Trapped With My Teacher

By: Penny Wylder

Tony Lakewood. He’s the entire reason I’m speeding off into the mountains for a ski break this weekend in the first place. Without him, I assume, my senior year would be proceeding the exact same way the rest of my years at university have gone. I study hard, I play just as hard, and I come out on top every semester. Yes, my friends and I like to have fun, but I never let it get in the way of acing my classes. I’m on track to graduate at the top of my class—not valedictorian, no, but with an outstanding GPA and plenty of great references from the professors I’ve impressed along the way.

All the professors except for Lakewood.

What’s irritating—no, infuriating—is that Professor Lakewood is also hot as hell. He makes every girl in class freeze every time he walks into the classroom. I’m not even sure he notices. He stands up there lecturing, glaring down at us like we’re his worst enemies, and all I can think about—in between being pissed at how harshly he judges me of course—is how fucking hot that look would be in another setting. Like, say, if nobody else were in the classroom but me, and he was stripping off that primly ironed shirt of his, loosening his tie as he walks toward me, those piercing eyes locked on mine so intensely I couldn’t even blink as he orders me to strip…

I tighten my thighs as I take a turn higher up into the mountains. Damn him. I’m already starting to get turned on just thinking about him. The way his arms ripple as he tightens his fists on the lectern while speaking, or when he pushes up his sleeves angrily when the class misses a point.

His deep voice is commanding and sexy, even when he’s telling me I’ve gotten something wrong again. I can’t help wondering how he’d sound talking dirty to me. Telling me to bend over the desk and spread my legs while he ran his hands up the back of my thighs to grip my ass, leaning over me, his breath hot on my neck.

I imagine him grabbing my hips, pulling me upright, shoving my back against the blackboard he usually scrawls terrible reviews of my work across. He’d pin me against it as I wrapped my legs around his waist, then he’d rip my skirt off, tear down my panties, and circle his thick cock around my entrance until I was gasping and begging him to fuck me.

I can feel my panties getting wet and my brain getting distracted from the road. I sigh again and check my speedometer. Slow myself a little through sheer willpower. Driving too fast won’t help anything except make these winding mountain roads more treacherous.

I’m on this trip to forget about Professor Lakewood. Professor “I know everything” Lakewood. Professor Too Fucking Hot for His Own Good Lakewood.

Yes, I’ll admit it, on the first day of class my jaw dropped along with all the other senior-year girls. Tony Lakewood isn’t exactly your average middle-aged balding professor. He’s more like the version you find in an unbelievable rom-com movie. The one who wears turtlenecks unironically and manages to pull them off. The tall, dark, and handsome as fuck nerdy guy with cheekbones that could cut glass, and who, with glasses on, could pass for Clark Kent. But you can tell just by looking at him that Superman is behind those spectacles. No idiot in the world except Lois Lane ever bought into the whole “Clark Kent is so ugly with glasses no one can tell he’s a superhero.”

The first time our class saw him, I swear to God, every pair of panties in the room hit the floor at once.

But that was before he spoke. That was before he called me out in front of a whole classroom of my peers and read aloud an essay I wrote last week, detailing every sentence and fact I got wrong. And okay, yes, I made some mistakes. But that’s no excuse to call me out specifically. To humiliate me in front of twenty-four other classmates. To taunt me as though he were enjoying my failure.

“You can do better, Corina,” I mutter aloud to my car, mimicking his thick German accent. Like he fucking knows. He graded me a 30/100 on that essay. Thirty. Out of a hundred. I’d never gotten a grade that low in my life. Not even back in middle school when I still had to take math classes—my least favorite subject.

I realize I’m speeding again, and force myself to slow.

This isn’t working. Twenty minutes into my drive and I’m already stressing. I flip through radio channels to find music I like. That distracts me for a while—at least until I get far enough outside of town for the radio to start getting choppy. Then I sigh and switch it to another station, because the static between songs is getting to be too much.

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