
For a spankingly erotic romp, Hot for Teacher makes the grade. Hot and teeming with emotion, it's a quick read.
Now this is one hot read! Rosemary and Jonathan are well-rounded and believable people, and their crises and burgeoning relationship tug at the heart. The minor characters are beautifully drawn and each contributes their say, and the academic background is authentic. As for the sex scenes...! Have some ice ready. Lots of it! A lovely plot and a heart-warming ending. I want more!
What a poignant story about discovering that life can go on after heartbreak. Rosemary is a testament to people widowed early in life, that finding that special someone to fulfill all your needs and desires can happen twice in a lifetime. Jonathan, who stands true to his own dominating needs in life, is a perfect mate for submissive Rosemary.
This entertaining story left me literally aching for more! When Rosemary Lockhart, widowed after twelve years of marriage, decides to return to school to get her Master's degree, she's not expecting to fall for her younger professor, Johnathan Kent. Their mutual attraction is immediate and spanking hot - just like Rosemary likes it. How this couple overcomes their obstacles in age and teacher/pupil status to achieve a mind-blowing and all-consuming sexual and loving relationship is a journey that swept me along from the beginning. A wonderful story of the tender side of physical discipline.
HOT FOR TEACHER
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Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
\*
This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (BDSM, violence).
DISCLAIMER: Many of the acts described in our BDSM/fetish titles can be dangerous. Loose Id publishes these stories for members of the community in which these acts are known and practiced safely. If you have an interest in the pleasures and pains you find described herein, we urge you to seek out advice and guidance from knowledgeable persons. Please do not try any new sexual practice, whether it be fire, rope, or whip play, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.
Hot for Teacher
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Loose Id LLC
1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924
Carson City NV 89701-1215
www.loose-id.com
Copyright © July 2006 by Barrie Abalard
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.
ISBN 978-1-59632-317-9
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Irene Williams
Cover Artist: Sinamin
"Happy anniversary, Charlie."
Rosemary Lockhart downed her flute of Veuve Cliquot, her gaze never leaving the photo on the table. Her grief turned the taste of the fine champagne to bitter gall.
"I'll never forgive you for dying on me." She tried to smile, but a tear slipped down her cheek instead.
She slugged down another glass as if it were medicine, mourning her loss anew. Short and dumpy, Charlie had looked every inch the absent-minded mathematician he'd been. Their twelve years together, though childless, had contained enough love, laughter, pain, and romance to satisfy her wildest desires.
Veuve. "Widow," in French. No wonder it's been my favorite champagne since he died almost two years ago.
She couldn't believe how much hurt she still felt. Never again to see his smiling face, kiss his lips, feel his hands possess her, harsh and gentle by turns. They used to make love almost every day, even after twelve years. She remembered rushing home from work to position herself for him: bent over a kitchen chair, skirt raised, panties lowered, a row full of his favorite spanking implements on the table. She would wait, barely breathing, her mind spinning fantasies that turned her wet.
Then he'd arrive home, dawdling over the day's mail while she grew more excited -- and more apprehensive. Finally, he'd pat her bottom, always saying the same silly thing. "Rosie, you have no idea how rosy I'm going to turn your rear end tonight."
Then he'd pick up the wooden hairbrush, or the leather belt, or just use his surprisingly tough palm. And the sweet burn would build a fire inside her, which he would quench -- or not -- as he pleased. When he chose to satisfy her, she never knew in advance whether it would be with his fingers, tongue, or cock, or which orifice he'd choose for their mutual pleasure.
Her loneliness combined with an aching, bodily thirst that alcohol couldn't slake. She placed the drained glass on the table before talking to the photo again. "Charlie, I'm going to do what I always wanted to do. I start grad school tomorrow, and I'm able to do this because you left me well-provided for, you thoughtful, caring man." She sighed. "I guess I'm excited about it."
Her vision blurred, her voice trembled. "But Charlie, I'd gladly give it up to have you back for just one night, one night of being taken by you, whenever and however you liked."
Her hand stole to her breast, stroking it. She remembered how Charlie would cup her breasts from behind, teasing the nipples, throwing in pinches that made her gasp. Her other hand plucked the hem of her skirt, then slid up her thigh slowly, the way his hand used to. Her fingers reached the top of a stocking and the garter belt's fastener, fashion throwbacks they'd both loved. She continued moving her hand until she reached the thong's edge. How her backside craved his rough touch. How she yearned for his relentless thrusts, his thighs cool against her blazing bottom's flesh, her tears drying on her face, her entire being swept away by a mindless, delicious orgasm.
But he was gone.
Her hands dropped. "I guess I'll finish what I started in our bed, Charlie, the way we used to do, only now all I've got is my battery-operated ... helper, instead of you."
After she poured the last of the champagne, she whispered, "Goodnight, my love. Wish me luck tomorrow."
She swayed as she walked to their marriage bed, one hand carrying her drink, one hand cupping her left buttock as she remembered the tormenting sting Charlie always raised there.
She would love him forever. But she knew that, soon, she'd need another man to control her in the bedroom. She craved such a man the way birds crave the air to fly in.
She wasn't built to live a solitary life.
\*
She managed, somehow, to fit her lush body into the combination desk-chair so common in universities. The effort embarrassed her. She didn't slide in as easily as the skinny twenty-somethings all around her.
Who designs these things, anyway? Boston traffic's bad enough this early in the day, but to have to shoehorn my butt into a chair is an indignity no woman should have to bear.
She blew an errant curl of red-and-gold hair out of her face before removing her glasses to rub her eyes. The entire bottle of champagne she'd drunk the night before had created little hammers banging everywhere inside her skull. Her stomach churned with acid. The aspirin she'd gulped with coffee only made her feel worse.
Why on earth do colleges still hold eight o'clock classes?
She peered at the traffic on Commonwealth Avenue, but the bright September sun sliced through the windows directly into her brain. She winced and removed her glasses to rub her eyes.
All right, get over it.
Rosemary could hear Charlie's voice as if he were beside her. He never could stand self-pity, and her wallowing in it had always earned her a session over his knee. The wooden hairbrush would kiss her bared bottom with fire, wrenching sobs from her, sobs that morphed into moans when his hand stopped spanking and started exploring. She smiled to herself, lost in memory.
"Excuse me. Is your name Rosemary Lockhart?"
Startled, she faced the student sitting to her right, her cheeks burning as if he could read the erotic thoughts drifting through her mind. He was a tall drink of water, but his adornments and fashionista dress screamed that she was the wrong sex for him.
"Uh, yes," she said.
"Professor Kent just called your name." The gorgeous blond man cut his eyes toward the front of the room.
"Rosemary Lockhart. Are you here?" The professor's voice crackled with annoyance.
"Yes, here I am." She raised her hand as if she were a first-grader. A shy first-grader.
"Mrs. Lockhart, why didn't you answer the first time?"
"It's Ms. Lockhart. And I'm sorry, sir. I was thinking about something. Else." She willed her face not to flush.
"In the future, pay attention from the stroke of eight until fifty past the hour."
Scolded already. A familiar warmth washed through her belly.
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry."
I don't mind being scolded by you. Not one bit.
His gray eyes, sharp with intelligence, never left hers. "Do you mean to be taking this class?"
"Um, yes, sir, I think so, I mean, I'm not sure what you mean."
God, she was stammering like the schoolgirl she now was. He had to be at least ten years younger than she, but was so commanding the "sir" had automatically tumbled from her lips.
"Ms. Lockhart, do you want me to cane you?"
Rosemary's mouth gaped. Some of the students tittered. Surely he hadn't said what she thought she'd heard.
"Sir?" Her face was burning, her head was throbbing, and her panties rubbed her in all the wrong -- or should she say right? -- places when she crossed her legs.
"It's just a joke, Ms. Lockhart. Relax, your nether regions are safe." Dr. Kent smiled at her. It wasn't entirely a nice smile, she thought.
"You are sitting in European Erotic Literature, and caning is frequently featured in the stories and books we will read. Again I say, do you mean to take this class? After all, we will be discussing graphic material, and you have to be somewhat sophisticated to handle it."
"Yes, I mean to take this class, and I am certain I can, as you put it, handle it." Rosemary bit down on each word in anger.
What a pompous jerk he is. Hot, though.
"Tell me, Ms. Lockhart, what do you know about caning?"
Rosemary remembered how Charlie had talked her into trying the cane on their first wedding anniversary. She had been quite tipsy, and that night, under the haze of love, lust, and champagne, she had loved every stroke, too high to truly feel the sting. But the next morning she had to sit delicately on pillows because of the ropy welts decorating her bottom. When Charlie had offered to rub the tender ridges after breakfast, they had ended up back in bed to satisfy their fresh desire. That was the first time he had -- She smiled as she formed her answer for Professor Kent.
"Sir, I know enough to take this course." And that's all you're going to hear from me on this subject, you ass.
"Ah, but is it personal experience?"
"I don't believe that's relevant to the course." Rosemary frosted each word, locking onto his gaze, daring him to continue.
Why does this idiot make me want to jump his bones?
Dr. Kent broke eye contact first, scowling at the class.
Ha, ha, made you look away first!
An image of her offering her bottom to him for discipline flashed through her mind. It stiffened her nipples.
"Today we shall discuss aesthetic theories of the erotic. You will need to read the relevant sections in Sexual Personae by Camille Paglia by next class. Refer to your syllabus for the exact page numbers. For now, follow along as best you can." He turned, outlining the major topics of the day on the blackboard.
Rosemary scribbled, barely able to keep up with the lecture. Still, in the back of her mind she couldn't help noticing his athletic torso, and the back view, once he took off his jacket, was as pleasing as the front, his butt encased in snug denim. Probably a runner, she thought.
"Hey, that was cool."
Rosemary glanced at the student who'd spoken to her earlier. "What was cool?" she whispered, one anxious eye on her strict professor.
"The way you fought back against Kent. He's got a reputation for ripping on students, and you didn't let him get away with it. Much," he added softly. "My name's Mark. Want to get some coffee after class?"
"You know, students in England are caned for talking in class."
Professor Kent glared at both her and Mark, but mostly at her. She dropped her gaze to her notes, pretending to edit them.
Kent resumed his lecture once he realized she wasn't going to fight him. She then shot a sideways glance at Mark, giving a slight nod to indicate coffee was fine with her.
Again, the imp in the back of her mind started listing Kent's assets -- strong, chiseled nose; square jaw; god-awful piercing gray eyes; and nice teeth.
Teeth? What am I, a livestock appraiser?
He tilted his glasses a bit to make a point. With a shock, she realized he was wearing the same wire-rimmed frames her Charlie used to wear.
That must be why he's stirring me up.
However, Kent was off limits, no matter how much she lusted after him. Not only was he her teacher, he looked all of twenty-five. She, on the other hand, was past thirty-five.
For the remainder of class, she tried not to watch him. Their heated exchange had both infuriated and stimulated her, and her panties were damp enough as it was.
\*
"Isn't he magically delicious?" Mark dropped into the seat beside her at the campus Starbucks, pretending to swoon. "Ah do declare, that man gives me the vapors."
"Oh, you mean Professor Kent?" Rosemary sipped her latte, pretending her heart didn't hammer when she said his name.
"Get off it, girl, with the innocent act. I could tell he had the hots for you and you for him. And all that talk about caning -- wooo!" Mark fanned himself with a napkin.
Rosemary, a little taken aback, said, "You enjoy that sort of thing?" She had never discussed her and Charlie's activities with anyone else, ever.
"I'm not especially into spanking or dominance. But I can tell it really floats Kent's boat." Mark studied her bowed head. "What, do I shock you? You seemed a woman of the world in class. Was I wrong? Do I need to shut up now?"
Rosemary smiled. "No, Mark, you don't shock me, it's just that I'm not used to discussing sexual preferences the first hour I meet someone. I'm just a middle-aged widow. Cut me some slack here."
"Middle-aged? You can't be a day over thirty, not with that skin."
"Thirty-eight."
"That's hardly middle-aged. And you don't need any slack from anyone -- you're tougher than you think you are. So --" Mark lowered his voice. "-- when did your husband die? And did he spank you? God, I can't believe I just asked you that. Don't answer." He hid his face in his hands with mock horror.
Rosemary giggled at his audacity, then quieted. "God, do I miss him. Yesterday would have been our fourteenth wedding anniversary. He's been gone almost two years."
"What happened?"
"Aneurysm. Nothing they could predict. Nothing they could do. He was gone like that." She snapped her fingers. "He was only forty-one."
"How did you meet?"
"He was the resident genius-slash-doctoral candidate at the university where I worked as a filing clerk. He came on to me and I fell for him. We married within a year. Simple as that."
"Kids?"
"No, that never worked out for us." Rosemary shut her eyes against the old wound. Losing Charlie would have been more bearable if they'd been able to have a child.
Mark patted her hand. "I'm so sorry. Really. And I'm sorry I acted so silly a few minutes ago. I didn't stop to think what you might be dealing with."
"It's all right, Mark." Trying to lighten the mood, she teased him. "So, what's your sexual orientation, just in case I read you wrong?"
"Oh, honey, as the saying goes, I'm here, and I'm -- well, you know." He played with the hoop in his ear. "Am I your first gay friend?"
"Hardly. I'm a woman of the world, remember?"
"So, about you and Kent --" Mark's grin turned devilish. "-- I'll bet he carries a big stick for you."
"Oh, please, I'm old enough to have babysat him. Plus, he's my teacher, and that's not, uh, cool, is it? To date your teacher? Even these days?"
"No, it's not cool. But the heart has its own ways of doing things."
Rosemary glanced at her watch. "Almost time for me to go." She gulped the rest of her latte. "I'm in the American Lit seminar at ten. You?"
"Nah, Kent's class is one of only two for me this semester. I'm busy digging up a thesis topic so I can write it next semester and graduate. I did a little too much partying last year."
"Bad boy. Someone should teach you some discipline."
"Don't I know it." He stood, waiting for her to retrieve her bookpack. "Too bad I'm on this celibacy kick."
"Celibacy?" Her first day at school was enlightening her with all kinds of information she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
"In case you hadn't noticed, it's not the safest time in history to sleep around. Healthwise, that is. Besides, I'm saving myself for my true love."
Rosemary glanced at him, ready to laugh, only to see his serious expression. Patting his cheek, she asked, "Shall I send any prospects I find your way?"
"Honey, you find 'em, I'll wine 'em and dine 'em." With a wave and a whirl, Mark was gone, leaving Rosemary to find her own way to her ten o'clock seminar.
\*
Back in his office, Jonathan Kent leaned back in his dark green leather chair, frowning. He hadn't liked the way Rosemary Lockhart had sassed him. No doubt about it, she was going to be a pain in the ass. He'd had it with the dilettante housewives that Admissions was always letting in, those with too much money and too few brains or no originality. They chattered and tittered, thinking they were so daring for taking a course about erotica. In frustration, he whacked a nearby stack of papers with a thick wooden ruler.
He ached for serious students of an art form that was too often dismissed as "literary porn." Between the wealthy housewives, the Story of O wannabees, and the humorless de Sade devotees, he was no longer sure he wanted to teach this course. Even though he loved it.
Intrigued that Rosemary had fought his attempt to embarrass her, he idly slapped his ruler against the desk. Obviously, she was more intelligent and feistier than the average hausfrau. She looked no more than thirty, though the aging, preppy-style clothing she wore hinted she might be older.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, recalling her curly amber-red hair, pulled back from her heart-shaped face. Her blouse's color matched that of her blue eyes. That blouse had been surprisingly form-fitting and had hidden none of her charms, as the quaint saying went. She filled out her jeans as thoroughly as she did her blouse, a true Victorian-style body. Nothing waiflike about this one. He found himself wondering how it would feel to touch her pale, smooth skin.
His erection throbbed. He was annoyed that he found her attractive and annoyed that he couldn't have her. After all, she was his student. Tough shit that he had a weakness for older women, especially older women who didn't look older.
He clenched his hands into fists to keep from touching himself, waiting for the urge to pass. He hadn't craved a student like this before, ever.
Picking up his mug of good old American coffee, black, he leaned forward in his chair. None of that fancy coffee-shop brew for him. And a real man always drank it black. He knew that some of his colleagues and students assumed he was an Anglophile, drinking tea with his pinky out. Even though he didn't have a chest like Fabio's, he was no cream puff. He liked women, football, hockey, beer, and coffee, in that order. Just because he also liked literature and art museums, did that make him less of a manly man? Hell, no.
He considered whether he should make himself appear more testosterone-filled. His innate shyness, combined with his studious appearance, might have given Rosemary the wrong impression, considering the way she sassed him.
Maybe a lumberjack's shirt would do it. That, and some work boots.
He certainly believed that man was meant to control woman in the bedroom, though such dominance needed to be tempered with affection. Kent let his thoughts run wild, imagining a relationship in which he would show his love in tangible, corporal-punishment ways. Closing his eyes and leaning back again, he meditated on applying a paddle to the bottom of a squalling Rosemary Lockhart, her jeans and panties down around her knees, her well-padded body draped across his lap. He sighed with frustrated lust. Spanking a fully packed bottom satisfied him more than spanking a skinny one.
A sharp double rap on the heavy walnut door to his office startled him into sitting upright quickly, and in the process slopping part of his coffee on himself. Grabbing the roll of paper towels he kept nearby because of his tendency to spill things, he cursed, turning his glare on the person entering his office. It was the department head, so he had to be halfway polite, damn it all.
