Friday Night 27

Samantha Monroe stepped over to the fur rug before the crackling fire in her large but sparsely furnished bedroom in the western tower of the boarding school where she taught. The old stone walls sucked the heat from the room, but the large fireplace, a remnant of what used to be the kitchen of a country knight's manor, contributed some warmth on the coldest nights. She had shrugged off her severe suit jacket and with it the worries and concerns of her day, relinquishing for the weekend her ever-exasperating job of attempting to ignite in the minds of her students the same passion for English literature that burned in her's. As she savored the feeling of the soft white fur under her feet and the crackling heat of the fire on her skin, Samantha unzipped her high-waisted black pants and smoothly stepped out of them. She took her time unbuttoning the back of her ivory silk shirt, letting her fingers trail softly up her spine before she pulled it over her head and tossed it on the floor with her pants and shoes. On Fridays she dressed up a little, in part to celebrate the end of the week, but also because it felt so good to strip everything off at the end of the day and revel in the feeling of her bare skin against the white fur of the rug. She repeated this ritual most Fridays, unless she went out with some of the other teachers to the nearby pub for a round or two of drinks. Since leaving her fiancé and moving to the school, nestled on the outskirts of a tiny village, she had had only one date, a blind date with the son of the postmistress which had ended with her getting dropped off early so he could go meet some friends on World of Warcraft. Needless to say, she had been deprived of sex for so long that even the promise of the Friday night routine was something that carried her through even the most trying class period during the week.

Now in nothing but her workaday cotton underthings, Sam left the protective circle of warmth and went to the armoire that served as dresser and closet. From a small drawer inside, she withdrew a pink lace thong and a pink teddy. These she traded for her white panties and bra, revealing the swell of her breasts and the silhouette of her slim waist. She felt sexy. And more pressingly, horny.

Returning to the fireside, she knelt on the rug, ran her hands through the fur, admired the play of the firelight on her long legs. She took her favorite lotion from her nightstand and massaged it into her skin, letting all of her stress dissipate as the smell of cinnamon and vanilla filled the room, bringing with it memories of snow days and Christmas. The feeling of her own skin, warm and incredibly smooth, made her stomach tighten. Sam let her mind drift to a well-worn fantasy, a dream she built onto on the cold winter nights, alone in front of the fire. In her mind she was an aristocratic lady, perhaps fleeing her cruel husband, sailing for Barbados where she might find her long-lost brother. Alone on the ship, she was protected by the captain, a lean, bronzed man, with worldly eyes and strong arms. One night―to make sure she was safe, no doubt―he came to her cabin, only to find her undressed. Overcome by lust, he would grab her forcefully and crush her to his chest―

Sam's hand snaked down her taut stomach and toyed with the waistband of her thong, letting her fingers skim over the carefully manicured strip of hair. She could feel the fabric between her legs getting soaked. As the sex-crazed captain turned her around and pushed her against the wall of the cabin, Sam decided she might want some toys on hand. She went to the small drawer in her armoire again to find―suddenly she heard a noise and whipped around.

Standing there, his mouth open was Elliot, one of her students.

"Ms. Monroe! I'm so sorry... The door was open and I had a question..." He had turned and was moving quickly to the small office connecting her room to the front door of her quarters. "I'm sorry... I―I'll leave it until later." Sam blushed furiously and snatched a robe out of the open armoire. No matter how much she regretted his appearance, her first priority was her job, and her students would always come first.

"Wait, Elliot! I'm sorry, I was just... getting ready for bed. Let me put on my robe. I'll be in my office in a minute."

When she walked through the stone archway to her office, she saw Elliot standing uncomfortably by the door. "I'm sorry I didn't knock, Ms. Monroe. I saw your door was open and I though maybe you were having office hours or something. Since I wasn't in class today, I just assumed―" he broke off.

"No, of course. I know I sometimes have office hours at odd times for students who are too busy with extra-curriculars. Did you have a question?" She tightened the tie of her robe for emphasis, wishing it wasn't quite so short. If the headmaster came by now, she might be in trouble. Elliot's eye was drawn to her waist, and by extension, her legs. He had never seen so much skin revealed by the normally severe English teacher. He blushed and met her eye again.

