Respect Is Earned Respect Is Given

"How much more can go wrong?" My hands are tied, knotted together behind my back in a chair and my ill-conceived attempt at revenge looks to land me in jail. And this is just the latest event in a steady slide toward oblivion. Just three weeks ago I was making plans with my live-in girlfriend to be in Chicago this very weekend for a Valentine's get-away and then a week later she dumps me and moves out. Last month it was me losing my job after my company suddenly declared it was bankrupt.

Now I'm being held captive in someone's hotel room. The woman holding me has her flashlight pointing directly at my eyes and I barely see her silhouette. I didn't get a good look at her a few minutes ago, either, when she hit me with her fist. A good punch, too, right between the eyes, and I remember staggering back, hitting my head against something hard and falling into this chair. The next thing I know, she's tied my hands behind my back with what I think is pantyhose. I can feel the knot give but it's not letting go.

So you might ask, am I some kind of creep for sneaking into this expensive hotel room? The dark comedy that has become my life is passing before my eyes. On my own at 18, I paid my way through college with the help of scholarships, then worked hard for eight years in my first job only to see my company fold after my boss mismanaged it into the shitter. Then my girlfriend moves out on me. Said there was no future for us with me unemployed and then after a pretty good final argument, she left me with "Besides, you don't know what to do with that big dumb dick anyway." Jeez, since when did having a big dick become a drawback, for chrissake?

I moped for maybe a week but then knew I had to get off my ass and start rebuilding my life so rather than think about the past, I updated my resume and reconnected to my old network. Which actually leads to where I am now in this chair because earlier tonight I had a dinner meeting at this Hilton to talk about a job opportunity.

Dinner went okay, a good lead for sure, but I needed a drink afterwards and headed for the hotel bar. On the way, though, I ran into my former boss. The one who bankrupted his company. Apparently he was just fine. "I'm staying here this weekend with my wife for Valentine's Day," he said. "Maybe you and Ann can join us sometime soon for dinner?" I should have just made an excuse, but I explained that Ann and I had gone our separate ways without explaining why. "That's a tough break. Makes for a lonely Valentine's Day," he said. "But you're a survivor." No thanks to you, prick, I thought as I walked on.

After watching some basketball and downing enough Highland Park to make me numb, it was half past eleven and I knew it was time to go. I paid my tab, left more tip than I could afford and headed for the parking lot. I took off down a hall past some of the hotel rooms rather than cut across the atrium, and it was there in a hallway where I embarked on my short-lived career of sneaking into hotel rooms. First, a hotel employee at the far end of the hall dropped something. I bent over to pick it up when I got there and it appeared to be a master room card. I tried to get his attention but by then he was passing through a door marked Employees Only.

What happened next showed that my thinking was seriously impaired. I take the blame, though, and give the single malt a pass.

Behind me I heard a door slam and turned to see a handsome woman going the other way down the hall. She must not have seen me, but I was sure it was my ex-boss's wife. She was maybe in her early 50s and as always, she looked good from the rear. She had often come by the office during better times and I was sure it was her.

I stood there for a moment, the master door card in my hand, when common sense left me. I looked around and saw no one in the hall so I swiped the card through the card reader for her room. The light turned green and I stepped into my ex-boss's hotel room!

Let me state for the record that I'm certainly not one for theft but I figured a little mischief against my former boss might be satisfying. Back when I was working my way through college I once peed in my supervisor's coffee cup after he made me really mad. Maybe I could find their toothbrushes!

I was standing there in the dark room still considering my options, though, when I heard the door opening behind me. I was trapped and I knew I was in big trouble.

"Who the fuck are you?" she said. I was speechless in my predicament and that's when she took a step forward and clocked me. Straight and short with plenty of leverage was how she snapped her punch and in my astonishment I fell back into the chair I'm currently in and saw stars.

It took me a bit to regain my wits and by then she had tied my wrists behind me. "This is all a big mistake!" I said.

Just how big of a mistake it was became clear when she spoke again. It wasn't my ex-boss's room and this wasn't my ex-boss's wife! "Damn right it's a big mistake," she said. "Your mistake. How'd you get in here?"