"Yes?" Jonathan muttered, swabbing at his shirt and pants. Good thing he kept a spare change in the office and that most of his clothing was washable. He'd learned that lesson long ago.
"Jon, we've been waiting for you in the faculty lounge." Professor Percival Furbish looked down his long nose at him. Jonathan knew he looked exactly like a gawky, adolescent scholar-geek with coffee all over his clothing.
He checked his watch while swearing under his breath. Damn that Rosemary Lockhart. Not only had fantasizing about reddening her lovely fundament made him forget he was holding a mug of coffee, she'd also made him forget the time. He didn't need to get into any more trouble with his boss. Their mutual animosity, instinctive for unknown reasons, had to be lived with if he planned on earning tenure this year.
Through clenched teeth, he said, "I'm sorry, Percival. I'll be right there."
"See that you come now. You can change your clothing later," Furbish barked before stalking away.
Why does he hate me so much?
Wait a minute. The only other people I've ever seen Furbish act this way toward are gay. His homophobia is legendary. Perhaps he doesn't like me because he thinks --?
Nah, that can't be it. He might think I'm a pervert because I study erotica, but I've never given him any reason to think I'm gay.
Jonathan wadded up the coffee-stained paper towels. Full of temper and embarrassment over his stained, wet clothing, he made his reluctant appearance at the departmental meeting.
What had she been thinking, scheduling three of her four classes back-to-back? Rosemary had consumed nothing all day except the latte with Mark and a candy bar she'd extracted from a vending machine between her eleven a.m. and noon classes.
At least the schedule she'd chosen kept her Tuesdays and Thursdays completely free, and that had its advantages. She needed a part-time job to stretch Charlie's insurance money.
She wended her way across campus to the bookstore. Let's face it -- grad school is meant for the young. No one as old as I am has enough energy to deal with it.
She ceased her trek for a moment. Though she needed to buy books, her hunger and thirst nagged her and the cafeteria was on her way. Eager for a large bottle of water and a fat sandwich, she rushed through the double doors, only to run face-first into Professor Kent, knocking him flat on his behind. His cup of coffee emptied itself completely, mostly on him. She stepped backwards while checking her clothing for coffee stains, effectively bottlenecking traffic in and out of the cafeteria. Students grumbled, shoving their way around the two.
Realization hit her. She'd just knocked down one of her professors and covered him with his own coffee. What a great way to begin her graduate school career. Putting her things on a nearby table, she leaned over and extended her hand to Dr. Kent. "I'm sorry, so sorry, sir. Here, let me help you."
Hmmm. She'd called him "sir" again. What was up with that?
Kent batted away her helping hand as he clambered to his feet, his face a darkening thunderstorm once he noticed who'd collided with him.
"Ms. Lockhart. So I have you to thank for ruining my only clean clothing here on campus. Are you blind, my own personal jinx, or just stupid?"
Stunned by the cruelty of his comment, her cheeks reddened as if he'd slapped her. "Dr. Kent, I am truly sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. But it was an accident, and it doesn't give you the right to call me stupid."
He glared down at his ruined clothing. Seeing her opportunity to flee, she was spinning to escape when his large, strong hand grasped her upper arm. She gasped at the immediate heat his touch produced as he turned her back to face him. Abruptly, Kent dropped his hand as if he, too, had felt branded.
"Ms. Lockhart, I apologize for my boorish behavior. My reaction was execrable, as were my manners. Of course it was an accident. Are you all right? The coffee didn't burn you, did it?" His gray eyes bored into hers, the eye contact almost a physical blow. A small fluttering in her empty stomach warmed her to the core.
"I'm fine, and I'm sorry. Really." She started to edge away, embarrassed and uncomfortable with his aggressive staring. It made her feel as if her underwear were pressing against her crotch too tightly. And that sensation made her want to fling her clothing off in all directions, a dangerous desire to experience in front of one of her professors.
He grabbed her upper arm again, stopping her departure. His gaze pinned her like a specimen butterfly. Heart pounding and mouth dry, she managed to mumble, "Yes, sir?"
His sharp, square features softened. But his slight grin petrified her more than his earlier scowl.
"Ms. Lockhart, you really must be more careful, dear, or I shall have to find some way to ... discipline you."
His grin grew wide. Rosemary fled, sensing his eyes on her bottom.
\*
Jonathan berated himself even as he enjoyed watching Rosemary Lockhart's bottom jiggle in her jeans. What was he thinking? He cringed at the nastiness of his first comment, when he was ripping mad about wearing yet another cup of coffee. He'd vented his anger at Furbish on her, saying to her what he'd wanted to say to his department head. But he winced even more at remembering the mention of "discipline" to her. That sort of thing could get him brought up on charges of sexual harassment, perversion, God knows what. Furbish already thought he had deviant habits and treated him accordingly.
He couldn't ignore his aching erection. Rosemary made him dream of doing things that he'd never admitted to anyone, and for which he had never found a suitable partner. He'd dominated several women, of course, followed by intense sex with them. But he'd never found the right one, the one who would submit to him because she loved him, the one whom he would cherish and chastise affectionately -- in short, a wife. He'd seen thirty come and go, and didn't want to see forty without a partner, a helpmate, a lover. Could the right woman be close at hand?
But he couldn't have Rosemary, he reminded himself while trudging back to his office. After all, she was one of his students. Besides that, she probably thought he was a little odd, the way most of them did. And then there was the question of age. Though she looked thirty, she carried herself like someone older. The taboo of having a younger man for a partner had stopped some of his promising relationships before they'd gotten off the ground.
Where was the woman who wanted what he had to offer?
\*
Rosemary made it home before the traffic became too snarled with rush-hour refugees anxious for home and hearth. Dropping the enormous bag of books that had set her back nearly five hundred dollars, she flopped into the nearest chair, Charlie's old recliner. She was so tired, partly because she never had eaten anything after accidentally forcing Dr. Kent to wear his coffee.
Pushing back in the recliner, she thought again of her professor: his stern visage; his outsized, able-looking hands; his clear gray eyes that seemed to look right through her, reading her most secret thoughts, her desires. She hadn't felt this way since --
She shut her eyes against the memory's pain.
She hadn't felt this way since the first time she'd been introduced to Charlie Lockhart, instructor and brilliant doctoral candidate. But Charlie had been older than she. Dr. Kent had to be at least ten years younger. He'd not want her. He'd be searching for some fresh young gal to bed and wed, not an old crone like her.
The phone rang once, twice. Muttering to herself, she grabbed the portable handset, taking it to the kitchen with her. As she searched the fridge for something quick to assuage her hunger, she half-snarled, "Yes?"
"Whoa, gal, what crawled up your butt? Got a minute to talk to your oldest, dearest, better-looking-than-you friend?"
"Only if she treats me to dinner. I'm so hungry I could make Olive Garden regret their 'all you can eat' promotion." Rosemary grabbed a container of cottage cheese and began spooning it into her mouth, cheered by her best friend's call. Faith always made her laugh.
"Hey, seems I owe you some supper, anyway, for helping me repaint all the molding at my place last weekend. Want to go tonight?" Faith asked.
"Unless you've got a hot date you'd rather entertain." Rosemary stopped eating the cottage cheese.
Faith cackled in her ear. "Not tonight. But I do have a double-date proposal for you."
Rosemary groaned aloud. "I told you, Fai, I'm just, well, not ready. Yesterday would have been fourteen years."
"Aw, hon, I forgot it was your anniversary. Let's do that dinner tonight. Seriously." Faith's voice exuded concern.
"As long as it can be early. I drank a lot of champagne last night, and today was my first full day of grad school. I have to read a total of four hundred pages before Wednesday. I'm whipped, and I haven't eaten enough today to keep a bird alive. Can we meet at --" Rosemary checked the clock over the stove. "-- five? The usual place?"
"You got it, hon. See you there."
Rosemary hung up the phone before putting the cottage cheese back in the fridge. Five p.m. meant she had time for a short nap. She set the kitchen timer before heading for the couch and sleep.
\*
At five minutes to five, Rosemary pulled into the parking lot of The Last Fern Bar. She wasn't quite sure what the name meant, especially since the place hadn't a fern in sight, though it did have a bar. However, the restaurant's name amused her anyway. After pulling the heavy pine door open, she glanced at the specials listed on a white board before spying Faith.
She had met her friend at the Institute of Technology on the first day of her new job as a filing clerk. Just out of college, with a raging recession in Boston affecting everyone except MBAs or those with scientific degrees, Rosemary took the first thing she could find: a clerical job. It was a very good clerical job, with fabulous benefits, but it didn't exactly stretch her mental capacity.
But Faith Charity Hope, whose mother had gone a little nuts in naming her daughter after the classic virtues, had brightened Rosemary's days and made her laugh. She could forget about the dismal apartment she shared with two near-strangers, courtesy of an ad in the alternative rag, the Boston Phoenix. Though her tiny room had peeling plaster and was in a dilapidated section of Cambridge, she'd not have traded it for a cushier spot in her parents' home in another state. She treasured her independence.
Faith showed her the ropes, both at the university and after hours. After meeting Faith, she'd enjoyed her first adult girls' night out at The Golden Banana, her first radical dye job and bikini wax, and a series of naughty escapades she'd keep mum about till her dying day. Well, she did tell Charlie eventually. Though he'd been as casual about her adventures as she had been, he found them a fine excuse to paddle her bare backside every night for a week. She smiled. Charlie had begun spanking her on their third date. Love at first whack.
"Hey." Faith grinned at her. "You look fabulous. You're glowing, in fact. Are you sleeping with someone?"
"With whom? You know my life has no men in it. I still miss Charlie too much to sleep with someone else."
Faith signaled the bartender for two Harpoon IPAs. "Aw, c'mon, Rosie. You really do look as if someone parked his shoes under your bed recently. Are you sure you drank that champagne alone last night?"
"I'm sure." Rosemary changed the subject. "Who have you been seeing? You mentioned a double date. It's not a double blind date, is it?"
"Wellll, nooooo."
"So, dish."
"He's sweet, funny, handsome, sexy, rich -- okay, he's not rich, but he's sweet and funny, and smart, and he's sexy to me. His name's Doug Freeman, and he works for a telecommunications firm. You know how I like engineers." Faith paid for the two beers, swigging hers briefly before continuing. "I met Doug at the Stop 'n' Shop, of all places. He made a rude comment while we were both looking at cucumbers, and from any other man, I would have been shocked or insulted. But he resembled a little boy using a dirty word he didn't know the meaning of. So cute. We started talking, one thing led to another, and we met for dinner the very next night. That was last week." Faith stopped to catch her breath before continuing. "I saw him Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and I'll see him again tomorrow night. I don't know if he's The One, but I like him, and for now that's good enough. It's been two years and five months since I lost my Max. It's time for me to have a life again. Time for you, too, Rosie."
"No, it's not." Rosemary shook her head "no" emphatically.
"Yes, it is. This is Fai, honey. I've got your best interests at heart. Doug works with this fellow named Steve. He's about your age, and he used to teach math before he jumped to tech. I think you should at least try dinner with him and Doug and me."
"He sounds a lot like Charlie. I'm not interested in replacing Charlie."
"No one says he has to replace Charlie. No one says you have to do anything but have dinner with the man. Won't you, please? All you do is take care of your house and read and garden and dine occasionally with me. C'mon, gal, you need to rev your engines a little. The valves are sticky from disuse."
Rosemary sighed. Leave it to car nut Faith to throw in an engine metaphor. She stared off to her left and sipped her beer, unwilling to look Faith in the eye. "I haven't dated in over fourteen years. I'm totally ignorant of what passes for it these days and would probably make a fool of myself."
"Rosemary. It's. Just. Dinner." Faith's exasperated voice had her feeling foolish. What was she scared of? And who, rather, whom was she kidding? She loved to eat.
"All right. But not tomorrow night. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I have an eight o'clock class."
"How about Friday night?"
"Okay. If I'm tired after classes I can always take a nap, I guess."
"Yes, I know, you're as old as Methuselah, so take your nap," Faith teased. "But keep in mind that I'm even older, and I manage to go out on the occasional date."
"Hope, party of two," the hostess called.
Both women carried their beers with them as they were led to their table. After settling into the comfortable captain's chairs, Rosemary spoke up. "This Steve, what's he like?"
"Tall, cute, blond hair, bearded," Faith began.
"Ugh. I hate facial hair."
"Oh, hush, Rosie, you're getting tiresome. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, blond, bearded, cute, smart, likes redheads, very interested in meeting you. All you have to do is dress up a little and appear. You can drive yourself to the restaurant and back, so there's no pressure. That way, if you two don't hit it off, you can just eat and go home. If you do hit it off, well, worrying about what to do with the extra car will be the least of your problems." She grinned impishly. "Aren't you just the least bit curious about this guy?"
Rosemary drained her glass. "As you pointed out, Fai, it's just dinner. Now that you've managed to bully me into going on a date, can we talk about something else? But first, let's order. I'm starved, and that ale went right to my head."
Faith waved down the waitress, ordering the fried clam plate for herself and the broiled salmon for her friend. She commented after the waitress left, "I don't see why you don't eat clams."
"I just don't like them. Plus, the salmon is good here, and it's better for my diet than something fried."
"You and your diet. When are you going to accept those ten extra pounds and forget about it?"
"More like twenty. And I'll stop when my butt's no longer inflated to the size of Government Center."
Salads arrived, and for a few moments the women lost themselves in the food.
"How did your inflated butt -- and you -- like your first day of grad school?" Faith asked.
"I thought you'd never ask."
By the time dinner had arrived, Rosemary had talked about all her classes. By the time dinner was over, she had related her encounters with the irritable Dr. Kent and her new friendship with Mark. As they sat with after-dinner aperitifs, Faith asked abruptly, "Why don't you ask him out?"
"Ask who out? Mark? He's gay," Rosemary replied, though she knew whom her friend meant.
"No, Dr. Kent, of course. It's obvious you like him. You've certainly shown more enthusiasm about him than you have about meeting Steve."
"Dr. Kent's my professor. Dating him is a no-no."
"You could always wait until the semester is over. Do you recall when Charlie first came on to you? You didn't want to go out with him because 'staff and faculty don't mix.' If I hadn't pushed you into it, you'd have never had all those wonderful years with him."
"Well, you were a shining example of staff and faculty mixing, so you inspired me. You were dating Max a few months before Charlie asked me out." Rosemary sipped her hazelnut liqueur. "Tell me, do you still yearn for Max?"
"Rosie, what a question. Of course I do, every day and especially every night. It's just that I have to get on with my life. To live, you have to be in the present."
"I can't seem to do that. I miss Charlie at all the obvious times, of course, but also at odd moments. I see something funny in the paper and turn to tell him -- only he's not there. I find a nice cantaloupe in the grocery store and imagine his pleasure when I bring it home to him -- only he's not there. It's all these little ways in which I miss him that wear me down and keep me sad." Her eyes misted. "He was so young, so vital. And gone in an instant. Why can't I get over that?"
"Aw, hon," Faith murmured as she leaned over to hug her friend. "You loved Charlie. And on some level, you're never going to 'get over' him. You can only go on."
Well, Rosemary thought as she drove home from school, the week had ended more auspiciously than it had begun. She'd not run into Dr. Kent, literally or figuratively, outside of class. Though he did look at her more often than seemed necessary in the Wednesday and Friday classes, he'd not spoken to her. Maybe they'd gotten past their mutual difficulties and wouldn't talk much now. Despite the fact that it would be smarter to leave things that way, her heart sank at the thought of Dr. Kent never being more than her professor of European Erotic Literature.
He exuded masculinity despite his studious appearance. Of course, most English Lit professors weren't he-man types, and Kent sure didn't look like Hercules. Not to say he was unattractive, far from it. While she sat at a red light, she recalled his muscled forearms when he had rolled up his sleeves, forearms that ended in meaty hands. She'd bet those hands could deliver quite a spanking.
Horns were honking. She realized the light had turned green while she sat there, shivering with delight. She drove on, tickling warmth punching her low in the belly while she imagined what it would be like to go over Dr. Kent's lap. His broad shoulders had plenty of power, she was certain. His muscled runner's thighs would be difficult to lie on as his hand cracked her "sit spot" repeatedly. Her hungry nether regions throbbed. No doubt about it, she needed a spanking. Her life felt out of control around Kent. She needed some discipline to pull it together.
However, she had no one to do the job for her. For the millionth time, she longed keenly for her Charlie. Sighing as she pulled into the driveway, she went inside, intent on a nap before dinner with Faith, Doug, and Steve.
\*
The stream sparkled in the sunlight, and the green smell of spring surrounded her. She and Dr. Kent were having a picnic. And what a feast, all homemade: oven-fried chicken, potato salad, and two kinds of cookies, chocolate chip and sugar. The chardonnay was as cold as the sun was hot. They relaxed on the blanket, talking lazily. They were alone. Completely alone.
The sun on her legs aroused her, producing heat that spread upward, turning her wet. Kent's steely eyes shone as his mouth covered hers. The kiss stirred her to her core; she found herself moving against him, moaning in desperation, eager to have him. His hands cupped her bottom possessively through her thin cotton skirt.