"I was just hoping you could tell me what we covered in class today. Maybe the general gist of the discussion. I did the reading in

Romeo and Juliet

, but I want to be prepared for the final. I can go, if you want to... go to bed." Despite his obvious discomfort, there was a sparkle in his eye which suggested he suspected her actual plans once he left.

"No, no―it's fine! Absolutely, I was just―today―today we covered the exile of Romeo and the scene after, um, Romeo and Juliet have consummated their marriage." Samantha wasn't sure why her throat had gone dry. She had led an in depth discussion of the scene only hours earlier. She was suddenly very aware of her delicate position. Here she was, at night in her own private office, dressed in a short but thankfully fluffy robe, discussing a Shakespearean sex scene with one of her male students―and a very attractive one at that. "We were," she continued, "discussing the possible interpretations of the entire act―Act III, that is. It was more of a technical discussion, as some of the students had some trouble understanding some parts. I was hoping to go deeper, but maybe Monday's class on Act IV will yield a more

thoughtful

conversation." Elliot had obviously just showered and his light chestnut hair was slicked back, though a strand would fall into his eyes from time to time and he would brush it back. The top two buttons of his shirt were open to reveal a gold medal, but in the dim light of her office, she couldn't tell what it was. She realized her eyes were lingering a little too long on the broad expanse of his chest and darted up to meet his eyes. As they stood for a moment in silence, Elliot nodding his head thoughtfully, Sam remarked to herself again what arresting eyes he had. They were icy blue, the kind that seem to flash and burn, almost corrosive eyes. She had noticed before in class, of course, but in the evening with the distant dancing of the fire and the low lights of her office, his eyes had a new depth. Elliot gave her a disarming smile and she flushed again.

"Well, if that's all, I guess I'll just reread that section to make sure I understand and then finish up the play. It's tragic, but I love the ending. Three deaths and then reconciliation. I've seen the play performed," he added for the benefit of her brief confusion.

"It's a little cliche, but it's really my favorite of Shakespeare's plays. Burning infatuation, passionate love, and a combination of murder and suicide."

"Death and sex," Elliot smiled. "Literature's favorite subjects." He was more comfortable now, engaged in conversation with his teacher. She was leaning against her desk, and he noticed the slight shift that left her legs crossed when he said the word "sex". He was aware of the potential danger of the situation, but he enjoyed seeing his teacher squirm a little. She was generally relentless and expected near perfection from her students; he had never seen her in such an exposed state―both physically and (mentally). And he couldn't forget the moment when he had walked in to find her bent over a drawer, the rosy half moons of her ass peeking out from under the gauzy fabric of what looked like a teddy. And the peek of round flesh when she turned to see him. He suddenly realized he had to get out of the room before his arousal became... evident. Sam bit her lower lip at looked up at him through her eyelashes, an absolutely unconscious movement on her part; she was getting nervous, and even worse, it was making her even more wet. Elliot was too close. He was radiating heat and the smell of some spicy soap. She had been interrupted at the wrong moment, and she had been so close her body was nearly vibrating. The silence was extending dangerously and Sam moved to fill it.

"I'd pay particular attention to the death scene because I think I'd like to analyze the use of the elements of misinterpretation and misrepresentation as they pertain to the interaction of the characters. And, like I said, I'd really like to engage in a much deeper exploration of the subject during our next class period." Elliot raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, that sounds great. I mean, we never seem to fully penetrate the layers of meaning Shakespeare intended. He was such a master of symbolism and... innuendo." Elliot was aware he had crossed a line, but he had crossed it gently and seemingly innocently. Ms. Monroe's sharp look told him he had hit his mark. But he wouldn't be able to continue the conversation much longer: his teacher's robe was loosening slightly, revealing a glimpse of cleavage. The thought of his proper English teacher sitting in front of him in lingerie was too much for his body to overcome. And the way she blushed at his glance made him want to move closer, just to see what would happen.

