My lust-addled brain swiftly reached a conclusion; his jeans needed to come off.
Immediately.
The top button was undone, his happy trail running from his bellybutton and disappearing down, like an arrow pointing to the Holy Grail. The prize in question was straining against its confines, and the idea that it was I who did this to him made me writhe underneath him.
“Please…” I begged, because that was what he had reduced me to.
My hands were captive above my head by one of his; every inch of his body was strategically plastered to my naked form, pinning me to his desk and creating a delicious friction when he shifted. He turned me into a needy, frustrated mess underneath him with the skill of an artist.
“Please what?” He spat down at me.
The cords in his neck were strained, his blonde hair was damp, his lips were swollen and his eyes were black as pitch. His face would have been frightening if he hadn’t spent the last forty minutes kissing, sucking, biting and licking every inch of my naked body. As it was, I knew he was simply trying incredibly hard not to unzip a little bit more and plunge himself into me.
Which was actually perfect, considering that was exactly what I wanted.
“Please… please…” my arguments, which seemed so coherent in my head, came out in garbled whimpers. “I’m ready now…”
He raised himself slightly, making sure my eyes were on his hand as he lowered it to his jeans.
“You’re ready now?” He questioned darkly, and I nodded in response, eyes still fixed on his hand. When he started roughly rubbing himself through his jeans I heard myself moan, without any conscious knowledge of making the sound.
“I’m not sure I believe you. I’ve spent a great deal of time convincing you rather eloquently, I feel – how much I want you. You remember my arguments? The ones where I used my teeth, and my tongue, and my fingers?” He was hissing at me, barely managing to get the words out as his hand continued to rub up and down his length.
I nodded more emphatically this time, looking up to meet his intense stare with a desperate one of my own. He ignored my frustration and finished, “and all you can say in response is ‘I’m ready now’? Try a little harder.”
“I want you to fuck me,” I rasped shamelessly because if this was what I needed to say to get to the Holy Grail then say it I would. And just in case that didn’t work, I pulled out the big guns; the words I know would get him every time. “I want you to make me your little slut, to own me.”
His eyes, if possible, became darker, but instead of the harsh glare I expected to see, an amused smirk rose to his face while he shook his head at me.
“Baby,” he snarled “I do own you.” His tongue ran over my lips in an animalistic gesture of possession.
“But seeing as you don’t seem to realize it yet, I think I can spend a couple more hours drilling the message in…”
“Miss Gavin?”
I was abruptly jolted from my day dreaming by the sound of my name being called.
“Sir?” I weakly responded, hoping I hadn’t zoned out for too long.
When I looked up, I was met with a harsh, but all too familiar stare. “Personal narratives, first drafts due tomorrow.”
I sighed with relief. Oh, just that. “Oh, can we turn them in early? I already have mine done.”
As I pulled out the printed copy of my work and held it out for him to accept, Mr. Christiansen looked at me and his expression softened. When he took the assignment, our eyes made contact for a brief moment, causing me to shiver. There’s no way he could know that I was just fantasizing about him. Right?
As he continued going over the requirements for the other students, I gathered my composure. I tried not to make a habit of letting thoughts of my English teacher run too wild when I was at school. I knew I wasn’t the only one; in fact, some of the other girls would go as far as to hike up their skirts right before walking in to his class. If he noticed, he certainly didn’t let on that he did. But of course it’s not like he would just openly gawk at them, even if he did notice. I mean, they sort of frowned on that sort of thing; ogling the students.
While everyone wore uniforms at Chilton, it certainly wasn’t hard to distinguish the group of girls who spread their legs for any and everything. While I also chose to hem my skirt as high as regulation would allow, I certainly didn’t make a habit of going commando underneath, like a few others desperately vying for the attention of our extremely sexy, extremely unattainable teacher. Those girls were naive, though. Like he would risk his entire career, that he’s obviously passionate about, for a slut in a skirt.
At 28, he was still relatable while managing to get his point across, so it was no surprise that he was overwhelmingly voted the students’ favorite teacher every year. Because I was on an accelerated path, I was placed in AP English for my senior year. It took a paper almost 10 pages long to be accepted to the course, but I knew it would be well worth it. As far as college recommendations go, Mr. Christiansen only wrote them for the most dedicated students; and I planned on being one of them. My priorities always stayed on academics and sports, hoping maybe one of the two would pay off with a scholarship. As the school year drew to a close, I was already in pre-season for field hockey, and expected to be named All-State in the fall, as it would be my senior year.