It was then that she, inexplicably, dumped her glass of wine on his head and laughed. But not for long. Dr. Kent jerked her to her feet and propelled her into a nearby copse of trees, steel in his voice. She was to cut a switch and clean it off in the next sixty seconds. Of course, she couldn't possibly meet the time deadline, so Rosemary found herself bent over, hugging a tree as her professor flipped up her skirt and pulled down her panties.
She knew immediately she hadn't done a very good job of trimming the branch. Fire burned in a stripe across her bottom, but there were hornet stings spaced along the way from her incomplete cleaning job. Dr. Kent wasn't swinging too hard, lest he cut her skin to ribbons with the awful thing, but it was plenty hard enough.
Rosemary couldn't help yowling, angry that she did so by the fourth lick. By the tenth, she was weeping and stamping her feet, sure that angry abrasions decorated her from the middle of her bottom to halfway down her thighs. Her backside's burning sting drove her crazy, but the hunger between her legs was a worse torment.
Dr. Kent took her in his arms to kiss her, her fresh tears ending up on both their faces. He carried her back to the blanket and laid her down. She waited for him to enter her, but first his fingers explored. When he found her quivering nub, her back arched. Sensation built as his thumb coaxed her clit to swell, while his middle and index fingers massaged her inside.
"Dr. Kent," she breathed, ready for the taking.
He flipped her onto her stomach, entering her from behind. His rough thrusts fed the ache that demanded fulfillment. In and out he rammed. In and out. And still her lust wasn't sated.
He withdrew, and she cried out at the deprivation, her clit and vagina swollen and quivering from her emptiness. She was so close.
"Rosemary," he said. "I'd like to try something."
His index finger, wet with her juices, explored her anus a moment before sliding inside.
Ahh. Charlie used to do this. I'll never forget our first anniversary, when he introduced me to it. How does Dr. Kent know I crave --?
Two fingers. Three. She fucked his hand, desperate for orgasm.
"Please," she said. "Oh, Dr. Kent, please."
Then came the odd full-yet-not-full sensation of him taking her anally. It hurt, just a little -- it always did -- but within a few slow strokes, the ache had faded, replaced by an appetite that grew until she thought she'd pass out. Her fingers flew to her clit, the better to bring herself to orgasm while Dr. Kent pounded inside her.
Anal sex. She'd never thought she'd like it, but she'd loved it from the first, both for the sensation and the way it messed with her head. She felt ultra-submissive taking a cock this way, the feeling feeding her arousal, which in turn fed her submission. She arched her back, bucking her hips, fingers flying across her clit.
Then a strange buzzing caught her attention. Was it a bee? The droning grew louder in her ears just as she was about to come.
Omigod ...
Rosemary awoke, sweating, aroused, confused, and then disappointed as she realized it was all a dream, only a dream. Cursing colorfully, she slammed her hand down to silence the buzzing alarm. The best dream she'd had in months, and it had ended before she'd started. Briefly, she considered using her vibrator for release. No, she had to get going, or she'd be late.
Her lingering arousal caused her to pick out her lowest-cut blouse, snuggest short skirt, and highest heels. If she was going on a date, damned if she wasn't going to go all out and make herself as attractive as possible. After applying makeup and tousling her curls in a "fuck me" look, she appraised herself in the mirror. Not bad for an old broad of thirty-eight. She turned around, craning her neck for the back view. Nope, not bad at all. If Charlie were here, once he saw the outfit he'd have torn off her clothes in about two seconds. Of course, for dressing so shockingly, he also would have soundly spanked her before they enjoyed each other. He definitely did not like his wife dressing like a high-priced call girl when they were out of the house. At home, now, that was another matter, she recalled with a grin.
Maybe the evening wouldn't be so bad.
Damn, maybe I'll get some.
As if finally waking completely from her dream, she eyed her outfit with growing alarm. What was she thinking? Her clothing, makeup, and hair were just short of scandalous, and she was out of time to change. In fact, she was already late. Throwing a jacket over her embarrassing cleavage, she hurried out the door. She'd hate to be late meeting the other three. Just thinking about not arriving on time caused her backside's skin to tingle. Charlie had disciplined her fiercely the one time she'd been late.
Early in their marriage, she'd been delayed by traffic, arriving at his university's faculty dinner thirty minutes into the meal. Between the main dish and dessert, he'd hustled her to his office, locked the door, and whaled her backside with his belt. She'd barely had time to wipe the tears from her face before she found herself sitting uncomfortably through dessert, coffee, and several speakers. Later at home, he'd spanked her again, using the horrid wooden hairbrush.
Never, ever had she been late for anything again. Her bottom had burned all night, but the sex had been incredible. He'd penetrated her anally, as he sometimes did after spanking her for a misdeed. Charlie called it "disciplinary sex," as it emphasized her submission to him. Even though she'd be sore later from his thrusts, she always climaxed wildly. No doubt about it, Charlie had known all her hot buttons.
No wonder she'd had that dream about Dr. Kent -- she was horny, that's all, with no spanking or sex for the last two years. Dr. Kent was attractive, so he'd starred in her fantasy. Usually she dreamed of Charlie doing such things to her, but it wasn't rare for her to have a hot dream about another man. It was all perfectly normal and easy to explain. Somehow, that depressed her.
After all, what were the chances she'd find another man so perfectly compatible with her submissive desires, who could make her scream with ecstasy every single time, the way Charlie had?
Probably not high. But she had to try, or go crazy from loneliness and sexual need.
Rosemary hustled her way inside Michael's. The three of them were in the bar waiting for her, the maitre d' informed her.
Taking a deep breath, Rosemary walked in, her eyes scanning the crowd. Faith's frantic wave caught her attention. Two very good-looking men were sitting with her. Hmmm, which one was hers again? Oh, yes, the blond one. Nice-looking, even though he had a beard. Not her favorite thing, but it didn't matter. Probably nothing would come of this date.
She slowed her walk, making eye contact. His chocolate-brown eyes, unusual for a blond, locked on to hers. She opened her jacket, revealing her cleavage, testing him. His eyes stayed on hers after a quick look at her front. Good. He'd passed the first test. She didn't want to have dinner with a man who talked to her chest, even though she knew she'd made it challenging to do so.
"Rosie, hon, you look fabulous. Doesn't she look fabulous, Steve?" Faith chattered.
Only then did Steve give her a polite but thorough up-and-down. He murmured, "Yes, she does," sticking out his hand. "Steve Ringgold. I'm pleased to meet you, Rosemary."
Taking his hand, Rosemary said, "So am I," and smiled.
"What can I get you to drink?" he asked as he made room for her at the bar. "I'm having wine, the house cabernet. Would you like some?"
"No, a beer, please. Harpoon IPA if they have it, Killian's or Bass if they don't." She settled onto a stool as Steve signaled the bartender, ordering her a Bass ale.
"Do you not like wine?" he said before sipping his own.
"Whites are okay. Most reds trigger my migraines."
He tsked. "That's a shame. A good red wine is almost as good as sex."
"Is it, now?" She sensed heat in her cheeks. Why did she have to blush so easily? The beer arrived. She took a long gulp to hide her awkwardness.
"Ah, when ye say it like that, ye sound very Irish, lass."
"Only on my mother's side, though her parents were straight from the Auld Sod."
"And your father's side?"
"Danish, mostly."
He leaned against the mahogany bar. "The Danes can be a sober bunch. Ever read any Kierkegaard?"
"A little. I'm not much on philosophy. Literature is more my game."
"I like the logical aspect of philosophy. Useful when you're a software nerd."
He moved closer to her. Though it made her uncomfortable, she didn't let herself back away.
Stop being such a prude.
"Hey, that's us," Faith broke in, pointing to the maitre d'.
\*
Dinner had come and gone; the four lingered over coffee and dessert. Rosemary and Steve had bonded to the point where he was feeding her part of his chocolate coconut cake, an activity that pumped her hormones. Being fed from a man's plate sure made her feel submissive. His right hand held the fork while his left rested on the back of her chair, occasionally brushing the nape of her neck. Each time he touched her, she shivered, excited but unsure whether it was really Steve that excited her, or whether it was only her body responding to a man's touch, any man's touch. It had been a long time, and as much as she didn't want to betray Charlie's memory with a quickie, her body apparently had other plans.
Faith and Doug stood. "We're going to hear some jazz at Cafe One. You two want to go?" she asked.
Steve exchanged a look with Rosemary before tickling her earlobe. She swallowed hard while he spoke. "I think we'll go someplace quiet to talk, if that's okay with you, Rosie." She nodded her agreement.
Faith gave her the slightest of winks when she and Doug left.
"Well," Steve said, trailing his fingertips along her collarbone, lighting fires that made her squirm. "Where shall we go?"
"Ummm, I think I'd better go home." She gasped as his other hand caressed her knee under the table.
Though frowning with disappointment, Steve rose. "All right. I'll walk you to your car."
The balmy September night bathed them in warmth as they strolled to her practical sedan. Once at the car, he backed her up against the driver's-side door. His hands slid down her back to her buttocks, lingering there. "I've had a great time," he said, his voice husky. Softly he kissed her cheek, waiting for her to turn her mouth to him.
She wasn't sure what she wanted to do. One little kiss can't hurt, can it? His mouth fit over hers. A split-second passed before his tongue parted her lips. Surrendering, she kissed back, amazed that she wanted to. One of his hands rested lightly on the seat of her skirt; the other lightly traced her cleavage's outline. Her nipples grew firm as he rested his palm on one of her breasts, pushing his hips into hers. She felt him, as ready as any man could be, through her clothing, and nearly swooned when the hand on her bottom began tracing lazy circles.
"Rosemary," he whispered. "Would you like to come back to my place?" The hand on her breast now massaged her openly, and the hand on her bottom had begun to insinuate itself under her skirt.
I'm not ready for casual sex with anyone, no matter how horny I am.
Pushing on his chest with both hands, she said, "No, I'm not that kind of girl."
"Mmm," he moaned, nuzzling her neck. "What kind of girl are you? Whatever kind you are, I want to get to know you better. You're the sexiest woman I've met in a long time. And you seem to be enjoying yourself, too. Or am I wrong?"
Panic was growing inside her, and she didn't know why. She broke the embrace, moving a step away. "No, I mean, yes, uh, I enjoy your company. But I'm not going to sleep with a man the same night I meet him. Though I wouldn't mind seeing you again."
Steve grimaced and thrust his hands in his pants pockets. "'Wouldn't mind,' huh? That really strokes the old male ego."
Rosemary had finally caught her breath. Everything was moving too fast for her, but she couldn't deny the tingle this man made her feel in the places only Charlie used to touch. "Steve, I do like you. It's just that I've been alone almost two years since the love of my life died, and I haven't been with another man since. So, I, uh, need to go slowly."
He smiled and touched both his index fingers to her still-hard nipples, visible through her bra and blouse. She sucked in air as his fingers circled them, commenting, "These gals seem ready to go." He tweaked them, hard, while grinding his erect penis into her abdomen.
Rosemary slapped his face, the crack sounding like a pistol shot. Steve's face was pink where she had hit him, and his eyes blazed. Grabbing her wrists, he hissed, "That's the last time you'll ever hit me. Quit playing games. You've been pushing your tits in my face all evening, and they are very fine tits, indeed. So come off the innocent act. Your type always wants it." He smashed his mouth against hers, pinning her against the car while grinding himself against her again.
She lost it. She could hardly breathe. Her hands flailed against his back until he grabbed them, forcing them behind her as he continued to do as he pleased.
"So, you like it rough, sister?" he hissed. "I like that, too."
He hiked her skirt, keeping her pressed against the car. Her arms were pinned painfully behind her. His mouth stifled the scream rising in hers. She felt fingers hook into her panties and heard a zipper's descent. Was she really going to be raped in the parking lot of an upscale restaurant in a middle-class Boston suburb? By this educated, cultured, professional man she'd thought was a gentleman?
Rosemary had never been so frightened in her life, but she was determined not to be a victim. Gritting her teeth, she pressed herself backwards against the car, though it hurt her arms and wrists so badly that tears ran down her face. In the split-second that space opened between them, she raised one of her feet to stomp with the spiked heel, desperate to stop him. He cried out when her heel hit its mark. But instead of backing off, he cuffed her, sending her glasses flying. Pain exploded in her temple.
Why hasn't anyone seen him, stopped him by now?
He removed his mouth from hers, slapping his palm across it to keep her from yelling. "You little redheaded bitch, you know you're loving this. And you're about to get everything ol' Steve has to give you. If you're a good girl, I'll take you somewhere else so we can enjoy a second go-round. Oh, the things I'm going to do to you --" He leered. "-- and make you do to me, for me. I'll put that precious little mouth of yours to work at something more than kissing."
He grabbed her panties, ripping them off. Fighting back with all she had, she squirmed in a last-ditch effort to avoid his efforts to penetrate her.
I'll be damned if I'll become a statistic!
Suddenly, her body was no longer pressed against the car. A cooling breeze was drying the tears on her face. She dragged her arms out from behind her, crying out as she attempted to move her hands. Her wrists hurt so badly. When she realized she was naked from the waist down, she tried to lower her skirt. But her hands flopped about, no strength in them. Heaven knew where her torn underwear was. For once she wished she'd been wearing pantyhose. He would have had a harder time if she'd been wearing them. After wiping her face on her sleeve, she thought she could make out two men wrestling, though without her glasses, it was difficult. The meaty sound of a fist connecting with a stomach horrified her as one man crumpled to the ground. She blinked rapidly, straining to see. Who was down? Was it her tormentor, or her savior? She attempted to pull down her skirt once more, managing with great pain to drag it to the tops of her thighs.
A blurred figure of a tall man, dark-haired and strong-looking, stood before her. She shrank from him.
"Miss, I'm going to call 911 now. Don't worry, I'm not going to touch you. Help will be here soon." He stopped a moment, then said, "Would you like me to pull your skirt back into place, or would you rather do it yourself?"
She sobbed from relief. The man's not Steve. But her rescuer had to be someone familiar. She knew the voice, but couldn't place it.
She gulped, saying, "My arms and wrists are hurt. He had them pinned behind me the whole time."
Through her tears she saw the man take off his jacket. "Here, use this to cover yourself."
Rosemary nodded, the tears dripping from her chin. "I need a tissue."
"Let me call 911 before we worry about tissues."
The familiar voice reassured her. "All right," she whispered, turning so that her helper could tie his jacket around her waist. Shy hands tugged her skirt so that it was pulled down over her bare backside, as the jacket did not wrap completely around her. She heard her protector report the assault, requesting an ambulance. Tired, weak, and nauseous, Rosemary slumped to the ground. Instantly her helper was by her side.
"Whoa. Are you all right? How can I help?"
"Tissues, please, and find my glasses. I can't see a damned thing. But don't let that bastard get away while you're tending to me."
"Don't worry. Others are holding him. The police and ambulance should arrive shortly."
Hearing faint sirens, Rosemary leaned over and vomited. Her savior held her hair back as she emptied her stomach, then tenderly wiped her mouth after she finished. He helped her to stand, saying, "Let's move you a little, okay?" Half-carrying her to the next car in the lot, she leaned against him as red lights split the night, the electronic wail of the sirens making her head pound. She hurt all over, and she still couldn't use her hands. She hoped her wrists weren't broken. "Thank you. Whoever you are."
He gently dried her eyes, cheeks, and nose with a tissue. "It's nothing any decent human being wouldn't do."
His voice, so familiar, so soothing ...
The sounds of approaching vehicles jerked her upright. "My glasses! Don't let them run over my glasses!" she cried.
The familiar scent of Toujours Moi perfume astonished her. "Rosie, honey, I've got them."
"Faith?" she moaned. "But I thought --? What?"
"After we drove off, I realized I'd lost one of my ruby earrings, so we came back to look for it in the parking lot. When we pulled up, we saw a man holding you, and other people holding Steve. Honey, what happened? I mean, did he --?"
She shook her head as Faith pressed her glasses into her hands. "No. This kind man saved me. Fai, please put my glasses on for me. My wrists aren't working too well."
Rosemary heard her friend suck in her breath. "Oh, honey, this is all my fault." Faith gently placed the glasses on her face before gathering her in her arms. Rosemary heard Faith moan, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
She blinked to see Faith, but even more to see her savior: Jonathan Kent, a bleeding cut on his chin, his fine suit torn and dirty. He was shaking one of his hands. The knuckles appeared swollen, bruised. She met his eyes, but he slid his gaze away.
"Dr. Kent?"
"Ms. Lockhart, let's not have an uncomfortable conversation. I happened to be the one at hand, so I did what any decent man would. I didn't even realize it was you at first."
She could only gape. What were the odds of her professor eating Friday night dinner at the same time, at the same place? She blurted, "You live in Framingham?"
Rosie, what a dumb thing to say.
He cleared his throat. "The Fates have had quite a time with us tonight, haven't they?" His voice softened considerably, and he reached out to pull a damp curl away from her bruised face, even though Faith still held her. "I hope you're not badly hurt. Please don't hesitate to contact me should you need any special assistance to continue taking my class. If you can't write, we will record the lectures for you. I'm happy to help in any way I can. Any way at all."
Paramedics pushed him and Faith out of the way, asking Rosemary urgent questions. They strapped her to a gurney, wheeling her towards the ambulance. Faith followed, shouting, "Rosie, I've got your purse."
She tried to sit up. "Wait! Dr. Kent, I mean, that man over there, this is his jacket. I have to give it back to him."