I plead with her. "Please don't call security." And so for the next five minutes, I tell her my story. The whole story, except for Ann's parting comment. Girlfriend leaving me; a boss screwing me. A misguided attempt at revenge. Her flashlight never leaves eye.

I'm met with a long silence until she remarks "You never once looked away while telling me your story. I'm a junior high teacher and I learned a long time ago to tell when a boy is lying."

There's another pause before she continues.

"I think you might just be telling the truth, but you're still in one hell of a mess. And also. . . if you are telling the truth, you have one twisted sense of humor." While she remains silent I have visions about the back seat of a police car.

She starts again.

"I could call security and you'd be arrested in a flash even if you are telling the truth."

Even though I can't see her face, she has a nice voice. I relax just a little. She speaks confidently and clearly like she's used to being in charge. She said she was a junior high teacher? I can't see her at all but something about her makes me remember my 8th grade homeroom teacher. She was the teacher who helped me get my academic life pointed in the right direction, toward what I thought was to be a big career in business. A career that had since bought a sleeping berth on the Titanic.

Irrationally, the memories I have of my 8th grade teacher take over for the moment. I had a big crush on her even though she probably was in her 50's. She said back then to me that she had taught for thirty years. I can still remember the smell of her perfume.

I squirm in the chair.

She asks what I'm doing. "Is there some problem here? I really don't like students who squirm in their seats and I suggest you stop, too. Or are you seeing if you can loosen the knots I've tied?"

I tell her, "I'm just a little uncomfortable. Guess I'm not used to being tied up."

She says with a bit of a snort, "Well, I'm not used to tying up people, either, although I think I rather like the control. Too bad this is unacceptable at school. Then again, I've also never had the option of calling the police to have a student taken away like I could with you."

"Tell me, Mr. Unlucky, if that is what I can call you, what kind of student were you in junior high?"

I wonder where this is going but I know I am in no position to bargain. "In 7th grade I was pretty much a goofball and a pain in the butt. But in 8th grade I changed. My 8th grade homeroom teacher was awesome. She taught language arts and reading. She'd read out loud to us and I'd imagine that it was just me and her alone in the classroom. I learned everything from her about how to pay attention and how to do homework."

I hesitate but then ask, "Maybe you should turn on a light? That flashlight is going to run out of batteries."

"The batteries are fresh enough. Besides you don't need to see me, I just need to see you." I cannot put it out of my mind how much she sounds like my 8th grade teacher.

I venture a question. "What do you teach?"

She answers but not right away. "Before I answer any more questions, I'm thinking that we should remain anonymous to each other so I'm not going to share details about my job much less my name. That way if I choose to let you go, neither of us is the wiser about the other. No strings attached, as it were. But let's just say that your former teacher and I share some things in common."

She continues. "So here's the situation for you and me as I see it. I could call the front desk and you'll be arrested but maybe you've had enough bad luck. But perhaps you never learned the lesson that people make their own good luck and bad luck, too. As for me, I'm only staying here tonight because it's close to the airport. I have an early flight in the morning to meet my husband for Valentine's Day. Knowing that much about me won't do you any good because there's probably twenty outbound flights before 7 a.m,. Pity your girlfriend left you high and dry this of all weekends. She must must be a bitch. Trust me, you're better off without her." She paused. "In the meantime, I need to figure out what to do with you tonight. I could just let you go, but maybe you're actually a sociopath. I could just call the police but that complicates my night, too. I need to think this over. I was just on my way to the bar to have a drink but came back to get my shawl. So I'm going to get that drink while I come up with a plan." She steps past me. Somewhere behind me I hear her open a suitcase. When she comes back, she says "open wide" and stuffs a pair of silk panties into my mouth. Then she yanks my belt out of my pants and ties my ankles. "Interesting situation we've got here," she says before leaving.

When the door shuts, I am plunged into darkness. Time passes slowly as I sit there. The whisky makes me sleepy and I doze off uneasily. I try to break loose but the bindings around my wrists only get tighter. I wonder how long it has been since she left. I wonder what time the hotel bar closes. What in the hell am I going to do?