The next day as we left class, Mr. Christiansen stopped me as I passed his desk.
“Miss Gavin, a moment?”
God, I loved hearing him say that.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to discuss your paper with you if you have the time.” He said taking a seat at his desk, bringing my paper to the top of the pile.
“Of course, is something wrong?” I nervously asked, running my hand through my hair. I couldn’t really believe that since I double and triple checked that I met all the requirements.
“Not wrong, per se, I just wanted to discuss your topic with you.”
I took a seat in the chair in front of his desk, automatically on edge. The personal narrative was supposed to be about something we were passionate about, and I chose field hockey. I’d been playing since grade 7, and dedicated a good amount of time to it year round, so it seemed like a no-brainer to write about.
“Your paper is well structured and well written, and it’s of tamer subject matter, which I thoroughly appreciate; trust me,” he joked, which led me to assume those pantyless sluts decided to write exactly what they were ‘passionate’ about. “But the assignment was to write about something that you are passionate about, and I didn’t see a lot of passion in your paper.”
“Is there something I can do to fix it?” I immediately ask, hoping I hadn’t completely botched the assignment.
“No need to panic, Miss Gavin. You’re an excellent student, and a very talented writer, but your paper lacks the conviction that needs to be present when writing about something you’re passionate about. So, that said, I’d like you to choose a different topic,” he explained calmly.
I think my face visibly fell. Start all over?
Fuck my life.
“I’m just not sure what else to write about,” I admitted, biting my lip in frustration.
Start from scratch? Really?
“Is there an organization that you feel strongly about? Are you pro-life? Pro-healthcare?”
I shake my head and shrug in response. “I’m not very big on politics, and I’m not a member of PETA,” I joke softly.
“What else do you like to do besides sports? Dig deeper,” he probes with an encouraging stare.
I felt put on the spot. Did Mr. Christiansen really care if I was passionate about anything? I was passionate about fantasizing about him on a daily basis, but of course I couldn’t write about that. Or ever admit that aloud.
“I like to dance.”
He smiled and motioned for me to continue. “Tell me about that.”
“I’ve been taking ballet classes since I was four years old, and I still do three days a week. I also spent half my summer in dance intensives.” I shrug. This probably bored him to death.
“That’s a lot of time to dedicate to one thing, why do you like it so much?”
I chewed my lip looking for the right words. I could feel his electric blue eyes imploring me for an answer.
“It’s not fun, exactly, and it’s never easy, but nothing makes me happier.”
His eyebrows raised with intrigue, “interesting, why is that?”
“It’s hard to explain, really. It’s all about discipline and precision. The rules of classical ballet are very cut and dry; there’s something comforting about the structure while always striving for perfection. But you have to feel it and enjoy it, because if it’s forced it will read that way in your movement. It’s 50% of holding everything in, from your posture and center and controlling every move your body makes, but then it’s 50% of just letting go, of feeling the music and using your whole body to convey emotion. But it’s like, that sense of control that helps me let go and just feel it. It’s euphoric.”
I was completely sure that none of it came out coherently; there was no way he could understand any of that. I hesitantly looked up, knowing he was about to steer me in a different direction. His expression was completely was unreadable, and I already felt stupid enough for that overly descriptive explanation.
“I’m sorry, is that stupid?” I frowned.
Of course it was stupid, how could that make sense to anyone?
“Not at all,” he assured, “it’s very mature to be so aware of all those emotions. This is definitely what you should write about.”
It was comforting for him to validate the way I felt, fulfilling even. I smiled in appreciation at his kind words and slowly lifted my gaze to his, feeling more comfortable in his usually nerve wrecking presence.
“Thank you for the feedback, sir. I really appreciate you taking the time to help me, especially if I can improve.”
“You’re a dedicated student, Ashton. I’m always happy to help; it’s what I’m here for, you know.” His lips turned up into a smirk, and I practically melted in front of him. His smile was about the sexiest thing ever.
“Well, I better go. I have rehearsal for Cotillion and they stone you on the spot if you’re late.” I joked hesitantly, not wanting this time to end.
“Cotillion?” he inquired.
“Yeah, you know, white dresses, large staircases, demure curtseys while the president of the Daughters of the American Revolution declares we are officially open for business.”
Mr. Christiansen gave a hearty chuckle at my sarcasm.
“My sister’s daughter is taking part in that, I think. It’s at the end of the month, yes?”
“Yeah, right after finals are over with.” I nodded.
“Well then good luck on walking down a staircase.” He grinned as I stood up to leave the classroom.
-:-