The salt-and-pepper-haired EMT looked her square in the eye. "I'm sure he can live without it for now. You, with two purses, are you riding with her?"
"Yes," Faith insisted as she clambered into the ambulance beside her friend. "I'm not leaving you, Rosie, not for one moment."
The back of the emergency vehicle closed with a bang. The female EMT shouted instructions to the driver.
Rosemary lay there as an IV was started and her vital signs checked. They immobilized her battered wrists to prevent further injury. Through a reflection on a side window she had seen a handcuffed Steve shoved into the back of a police cruiser.
"Charlie," she whispered as she shut her eyes, Faith stroking her forehead. But it was Dr. Kent's image she saw on the inside of her eyelids.
"Rosie, get back in bed now, or I'm going to spank you. Remember, I'm older than you."
Faith's voice was more affectionate than scolding. Rosemary hobbled down the hallway to the kitchen, flinching from the greenhouse window's bright sunlight.
"What time is it? I need to do something. I hate lying in bed." She squinted at the clock. "It's one? Why didn't you wake me? I've got things to do."
"You're not doing anything, girl. The ER doc last night released you into my care, but made me promise to stay with you. So get your butt back in bed."
"Or you'll spank me, right?" Rosemary tried to grin through her split lips.
"Sure, just like Charlie used to."
Faith's comment stopped her in her tracks. "What?" she said, pretending not to understand.
"Hon, it was obvious that Charlie spanked you. I recognized the signs, because Max spanked me all the time."
She stared at her friend. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Faith smiled, patting her shoulder. "Why didn't you ever tell me? Here we were, both of us sitting oh, so carefully when we had lunch together, and neither of us said boo."
Rosemary laughed, then said, "Ow, ow, laughing hurts."
"Okay, forget going back to bed. We have to talk about this spanking thing. Want breakfast? Sit down, I'll get you some coffee." Faith hustled around the kitchen, pulling out bread and butter and a frying pan. "How about eggs and toast?"
"Yes, anything. I'm starving." Rosemary awkwardly wrapped both her hands around the mug of coffee her friend had poured. "Here we were, both getting spanked on a regular basis, and we never said anything to each other. I can't believe it!"
"God love my Max, he was strict." Faith sighed. "I was missing him and my discipline terribly till I met Doug."
Rosemary blinked. "Doug spanks you, too?"
"Let me put it this way. I know the next time I see him, my butt's going to catch flaming hell because I lost one of my ruby earrings."
"I miss Charlie fiercely, and one of the reasons I miss him most is his spankings." Rosemary felt her mouth droop at the corners.
"Truth be told, I like the after-spanking part best. You know, the hot sex." Faith winked. "Wait a minute, what are you doing?"
Rosemary had gone to the coffee pot, attempting to pour coffee with two splinted wrists. "What's it look like?"
"Stop that and sit down." Faith slid a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her after she sat. "How about if we have a 'girls only' weekend, just like old times?"
"All right. Will you help me shower later?"
Faith hugged her friend's shoulders. "I'm here as long as you need me."
Rosemary ate, thinking about what she'd seen in the mirror before she came to the kitchen. She'd wondered who the battered-looking woman was, the woman with the puffy, split lips and the blackened bruise on the side of her face. She'd held her arms up to the mirror, finding it hard to believe that she sported splints on both wrists. Thank heavens they weren't broken, just badly sprained. The parts of her forearms and hands not wrapped in bandages were purple and swollen. Looking down, she spied the elastic bandage on her right ankle. She felt as if she'd been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.
A gentle hand on her forearm brought her back to the present. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Faith said.
"No. I'm sorry. What were you talking about?"
"Just the catalogs Doug dropped off this morning. I thought we could spend some time looking at clothes. It'll be Christmas before you know it."
As her friend chattered on, Rosemary slipped back into her own world. The assault and the injuries had been bad enough, but retelling the horrid event several times to detectives had washed fresh hurt and humiliation over her. And with no mate to comfort her, Charlie's death had sandbagged her again after nearly two years. Tears sprouted in her eyes, but she attempted to hide them by gulping coffee and nodding at Faith.
Charlie, what a fine mess I've gotten myself into.
"Here I am, babbling about the holiday dresses I've seen, and you're crying."
Rosemary noticed through her own tears that Faith was weeping, too.
"Last night is all my fault. I don't care what the facts are, in my mind, it is. And I've been talking about anything but last night because the guilt is killing me. I'm not being a good friend. I'm not being here for you. Instead, I'm talking about a bunch of stupid catalogs as if this were a normal weekend. I'm sorry."
Faith dropped her head into her hands and sobbed. Rosemary touched her hair, sobbing with her.
"You're my best friend. You were only trying to help. It's not your fault that Steve -- what happened is not your fault."
Faith grabbed a box of tissues for the two of them. "I know. But I don't feel that way. Understand?"
Rosemary nodded while wiping her face.
"Forget the catalogs. If you want to spend the weekend talking about what happened, I'll hold your hand and listen to every damned word," Faith said. "It's not about my feelings."
"You know, I can't stand feeling dirty another minute. I need a shower. And my hair washed." Fatigue washed over her, now that her stomach was full. "But I'm so tired now."
"C'mon, hon."
Faith's arm around her waist, Rosemary limped to her bed, where she slept dreamlessly. When she awoke, it was dark, and Faith was still sitting by her bed.
"How are you?" Her friend brushed curls back from her face. "Want that shower now? You can sit on the shower chair your friend Mark brought over and use your handheld sprayer."
"Mark was here? Why didn't you wake me?" Rosemary cried. "Geez, Faith, I'm not an invalid."
"Shh, now, you were sleeping and looked too peaceful to disturb. Apparently your professor contacted him, saying you'd had an accident, and I let Mark keep on thinking that. Besides the chair, he brought you some flowers, too -- lots of bright Gerber daisies. He said he hoped you were feeling better and to call him if you need a ride to Monday's classes."
"But he lives in Boston, near the University, and I'm way out here. I can't ask him to do that."
"Don't worry about it. I'm going to drive you to school before I go to work, and I'm sure the English department can find someone to drive you home, if Mark can't do it. Within a week to ten days, if you're good and follow the doctor's orders, you'll be able to drive yourself. However, I'm happy to give you rides for weeks if necessary."
"Oh, all right," Rosemary sulked. "But this stinks."
"It does. But that's how it is. Now do you want to take a shower?"
"You're talking to me as if I were a child." She could step on her lower lip, she'd pooched it out so far. The long nap and her need for more pain pills had left her feeling mean.
"You're acting like a child. If Charlie were here, he'd open up a can of whup-ass for your attitude," Faith said.
"If Charlie were here, I'd never have been in that parking lot with Steve," Rosemary shot back.
"Ouch. I feel guilty enough without help."
Rosemary spied her friend's hunched shoulders. "Aw, crap, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out that way. I haven't even thanked you for giving up your weekend to take care of me. All I've done is bitch and moan. You're right, I do deserve a spanking. Can you forgive me?"
"I pestered you into meeting Steve for dinner. I wish I could go back in time and change things." Faith was biting her lip, and her eyes were red.
"It was my decision to go. I shouldn't have dressed the way I did. It was my fault."
"It was Steve's fault and none of yours. A good man doesn't try to rape you, no matter what you're wearing, doing, or saying," Faith ground out through her tears.
"Then I'll not hear another word about how you're responsible," Rosemary said. "Will you help me wash my hair, damn it? And maybe get us some takeout for dinner?"
She and Faith exchanged tentative smiles.
\*
Jonathan Kent slammed down the book he'd been reading before he jumped up to pace his living room. His arms still trembled with rage nearly forty-eight hours after witnessing Rosemary's attack. Picking up his mug, he drew his arm back to hurl it into the fireplace, attempting to spend some frustration. He wanted to strangle the bastard responsible for her pain and suffering.
But breaking a mug wouldn't do any good. Fuming, he placed it back on the table next to his recliner.
Oh, what the hell.
He picked up the mug and smashed it to bits, enjoying the violence he released.
He wanted to see Rosemary. But he had no good excuse. He wasn't a friend; he was her professor and had met her barely a week ago. No reasons or excuses existed that would let him visit her without raising suspicions. Or eyebrows.
Besides, he didn't have a clue where she lived, or if she lived alone, or with a man. Maybe she had kids at home. Maybe she didn't even like men. After Friday night's attack, he wouldn't blame her if she never wanted anything to do with his sex again.
He recalled her cries, her pain, and ground his teeth. If it were only two hundred years earlier, he could challenge the bastard to a duel.
He stared out the window at the cloudy afternoon. He should read. He should write. He should work on his next book. He had lots of things he should do, but none of them at this moment were what he wanted to do.
God save him, but he wanted Rosemary. Wanted to spank her, kiss her, make love to her, protect her.
He stopped pacing, remembering his call to Mark. He'd have seen Rosemary by now and would have news. Energized by the thought, Jonathan called him.
Five unanswered rings triggered Mark's voicemail, but he didn't want to leave a phone message. Not concerning Rosemary, at any rate.
He hung up and paced some more, considering what he could do to lessen the rage coursing through his veins.
He could clean up the broken mug, though he enjoyed looking at it. Seeing the scattered shards took some of the edge off his frustration.
He could drink. No. It wasn't his style to hide in a bottle.
He stopped walking, seized by an idea.
The gym. Perfect.
Slamming out of the house, he threw his Miata into gear, squealing out of the driveway the way a macho teenager would. The drive didn't take long, but he was pissed to discover, after he'd parked, that his gym bag wasn't in the trunk.
Hell and goddamn.
He stalked inside, deciding he'd work out in his jeans and oxford shirt. He nodded stiffly to the few men with whom he occasionally swapped workout information, beaming don't ask vibes at each of them.
They didn't say a word.
He set the treadmill to thirty minutes of hills, upping the pace beyond anything he'd done before.
Run. Don't think. Just put one foot down after the other. Run.
Rosemary. Rosemary. Rosemary.
He shook his head, sweat trickling down his forehead, and increased the speed another mile per hour.
Run. Rosemary. Run. Rosemary.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he kept up his blistering pace for the entire half hour. By the time he hit the Cool Down button, his legs felt like overcooked spaghetti.
And still his rage burned, his desire to protect Rosemary an irrational need.
Free weights. That'll help.
He knew he was damned stupid to pump iron with uncontrolled anger coursing through him. But it didn't stop him from piling too many weights on each end of the bar before jerking it toward his shoulders.
His body rebelled at the punishment, and he dropped the bar before he'd lifted it waist-high. It crashed to the floor, drawing everyone's attention.
"Jon, you okay?"
Jonathan turned, lips in a snarl.
"Fuck off, Scott."
Scott, one of his workout buddies, lifted his hands, palms out. "Hey, no harm, no foul. But don't throw the weights around like that. You're endangering yourself, not to mention the rest of us."
The weight room manager appeared on Scott's left. "We can't have you lifting carelessly. Pay attention, or come back another time when you're more in control."
He almost yelled a retort at the manager, but he stopped himself, mouth open, before the words came out. The manager was right, and he was wrong. Jonathan felt the anger hiss out of him like air from an overfilled balloon and changed what he planned to say.
"Hell, maybe I'd better go home."
"We could go for a beer, if you'd like," Scott said. "After all, we've talked about doing that some day."
Jonathan shook his head. "Not today. Just ... not today."
Scott and the manager nodded. Jonathan left, stopping on his way home to pick up two six-packs of his favorite microbrew.
Maybe crawling inside the bottle tonight isn't such a bad idea after all. Beer and ESPN. Maybe I'll find some extreme sports competition to stare at, or a decent game.
He felt like the world's biggest asshole. He knew better than to handle heavy weights the way he had. Now he'd have to apologize to both the manager and Scott the next time he was at the gym. And he hated to apologize.
At home, he popped the top of a Harpoon UFO Hefeweizen and swallowed half of it before putting the rest of the bottles in the fridge. He finished the first one standing in the kitchen, bringing a second one with him to his recliner. On his way, a blinking red light caught his eye. He punched the Play button on the answering machine.
"Jonathan, it's Mark Swanton."
He cursed at missing the call when he heard who it was. He'd gone to the gym and lost his chance to ask about Rosemary.
"Hope you don't mind the informality, but you are my advisor, after all. You didn't leave a message, but my machine saved your number from Caller ID. I'll be home the rest of the evening, so call me if you want. By the way, Rosemary Lockhart will be in class tomorrow. A friend's giving her a ride to school, and I'll give her a ride home, as well as take notes for her in your class. Also, we need to set up a time to discuss my thesis topic. See you tomorrow."
He stared at the phone. Mark had provided the bare bones of what he wanted to hear about most, Rosemary's recovery. Calling to weasel more details about her out of him would be inappropriate, and there was no need to call Mark tonight to discuss his thesis. He'd see both of them tomorrow morning. Perhaps he could ask her to have coffee or lunch with him. After all, she'd need help carrying food.
You're acting like a lovesick teenager. Next, you'll be offering to carry her books and asking her to go steady.
He dropped into his chair, punching the TV's remote. He'd make an even bigger fool of himself than he already had if he didn't keep his emotions in check. He had no damn reason to talk to one of his first-year grad students about anything except class work, let alone offer to take her to lunch. No, he'd do what he could to help her complete her work for the class, but it couldn't go beyond that. Though the line separating students and teachers was often honored in the breach, he'd better stay on his side of it and keep his sexual energies in check. If he wanted tenure, that is.
Tenure meant job security, and while he loved his chosen area of study, he knew that not many universities outside of the Northeast would hire a professor of erotic literature, let alone grant him tenure. The pool of tenure-track positions for someone like him was tiny, and he'd worked hard to get as far as he had.
So just because Rosemary was a dream walking, a woman he craved beyond all reason, didn't mean he should surrender to his urges. His career and his livelihood mattered to him.
Rosemary carefully placed her takeout coffee on the desk, exasperated with her limited abilities, even though the splints on her wrists were gone now. She happily accepted the progress elastic bandages represented, but she'd never liked feeling helpless. Though thankful she could drive again, frustration built in her whenever she attempted normal activities such as carrying a heavy book or a lunch tray.
She managed to shrug off her bookpack and locate a notebook and pen inside it. Mark had warned her he wouldn't be in class today, so for the first time in nearly two weeks she would take her own notes. The black-and-blue places on her face were nearly gone now, and makeup covered what remained. She recalled coming to class for the first time after the assault, embarrassed and angry that she couldn't hide the worst of her bruising. Except for Mark, everyone had avoided her as if she were bad luck personified.
While noticing a student leafing through an L. L. Bean catalog, she decided that she wanted to buy presents for both Faith and Mark. The two of them had kept her sane through the physical pain and the vagaries of the legal system. Thank God Steve had pled out and landed some jail time. Now she wouldn't have to testify against him, or worry about him coming after her.
Over the past eleven days, her friends had driven her everywhere -- school, the doctor's office, the police station. But today she'd driven herself to class, and she was proud of her recovery.
When Dr. Kent strode into the room, his appearance, as always, made her breath catch. She adored the way his mahogany hair fell over his forehead, and the way he brushed it back abruptly.
He glanced up, his gaze zeroing in on her. Her stomach flip-flopped.
"Ms. Lockhart, I see that you are taking your own notes today."
"Yes, sir."
"Would you like to record the class?"
She stared at him. "How?"
Dr. Kent smiled at her while placing a digital recorder on his lectern.
"Today's lecture will cover The Autobiography of a Flea," he said.
For the rest of the class, he paid no attention to her. Taking notes was harder than she'd thought it would be, and she thanked him silently for whatever impulse prompted him to bring the recorder.
"That's all for today. Keep up with your reading," he said at the end of class. "And start thinking about your paper's topic."
She gathered up her things before approaching him. "Thank you for bringing the recorder."
He peeked at her over the rims of his glasses. Something in her core thrummed in response.
"You are most welcome."
He handed it to her without further comment. The pause grew awkward. She shifted her belongings in her wounded arms, only to drop them all.
"Oh, shit, I hate this," she cried.
"Ms. Lockhart, such language."
She snapped her head up, ready to snarl, only to see the humor dancing in his eyes. She relaxed, letting him load her belongings into the backpack.
"Better now?" he said while helping her put the pack on her back.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"I think you can lose the 'sir.' I'm younger than you."
"Don't remind me," she muttered as they walked down the hall together.
"Do you have any ideas about a thesis?" he asked.
"Thesis? I've been in grad school less than a month. I barely know my ID number."
He stopped where two hallways intersected. "I'm free for lunch today. Would you like to discuss possible topics? I've noticed your interest in my field of study."
Oh, God, he's noticed the subject matter makes me hot.
"I guess so," she said, sensing the blush rising in her face.
"Good. I'll meet you outside the cafeteria a few minutes before noon."
\*
"You understand what I'm saying?" Dr. Kent asked, gesturing while he spoke.
"Absolutely," Rosemary said as they crossed the campus after lunch. Dr. Kent looked young enough to be a grad student himself, especially with her pack on his back. She slowed her pace to catch another glimpse of his tight, denimed tush.
"Oh, my," she breathed.
"What?" he said. "Should I walk more slowly? You seem to have a problem keeping up with me."
She quickened her steps. "No, it's all right."
I'll die of embarrassment if he figures out how much I lust for him.
"This is my building. A pleasure having lunch with you, Ms. Lockhart. You're a promising scholar." He stuck his right hand out, then pulled it back. "Sorry, the response to shake hands is automatic. I know you can't do that yet."
