Page 38 of Taming His Teacher

Shep sits as far from me as the space will allow and my heart’s made a home in my stomach, soaking in bile. Did I do something wrong? I haven’t talked to him since graduation. It’s been that long. I didn’t get to say a word to him last time he was here; he was like a ghost. He keeps his eyes glued to the front as Uncle Rett starts his welcome-back speech. Though I ought to be paying attention, my gaze keeps wandering to Shep’s arms crossed tight in front of his chest, and the curve of his bare flexed calf dusted with dark hair.

I’m so distracted that the smattering of polite applause when Rett’s through may as well be a thunderclap. God, I’m like a skittish rescue pet. It’s foolish to have had these expectations and I knew it. Though I’d hoped for it, I didn’t really think Shep and I would run toward each other across the football stadium and fall into each other’s arms in slow motion like some tampon commercial. But I’d thought…I’d thought he’d at leasttalkto me.

The academic dean is talking, explaining the new schedule for this year. There’s grumbling as there always is when anything around here changes, but there isn’t much difference. We’ll be cutting classes shorter on Wednesdays so the boys have time to get to their games and meets. In the past few years, traffic’s gotten even worse and we’ve been habitually late. Not a good showing.

When the dean’s through, he welcomes the new faculty and staff by name, enforcing the tradition of making them stand up in front of the room and introducing themselves before handing over their classroom and teaching assignments. It’s mild hazing, if you can even call it that, though I’d almost puked when I had to do it despite all the friendly faces.

There’s a new Arabic teacher—that had been a controversial addition but an alumnus who’s a high-ranking officer in the military had endowed the position, so who were we to argue—a new drawing instructor since Mrs. Germaine retired after graduation last year, and a physics teacher we hired away from a rival school, although it may have been more for his tennis coaching prowess than his skills in the classroom. There’s polite applause for each of them, and then it’s time to introduce the fellows.

There’s a young man named Kurt—who reminds me too much of Will with his delicate features and slim hands—who’ll be teaching art history, and a pink-haired and eyebrow-pierced fireplug of a woman named Emeline who’ll be teaching computer science. I met her last week and helped her carry some boxes up to what used to be my apartment in Oliver. Even after she dyes over the pink and takes out her piercing to adhere to the faculty dress code, the boys will get a kick out of her. She’ll be popular. And then there’s Shep.

When he stands, I can see him resist shoving his hands in his pockets. Instead, he takes a quick glance at his running shoe digging into the carpet before he gathers himself and looks up.

“Afternoon, everyone. Dean Allen introduced me as Zach, but if you don’t call me Shep or Mr. Shepherd, I probably won’t turn around.” That gets a chuckle from some of the faculty, knowing the habits of the boys and our own culture of addressing them formally. He twitches a half smile before moving on. “A lot of you might remember me. I graduated from Northwestern with a major in math and a minor in studio art this spring, a year early. I’ll be on the math faculty and the assistant varsity lacrosse coach and thirds coach for soccer and hockey. I’m looking forward to being on the other side of the red pen and the whistle for a change.”

Dean Allen shakes Shep’s hand and gives him the envelope that will tell him he’ll be teaching two sections of Algebra I, statistics, and AB Calculus. In the room next to mine. I’d been excited when Cheryl, our space planner, had told me I’d have a new neighbor but now I’m not so sure. Shep’s blue eyes flash to mine and there’s a spark of longing,want, in his expression, but it clears when there’s another round of applause to welcome him and his fellow rookies.

He takes his seat and I spend the rest of the meeting lost in thought about what the hell I could’ve done wrong.

* * *

Shep

It’s the first day of class and I’m waiting for the guys to walk into my classroom.Myclassroom. I’ve never had a classroom before. It’s spare. I didn’t bother with pictures or the ridiculous motivational posters some of the other teachers have. I’m sorry, but if you’re not motivated, a poster with a tiny kitten dangling from a windowsill telling you to “Hang In There!” isn’t going to help.

