The Student Teacher Blues

by Lubrican

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Chapter Three

Cecelia looked grim as she drove, following Bob's older model Chevrolet. While she didn't actually know all that much about Bob Hawkins, she knew he was married. All the girls had known he was married. It had been the bane of their fantasies, back when she went to school at Harper High. His age hadn't dissuaded them from fantasizing about him, but it was a little difficult to pretend you could compete with a wife. Cee Cee had simply constructed a hazy fantasy in which the wife never seemed to be around.

A slight smile of reminiscence came to her lips as she remembered wondering what it would be like to be in his arms with his luscious, smiling lips pressed to hers. That was about as far as her really detailed fantasies had ever gone, though she was aware that some of the other girls would have gone MUCH farther if there had been an opening. But there never had been an opening, because Mr. Hawkins was very married, and he’d somehow made it clear that he was very happily married.

What she was worried about now, as she trailed him to his house, was that Mrs. Hawkins would see through her hopefully calm exterior and recognize that Cecelia Carter had the same crush on Mr. Hawkins now that she'd had back in high school.

She stopped daydreaming and noticed that they were in a very nice part of town that she had always associated with being where the rich people lived. She got more and more curious when Bob's car turned into a long tree-lined driveway that led to a large house surrounded by lovely ornate gardens. When he parked his car on the brick horseshoe drive in front of the house and got out, she put her car in park and left it running, assuming he had some errand to run that he'd remembered during the drive. He stood looking at her for a few seconds, and then came to her window. She rolled it down.

"We going to do this here in your car or something?" he asked.

"This is where you live?” Her voice rose.

"Home, hearth and gardening. That is my life outside of school," he said. "It's a long story. Don't get the idea you'll be living like this on a teacher's salary any time soon."

"Wow," said Cecilia as she got out. She noticed that his eyes fell to her bare thighs as her skirt slid up, but when he offered her his hand to help her get out of the car she thought she'd imagined it.

Her amazement — and her vocal expression of it — only increased when they went inside. A vaulted entryway, with a mirror-like terrazzo floor, presented two curving staircases on opposite sides of the room that led to and met at the second floor. To the right was a living room and to the left was a dining room with a table that could easily have seated twenty people. He led her through that room and a kitchen that would have made any professional chef's mouth water, to a library that, other than one wall that was almost entirely glass, contained wall-to-wall bookshelves packed with both hard and paperbacked volumes. The only thing that seemed out of place was a cheap presswood computer hutch that had been put in one corner of the room. Along with the computer, it was covered with piles of books and papers.

"This is where I do my homework," said Bob, putting his briefcase on the round hardwood table in the middle of the room.

"This is just gorgeous," sighed Cecelia.

"Trust me," said Bob. "This place takes every penny I make. I just couldn't bear to give it up, that's all. I have a little more than an acre of land to use to pursue my love of gardening, which is what keeps me sane."

"Your wife must spend all her time just cleaning," said Cecelia, thinking about how big the house was and how much there would be to do in routine upkeep. She couldn't imagine Mr. Hawkins having servants. Then again, she would never have been able to imagine him having a house like this either. "Unless you have a maid, of course," she added.

"No maid, and no wife," he said. His voice sounded heavy. "My wife left me about a year after we got this place."

"I'm sorry," said Cecelia, who felt instantly guilty because she WASN’T sorry at all. This information was too new to fully process, so she’d simply said what she was sure she was supposed to say in this situation.

"It was a good thing, actually," said Bob. "We only got this house because she was climbing the corporate ladder and she said we needed to present a 'suitably successful' image. She wanted to be able to have dinner parties and such that would impress her bosses and clients."

"Well she sure got that," sighed Cecelia.

