Trapped With My Teacher
By: Penny WylderI grab one of the logs. “I’m going to go chop this,” I say. I let the back door slam behind me, cutting off whatever reply he might have.
3
Preparations
I find a little shed past the woodpile. There’s a locked door in the back of it that I don’t bother opening. The front of the shed contains the basics I need for now—snow shovel, a couple axes, one is duller than the other. I take the sharper axe and trudge to the chopping block set up between the shed and the cabin. Squinting at the sky tells me we have maybe another half an hour before the storm really starts to bring it down. Already the snow is thickening in the air, coming down in fat, sticky flakes. My feet sink up to my ankles when I cross the yard, which makes me a little nervous. Only a few minutes ago, when we were bringing the wood inside, it barely came halfway up my boot.
This is going to be a bad one, every instinct in my body is shouting. I’ve been through enough storms with Daddy, when we came up here for ski season, to recognize the signs. Normally, though, I have Daddy and my older brothers to help prepare for the weather. Today, I just have to hope I remember everything I’ve learned from them over the years.
I settle the first of the couple bigger logs I’ve brought out on the chopping block and heft the axe.
At that moment, I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder and find Professor Lakewood settling another log on a makeshift chopping block he’s made out of a dusted-off tree stump. He has the other axe, the duller one.
He smirks when I stare. “What? Did you think you were the only one with any survival skills?” he comments. Then he sets a hunk of wood on the block, positions himself, and takes a swing. The wood splits on the first hit, even though it’s a dull blade. I can’t help watching his body move. His arm muscles, especially, bulge as he sweeps aside that wood and lifts another piece to split. I watch him swing the axe twice more before I remember I have wood of my own to chop.
“This generally goes faster if you don’t spend half the time drooling over your partner,” he points out.
I scoff aloud, shoulders tensing as I lift my own axe. Aim for the center of the wood, swing hard… I bring it down and grin a little as it splits with a loud crack. “What were you saying about faster?” I call over my shoulder.
He cracks another log in response. “Going to have to be faster than that to beat me,” he responds.
My grin widens. “You’re on.”
Soon we’re both in the swing of it. I lose track of time, lost in the rhythm. Set up, swing, crack, and repeat. Before long, I’ve gone through all my wood—halved most of the logs, and quartered some others that we’ll need to stoke the flames back up if they dwindle. Only once I’ve finished do I wipe sweat from my brow and glance back at my professor again, a triumphant grin on my face.
It falters a little when I notice that he’s already done—probably has been for a while. But at least he seems every bit as distracted as he accused me of being. His jaw snaps shut when I meet his eye, though not before I catch a glimpse of him ogling me right back. And his eyes are still wandering, all over my body, lingering on my arms and the axe dangling from one hand.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” he finally asks.
I just smirk and start collecting my wood pieces. “There are some advantages to growing up the only girl in a house of boys.” I make a point of bending over real slow, just so his eyes will linger on my backside as I collect the wood. It works. One glance back shows me he’s too busy staring at my ass to even notice me looking at him.
Is he thinking the same thing I am? Is he wondering what it would be like to bend me over this chopping block right here, tear my jeans off and fuck me across it?
When I straighten, arms full of wood, Professor Lakewood finally manages to force his expression back to one of bored neutrality. “It’s a shame you can’t put that kind of effort into your classes,” he comments, with a glance at the wood piled in my arms.
I roll my eyes. “You know, none of my other professors complain about my work ethic,” I reply as I elbow past him toward the cabin.