I’ve got my books stacked on my desk and I’ve written my name on the board. I broke two sticks of chalk before I finished. How did my teachers make this look so easy? Especially Erin. It must have taken everything she had to stand up in front of us. I’m surprised she managed it that first day. My gut is churning and I’m used to this. It’s not so different from being a team captain, or for that matter, easing someone through a scene at the club.

I build up that leadership headspace, the sliver of distance I enforce between me and them in time for the first guy to walk into my class. I’m glad I’ve got freshmen first thing; they’ll help me warm up for dealing with the seniors later. I didn’t go to school with any of those guys, but only by a few months. It’s weird.

I keep a close eye on the clock and it’s not long before I’ve got a full class of freshmen—most of them looking too young to be wearing regulation blazers and ties—staring at me. I’m about to start when, through the wall behind me, I hear her, sunshine voice dimmed by the old-school plaster walls: “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

A spiky shim of regret wedges its way under my ribs. Is it wrong that over the years when I’ve thought of her, sometimes I’ve wished I were sitting in the back of her classroom again, not as a student anymore, but watching her and getting to hear her say those words? But when she would, it would be different.Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Shepherd. Mrs. Shepherd to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.

When the kids had left the classroom, I’d get up and pin her against the chalkboard. She’d flush and struggle, scolding me gently, “Shep, you’re going to get chalk all over my sweater.”

She wouldn’t mean it though; the press of her hips against me would be begging for more. I’d kiss her and wind that single strand of pearls around my thumb until it would leave a light impression on the delicate skin of her neck. She’d let out a breathy moan as I slid a hand under her shirt to fondle a breast, tweak a nipple through the lace of her bra. I wouldn’t stop until she was pleading for more.

“You want more, Mrs. Shepherd?”

“Please, please…”

I’d turn her around to face the wall, ruck up the back of her skirt and rip away her panties with my fingers not twined in her necklace. Then I’d kick her feet apart, opening her for me. I’d get to look at her flawlessly round ass while I fumble with my fly one-handed because even in dreams I have to obey laws of physics. Just when I wouldn’t be able to stand it any longer, I’d sink inside her and she'd sigh, a loud, satisfied signature of pleasure. Then I’d wind my arm around her waist and fuck her while I fingered her clit until she’d come around me. The spasms in her tight cunt would knock the control I’d been clutching out from under me, and I’d come in her, hard.

I’d let her pearls go and slide a hand up her arm to cover hers, shaking, splayed against the chalkboard, twining her tiny pinky in mine. I’d kiss her flushed cheek and say soft in her pink shell of an ear, “I love you, Erin.”

That’s always when I’d wake up, a hand shoved down my shorts, wrapped around my dick in the middle of the night or if I was lucky, first thing in the morning when Hurley had an early class. I’d rub one out as soon as I could, thinking of how her heels would rise out of her purple shoes every time I drove my cock into her and how her hair would smell when I had my face buried in it, her small, gasping sex noises driving me on.

I’m ripped away from my sick fuck fantasies by a pubescent voice. “Mr. Shepherd?”

There are titters in the classroom because his voice cracked on the “P.” I want to smack each one of them upside the head.It’ll happen to every single one of you at least once this year, so don’t be douche bags to each other.But it’s a tradition, pretty innocent sport all things considered, so I let it go.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Zach Shepherd. Mr. Shepherd to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

I get through the day, classes, meals, practice, without getting hard although my blood’s pooling in this funny way like it’s affected by tides, always at the ready to make a break for my dick. When I stumble into my tiny apartment after proctoring study hall, I barely make it into the shower before I’m gripping my cock, pulling with rough and angry strokes, my other hand spread against the cool institutional tiles while I jerk off. When I come—thick, hot, and heavy against the wall and dripping down my closed fist—I choke out her name and wonder how I’m going to survive the next year. Wanting her, maybe watching her find someone else.

Coming back here was the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Chapter 13

---