"Not enough, apparently," said Bob. "She’d tried talking me out of the classroom from the moment I met her. I had a little money I inherited from an uncle and she wanted to parlay that into a fortune in the stock market, while she drove toward a vice presidency. She had visions of me doing the same thing and couldn't understand that I loved my job. She got tired of trying to talk sense into my stony brain and finally gave me an ultimatum. By then I was pretty sure it had all been a mistake from the beginning. But you can't talk sense to hormones and she was a beautiful, interesting woman.” He sighed. "She got her vice presidency and suddenly this place wasn't good enough. Her new job was in Chicago anyway, and I didn't feel like moving to Chicago to continue being the man she was embarrassed to be married to."

"I'm so sorry," said Cecelia. She really was sorry this time. She thought Bob Hawkins deserved much better than a grasping cutthroat corporate and social climbing bitch.

"Like I said. She was a sweet girl before she got greedy, but she wasn't the woman I thought I'd married, so when it ended it wasn't as bad as it sometimes is. I decided to invest all my savings in this place and bought her out," said Bob. "That let me refinance, which is the only reason I can afford this place on my own at all. This is my retirement fund, so to speak. When the time comes, I'll sell it for a pretty penny and live the life of Sluggo in my golden years."

"Isn't that supposed to be the life of Riley?" she asked automatically.

"Riley lives high on the hog," said Bob, smiling. "Sluggo lives in a trailer somewhere but has enough to eat and can afford a case of beer now and then.” He looked around. "Speaking of which, you want a beer or something?"

Having Mr. Hawkins, her history teacher, offer her a beer seemed so bizarre that the only framework of understanding she could fit it into was that, like the fraternity boys in college, he was trying to get her drunk. That led to conflicting reactions. On the one hand, getting drunk ... and loose ... with Mr. Hawkins didn't seem like it would be all that horrible. On the other hand, she knew it was ridiculous to believe he'd try something so juvenile. She didn't like beer all that much anyway.

"I'm not much of a beer drinker," she finally responded.

"What a shame," he said. "I get mine from a company called Pyramid. My favorite is their Apricot Ale. It's a wheat beer, but flavored with fruit. I'm not much of a beer drinker either, except for this stuff."

"Maybe later," said Cecelia. "I'm not really thirsty right now."

There were comfortable, padded chairs around the circular library table, and they sat while he got the lesson plans out so they could pick up where they'd left off. At one point they got to a note that reminded him to look up more information about the origin of cloning and genetic surgery.

"I don't have any books on that," he said. "You want to research it on the internet for me?"

Cecelia got up and went to the computer. When she was seated, he leaned over her shoulder, reaching past her to push the button that supplied electricity to all the components. Her nose twitched as she inhaled the fragrance of ... Mr. Hawkins. It was difficult to break down, but he smelled good. She felt her face flush and almost jerked when he laid his hand on her shoulder briefly.

"There you go," he said, lifting his hand. "I've got broadband, so you can get a lot done in a little time."

She spent the next two hours searching the web, printing information, and making notes in the lesson plan before he said they'd done enough for one day.

"Want to see my gardens?" he asked with a hopeful note in his voice.

"Sure," she said, more to be polite than for any real craving to see plants. The front yard had been beautiful, but she didn't think she'd ever sit and contemplate it like art.

He led her through French doors in the glass wall of the library, to a patio that curved off to the right and became the deck of a swimming pool. The blue water looked good as the warmth of the sun soaked into her body. There were flowers, bushes and trees everywhere and she followed him as he pointed out various plants and named them. She thought it was funny that certain trees had to be this or that distance away from the pool, and that some types of plants couldn't be placed at the bottom of the eight foot privacy fence that surrounded the pool, patio and garden area, because the roots would interfere with the fence posts.

"Sounds like you need a degree to know all this," she said at one point.

"Actually they do have degree programs for horticultural architecture," he said quite seriously. "If I hadn't gotten my teaching degree before I got into gardening, I would probably have ended up going that way."

"That would have been a terrible loss to the students of Harper High," she said.

"Thank you," he said, bowing. "I suspect someone will say the same thing about you some day."