"Well, Ms. Monroe, it's getting late. I'll let you get back to your―evening." Sam rose, rather abruptly, but she had expected him to step back. They were suddenly inches from each other. He heard her breath hitch and felt the blood rush out of his head and into his cock. He quickly excused himself before she could notice, but a quick glance backwards to offer a "good night" over his shoulder revealed to him a small, sticky wet spot on the desk. He rushed to his room, being careful to avoid anyone else in the halls.

Sam released a breath she'd been holding for what felt like minutes. She was shaking, nervous and craving release. She breathed in deeply, held it in, released it and locked her door, feeling as if she'd just been slapped. Or spanked. Flushed and confused and dripping wet. She shook her head to get the vision of Elliot's eyes out of her head before she turned back to the flickering fire. She took the vibrator from her drawer and, kneeling on the rug, felt both the rush of heat from the flames and from the vibrator which she plunged into her pussy. With her left hand she pumped the vibrating purple plastic shaft in and out while the fingers of her right hand toyed with her clit. She couldn't stop thinking about Elliot, has hands running through his wet hair, and now across her skin, down her belly, skimming over the hills and valleys of her body. He had become the man pushing her against the wall, turning her in his hands, taking her body.

Fuck. Fuck me, come on. I'm cumming. Fuck me, Elliot―fuck, I'm cumming―

Elliot closed his eyes, following the curves of his teacher's body, the long smooth legs, imagining the place where they met, wet and hot. He stroked his cock, running his palm over the head as he remembered her hitched breath and the jiggle of her flesh, pushed up by her bra, revealed as her robe fell open centimeter by centimeter. He was so close, so close. She'd been so wet, it must have been running down her legs as she stood―so close―if only he could have pushed her over the lacquered wood of the desk and sunk his fingers into her.

Fuck. Ms. Monroe, fuck.

He moaned as his cum erupted, hot and sticky onto his sheets. He wouldn't be able to face her Monday...

Monday morning, Sam dressed as conservatively as she could, desperate to regain control of the situation. Not that there was really a situation, just a moment of indiscretion. Still, she wore a pair of wide-leg black pants and and thick cable-knit sweater. Her hair she pulled back in a smooth, severe bun and applied enough makeup to make her look her 28 years. She would lead the discussion in Elliot's class; she wouldn't look at him any more than normal. It would be fine.

Elliot walked into the classroom with a group of friends, laughing at something. He shot a glance in her direction but didn't linger when she looked up and caught his eye. He sat at a desk in the back of the classroom, closest to the door and behind all of his friends. He cast an eye warily around. Sam started her lecture; he shifted to get comfortable. She was so concentrated on the task at hand that she forgot Elliot's presence for a quarter of an hour. Elliot, for his part, was painfully aware of his lecturing teacher. He couldn't stop staring at her, following the two round globes of her bottom and the shift of her breasts under her shirt. She hadn't meant it to happen, he was sure, but when she wrote on the board, she stood on her tip-toes, accentuating the curve of her ass and revealing an inch or two of skin between her sweater and the waistband. Ten minutes into class and he already had a hard-on.

Shit

. Maybe it would go away. Maybe if he could get out of class without anyone noticing, he could go jerk off in the bathroom. When Ms. Monroe started drawing an important chart of character relationships on the whiteboard, he grabbed the bathroom pass and snuck out the door. He walked gingerly through the stone corridor to the boy's bathroom on the floor. Everyone else was in class, and there was only one other classroom on this floor. With luck, no one would come in for a few minutes. Elliot slammed the door of the stall closed behind him and sank back against it. He whipped off his belt and sank his right hand into his boxers briefs. He replayed for the fourth time his teacher's shocked surprise when he walked into her room. He suddenly wondered what she'd been reaching for in the small drawer of her wardrobe. If only he could find out. He imagined her withdrawing a thick glass dildo, teasing her entrance with the cold head, working it in and out and in and out and harder and faster. He came as his back slammed against the door. It had only been a few minutes; just enough time was left to avoid suspicion. Now if he could only be sure he would be able to make it through the rest of the class without having to come back.

