Hot for Teacher Read online

  Praise for the writing of Barrie Abalard

  Hot for Teacher

  For a spankingly erotic romp, Hot for Teacher makes the grade. Hot and teeming with emotion, it’s a quick read.

  -- Mechele Armstrong, author of Blood Lines:Crimson’s Rose (Loose Id)

  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!

  -- A.J. Matthews, author of The Ninth Wave (Loose Id)

  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.

  -- Anne Douglas, author of The McCabes 1: Persuading Jo (Loose Id)

  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.

  -- Jeanne Barrack, author of No One Else on Earth (Loose Id)

  HOT FOR TEACHER

  Barrie Abalard

  www.loose-id.com

  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

  Barrie Abalard

  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

  www.loose-id.com

  Chapter One

  “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.

&
nbsp; * * * * *

  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?”