"Yes, I can." She reached out, gingerly taking his fingers. "I enjoyed it as well, Dr. Kent."
If you only knew how much.
"If you enjoy Paglia's analysis of the late Victorians, I have another book you might find interesting. I have some free time. Want to see it?"
Depends on what "it" is.
"I'd like that."
Rosemary reminded herself to breathe normally when she entered his office, which was red-blooded male in décor and atmosphere. Dr. Kent placed her backpack on a chair before heading to the bookcase next to his desk.
"This is the book. If you're considering writing a thesis on some aspect of the late Victorian erotic authors, start here."
She approached him, but stopped a short distance away.
"May I see it?" She held out both her hands.
"Let me hold it. Your wrists are still healing."
He moved closer, opening the book. His nearness electrified her senses. The deep breath she took to steady herself carried his scent, making her head whirl. He smelled soapy and musky, just like her Charlie used to.
She met his gaze. One of his hands brushed her cheek before burying itself in her hair.
"Rosemary," he murmured.
Their kiss began softly. But, after her lips parted, he entered her mouth, tasting her. She returned the favor, moaning when she felt one of his hands caressing her bottom.
Unbidden, the image of Steve violating her body seared her mind. She froze, shoving Dr. Kent away.
"No. I can't." She shuddered involuntarily.
"As you wish."
His cool voice assaulted her confused emotions, triggering tears. She willed them not to fall. "I'd better go."
"Do you want the book?" he said.
She couldn't bear the grim set of his mouth another moment. What had happened?
He got a good look at my fat, middle-aged body, that's what happened.
"I -- I'll get it later."
She carefully picked up her book bag and left the room, managing to reach her car before the hot tears stung her cheeks.
\*
Jonathan swallowed. One moment he was tasting her warm and willing mouth, the next, she was cold and unyielding and flying out the door. He sank into his chair, berating himself. Kissing a student -- in his office, no less. What was wrong with him? He'd count himself fortunate if she didn't pursue a sexual harassment case, to say nothing of the fact that she'd been assaulted a mere two weeks ago.
Not only was he stupid, he was insensitive as hell. He wasn't even sure she wanted him. Yes, she'd responded to his touch, but a million reasons existed for that, and 999,999 of them had nothing to do with wanting him in particular.
He grabbed his attaché case before stalking out the door. He was too rattled to work. As he neared the parking lot, he glanced around. No sign of Rosemary, thankfully. No telling what her reaction might be, now that she'd had a few minutes to think about the way he'd taken advantage of her.
The sign for his favorite sports bar convinced him to turn the steering wheel. A couple of beers in some masculine company might help him think through his obsession with Rosemary.
PJ's, decorated all in dark wood with twelve televisions tuned to various sporting events, could have been a men's club but for the two women eating hamburgers at one of the tables. He grabbed a seat at one end of the horseshoe-shaped bar, the better to be left alone to brood.
"Hey, Jon," the bartender said. "The usual?"
"Sounds good."
"Bad day?"
"Bad life, Mike." He swallowed his first taste of ale with a quick grimace. "Cold and bitterly hoppy. At least Harpoon IPA never disappoints."
"How could you have a bad life?" Mike asked while stacking glasses. "You're doing work you love, and you drive a hot car."
"A woman's got me screwed up."
"The babes will get you every time. Talk to you later," Mike said before hurrying away to wait on a customer sitting at the apex of the horseshoe. Jonathan studied the man sitting at the bar. He was the burly, outdoorsy type, but he looked as if he'd just lost his last friend.
He checked his own expression in the mirror behind the bar, dismayed at what he saw.
Pathetic. Just pathetic. Damned women.
He needed distraction. He munched some bar mix while training his eyes on a televised poker tournament. He watched T. J. Cloutier mop the floor with the other players, two of them female.
Now there's a man's game. All props to T. J.'s skills.
He'd stayed at the bar long enough. Leaving the dregs of his brew behind, he headed for home.
\*
Rosemary decided she wouldn't cry any more, not over Dr. Kent, but her decision didn't stop her tears. The iron-colored clouds outside her window chilled her, body and soul, despite the hot cocoa she'd made. It grew cold on the kitchen counter as her sobs refused to end. Finally done, she removed her glasses to wipe her face. Life went on, and she'd damned well better get over it.
Kissing Dr. Kent -- she couldn't yet call him Jonathan, not even in her mind -- was a moment she'd thought she'd wanted. But her arousal disappeared when terrifying memories had plastered themselves across the inside of her eyelids.
Had she done something to indicate she wanted him? Somehow communicated that she had the hots for him?
She turned accusing eyes on herself. Tight jeans and a scoop-necked cashmere sweater were not exactly a nun's habit. Could she be responsible for today's kiss, the way she felt responsible for her sexual attack? Regardless of what everyone told her, she did feel her choice of clothing had led Steve on. Perhaps she'd done the same to Dr. Kent. Not that he'd tried to force himself on her. No, she'd been eager, had shoved her tongue fully into his mouth, had turned wet when he touched her backside.
She'd wanted him, but her previous attack had caused her to be sick to her stomach, even during pleasurable and desired sexual contact.
What was wrong with her? When would she be normal again?
The doorbell startled her. A peek out her curtain revealed Mark. He'd begun walking away from the front door by the time she opened it.
"Hey, come back here." She pasted a smile on, but her lower lip trembled with the effort.
They hugged once he was inside the house. "How are you, sweetie?" he said.
"I don't know whether to laugh or cry or scream." Rosemary pointed towards the kitchen. "Something to drink?"
"I'm fine. You're not, apparently. Tell me about it."
They sat on the loveseat.
"Dr. Kent kissed me today."
"So why the long face?"
"I think it's my fault."
Mark patted her hand. "How is a kiss anyone's 'fault'?"
"I don't know. I don't understand any of it."
"What happened?"
"I kissed him back."
"Yes?"
"But then I remembered Steve and the parking lot. I wanted to throw up."
"Sweetie, your reaction is normal. Give yourself time to recover."
"Do you think I led him on?"
"I don't understand."
She sighed. "I don't either. Never mind."
"How are you doing?"
"My wrists are healing, and most of my bruises are gone."
"But inside, you're raw."
"I am. How do I make this go away?"
"Time, only time. And counseling. You can talk with me anytime, but you might need more, an expert." He stood. "Anything I can do for you right now?"
"Take me out for a drink. Housebound is not my favorite state."
\*
Rosemary stood staring out her kitchen window into the dark. A few trees scraped the indigo sky. The drink with Mark had been fun, but now here she was, back home.
Alone.
She'd called Faith, but reached only her voice mail.
Doug must have her occupied.
Rosemary reached for the liquor cabinet, but stopped her hand before it reached the handle. She'd been hiding in alcohol too much lately. Still, she craved a stiff drink.
No, the stiff thing I need isn't a drink, but a dick.
"Charlie," she whispered. "Oh, Charlie, how I miss you. How I need you. How I need a good man like you."
She slipped her hand inside her clothing, petting herself while recalling Charlie, recalling his spankings, his hard cock, his ability to fuck for an eternity.
Suddenly, she found herself remembering Jonathan's kiss. She shut her eyes, fantasizing that he was touching her. He'd suck her nipples until they were diamond-hard, then use his tongue to tease her engorged, sensitive clit. Yes, oh, yes. She could almost feel him sucking her down there, his fingers jammed inside her, their action demanding that she come and come hard.
Her fingers slipped in and out and around as she stood there, knees shaking, climax building. She hadn't masturbated in weeks, hadn't wanted to, not since --
Steve's ugly snarl invaded her mind's eye just as she began to come.
"No!" she screamed, her orgasm ruined by thoughts of her attacker. She jerked her hand out of her panties. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right; the asshole was spoiling her private pleasures now, too.
I am one fucked-up woman.
She sank to the floor and lay there, weeping.
Rosemary shivered. Seven in the morning was unbearably early to leave the house, especially on a November Monday that felt more like January. She backed out of the driveway, each breath a lingering fog inside her car.
She hated November, hated the way clouds covered the sun for days at a time, hated the inevitable rain that foretold the arrival of snow and sleet.
She also hated her continued attraction to Dr. Kent, hated even more that she needed to ask for an extension on her paper. Ever since their kiss, they'd not spoken except when required. Now she needed a book to complete her research, one she knew he had, because he'd mentioned in class he'd checked it out of the library.
She could request the book through the library and thereby avoid talking to him. But she also had to request permission to turn in her paper late. She figured she'd have a better chance of receiving an extension if she also asked him directly for the book she needed because it would demonstrate her seriousness as a student. Or so she hoped.
She found a legal parking space just one block from the classroom's building. Perhaps it was a sign that her day was looking up.
"Rosie, wait."
She stopped to allow Mark to catch up with her, saying, "Don't call me Rosie. Makes me feel old."
"All right, PST."
"'PST'?"
"Parsley, sage, and thyme, Rosemary."
She groaned good-naturedly. "I'm sorry I asked. How do you know that old Simon and Garfunkel tune?"
"The 'rents, of course."
"Now I really feel old. How was your weekend?"
"The thesis has kept me hog-tied to a chair. I normally like being tied up, but not by ideas. How's therapy going?" Mark slipped an arm around her shoulders.
She shrugged. "I take my meds, I show up, I talk to her. At least I'm not having nightmares about Steve any more. The therapist tells me that's a good sign."
"Your interest in men come back?"
"Well ..."
"Kiss anyone lately?"
"What do you mean by that?" She glared at him.
"What do you think I mean? It's not a difficult question."
"No."
"No, you haven't kissed anyone?"
"No, Mister Nosy, I haven't kissed anyone."
They walked in silence until Mark said, "I know a man who'd be perfect for you."
"Okay, I'll bite. Who is he?"
"The father of the man I've been seeing."
Rosemary stopped, whooping once. "You're dating? I didn't know. Must be serious, if you've met his father."
"His name is Brian, he's a writer, and he's almost as hot as I am. As for serious, it's a definite maybe." Mark skipped once, features lit with excitement. "Anyway, his father's name is David, David Greene. Shall I arrange a meeting? He said he wants to meet you."
"You didn't." She whacked him on the arm. "Without asking me?"
"Ow. Stop that. Yes, without asking you. I hate seeing you down, wandering around campus in frumpy clothes. You've got to get back on the clothes-horse and ride, Ro."
"I don't look frumpy. Check it out."
She pirouetted under his gaze just outside the classroom door. Mark nodded approval. "Okay, maybe not today. The blouse is a keeper, but you're definitely matronly in those pants. Though I like that you got rid of your glasses."
"Don't know why I never tried contacts before, but I love them. Thanks for the confidence booster about my pants. What's my alternative?"
"Jeans. You look stupendous in them."
\*
Jonathan whistled while walking from the faculty parking lot to his eight o'clock class. He'd had a decent weekend, remarkably free of fantasies about Rosemary. He'd traveled to New York City and spent most of his time with a colleague who taught at NYU. A female colleague. Though their friendship, which had begun in grad school, was platonic, he'd enjoyed their mild flirting as much as their bitch sessions about the trials of the academic world.
When he turned a hallway corner, the sight of Rosemary stopped his steps. He realized he'd been hoping she'd wear something attractive today. But no, she was still parading around in those ugly clothes she'd favored ever since their kiss. One little smooch from him, and she began wearing dreary, asexual clothing.
If it weren't for his past successful relationships with women, he'd swear he was poison.
Successful relationships? Then why am I alone?
He entered the classroom, stealing another look at Rosemary when she bent over the desk, her blouse pulling tight across her breasts, its opening revealing creamy cleavage.
Wow, is that lace I see inside?
The pants might be ugly, but the blouse worked for him. Mmm, mmm.
He opened his attaché case for lecture notes, pretending to ignore her as she approached.
"Yes, Ms. Lockhart?" He didn't look at her and kept his voice cool.
"I, um, need to talk with you after class. About the paper."
He lifted his head, the better to intimidate her with his gaze.
"I hope you aren't planning to ask for an extension."
"Well, actually, sort of."
He enjoyed watching her cheeks turn pink with stress and couldn't resist smiling at her. "How about coffee after class? My treat. I sense this might take a while."
"I need a book you have, too," she blurted. "A library book you said you had checked out."
"In that case, coffee in my office will be better."
She colored more deeply. "All right," she said.
As she returned to her seat, he watched her marvelous bottom jiggle. The slacks weren't as frumpy as he'd first thought, not at all. The silky fabric revealed every tiny movement of her delectable bottom. If he'd been in a crowd and perfectly anonymous, he would have whistled. To hell with those who thought that was sexist.
Damn it all, now he had a raging hard-on. He moved behind the lectern to hide himself from his students. It was still three minutes before eight, so he let his thoughts run free while waiting for the rest of his students to show up.
Why did he feel so pulled to Rosemary? He pined to order his student to drop her slacks and bend over, the better to discipline her before taking her from behind. Thrusting and bouncing against that delightful posterior ... The thought made him swallow hard.
He rearranged his papers, forcing Rosemary from his mind before starting the lecture. No erections troubled him again until after class, when she approached. Once he took a good look at her form-fitting blouse, his cock sprang to attention. He stepped back behind the podium to keep his erection out of her line of sight.
"Are you ready, Ms. Lockhart?" he said.
She bit her lower lip, nodding. He watched her, wanting to be the one nibbling on her full lip, sucking it into his mouth. After he worked on her lips, he'd move to her nipples, tonguing and biting them till she screamed with sweet torment.
He carried his papers low, the better to hide his tented jeans.
Say something, you overeducated geek.
"As I said before, I have a coffeemaker in my office. We can discuss your paper, if you want, over a mugful."
"Yes. I'd like that." She stopped sucking on her lip. The red swelling left there drove him insane, so he averted his eyes.
She remained silent all the way to his office. Once he'd started the coffee dripping, he pulled two mugs from a shelf.
"Cool mugs," she said. "Where'd you find them?"
Her sudden speech snapped his head in her direction. She was smiling, and her smile made his groin feel heavier and needier than ever.
He looked at the mugs. He liked them, but never thought they were special.
"I found them at the grocery store," he confessed. "You really like them?"
"The swirl of hunter green with pumpkin orange reminds me of fall in New England."
"So that's what shade of green that is," he said. "Men don't know fine shadings. The basic eight are about all I recognize, along with modifiers like 'dark' and 'light.'"
She laughed, a rich sound that made him think, inexplicably, of butterscotch.
Christ, I'm losing it.
He poured the coffee. "What do you take in it?"
"Black, please."
"Black? Me, too," he said, then felt stupid. He sounded like a lovestruck teenager.
As she leaned forward to take the mug he offered her, two middle buttons on her blouse strained against the buttonholes. How he wanted to pop the buttons and see all that luscious flesh underneath. He again spotted a bit of lace under the blouse's thin, white fabric.
He sat behind his desk, willing himself to stop thinking about sex. He sipped his coffee once. "So, Ms. Lockhart, what's your topic?"
She leaned forward again. He gripped the edge of the desk to keep from touching himself -- or from reaching out to touch her.
"You'll think it's silly."
"Better to find out what I think now, instead of after you hand it in."
When she took a deep breath, he concentrated on eye contact so he wouldn't ogle her breasts straining against the fabric.
Her voice was husky. "The role of female buttocks in Victorian erotic novels."
Female buttocks. Christ, just what I need to think about right now, with a woman I'd walk barefoot over broken glass to fuck. He shifted in his chair, coughing once. "Interesting topic. What gave you the idea?"
"I was thinking about how society's ideal body types for women have changed since then, and how in one of the books we've read, a man talks of wondering whether a woman's 'bum is big.' That led me to consider what large buttocks might mean to a Victorian male and what they might symbolize in the literature." She stopped, taking another deep breath that nearly made him moan.
"I think I can help you research the topic. You did mention I have a book you need?"
"Yes, from the library -- Ellen Bayuk Rosenman's analysis. Would you let me have it long enough to finish the paper?"
"Of course." He stood, found the book on a shelf next to her, and handed it over. "There. Now, did you say something about the paper being late?"
She sucked in her breath, trying not to faint as he loomed over her in a way that aroused her submissive side.
"Yes. I need another week."
"And why should I grant you an extra week that the other students don't get?" he said with steel in his voice.
"Please. It's been a rough semester. Besides, you said you'd give me extra time if I needed it."
"True."
She was almost eye-level with his crotch. The bulge she saw forced her to shift her eyes, afraid she'd reach out to cup him. Instead, she gazed upward, taking in the squareness of his jaw, the icy gray of his eyes, and found herself sitting taller, willing his lips to drop to hers.
But instead of kissing him, her traitorous mouth said, "You can cane me for my lateness."
He jerked as if reacting to an electrical shock. "Cane you? Did I hear you correctly?"
No backing out now.
"Yes. A stroke for each day the paper is late."
His smile had an edge to it. "Rosemary, are you sure you know what you're offering?"
Rosemary. Not Ms. Lockhart.
She stood, scant inches separating them. "Yes. And on the bare, too."
She knew without looking down that her nipples were erect, showing through her bra and clothing. After all, wasn't that why she chose her flimsiest bra and clingiest silk blouse this morning? So her nipples would show when they hardened?
"A proper caning is always on the bare, as you know," he said. "And I am a stickler for protocol."
I'll just bet you are, Professor.