They ended up by the pool and Cecelia idly kicked off one shoe. She wasn't wearing pantyhose. She drew the line at that and was willing to shave her legs regularly if that was what it took to keep them looking smooth. She bent a knee and dipped the bare foot in the water.

"How can water always feel so cool when the sun is shining on it all day?" she asked.

"You like to swim?"

"It's one of the ways I kept in shape in college," she said.

"It worked."

She glanced at him and was shocked to see frank male appraisal on his face. She felt tingles of familiar excitement ripple through her body and she looked away. The prospect of Mr. Hawkins NOT being married was finally sinking in, and she suddenly felt jittery. She wanted nothing more than to just fall in the cool water to relieve the heat that suffused her body.

"Feel free to use the pool any time," he added. He turned away. "I'm going to get me a beer," he said. He didn't offer her one this time — he just walked away.

She looked around the garden, her eyes flickering past or settling on splashes of color while she got her breathing under control and reminded herself that the thoughts she was having about the owner of this garden were completely inappropriate and needed, somehow, to be banished from her mind.

Cecelia's emotional condition would have suffered even more had she known what was going through Bob's mind as he got a chilled beer from the stainless steel refrigerator in the kitchen. As he opened it, he wandered back to the doorway to the library, looking through it and the French doors at the figure of the woman in the garden.

She'd always been cute and vivacious. Sitting in his class in her cheerleading uniform, she'd caused him emotional distress of his own. While she had been undeniably good looking, she didn't seem to have the clique mentality that a lot of her good looking friends displayed. Moreover, she was smart and witty. And he'd never seen her acting slutty. He couldn't count the number of times some girl in his class had "accidentally let something show" as she sat in front of him. He'd learned to ignore those little gifts, though he knew, even then, that his marriage was in trouble. He was aware that while candy was sweet, it was also very bad for you.

Cecelia, though, was more along the lines of fine chocolate. She was a good example of the difference between Brachs and Godiva, and while it was no problem to take a pass at Brachs, well…Godiva took a lot more self control.

Cecelia had been what he thought of as the quintessential budding woman, who had the potential to rock the world, not to mention some man's love life. He'd tried not to have sexual thoughts about her, and the few others like her, back then. It had been impossible, of course, with his sex life at home in dismal shape. She was the flower, and his subconscious male mind was the bee.

He'd been tempted on several occasions, both back then and since, particularly after Sherry had scorned him, but teaching was his life, and it wasn't worth hazarding that for some quick action with a young woman who probably had no idea what being made love to was really all about. He could get off with his hand when he needed to — no fuss, no muss, no complications.

He knew he could have climbed back on the dating roller coaster. A lot of his students were being raised by single mothers, and more than a few of them were ardent about getting to parent/teacher conferences, particularly since word got out that he was now unattached. There were hazards associated with the possibilities that raised, too. He couldn't give the appearance that he was flitting from one flower to the other, and he couldn't be sure that any of the candidates would work out for a longer term relationship.

His eyes followed movements of the young woman out in the garden, and he felt his prick twitch and begin to fill with blood. She was so delectable, and still seemed to have all the qualities she'd had when he’d admired her so much. An office romance was out of the question, of course. It wouldn't be fair to her, and it could get him in a lot of trouble. It wouldn't be legal trouble, but having enemies on the school board was never a good thing, even if they had no real right to disapprove of who he had a romantic interest in. They’d simply label it “bad judgment” and his career would be over in that district.

He saw Cecelia wander over to the big, covered hot tub under the gazebo at one end of the pool. She ran her fingertips across the cover, almost idly, and he wondered what those fingertips would feel like drifting across his skin like that. He was almost fully hard now and cursed himself under his breath for letting his imagination run wild.

She turned toward him and began walking purposefully toward the library doors. He took a deep drink of his beer and left it on the counter while he headed toward the bathroom that would have served the kitchen staff. He couldn't let her see him with his cock at full attention, saluting her desirability. He’d just made it into the little room when he heard the French doors open and then close again.