Sam saw Elliot sneak back into class, running his fingers nervously through his hair. He took his seat, legs spread apart as he sank back, trying to catch the flow of the lecture. She lost her train of thought as she noticed his arms through his oxford shirt. He was incredibly handsome; astonishing that she'd never noticed it before. He was taller than her and well-muscled―a strong, healthy... kid. While legally adult, in reality he seemed so young. She blinked and continued, trying to push the image of his naked torso out of her head. She cursed herself silently for getting so side-tracked by a student. Her

student,

for Christ's sake! She had plenty of other students, and all she felt for them was concern that they would finally understand what she was trying to tell them, that literature was a pure art, that it could open their eyes and their minds and take them higher than they thought they could be brought. But isn't that just what she wanted to show Elliot?

Only with my body,

she thought. As she wrapped up the discussion, she thought,

four and a half more days until Friday night. You can make it, Sam!

Monday night passed in a frenzy of paper corrections and melted into Tuesday morning. Tuesday slid by, her honors course struggling through

Evangeline

and her own body struggling to stay calm faced with the next day. On Wednesday she had Elliot in class again. Again that morning, she dressed as conservatively as possible. A purple wool trapeze dress, thick black tights, and flat boots would serve to hide her curves and any other hint of sexiness. She wouldn't be able to stay in her classroom, much less finish her lecture, if Elliot looked at her with that faintly malicious glimmer in his eye. It was a look she had begun dreaming of, dreams which left her restless and tired in the mornings and, if possible, less satisfied than the night before.

Elliot had reread the last Act of

Romeo and Juliet

carefully in anticipation of their last discussion of the play before moving on to Hamlet. He breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the class and noticed the generous proportions of his teacher's dress. Maybe he'd have more luck making it through the class.

Ms. Monroe began her lecture, explaining the symbolism throughout the play and how it related to other Shakespeare plays of the same genre.

"Now the the last act is a really heart-wrenching part of the story. Shakespeare goes so far as to inspire the Prince to remark, 'For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.' I'd like to discuss today the relationship between Romeo and Juliet. Do you think they were really in love? Or was it a clear case of juvenile infatuation? There are many other stories in this same vein, where 'star-crossed' lovers enter into, and fulfill, a suicide pact. What do you think of their motivations? Can you imagine being in their position? Danny, do you have an idea?"

Danny coughed. "I think it's just really intense infatuation, although it's also not entirely, um, sexual, as might be the case for a lot of really young couples."

"Absolutely. You have to keep in mind that these characters are in their early teens, really just entering adolescence. Can kids that young really know their own minds―and more importantly, their own hearts?"

Maisie rose her hand. "I think it's really beautiful, the way they commit to each other and have that much follow-through. And their infatuation, or whatever it is, is really multi-dimensional. Like Danny said, it's not just sex, but real affection."

Elliot spoke up as Maisie paused. "I think Shakespeare wanted to hint that the couple was more intimate than that. He was constantly making what are effectively sex jokes. When Juliet finds Romeo dead, she kills herself by stabbing her heart with a dagger, which a lot of scholars have remarked is a very clear metaphor for sex. The dagger is a very phallic instrument." He looked directly at Ms. Monroe with wide eyes, as if simply searching for her opinion on his analysis.

"Very good, Elliot." Her breath was caught for a moment as he felt his name leave her lips. It felt like a dangerous reply to his escalation of the situation. "It's also crucial to consider that even in his most tragic moments, Shakespeare is capable of evoking much bawdier subjects. What bearing do you imagine it has on our perception of the relationship between Juliet and her husband?" Sam marveled at her sang-froid. Those piercing blue eyes were a dagger in themselves, piercing her, she feared, in other places than her heart.

God, I want him so bad. I want to be pinned under that body―I want his young skin against mine.

A light flush blossomed across her cheeks. She glanced down and saw the corner of Elliot's mouth turn up. He must suspect what she was thinking. Uh-oh.

After class, Elliot left without looking at her. He spent that night working on an essay due the next day, cursing his English teacher for appearing from time to time, bending over her little drawer, revealing just a thin strip of fabric disappearing between her legs. It was the hardest evening he had spent in a long time. Thursday was uneventful and slow, dragging on in anticipation of Friday. Elliot wondered what Ms. Monroe would be wearing, whether she would continue her quest to cover every inch of her body in his presence or whether she would let slip a little window of soft, creamy skin.