The two of them froze in place, leaning towards each other, yet not reaching out. When she finally raised her hands, it was as if she were watching herself unfasten all the buttons on her blouse. After shrugging off the blouse, she undid her slacks, letting them fall in a puddle at her feet. Her flesh burned as she felt his eyes, first on her lace bra, then on her complete lack of panties.
Part of her filled with horror at her actions, but she knew she had to have the man now. She hadn't wanted any man the way she wanted Dr. Kent -- Jonathan -- since Charlie.
"Hell," he said. He bolted to the door, closing and locking it, before returning to her. She continued to stand under his stare, trembling with the effort not to cover herself with her hands.
With a sound between a growl and a groan, he pulled her to him, his mouth hard on hers, his tongue demanding entrance. Rough hands pulled the bra straps down her arms before dipping into the cups to free her breasts. He pinched and twirled her nipples between his index fingers and thumbs. His mouth moved to the sensitive area between her neck and shoulder, where he sucked and bit and tongued while he tormented her breasts. The combination of pleasure and pain brought on an ache deep inside her, an ache that craved pounding in order to be released.
"Rosemary, you are a very naughty woman," he said as he jammed his fingers inside her vagina, moaning when he encountered her wetness. She cried out wordlessly as his teeth rolled each nipple between them in turn, the occasional nip all the sweeter for the twinge it produced. His fingers, slick with her arousal, winnowed between her inner lips, circling her clitoris with velvety strokes.
"Are you sure?" he whispered as he finally caressed her engorged, hungry nub.
She whispered something that sounded like, "Yes," and tore at his clothing.
"Wait." His voice was hoarse, deep. He let go of her long enough to grab a condom from his attaché case. She tore it from his grasp, saying, "Let me."
She undid his pants, and her fingers grasped his smooth hardness. He was longer and thicker than Charlie, and she knew that taking him in would hurt, just a little, and that knowledge made the throb at her core stronger. She stroked him, thinking of going down on him, until he growled, "Put the condom on so I can fuck you, naughty one."
She did, and as soon as she did, he swept his desk clean with one long motion of his arm. His hands grasped her hips, lifting her onto the desk, holding her still as he thrust powerfully into her. She tried not to shriek -- she was so tight from lack of sex, and he was so thick. Wonderfully thick. Slowly he slid out, only to push back into her with force. She threw her legs around him, straining to move her hips, but he had her pinned. Being unable to move heightened her lust.
"Don't fight me," he said. "Let me give you what you want, Rosemary. What you crave."
Unable to stop the frantic rocking of her hips, despite his hold on her, she sensed a great wave building from the place where her ache lived, a wave that had waited years for release. He took her, thrusting high and hard, relentlessly chafing her clit until she cried out her satisfaction. Then his mouth covered hers, absorbing the sound. He quit holding her hips down, instead grasping her bottom as he drove into her. He answered every desperate jerk of her pelvis with his own, pounding her so violently that each plunge hurt, yet drove her orgasm to new heights.
She screamed against his mouth, and as her climax finally eased, he shuddered, ramming into her so forcefully that she felt herself slide across the desk. His mouth remained pressed against her own, and she sensed rather than heard his shout.
A lifetime later, they both lay still. He loosened his hold on her bottom, and pulled his mouth away.
She opened hers to say something, anything, but found no words inside her. Instead, she thought, Oh, my God, what have I done?
Oh, my God, what have I done?
Jonathan stared down, taking in details. Rosemary's full breasts, the nipples puckered and crimson. Her slightly swollen lips. Her blue eyes, radiating panic.
Both of them had made a mistake. But his was the larger one.
While he tugged up his jeans, she pushed her breasts back inside her bra and buttoned her blouse. Neither of them spoke.
When she bent over to grab her slacks, his palm tingled with the desire to slap the ivory flesh of her heart-shaped bottom.
No! No! his mind screamed. I should think of my job. Think of how I've betrayed my professional ethics by sleeping with a student, a vulnerable student. Christ, I'm a piece of dirt.
Rosemary brushed her hair quickly. "Thanks for the book. I'd better get home, start working on my paper." She edged toward the door.
He didn't know what to say or do, so he simply nodded. "Good idea. See you in class," he said.
He watched her throw the lock, leaving his office without a backward glance.
Well, what do I expect? I didn't hold her or kiss her goodbye or even say how fantastic the sex was, how beautiful her body is. No, I said, "See you in class." Loser.
He couldn't think straight with Rosemary's fragrance still filling his nose. His office reeked of sweaty sex. He threw the window open, dumped the leftover coffee in the bushes, then made another pot to hide the telltale musky aroma. He'd barely settled in his chair when Mark appeared in the doorway. He sniffed a moment, then arched his eyebrows.
"This a good time, Jon, to discuss my thesis? That is, if you're not busy."
Mark's coy expression irritated the hell out of him. "You see anyone else in here besides me and you?"
"Just making sure. I thought I saw Rosemary at the end of the hall, practically running away. Was she, uh, with you a few moments ago?"
"What's on your mind?" he snapped. "Besides dirty thoughts."
Mark blinked. "Dirty thoughts? You're my thesis advisor, and my topic involves little else but dirty thoughts. What are you talking about, Jon?"
He sat there, fuming that Mark was pushing his buttons. He wouldn't say another goddamn word to Mark Swanton. He gossiped like an old lady.
A flock of young, squealing students passed by Jonathan's door, apparently to see Granger next door about Freshman Composition. The noise annoyed him further.
"If you want to discuss your thesis, push the door closed."
After forty minutes of sheer work, he and Mark hammered out most of the sticking points involved in proving his thesis. When they finished, Jonathan stood, eager to cross the street for a convenience-store snack. Making love with Rosemary had left him hungry, and lunch was a couple of hours away.
Mark opened the door before throwing his arms around Jonathan.
"Hey, Jon, thanks. Want to go for a beer one of these days? We haven't gone this semester."
He smiled a real smile at his best student. "You're right. How about next week some time?"
Just then his department head, Furbish, appeared. He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something stinky. "Jon. Got a minute?"
Oh, shit. He's the last person I want in here, smelling sex in the air.
"Sure, Percival. Mark, we'll talk later about that beer." Jonathan waved Furbish in, making a show of pouring coffee for himself. "Want some? It's fresh."
Furbish's only reply was to close the door.
Hell and goddamn, I'm about to be fired. Or at least thoroughly reamed.
His department head sat down, looking anywhere except at him. "Jon, as you know, you're up for tenure in the spring."
Here it comes.
"Yes."
"Also, as you know, those who teach here have a burden, a moral burden, not to cross the line with students."
His heart battered itself against his ribs. "Yes."
Furbish frowned. "It smells funny in here. Get Facilities to investigate. Maybe the carpet needs to be cleaned. Considering how often you spill things, that's probably it."
He can't resist zinging me about my clumsiness, can he?
Jonathan stared at Furbish. "Fine. I'll do that. You were saying?"
"Ah, yes. Our moral duty to keep a particular distance between our students and ourselves at all times. A distance that I'll admit can be extremely difficult, with some." The older man cleared his throat. "Jon, it's rumored that you are spending too much time with a certain student. One who's in your eight o'clock class. So far it's only a rumor, but I have heard that you two, ah, spend time together, eating, drinking, and, ah, well ..."
No doubt about it, he knows about Rosemary. I am so screwed.
"I need you to end anything, uh, inappropriate immediately. Otherwise, you can forget about tenure." Furbish's stare felt like an ice pick being shoved into his brain via his eye sockets. "Do we understand each other, Jon?"
"Crystal clear, sir." He wasn't one inclined to blushing, but his face felt hot as a sunburn.
The older man rose. "Be grateful for the tongue-lashing you received, and keep your nose clean from now on."
Inside him, Jonathan chuckled over Furbish's mixed expressions. But it was deep inside him, so deep he nearly didn't pick up on it. The rest of him swirled with humiliation, anger, and, yes, gratitude.
Thank you, sir, may I have another?
I haven't been reamed. I've been soundly spanked.
"Yes, sir. I promise," he said.
Furbish left without another word, leaving the door open behind him.
Jonathan exhaled in a rush at the bullet he'd dodged. Sex with Rosemary had been better than he'd dreamed, but the price he had to pay roiled his stomach. If he was lucky, she wouldn't pursue what they'd started, or report him to the university's administration. And though he disliked that Furbish had damaging information about him, he shuddered to think how he'd used a trusting student, how he'd nearly thrown away his career by having an affair with an older woman.
When he was a doctoral candidate, he'd fallen for his advisor, a woman ten years his senior. He'd hinted about his attraction to her until the day she'd driven them both to a local motel, where he'd spanked and fucked her thoroughly. They'd both looked forward to a long-term affair, maybe even marriage, until the photo had arrived in her university mailbox.
Someone had taken a picture of the two of them leaving the motel, their arms around each other, their body language screaming of recent sex. The note accompanying the photo threatened public exposure of their affair unless they ended it.
For both their sakes, she'd insisted they do so. Thankfully, the photo had never been made public by that unknown person. And, painful as it had been to do so, they'd remained uncomfortably platonic while he worked with her on his dissertation. Not to mention they had to keep seeing each other in classes and in the same building. Yes, sex with students was fraught with danger.
Who said all Ph.D.s are smart? I'm dumb as a block of wood, doing my thinking with my little head instead of my mind.
After grabbing his attaché case, he ran to his car, desperate to escape the scene of his crime.
At the gym, he punished himself with the treadmill for forty minutes before heading to the barbells. He'd long since apologized to Scott and the weight room manager, but he still felt like a fool for his antics that September day. He loaded the bar with weights, double-checking that they were locked in place. Then he lifted, concentrating all his thoughts on proper form. After he finished, he removed his T-shirt, using it to mop his face while considering his body's progress in the mirror. He'd never looked better, because his obsession with Rosemary drove him to the gym at least four times a week. Other than slamming doors, breaking mugs, and his right hand, he didn't have any other acceptable outlet for his frustrated desire.
Everyone says you should follow your heart. So far, that's brought me nothing but misery.
Today wasn't the day she had a class with Dr. Kent, but Rosemary had to see him. She chewed her lip while her car crawled along with the rest of the traffic on the Mass Pike. After some thought, she framed what she'd say to him.
Dr. Kent, I --
No.
Jonathan, I --
Better.
Jonathan, I've been thinking about yesterday. We have something special --
Oh, come on, Rosemary. Cliché City. Be honest and bold.
Jonathan, I've been thinking about yesterday. I haven't had sex that good in years. Literally. I'm willing to keep it a secret and continue, if you are.
She chewed her lip some more.
That is, Jonathan, if you aren't seeing anyone. I don't want to break up a relationship. Look, I'm not asking for a promise, just a chance to see you outside of class --
Wow, that's needy.
-- I want to see you outside of class for the sex, and for other things, too. Caning seems to interest you, and I admit it does me. As do other, similar practices.
She took a deep breath. That was good. She was laying it on the line. Not much room for misinterpretation.
The traffic ahead of her broke free. Jerking the steering wheel left, she slid into a hole left by a less-alert driver and sped to campus.
Have to do this now. Can't lose heart.
She parked in a lot, not willing to spend time searching for a cheaper spot. She set the alarm on the run, hustling toward the Humanities faculty offices. Dr. Kent held office hours till eleven a.m. If her luck held, he'd be there, alone.
After stopping briefly in the bathroom to reapply lipstick and tousle her curls, she removed her coat. If her words didn't grab his attention, perhaps her sky-blue sweater and tightest jeans would. Her flimsy demi-bra revealed stiff nipples, clearly visible through the thin, clingy sweater.
And in her purse, she carried a wooden hairbrush, flat-backed. The very brush Charlie had used on her willing bottom, the very brush that had made her cry and made her horny. She needed a spanking today. Immediately. Followed by a liberal dose of Dr. Kent's, uh, Jonathan's hard, wonderfully thick cock.
Dare she fantasize his penetrating her anally? Her vagina clenched, throbbing at the thought.
Kent's door was closed. She knocked. No answer.
She knocked again, louder.
Got to see him. Before my courage fades.
Her hand grasped the doorknob and twisted, but it was locked. Her heart plummeted.
Shit. He's not keeping office hours today and --
"Ms. Lockhart?"
Kent opened the door, standing before her in all his bookish glory. His scholarly body language. His large, capable hands. His steel-colored eyes glinting at her behind his glasses.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing powerful forearms. But she couldn't see his tight little tush, damn it all.
"Dr. Kent. Jonathan," she corrected herself. "May I speak with you in your office?"
"Certainly."
He motioned for her to enter first. He didn't close the door behind him.
She swallowed. "Would you mind if I shut the door?"
Wary tension settled over his features as he sat behind his desk. "I'd prefer not to, Ms. Lockhart."
"I have something to say to you, and I'd like to do so in private. Please."
He sighed. "No. I cannot allow it."
Oh, fine, then.
Rosemary sat in the chair adjacent to his, not the one across from him.
His expression ratcheted from wary to alarmed. "Ms. Lockhart, I'd much prefer that you sit with the desk between us."
The words she'd rehearsed fled her mind. But she didn't move. Instead, she opened her purse to withdraw the hairbrush. Holding it out as if it were a precious offering, she said, "Here, Jonathan. I'm sure you know what to do with this. Where can we go to use it?"
"Nowhere, Ms. Lockhart. Put that back in your purse." He slid his chair away from her.
No, can't give up.
Her eyes held his. "Jonathan, listen to me. I want you. You want me. I think we both enjoy similar pastimes in the bedroom. We can keep it secret, if that's what you need."
She sat quietly, maintaining eye contact.
His face was impassive. But the bulge in his khakis spoke volumes. She watched one hand rise from his lap, palm open and fingers reaching for her, for a brief moment. Then he fisted the hand and dropped it. He cursed under his breath in German. She recognized the word Sheiss, shit, because Charlie used to say it.
"Ms. Lockhart, I was out of line yesterday, to say the least, and you have my deepest apologies for it. I'm grateful that you want to keep what we did secret. However, we cannot continue talking about this subject. We are never going to repeat yesterday's activities again. Do you understand?"
No, no, no!
His eyes seemed to mirror her pain. Rejection pierced her heart through and through. She'd let her emotions and body run rampant. She'd bared her soul for this man, and it was all for nothing.
Somehow she put away the brush and fled his office. Somehow she drove home, though later she had no recollection of doing so.
Once inside the house, she tore off her sexy clothing, the garments that emphasized Jonathan's rejection of her.
What changed his mind? Was he just using me? No, I don't believe that.
But he's not mine. He'll never be mine. And, damn it all, I think I love him.
After donning a ratty chenille bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, she grabbed her bottle of Grey Goose and a sturdy tumbler. She sat in her favorite chair, drinking, and wept until her throat hurt.
\*
Jonathan agonized over the way he'd pushed Rosemary away. Every molecule of his being had screamed in protest at his blunt words. But he'd had to say what he did, because it would have been cruel to give her any glimmer of hope. He shut his eyes while waiting at a stoplight, a headache building in his temples.
His own suffering, of course, gnawed at him. But it was a nibble compared to the misery gobbling his soul every time he recalled how her face had crumpled when he'd spoken the word never.
Nasty bits of ice hit his windshield as he traveled west. The closer he was to his house, the worse the weather would become, living as he did on the edge of the 495 snow belt. He loved Boston, but not the weather, and he couldn't afford a house closer to the city.
Maybe he should forget about tenure and start over at another school. Some place he wouldn't be held hostage by winter six months of the year. Or maybe some place far away from both Rosemary and Boston, say, San Francisco. It had a rep as a kinky city. He'd fit right in.
Coming to grips with his own sexuality had not been easy, and had taken him till his mid-twenties. But on some level he'd always known he wasn't what kinksters called vanilla, and he never would be. Because of that, he had a much smaller pool of women available to him at any given time.
Rosemary was so perfect, so right for him. But he'd worked years to reach the possibility of tenure. He pounded a fist on the steering wheel, his dilemma raging in his mind when it should have been on his driving.
Realistically, he knew he was a shoo-in for tenure, despite Furbish's animosity towards him. He'd finished his Ph.D. at a mere twenty-five years old. The book version of his dissertation had appeared the following year, and he'd hit some modest success. Nothing like Camille Paglia, of course, but he didn't care to become a public person the way she had.
He ticked off his good points. His third book would appear next fall -- that would be three books in seven years. Plus, he'd published dozens of articles, scholarly and popular, on erotic literature and the Victorians. He was a wunderkind. Even Harvard had come sniffing around, briefly.
If he didn't gain tenure, though, his career would take a huge hit, maybe even end. The pool of available positions for his specialty was small and limited mostly to the large top universities. Not to mention that a top school wouldn't want a teacher who couldn't manage tenure the first time out.
But never to have Rosemary? He needed a life apart from his studies, too.
Maybe he could try the vanilla route again?
No, he'd read online how that didn't work and that a relationship with a partner who didn't share the same bedroom interests was doomed to fail. He'd seen it in his own life, in his early relationships, back when he'd been in denial about who he was and what he wanted.
He pulled into his driveway, forcing himself to think about the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. He and three friends had rented a condo in Vermont. With any luck, there'd be snow and lots of skiing to distract him.
Maybe even some après-ski opportunities as well.
Rosemary sat at her kitchen table, index cards and sticky-note slips and books and notebooks around her like the snow that covered her lawn. The paper for Dr. Kent's class had been due the day before Thanksgiving, and here it was Sunday night, four days later.