He felt trapped in the bathroom. He hadn't had a boner like this in a long time and was pretty sure the only way to get rid of it would involve some arm work. He couldn't very well do that while Cecelia was left to wander around the house.

Or could he?

He pushed the door open and stuck his head into the kitchen. Cecelia was examining the beer bottle he'd left on the counter. She looked so fine!

"Hey, nature calls," he said. "If you want to explore, feel free.” He ducked back into the bathroom and his fingers went to his belt. If he was going to have to do this, he might as well enjoy it.

Closing his eyes, he called to memory what Cecelia's blouse looked like, covering those delightfully firm looking breasts. He imagined her going into his bedroom and lying on the bed. It was July, and it was hot. She opened her blouse, fanning it to cool her skin. The bra was hot, too, so she reached under herself to unclip it. Doe eyes looked at him in his fantasy and she said, “I’m so hot. Help me, Bob.”

"Oh damn," he sighed. "This isn't going to take long at all."

Cecelia's attention went back to the bottle on the counter, when the bathroom door closed.  His lips had been on that bottle. It was for that reason, that she picked it up and took a sip.  She found the beer entirely different than anything she'd tasted before, but it sobered her. She was acting crazy, and put the bottle back down hastily.

She did go and explore, though only tentatively, at first. She felt oddly out of place, like she was sneaking around in her teacher's house. Reminding herself that she was trying to act like his peer, she went into the living room and looked around. There was a sterile kind of feel to the place and she made the assumption that he didn't spend a lot of time there. There were French doors in that room, too, that led to more gardens outside, with statuary as points of central focus. She noticed that most of the statues were nudes but didn't assign any particular relevance to it.

Moving back to the vestibule, she looked up the staircase on the side nearest her. The heels of her sensible shoes made sharp clicking noises as she climbed the stone steps. At the top, she found a hallway extending in either direction. She worked her way down the hall, peeking through doors, finding bedrooms and powder rooms that had that same sterile feel, as if they were just for show.

When she found his bedroom, it was obvious immediately. It reminded her of a college dorm room, with posters on the walls and the clutter of being lived in everywhere. She caught herself sniffing the air, as if she expected to smell locker room odors, but the only thing she sensed was a slight lemony scent.

Her eyes were drawn to one poster and she gasped as she recognized an action shot of Rick Allen, drumming one-armed, beads of sweat captured by the camera in midair as they flicked from the tips of his flying hair. It was surreal to find a Def Leppard poster on the wall of the man she'd fantasized about while listening to that band's music.

Her eyes finally drifted away from Allen's image and fell on the bed, which was unmade, the covers tossed carelessly aside when he’d last gotten up. The impression of his head was still left on the pillow. A pair of pajama bottoms had been dropped negligently on the exposed sheet. They were covered with little hearts in neon colors in a pattern she recognized as an overlaying rainbow. She couldn't help but imagine Bob, dressed only in those pajama bottoms, getting out of bed. She almost giggled as she thought of the treasure at the end of THAT rainbow. The mirth faded as she closed her eyes and the image of Bob took the bottoms off and stood up. Though covered by her eyelids, her eyeballs rolled downward to look at what her imagination had exposed.

Her eyes snapped open and she actually jumped off the floor with a shriek as someone touched her elbow.

Trying to turn, with her body in the partially opened doorway, resulted in her left elbow smacking the door frame solidly at about the same time she saw Bob take a step back, concern on his face. His "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," was almost drowned out by her cry as her funny bone complained vociferously about what she'd just done to it. It was the kind of pain that demanded she bend over and cradle the elbow in her other hand, while she whined.

She felt his hands on her shoulders and marveled that, while she was in so much pain, she could still get a little thrill at that touch.

"Are you OK?" he asked anxiously.

She raised her head, still unable to stand back up, and found herself looking right at his zipper, which wasn't quite all the way up, for some reason. Her mind was in turmoil.

