Timothy Bromhead finally unjammed the lock of his office door, pulled out the key and staggered inside. He closed the door and slumped against it, eyes closed.
"Thank God, another day over with." He muttered.
He made his way across his small office to his desk, and flopped down in his rickety chair. It squeaked in protest as it took his weight. He pulled out his keys and opened his desk drawer. The whiskey bottle was almost empty but he sighed in relief as he poured an inch into his coffee mug and swallowed. St. Cuthbert's School for Girls had a strict no alcohol policy and if that old battleaxe Sister Matilda, the school principal could see him he's be out on his ear.
No biggie. He pondered how his career at the prestigious school had gone from promising to terminal in the space of a few months. Since his wife Lisa left him his heart had gone out of his work, and his work had suffered. He was now barely tolerated by the school administration. The old battleaxe was a formidable and no nonsense woman, but she had a kind soul, and had been able to find sympathy for the bruised and broken man that Lisa Bromhead had left in her wake.
He surveyed his small office solemnly. It was a typical college professor's office. Almost stereotypical. Piles of books and papers covered every available surface. The place hadn't been dusted in ages and had a faint musty odour from the old books, the leather of the old chair and ancient desk blotter, and the general staleness of the attitudes that prevailed in such places as St. Cuthbert's.
Timothy's eyes came to rest on his appointment calendar. He groaned. He had an appointment that afternoon. And worse, it was the last person in the world he wanted to see.
He had been avoiding the new girl since she'd arrived. The school was full of attractive, nubile young women dressed in the traditional Catholic girl's school uniform that seemed to be designed to drive men wild, but he had never looked at any of them in an inappropriate manner. He was the perfect gentleman and scholar. He saw the young women, with their beautiful expressive eyes, fragrant and intoxicating hair, supple bodies and tumultuous hormones as merely his students. Young people who he was charged with educating. And that was it. That is, until Emma Hamilton. She had arrived a week ago and was in two of his classes. She stirred something in him that he thought had been lost forever when his wife left. Throughout the lessons his gaze was continually drawn to her. He found himself stumbling over his words as he addressed the class because he couldn't drag his thoughts away from her. He was a decent man, and he wouldn't allow himself to entertain the ideas that popped into his head whenever he looked at her. He was also a man who had been hurt, and much of his ability to trust, and feel warmth or affection to a woman had been lost.
On two occasions the young Ms. Hamilton had approached him after class. He had stood defensively before her, trying to look her in the eyes and not let his gaze travel down to her chest. She'd prattled on, for what seemed an eternity about how much she enjoyed the class, and so forth and blah blah. He barely heard a word she said. It's not that he didn't appreciate the sentiment, it was just that when she was near him he felt like he was standing in front of a furnace and someone had left the door open. He felt heat travel to his groin and his cock, ever the betrayer would stir uncomfortably against his trousers and his heart beat furiously until finally, she finished whatever it was she was saying, smiled and turned away. He summoned all his will power to not look at her bottom as it wiggled away, but failed.
Then there had been the time she accosted him after school in the hallway. It was deserted as he made his way along it but she'd popped out of nowhere and he was unable to avoid her. She'd smiled at him and told him how fascinating she'd found his lecture that afternoon. There was something in the way she'd looked at him. Her eyes burning into his, and periodically travelling up and down his body. Eyeing him unabashed. Then he had nervously cracked some lame joke and she had giggled and touched his arm. She couldn't possibly be flirting with me, could she? He thought. Then she touched his arm again. Oh God, she is flirting with me! The thought screamed in his head. Practically on the verge of panic he was actually planning to turn and literally run away from the girl, but thankfully she said her goodbyes and sauntered away. Again his eyes would not be torn away from her ample bottom and he silently cursed his weakness.
So he avoided her as best he could. He had been quite successful until she'd made an appointment to see him. He'd planned to weasel out of it by not going back to his office after classes, or get his friend Clifford to take his appointments for the afternoon. But he had forgotten.
The thought occurred that he might be able to slip away still, but at that precise moment there was a knock at the door.
"Damn." He hissed.
He quickly grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table and threw it back in the drawer. Just as he slammed it shut, his door opened and Emma Hamilton poked her head in and said, "Hello professor, may I come in."
"Yes, come in Ms. Hamilton." He croaked.
She smiled, stepped into the room and made her way to the chair opposite his desk. He couldn't help notice that she'd closed the office door and he sighed in dismay. He did not feel comfortable being alone with her.
His eyes surveyed her as she approached him. From her dark curly hair, to her sparkling blue eyes, her ample breasts that jiggled slightly as she walked, her robust hips, her stout and shapely legs. It took him a minute to realise she was standing there, looking at him expectantly. Then he saw the piles of books on the only other chair in the office and suddenly understood.
"Oh let me get those." He blurted, embarrassed that she'd caught him ogling her, and launched himself to his feet. He walked around the desk and scooped up the books so she could sit down. As he towered over her he was painfully aware of how close she was to him. There was that now familiar heat that seemed to engulf him. He looked down at her sheepishly and smiled. She returned the smile, beaming up at him. Completely of their own volition his eyes darted down to the top of her shirt and her cleavage. He couldn't' help notice that her two top buttons were undone and that she wasn't wearing a bra.
He turned away, flushing with embarrassment. He dropped the pile of books on floor and perched himself on the corner of his desk. He snatched a glance at her as she sat down and noticed her pleated, tartan skirt seemed to be shorter than the other girls. She had apparently raised the hemline. A good ways at that. Her legs were exposed high up the thigh as she sat and crossed her legs. He suddenly felt quite foolish in his own deathly unfashionable clothes. His threadbare blazer with it's leather patches on the elbows not only looked as if it had belonged to his grandfather, it actually had. His green corduroys looked politely 1940s. His whole appearance was the epitome of the bumbling English professor. His wispy, sandy coloured hair and thick rimmed glasses only added to the impression of a stuffy and repressed academic.
"Well Ms. Hamilton, what can I do for you?" He managed.
She looked at him for a moment and then, quite unexpectedly said "What is it about those old blazers that's so sexy?"
Oh God, this can't be happening. She was flirting with him again.
She fixed him with a gaze that could have melted stone and for several long seconds he found he was unable to look away. Then he again allowed his eyes to ravish her. Her cute face, and full lips. Her body, plump, voluptuous he supposed was the appropriate word. And her breasts. Oh god her breasts. He could see them straining proudly against the white cotton of her shirt. Her nipples were clearly visible.
Timothy knew what was happening, and what probably would happen if he didn't find some way to put a stop to it.
"Miss Hamilton." He breathed, his voice thick with urgency, or was it lust? "We really shouldn't be doing this."
"Doing what Professor?" She replied and swooped gracefully to her feet, stepping toward him. "We're not doing anything, are we?"
He wanted to move away from her but found his legs had lost all their strength. "Ms. Hamilton, P...Please..."
"Yes Professor?" She cooed, and pressed herself against him. "Oh and call me Emma."