Four strokes of the cane.
She shivered at the thought, caught between dread and desire. Thoughts of Jonathan -- no, they were more like fantasies -- interfered with writing the paper. So here she was, paper not done, mesmerized by the thought of the cane and the man who would be wielding it.
Never mind the fact that they would never have a relationship. At least she'd have a caning to remember. That would have to tide her over until the right man came along.
She stood. Some hot tea would help. While filling the kettle, she thought about the amount of socializing she'd done over the four-day holiday, when she should have been working.
Thanksgiving had been better than she'd expected. She had no surviving immediate family, so she'd gathered her friends around the table. The turkey had been her responsibility, though she'd made a meatless lasagna as well, for the father of Brian Greene, Mark's squeeze. Who would have thought that a man like David Greene, tall and powerfully built, was a vegetarian?
Faith and Doug had brought broccoli, sweet potatoes, and mashed potatoes; Mark and Brian, two different pies -- apple and pumpkin; and David, salad and homemade bread, which had been to die for. Everyone, it seemed, had brought a bottle of wine. They ate and drank and laughed until long after the stars appeared.
The teapot's whistle interrupted her recollections. She poured hot water into her mug while remembering how Mark had kept nudging her and David together. In truth, Rosemary liked his smile and his intelligence, and his body was impressive. But she felt no spark, no recognition of dark erotic interests in the man. He'd asked her for a date, but she'd begged off, using her paper as an excuse.
She'd begun to make progress on it when David had called her the next day, talking her into lunch on Saturday. She'd gone, and she'd had a good time. And his goodbye kiss on her doorstep had been okay, too. He was a decent kisser. But his kiss wasn't the kind that enveloped her in a passionate storm. That kind of kiss depended less on technique and more on whom she was kissing.
Faith, to whom she hadn't breathed a word about her hot sex with Dr. Kent, had told her she was "an idiot" not to be interested in David. Rosemary smiled. Faith always was one to use extreme language.
She agreed with Faith that David was a nice man, and that was exactly what was wrong with him. He was handsome, pleasant, and intelligent -- but without any edginess, without any hint of dominance, in or out of the bedroom.
She didn't need nice. She needed not-so-nice. She needed Charlie, only, damn him, he was dead.
That left her with Jonathan, the cranky Victorian scholar who could fuck like a wild man. No doubt he could spank like one, too.
Four strokes of the cane. Soon to be more, unless I get back to work.
She sat down with her tea, deciding on a plan. She would have her paper done no later than Thursday and would drop it by his office. Then, after the last class on Friday, she'd ask him when and where the caning would occur.
Thursday would mean eight strokes. She could barely wait.
\*
Jonathan paced his office, occasionally stopping to scowl at the view from his window. The pouring rain was almost a personal affront, because he knew it would tangle traffic and make Rosemary even later.
He sighed, checking his watch for the tenth time. It was five P.M. Yesterday after class, she said she'd be here by four-thirty with her paper.
His heart still ached for the emotional pain he'd caused her, just as his cock ached to have her. He now knew, after several agonizing, sleepless nights, that Rosemary was the woman he craved. Needed. Loved.
I have to keep working on my plan to have her and tenure.
He sat in his chair and leaned way back, hands locked behind his head, attempting to wait patiently. Patience had never been his long suit. The word made him remember Patience Wilson, the woman he'd met the last night of his Thanksgiving vacation. From their first encounter by the enormous stone fireplace, her brains and charm had piqued his interest.
They'd necked a little, but hadn't had sex, even though the sight of her ass in tight jeans had aroused him. Now he had her phone number and she his. He'd been meaning to call her. Really. He'd just been busy, grading papers.
However, as soon as he'd returned to his normal life, he'd known, with lightning-bolt certainty, that Rosemary was for him. So the beginnings of a plan, to have her and his job, too, had begun to form in his mind.
He worried that, with all that had passed between them, not to mention her assault three months earlier, he'd never be able to convince her that he was serious. That he wouldn't break her heart -- again. That, God forbid, he'd let her cane him before that happened.
The swish of paper sliding across wood whipped his head around. Someone had pushed a term paper under the closed door. He jerked it open, startling Rosemary.
"I figured you'd have gone home by now," she said, her cheeks pink and damp. The wet weather made her curls wilder, and her body, even wrapped as it was in a shapeless raincoat, called to him.
He smiled with teeth. "Why, Ms. Lockhart, were you figuring I'd be gone, or hoping I'd be gone, or perhaps arriving late on purpose, planning that I'd be gone?"
He crossed his arms, waiting.
"I'm sorry to be late, sir," she said softly. "The traffic was terrible, and --"
He held up one hand. "Don't give me excuses, Ms. Lockhart, they only irritate me further. But lateness does deserve its own punishment, does it not?"
He heard her suck in her breath before saying, "Yes."
"I'm glad you agree. Meet me here, tomorrow after class. We will discuss your punishment for lateness, which will be added on to your eight strokes of the cane. You haven't forgotten about the cane, have you, Rosemary?"
Her eyes were round and shining, her lips slightly parted. He leaned toward her as her perfume filled his head. They were falling, it seemed, into each other. He uncrossed his arms to reach for her face, to caress her cheek before he kissed her.
Her cell phone trilled a tune he recognized as Mozart's Eine kleine Nachtmusik. She grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Kent," she said, hurrying away from him to answer her phone.
Jonathan swore colorfully at the missed opportunity. He longed to tell her that he wanted her to be his. Still, he had her paper -- and that meant his plan was in motion.
\*
Rosemary never looked Dr. Kent's way once during the entire Friday morning class, though she sensed his eyes on her. As soon as the lecture ended, she hurried to buy a cup of coffee. She needed to hold onto something, something tangible like a coffee cup, before she met with the man.
It wasn't the caning that made her jumpy. No, she'd been caned several times, by Charlie. She knew it would hurt. She could deal with that. It was more about how her heart might sting once the caning was over, because it would be their last contact. She would take no more courses from him. Her current study path was veering towards twentieth century American literature, not the Victorians.
So, that was that. She'd earn her Masters and forget about Jonathan. Maybe she'd try again with David Greene. He was fun to be with, and his body was muscular, tasty-looking. Having sex again some time in the millennium was something she definitely wanted, even if it wasn't preceded by spanking and dominance. She wouldn't mind trying sex with David, if only because his large physical presence would make her feel a little submissive. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe she couldn't have another relationship of the kind she'd had with Charlie. Maybe just having a regular relationship with a regular man was what she'd have to settle for.
Besides, no one said she had to give up her fantasy life. And her upcoming caning ought to be good for months, maybe years, of fantasies.
She gave Jonathan fifteen minutes to get back to his office, then dawdled over her coffee five minutes more. When she was certain he would be in his office, she headed across campus.
While climbing the stairs of the old building, she fantasized that she could hear the echoes of scholars from two hundred years ago, trudging to their professor's offices for judicious layings-on of the cane. Their imagined cries wafted through her mind as she approached Jonathan's door. The days when she had thought of him as Dr. Kent were long gone. She raised her fist to knock.
Her hand stopped in mid-air. A creamy vellum envelope, of the size and texture that would contain a formal invitation, was taped to his door. In black ink it was addressed, simply, "R. Lockhart."
She removed it from the door and read.
Dear Ms. Lockhart,
I regret that I could not be here to meet you in person as we had planned.
If you are not busy this evening at six, would you please meet me at the restaurant Islands, on Route 9, in the bar?
Simply write "yes" or "no" at the bottom of this note, insert it into the envelope, and slip the envelope under the door. If your answer is "no," I will be in touch with you.
Again, I am sorry I could not meet you here.
Sincerely,
Dr. Jonathan Kent
Tonight in the bar at Islands?
Rosemary felt faint. While leaning against his door for support, she tried to stop hyperventilating.
What does it all mean? Does it mean anything?
She decided she could make a fool of herself at Islands as easily as she could in his office. Besides, meeting him in public would prevent her from doing something stupid, like propositioning him.
Scribbling "yes" at the bottom, she shoved the note back in the envelope. She slid it under the door and walked away quickly, her thoughts focusing on one word.
Tonight.
Jonathan waited by the door, barely breathing. He heard someone take the envelope from the door. He fancied he could smell Rosemary's perfume while he waited. Silence for a minute or two, then the envelope glided under the door.
He waited at least two minutes before allowing himself to open it. Her "yes" heartened him.
He'd wait until she was safely in her ten o'clock class, then leave campus. He had much to do before six.
Rosemary arrived at Islands twenty-five minutes early. She sat in the parking lot, listening to the radio, until she could no longer bear it. So what if it was only five forty-five? She could have another beer on top of the one she'd drunk at home to give her courage.
She stumbled while navigating the gravel-covered parking lot in her heels. She hadn't worn real stilettos much since Charlie died. She hoped her clothing was appropriate; Islands, despite its casual name, was an upscale restaurant. She'd gone for classic, but sexy -- a long-sleeved sheath of emerald-green silk that highlighted her hair and caressed her curves. A perfect strand of pearls reflected light on her creamy skin. The dress's neckline was low, but no more than a hint of cleavage showed. She'd gone to great pains not to look cheap and available while still enhancing her best features. No demi-bra tonight -- her nipples were firmly hidden by a slightly padded push-up bra.
In anticipation of her caning, she'd donned green silk tap-pants with a matching garter belt and neutral stockings. She suspected Jonathan would appreciate her undergarments before he removed them.
After she checked her coat, she shut her eyes briefly and reminded herself to breathe before seeking the bar.
She was ready to take a seat when a wave caught her eye. He was already here, and he'd snagged a private-looking table in a back corner. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't look unhappy, either. He simply looked the way he usually did.
She liked that.
Forcing herself to walk slowly for fear of tripping on the plush rug in her unfamiliar stilettos, she took five years to reach his table. He rose when she arrived, to pull out her chair. His suit showed off his athletic build and large shoulders. The wool's dark gray, combined with the low lighting, made his eyes smoky and mysterious.
"Ms. Lockhart. I am so glad you could join me. Please, let me," he said, pushing her seat in as she sat. After he resettled himself, he said, "I'm drinking pale ale, though if you prefer wine, I'd be happy to buy us a bottle."
She swallowed. Her mouth felt dry and sandy. She swallowed a second time before speaking. "Pale ale would be wonderful. I prefer beer to wine."
A genuine smile flowed across his face. "That's great. Me, too."
After he'd flagged the waiter down and ordered for her, he said, "I brought these for you."
From the dark recesses of the corner, he revealed an exquisite crystal vase filled with roses, larkspur, lilies, irises, and other flowers she didn't recognize. The overblown bouquet was breathtaking and quite Victorian in appearance.
"Please take them, along with my deepest apologies for the way I treated you in the office that day. I was a fool. You understand to which day I'm referring?"
She nodded, unable to speak. The flowers were astonishing in their beauty. Oddly, she felt tears prick her eyelids as she accepted the vase from him.
"Thank you," she managed to croak. "I don't know what else to say."
Her ale arrived, and she soothed her dry mouth with a large sip.
"Say you'll listen to me, please," he said.
"All right."
"First, we must have the flowers taken to our room."
She nearly spit out her mouthful of ale. "Our what?"
He spoke while motioning to the waiter. "I've reserved one of the private dining rooms for us. That way, we'll be able to talk without fear of being overheard."
"Dr. Kent, really, it's too much. I can't afford --"
"You don't have to worry about affording a thing. It's my treat. You deserve it."
"But, why?" she said while they followed the waiter to the private room. "Why do I deserve all this?"
He hesitated. "Just hear me out. That's all I ask."
The private room was small, barely ten by ten, but a sideboard contained a wealth of gourmet treats from appetizers to salads to main courses. The waiter placed the flowers in the spot meant for them, saying, "Enjoy your dinner. Maurice will check on you in a few minutes." He closed the door behind him.
"Do you like it?" Jonathan said.
The elegant and inviting room was Victorian in theme, but with fewer frou-frous than she would have expected.
She didn't know what to say beyond, "Thank you. This is lovely."
"I have something else to give you, Ms. Lockhart, before I speak." He handed her a nine by twelve manila envelope. "Your paper. It's quite good."
She withdrew it from the envelope, unable to suppress a small cheer when she saw the grade. A.
"Thank you, Dr. Kent." Immediately she read the comments, smiling all the while.
"No need to thank me. You earned it." He cleared his throat before he continued. "I spent part of the afternoon grading it. As the course has no final exam and today was the last class, you have completed the requirements for the course. You are, as of this moment, no longer my student."
Her head snapped up from the paper. "That's right."
"With that in mind, we may enjoy ourselves tonight as two adults. Therefore, I would like to call you Rosemary, and I wish you would call me Jonathan."
"Okay, Doc-- I mean, Jonathan." Her heart thudded against her chest wall.
"However, just because you are no longer my student does not mean you won't be punished for lateness, and caned as well. Will you honor your commitment to this?"
"Yes, sir." She smiled. "Is that the real reason you engaged a private dining room?"
"Absolutely not. Your discipline will take place somewhere else that is completely private. Rosemary, really, I'm disappointed you would think I'd engage in such a watershed moment for us, here."
"Us? What us?"
She stared at him, gulping the rest of her ale to steady herself. On her empty stomach, though, it was having the opposite effect. Jonathan seemed to read her mind, spooning some jerked shrimp onto a plate and bringing it to the table where she sat.
"Here. You need something in your stomach. And I'm getting ahead of myself. I fear you'll start hyperventilating any moment." He grinned at her, but the grin faded as she ate. He took a shrimp from her plate.
"Two can play that game."
She was about to ask, What game?, when she noticed how he sucked the shrimp from the shell, his cheeks hollowing. He licked his fingers deliberately, never losing eye contact with her. She remembered the way he'd sucked on her body, the way he'd licked her. The memories, along with his suggestive actions, were quite arousing.
She realized that she'd been doing similar things with her own shrimp, the sucking and licking. Now she understood his "game" reference.
She smiled to see the light sheen of moisture on his brow, no doubt from sexual tension. "Would you feed me a bit of those mashed potatoes, Jonathan?"
She licked her lips elaborately before blowing him a kiss.
Dr. Jonathan Kent is aflame with desire, as a Victorian would say.
Hell, he would say he was hot for the lady and dying to fuck her.
He'd been erect for what felt like days. He ached to hustle Rosemary off to a private place for spanking and the best sex he could manage. Her dress clung to her every curve, and the color accented little green flecks he'd never noticed before in her blue eyes.
He reached for her hand, stroking her palm. She gasped, her lips parting.
He said, "You have read Tom Jones, haven't you?"
"The eating scene," she said. "Oh, yes."
He placed her index finger on his mouth. He flicked the tip with his tongue while continuing to stroke her palm lightly with one finger.
A deep sigh rose from her. She squirmed in her chair. He'd bet his doctorate that she was wet right now.
Time to talk.
He placed her hand on the table in front of her, brushing her cheek with his fingers before saying, "Rosemary, I don't regret what happened between us in my office for one moment. I'm sorry I treated you so callously the next day and that I've been distant since. Like a lot of men, I didn't realize what I had till I lost it. And now that you are no longer my student, we are free to see each other. Will you go out with me?"
Her expression grew shrewd. "Why, Dr. Kent, I do believe what you mean is, will I fuck you?"
His cock throbbed when she spoke the word. "Yes, that's what I mean, but that's not all of it. I need you in my life. You're the one I've searched for. I'm not ready to propose marriage --"
"Nor am I ready to accept," she said.
"-- but I am ready for a lover in my life. I need to know one thing for sure, however. Are you fond of spanking and dominance games in the bedroom?"
Rosemary came to him, settling herself on his lap. She pressed her hip against his erection. "I don't know how fond you are of such things, but I want a man who shares those interests. I need discipline. Sir. Will you discipline me?"
Her round, full bottom resting on his thighs tempted him, but he restrained himself because of the semi-public setting. He took her chin in his hand, and brought her lips to his. Unlike the day in the office, they kissed chastely.
"I can barely wait to discipline you," he breathed in her ear. He licked her earlobe, once, and she shuddered as if she were ready to come.
"Jonathan, we can skip the food as far as I'm concerned." She wiggled on his lap. Her smile invited him. He looked down her dress before reluctantly lifting her off his lap. He let his hand linger on her hip while he spoke, emphasizing his control over her. He spoke with an authority that he could feel all the way down to his stiff cock.
"No. We will have dinner first. Get back in your seat, Rosemary."
With that, he selected delicacies for both of them, but used only one plate. He placed it halfway between them, saying, "We'll feed each other."
A discreet knock, then a different waiter entered the room. "Good evening. My name is Maurice. Is there anything you need, sir?"
"Another ale for each of us, please. And we'll have the dessert I ordered, in about forty-five minutes."
"Very good, sir." The door closed.
Jonathan put some mashed potatoes on his fork. "I believe the lady asked for these?"
She sucked them from the utensil. "Mmm."
She forked a bit of smoked salmon for him. "Want to try this?"
The meal proceeded. Jonathan felt dizzy with lust as they fed each other morsels and drank their ale. In between bites, they reached out to touch each other's face, arms, chests. They held hands and licked each other's fingers. By the end of the meal, Jonathan was breathing hard. So was Rosemary.
"Can we go now?" she said.
"You that eager to be caned?" he said. "Tell me, have you ever been caned?"
"My late husband," she murmured, reaching across the table to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. "No one else. Come on, let's go."