"Yeah," she groaned. "I just hit my funny bone. Give me a minute."

"Why do we call it a funny bone when hitting it never seems funny?" he responded.

Her whimpers turned to laughter, and her body was suddenly released to stand. Her face was flushed and some of her hair, which had fallen forward when she bent over, remained draped across her right breast.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. "I was snooping and you caught me."

"I gave you permission to snoop," he said carelessly. "You want some ice for that elbow?"

"I don't think so," she said, rubbing it. "It feels better now."

"Good," he said.

"You have a poster of Rick Allen on your wall!" she blurted.

"Amazing guy," said Bob. "They're one of my favorite bands. Despite all kinds of tragedy, they made it big. It's a testament to their talent."

"That's MY favorite band, too!" she said, feeling her face get hot.

"Then you have excellent taste," said Bob. "Are you sure you don't need that elbow looked at?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I should probably be going home."

"I meant to ask you if you'd found a place to stay yet," said Bob.

"I'm staying with my parents until I can find my own place," she said. "My mother is ecstatic and keeps telling me there's no need to find an apartment because my student teaching only lasts three months."

"Horace might offer you a permanent position," said Bob.

"Horace?"

"Sorry.” He grinned. "Mr. Grimes to you."

"Mr. Grimes is named Horace?” Her voice rose a whole octave.

"Now you know why he goes by Mr. Grimes," said Bob, smiling. "Besides, you need more privacy than you'll get at home. What about your boyfriend? Isn't living at home going to cramp his style?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said.

Bob blinked. How could this lovely young thing not have a boyfriend? Were all young men insane? His confusion must have shown on his face, because she went on.

"I haven't had good luck with men. They're kind of a pain in the ass..." she blushed at the coarse word, but continued. "I just decided they were more trouble than they were worth."

Bob wondered if that was just her rationalization for having decided she was a lesbian. He felt something very near pain at the thought that she might have gone that way, but it wasn't any of his business.

"Hey, not a problem. Your sexual orientation makes absolutely no difference to me."

Cecelia was astonished as she saw her hand shoot out and push at his chest.

"I'm not THAT way!" she yelped. "Don't even TALK that way! My mother would have a heart attack if she heard that!"

Bob was almost ashamed at the relief he felt at finding out she hadn't given up men permanently. He reminded himself it was none of his business. "It's really none of her business either," he offered.

"My mother is an old fashioned kind of woman," said Cecelia. " She wants to be a grandma, because that's what she thinks she's supposed to be, and that’s my department. If she got the crazy idea that I like women instead of men — even though that's not true — she'd go over the edge. Don't even joke about that!"

Bob stepped back, his face suddenly serious. "You're right. I shouldn't even have brought it up. I'm sorry. I guess I still have a little difficulty adjusting to the fact that you're a grown woman. I'll work on that, I promise. And I promise never ever to mention anything even resembling your social life to your mother, should I be so fortunate as to cross paths with her again."

Cecelia was also having trouble adjusting to her change in status ... or HIS change in status, perhaps. She kept thinking of him as her teacher, rather than the man she would be working with for what would be almost three months. Still, her upbringing required that she respond appropriately, so she did.

"Thank you," she said. Then, his obvious honest contrite feelings required that she say more. "But I think you're wrong. I mean one of the reasons everybody liked you was because you treated us more like grownups than all the other teachers. You made us want to BE more grown up."

The grin that appeared on his face made her feel better.

"I know," he said. "I've always believed that if you expect the best from kids, most of them will try to give it to you. Instead of enforcing the rules, I try to make it clear I expect kids to honor them. You wouldn't believe how much hot water that's gotten me into with Horace and some of the others."

Flutters were starting to run through Cecelia's body again. This man was so attractive, and so thoughtful, that it seemed to do things to her even though she tried to fight it.

"I'd better get going," she said.

"I'll see you out," he responded.

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