voice as rich
as chocolate, "My name is--"
"Charles Saxon." I finish for him. "So I've been told."
He chuckles, "Well, I'm glad we had an opportunity to meet. I'm very much
looking forward to working with you."
"I am too, Mr. Saxon. However, given the circumstances, I think it's best that we
set some ground rules."
"I'm sorry?"
I take a final sip of my drink and place it on the table. "I'm familiar with men of
your type--rich, powerful, and egotistical. I know that you may be used to women
falling at your feet, especially women that work for you, but I want you to know that
I expect our relationship to be entirely professional. Your reputation proceeds you
in that department, so I thought it would be better to get any awkwardness out of
the way now."
The look on his face is at once terrifying and gratifying. I think I may have gone
too far, but there's no going back now. He clears his throat. "Well then." He says,
and the richness of his voice vibrates through me. "Is there anything else I should
know?" He raises an eyebrow, and I feel all the blood in my body rush to my face.
Oh god, what did I just do? "No. No I don't think so. If you'll excuse me, Mr.
Saxon, I must be going. I'll see you in the morning."
I walk away before he can say anything else to me, and I leave as fast as I can
without it looking like I'm running away. Because boundaries are one thing, but
that...that was something else all together.
Chapter 2.
Charles
Well wasn't that interesting...
I watch the brunette walk away from me and not look back once. I wrestle down
the impulse to laugh. That's one thing I've never had in a secretary--someone
who's shut me down before I've even spoken. And I can't blame her too much, if
Mark hadn't pointed her out as the new hire I might have ended up doing what she
accused me of. The black dress she was wearing clung to her body in ways that
made me want to imagine what was underneath it, and I'd always had a thing for
brunettes. Especially with hair like that, long enough for me to run my hands
through it and get tangled in it.
The fantasy spins out from there too quickly--I imagine catching her outside
before she leaves, tangling my hands in that hair and holding her still while I kiss
her. After that I'd peel back that dress and find out what's underneath it. I shake
my head. Get a grip, Charles. She's pretty, but she's your secretary. You've never
crossed that line, don't start now.
I pour myself a scotch. I don't particularly want to be at this party. It's been a
long day dealing with the contractors in Santa Fe, and what I really need is peace
and sleep. But apparently it helps morale to see the boss at these kind of things
Even if I did get shut down by the new girl.
I can't say it wasn't worth it. I could pretend that I didn't watch every last inch
of her walk away, but that would be a lie.
That, and the way she turned the tables...yeah, definitely worth it.
I slip one hand into my pocket to adjust myself. It's good for the people to see
the boss at the party. Not so good to see the boss have a boner at the party.
"Mr. Saxon, it's so good to see you!" A chirpy voice comes from my right. I groan
inwardly. "Hello, Jennifer."
I dare to look, and see that the pink dress she's wearing is cut so low she's
practically spilling out of it. "I just wanted to say that I'm so impressed with all the
new locations you're willing to take chances on." Her voice is practically a purr, "I
actually have a location I'd like to speak with you about, if you're interested."
I plaster on as good a smile as I can, "You know I'm always willing to hear new
ideas."
"It's one of the things I really love about you." She pauses for way too long.
"...and your company."
Nice recovery, I think.
Jennifer steps closer to me; her breasts are practically brushing my arm now. "Is
there a time when I can come by your office with the proposal?"
"You can make an appointment with my new secretary. I think her name was--"
"Alyssa. We met." Her voice goes flat.
I knock back the rest of the scotch, and take a step away. "Yes, Alyssa. I'm sure
she'll be up to speed with my calendar in a few days."
"Whatever works for you," She says, the purr back in her tone. The innuendo is
practically dripping off her words.
"If you'll excuse me, it's been a long day."
I don't wait for her to answer before I walk away. Some things never change, and
I've had to make this escape one too many times to be polite about it anymore.
But Alyssa...that could be interesting. I think about the flushed look on her face
when she said she wanted nothing but professionalism. A bold statement like that
is as much for her as it is for me. I'm willing to bet she was thinking some decidedly
unprofessional thoughts about me.
I catch myself following that fantasy through one more time, and pull myself
back. Professionalism. I can do that. If it's professionalism she wants, that's
exactly what she'll get.
Document Outline
- Copyright
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Epilogue
- Excerpt of The Virgin Intern
- Excerpt of FILTHY BOSS
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