Her hand wandered to his groin. He plucked it off, saying, "The last woman who did that without permission sported a swollen palm afterwards. Would you like me to strap your palm, Rosemary?"
She jerked her hand back, shaking her head vigorously.
He laughed. "Then we won't go until I say we go. Not until we've had dessert."
The waiter appeared after knocking once, clearing dishes from the table. On a service cart was a small fondue pot, a mound of Driscoll strawberries, and a bowl of fresh whipped cream.
Rosemary sniffed. "I smell chocolate."
Jonathan motioned to the waiter. "The meal and your tip have been taken care of, right?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you. I hope to see you and the lady again, Dr. Kent."
"I told you it would be worth it," he said as she exclaimed over the dessert. "Here." He speared a perfect red berry, dipped it in the fondue, then swiped it through the whipped cream before offering it to her lips.
His cock was so hard it hurt, and watching Rosemary nibble and lick the strawberry wasn't exactly turning him soft.
"My turn," she said, choosing a strawberry and copying his procedure.
"Man, that's good," he said. "Nothing like strawberries dipped in chocolate."
"They're even better served with champagne. The real thing, from France."
He prepared another berry for her, this time feeding it to her with his fingers. "We'll have to try that some time soon. I'm ready to dispense with dessert and begin your discipline."
She sucked his middle finger after finishing the berry. A moan escaped him. She grinned. "So, we can go now?"
"We can go now."
He had the dessert packaged to take home with him. Another round of dessert would taste good, later. Much later.
They stood at the restaurant's entrance, bundled up against the early December cold. Jonathan slipped his hand inside her coat, caressing her bottom. He could feel it clench under his fingers.
"The only thing left to decide is, your home, or mine?"
Oh, God, I'm going to come right here.
Rosemary's vagina squeezed. Jonathan was feeling up her backside. Now goosebumps covered it.
"Rosemary? Where?" he said, pinching her. She jumped.
"Oh! My house would be all right."
"I'll get a hotel room, if you prefer," he said. He touched her shoulders, turning her to face him. "I want you to feel safe."
Those eyes of his, sometimes like steel, sometimes flinty, were now shining like molten silver. She went on tiptoe to kiss him, but he pulled away with a laugh.
"Naughty, naughty," he whispered. "I'll add on more cane strokes if you don't behave."
I trust this man with my life. In fact, I have, that night in the restaurant parking lot.
She whispered back, "Let's go to my house. It's barely ten minutes away."
She drove carefully, keeping an eye on her rearview mirror. She didn't want to lose Jonathan, who was following her.
But after they were safely inside her home, she felt shy, tongue-tied.
How do we start?
"Rosemary, give me your coat," he said. "I'll hang yours and mine in this closet, if you don't mind."
"Of course," she said. Only then did she see the duffle bag on the floor.
"Yes, that bag has the cane in it. Along with a few other things we might find interesting, if all goes well. Rosemary," he said, his tone of voice now sharp, "bring me an armless chair, and place it in the middle of this room."
She did as he ordered. He sat on the chair while she shifted from foot to foot.
How do we start?
"Rosemary, you know the drill. Get across my lap. Now."
"Yes, sir." She settled herself across his lap, his muscular thighs easier to lie on than she'd thought they would be.
"Are you comfortable?"
"Yes, sir."
He laughed. "That's going to change."
His fingers snaked under her dress. She heard him suck in his breath when he discovered the stockings and tap pants. He wasted no time rolling her dress to her waist.
"You are a dream walking," he said. "But you've misbehaved. For your lateness, you will receive thirty slaps with my hand. The cane will follow."
She scrunched her eyes tight, waiting for the first spank to fall. Instead, she felt his fingers explore under the tap pants, caressing her bottom.
She waited. And waited. The caressing continued.
"Well?" she said, unable to control herself.
"Are you that eager? It's going to hurt, you know." He pulled her tap pants to her knees. Now she was finally, completely, bare and vulnerable.
"You'd better not lose those panties," he said. "I want to see them stay at your knees."
Only then did she remember how difficult it became not to kick and struggle when the spanks landed. Panic grabbed her. "Sir, you know, I think maybe I --"
Suddenly, one cheek stung. She gasped. She'd forgotten how much a spanking could hurt. And this one was just beginning.
One hard slap after another landed. Jonathan had a wicked style. He'd spank the same spot at least four times, which burned like hell. And he didn't ignore her upper thighs. She'd always hated having her thighs spanked.
"Ow, ow, ow," she moaned. "It really stings. You spank too hard."
"Nonsense. This is only a warm-up. And I'll decide, not you, what's too hard."
Crisp reports sounded as he continued spanking her with his hand. She squirmed, protesting wordlessly. After one especially hard smack in the center of her sit-down spot, she kicked her tap pants completely off.
"Rosemary," he said, "you lost your panties. I warned you not to lose your panties."
"Dr., I mean, Jonathan, please, I couldn't help it."
"Would you rather take ten more with my hand, or two more with the cane? Your choice."
All she knew was that her bottom was smarting unbearably and she couldn't take too many more hand spanks. "Two with the cane," popped from her mouth before she realized what she'd said.
Two more with the cane? You idiot!
"I mean, I mean, ten more with your hand," she hastened to say.
"Sorry. You made your choice. Two more with the cane, for a total of ten, it shall be."
"Jonathannnn," she whined.
"Stop that ugly noise this instant, or you'll get ten more with my hand, and two more with the cane."
Rosemary shut her mouth, enduring the rest of her hand spanking without much complaint. Tears had just begun to burn her eyelids when he announced, "Now for the cane. Stand up, and keep your hands off your stinging backside while you strip."
"Strip?"
She stood. He stood. She looked up at his stern visage, trembling.
"I want you to feel utterly submissive," he said. "Strip naked for me, now. Don't make me tell you again."
She unzipped her silky dress, letting it flow to the floor. When she unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts, she heard his quiet groan. Then she removed her shoes, stockings, and garter belt. Her bottom burned a little less now, leaving a very pleasant warmth between her legs.
Frankly, she was damned wet.
"Bend over the back of the chair. I won't bind you to it, but I expect you to keep your hands on the chair's seat, and your feet planted on the floor at all times."
She took her position, her breasts swaying, her sitting area stinging, her vagina eager for him.
Whiplike swishes through the air caught her attention, triggering memories. The initial shock of the cane's stroke. The deep, throbbing sting that builds. The soreness of the welts, later.
"Just practicing," he said.
His hands moved her feet apart until they rested even with the chair's legs. He trailed his fingertips across the crest of her bottom.
"I will give you five on each cheek, and I will try not to overlap the strokes," he said. "Are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be." She swallowed.
A slight swishing sound and a fierce sting. Rosemary inhaled sharply as the smart deepened to a throb.
His fingers tweaked her nipples, already hard as little pebbles.
A swish, a burn, a deep, deep hurt. She grunted.
Fingers brushed her pubic hair, one tip tracing the entrance to her vagina.
"How are you?" he said, his finger still teasing her.
"Touching me between the blows helps, ahhh," she said when his finger tickled her clit.
Another sharp sting, deep burn, throb. Another tweak of her nipples, this time hard enough to make her wince, and yet it felt so good.
Two more quick strokes, one on the area where buttock and thigh join, and one on her thigh, brought tears. She gripped the seat of the chair tightly to keep from clutching her bottom. He rubbed her back while she sobbed.
"Are you still all right?" he said. "We didn't discuss a safe word. Please, tell me if I reach your limit. I will stop immediately."
She shook her head. "A f-few tears are g-good. Cleansing. Ohhhh."
Two fingers had invaded her deeply. She thrust her hips while he massaged her G-spot.
"You have no idea how beautiful you are," he whispered. "Beautifully submissive, beautifully brave and trusting, beautifully striped from the cane, beautiful in body and mind and spirit."
He traced each red line with one hand while still thrusting inside her with the other.
"Time for the last five," he murmured, withdrawing both hands from her flesh.
This time, no comforting touches soothed her between blows. Instead, he caned her other cheek with all five strokes in less than fifteen seconds. Her butt cheeks were on fire, throbbing, aching, overwhelming her. She cried loudly, her tears puddling on the chair's seat, her hands holding the chair, her feet firmly planted on the floor. However, she couldn't resist bobbing her bottom up and down a few times in a vain attempt to ease the smart.
Jonathan's hands pushed her thighs wider. His hot breath tickled the ends of her pubic hair, and she shivered once she realized what he was going to do.
He inhaled the scent of musky, aroused female, feeling his dick ache for contact. For the life of him, he didn't know how he'd managed to wait this long before making love to her tonight.
Her folds glistened from sexual excitement. Bringing his lips in contact with them, he explored with his tongue.
"Oh, God," he heard her mutter, and her whole being seemed to melt against him. He'd found the precise spot that would bring her the most pleasure. He sucked gently, sometimes flicking his tongue's tip across her clit, sometimes giving it a slow, lavish lick.
Her swollen nub withdrew a little from his attentions. Her orgasm was near. He heard her panting, her cries. He doubled his efforts, determined to give her the best oral-sex orgasm she'd ever experienced.
"Jon-ah-than, I'm, uh, oh!" She pulsed against his mouth. He stayed with her, his hands gripping her undulating hips, until she stopped moving and moaning.
"Rosemary," he whispered. "Stand and face me."
She did so. He used his thumbs to wipe away tears on her cheeks that hadn't yet dried.
"I don't know what to say right now," she whispered.
"Don't say anything."
He wrapped his arms around her, his mouth demanding hers, their tongues meeting and withdrawing in a sensual dance. He ran his hands down her back, felt the small ridges left by the cane, swallowed her gasp when he touched her.
He broke their kiss. She tried to plant her mouth on his again, but he moved to her breasts, the breasts he'd longed to kiss and suck. His tongue roamed from one to the other until he finally settled on one nipple, sucking it deeply into his mouth, nipping it with his teeth now and then. Her hands were on his head, encouraging him. His fingers sought her wetness, and she sighed when he found it.
He stood, ripping his clothing off. Once naked, he caressed between her legs. "Bend over the chair again." He could barely speak around his ragged breathing.
"Not until I do this." Her fingers teased the length of his cock before settling on it. Her slow motions threatened to break his self-control.
"Rosemary, bend over the chair now." His tone was harsh. He emphasized his control by shoving his fingers up her. She complied.
No longer could he be denied.
After donning a condom, his cock seemed to lead him forward until it was sunk inside her to the hilt. Slow, powerful thrusts left him nearly unable to breathe, so longed-for was the moment. He looked down at her hips moving smoothly and had an idea.
His unhurried pace was driving her crazy. She pushed against him, trying to increase the tempo, but he continued his leisurely, deliberate movements as if her own had no effect on him.
She'd forgotten he was bigger than Charlie had been, and it hurt a little until she stretched. Not that her discomfort was such a bad thing. It contributed to her head trip of submitting to him completely, her bottom striped and sore, bent over a chair, taken from behind, his pace running the show.
His finger slipped inside her, alongside his cock. She groaned a little as her vagina stretched again to accommodate. When his finger withdrew, she felt it wetting her anus, massaging it, slipping inside.
"Rosemary." His voice seemed to come from the bottom of him, it was so husky. "Have you ever --? May I? Here?"
She had no problem determining where "here" was.
"Oh, yes," she said, answering his unspoken question. "Yes to what you want. I want it, too."
His finger was soon joined by a second one. He opened her anus, relaxing the muscle, while he continued to screw her leisurely.
Suddenly, he withdrew his cock and fingers. Something large and wet began to push against her anus. She had a moment of panic, afraid she'd never be able to take him in, until he soothed her with his voice. "Relax, we have all night," he said, one of his thumbs up her vagina, massaging her swollen G-spot. "Let go, let go, be the wild woman you were in my office that day."
Memories of their rough sex, their naked need, flooded her mind, relaxing her. His cock's head slipped inside. His thumb in her vagina made her focus on her building orgasm while he slowly but relentlessly slid up her back entrance, fractions of an inch at a time. Her fingers sought her clit, aching with desire as she was. The completely full sensation from his cock and his fat, marauding thumb drove her hips to impale herself on him. She whimpered when his last few inches were shoved in all at once, even though it was her own doing.
"You okay?" He sounded worried, but his concern didn't register with her. She was drowning in physical sensation, head trip, emotion. This man could be her master and yet her equal. Their joining opened her heart fully to him.
"Jonathan," was all she said, and then all was heat and light and delicious friction and a climax with fireworks better than any Fourth of July show on Boston's Esplanade. She heard him moan her name, over and over and over, until he stopped plunging in and out.
His hands sought her breasts as he helped her stand upright. His lips brushed her ear.
"Rosemary, I love you. God, how I love you."
She exhaled quietly. "I love you, too, Jonathan. I think I have from the first day, when you terrified me in class."
"I certainly wanted you from the first day." She could hear the smile in his voice. Then he whispered in her ear. "I have only one demand to ask of you."
Her heart thudded until she thought it might break her ribs. She was afraid to hear what his demand was, and that she might not be able to comply.
"Yes?" She heard the suspicion in her tone, so she hastened to add, "If it's within my power, love, I'll do it."
"Promise me, no, guarantee me that you will never, ever take another course of mine. Unfortunately, it means I can't be your thesis advisor. Can you do this, for us? I pray it's not too much to ask of you. You're entitled to your graduate school career."
Relief so strong it caused tears to slip from her eyes washed through her. "I'm pretty sure I don't want to do my thesis in your area of specialization, so, yes, I promise I will never, ever take another course from you. Besides, I don't think I'd enjoy competing against you in the academic world."
He bit her neck, hard enough to leave a mark. Her nipples turned pebbly as his fingers danced down the front of her torso to her groin.
"Exceptions, of course, will be granted for the lessons I teach you after hours, in private."
"Yes, sir, oh, Jonathan," she moaned as his fingers found their mark. "When's my next lesson?"
"How's now sound?"
She arched against him while his fingers played, her cries serving as her answer.
Five Semesters Later
"Smile!" Faith said. Doug put on a goofy expression while Rosemary giggled. She posed in her Masters gown and academic hood, her degree in her hand, her man by her side. Once the photo op ended, she and Jonathan embraced once more.
"Thank you for your support," she murmured in his ear.
He pulled her closer, saying only, "I love you, Rosemary Lockhart-Kent."
"Rosemary, congratulations."
Dr. Furbish, the head of the English Department, had approached while they were clinched. She let go of Jonathan to accept a quick hug from the man, her thesis advisor.
"Thank you for helping me earn an honors degree," she said.
"You deserve it more than anyone else. I'm quite happy you'll be continuing with us for your Ph.D. Your analysis of the role of noir fiction in Forties America stunned us all. Jon," he said, turning to her now-tenured husband, "I hope both of you will drop by our place for the annual English Department party?"
Jonathan clasped Furbish's outstretched hand. "Of course we will. We wouldn't miss it."
After Furbish walked off, Jonathan said softly, "I swear, the man treats me like a favorite son since I married you. I still can't believe he thought I was gay."
"Furby's so homophobic, he sees queers in his own closet," Mark said, his arm around Brian. "It's not exactly a secret, duh. I was standing right here, and he never said a frickin' word to invite me and Brian. Me, one of his most talented doctoral candidates. Scratch that, the most talented."
Rosemary snorted, but Mark continued. "Jonathan, he thought you and I were having an affair. As if."
Jonathan laughed. "It must have been our weekly meetings in my office, with the door closed so we could concentrate on your thesis."
"You coming to his party?" Rosemary said.
"Just to piss him off, Rosie. Just to piss him off."
Mark and Brian waved to another graduate, heading off to see them. Faith and Doug were laughing at the photos in the digital camera. Rosemary and Jonathan were again alone.
"You were a bad girl last night," he whispered.
"Don't I know it. Sitting on those hard chairs for hours this morning wasn't much fun," she whispered back. "Did you have to use the cane?"
"Afraid so." He patted her bottom. "Promise to wear your cap and gown for me, later? Educated women make me hot."
Rosemary smiled. "Only if you correct my ways and use your big stick on me -- and in me -- Professor."
"Done, Ms. Lockhart-Kent, you brainy wench, you."
She licked his earlobe before whispering, "Me, I've always been hot for teacher."
Barrie Abalard has been writing and selling erotic romance for eleven years, mostly under the pseudonyms Miss Lee and Belle. As of 2006, she has sold over seventy short stories and five short novels. Loose Id, Amber Quill Press, and CF Publications carry her works.
She's worked at many different kinds of jobs. Some of the more interesting ones are: ad copywriter, Boston taxi driver, clerical chartist for the Federal Reserve Bank, Boston radio personality, and tech writer/online help designer, also in Boston. She also earned an M.A. degree from a Boston area graduate school.
Because she's an unrepentant English Lit major, she reads widely, loving a good story. Besides reading, Barrie enjoys creating new recipes, taking solitary road trips, singing, cats, horses, watching the New England Patriots play football, and poker. She also writes light romance with a chick lit voice under her real name.
She currently lives in the Middle Atlantic region with her mathematician husband, doctoral student daughter, and two neurotic cats. She believes that a woman should have a past that's juicy enough to enjoy retelling in her old age. Not that she's going to tell it here, mind you.
Be sure to check out Barrie's web site at www.barrieabalard.com and enjoy her blog, Everyday Erotic Moments, at www.barrieabalard.blogspot.com.