It may be more than an hour later when I hear the door start to open. I grow anxious that she's brought hotel security with her but she is alone. Framed briefly by the light from the hall I only see her outlined for a second but I think with those cheekbones she must be pretty. I know she looked great from the back when I saw her in the hall. I guess that she must be about 5'7". Her hair is not long but not short, either, I remember it as being something blond, and I can also tell she wears glasses. She is carrying a purse and the shawl she came back for is draped over her shoulders. It's clear, too, that she has a nice shape.

Once the door is closed she clicks the lock shut and throws the deadbolt. Once more the flashlight knifes through the dark. "You poor baby," she coos, "you've still got my panties stuffed in your mouth." I hear her set down her purse and other belongings. There must be a desk somewhere to my left. "I've made some decisions. Less than four hours from now a driver is taking me to the airport. Thank goodness I can sleep on the plane. When I leave, I'll let you go. Is that acceptable?"

With her panties in my mouth I can only nod yes but I do it with enthusiasm! She steps closer and asks "Cat got your tongue?" Then without warning she slaps me fairly hard and after that punch she delivered earlier I have no doubt she is reminding me that she still is in charge. I react with surprise and she giggles a little like she enjoyed it. "In my classroom, students who misbehave are subject to my rules and I never play favorites. A student or D student, I make it clear that I expect everyone to follow the rules." But then she leans forward and lowers her voice. "Once you serve your punishment, though, I can forgive." She kisses me lightly on my cheek where she slapped me. Her lips are warm, moist. I smell gin on her breath.

If the slap, the kiss and her words aren't enough to make me wonder what I've gotten myself into, my mind really starts to race when I realize she is resting a hand on my thigh.

"So Mr. Unlucky, I believe that actions between consenting adults require no explanation. And in your predicament, I think you will consent to just about anything, or you can consent to me calling the front desk for security. But, if you do consent, then maybe I'll change your name from Mr. Unlucky to Mr. Valentine. Appropriate, no?" She steps away from me but not before her fingertips have drifted upward toward my crotch.

She had drawn close enough that I could feel her breath warm on my neck. I inhale deeply and notice her perfume. Against all odds, I am sure it is the same perfume that I remember my 8th grade teacher wore!

She says, "You mentioned before your 8th grade teacher. Sounds as if you liked her." She switches off the flashlight and tosses it for the moment on the bed. Without its distraction, the room turns darker and the fantasy more vivid. The smell of her perfume, the manner in which she addresses me, what little I actually know about her and last but certainly not least her hand on my thigh are catalysts for a full-fledged mental return to 8th grade wet dreams.

Now my cock, the cock that my ex-girlfriend had rejected because it was "too big", stirs in earnest, growing thicker by the moment. One of her hands is again on my thigh and my penis begins to reach down by pant leg toward her fingertips. "What is this?" she asks. She opens her hand and spreads her palm to measure me. "Apparently you're hung like a horse but you're alone on Valentine's? What's wrong with younger women these days?"

We again return to silence. Even though the room is very dark I sense that she is a little agitated or even nervous. I can tell she is standing in front of me but I'm searching for clues as to what might happen next. She picks up the flashlight again and shines it once more at me. "I'm going to remove my panties from your mouth but I expect you to remain quiet unless I ask you to talk. Do we have an agreement?" Once more I nod yes.

She pulls the panties free of my mouth and I let out a gasp. "Water?" she says and I nod yes yet again.

She and the flashlight disappear into the bathroom. I hear the water run. "Where IS this going?" I wonder to myself. When she rounds the corner, she again aims the flashlight at me but this time it is so I can take a sip from the glass she is holding to my lips.

"I want to see you a little more clearly and the flashlight is just awkward," she says while stepping past me. I hear her open the room's curtains. Half-light filters into the room from outside. Not enough for me to see with real clarity but the features and dimensions of the room are easy to judge. The bed is behind me and I sense she is sitting there on the edge. "Tell me, did you get along well with your teachers?"

I begin quietly to talk. "Most of the time," I began, "but I did especially if they were pretty or could teach me something that interested me. If they were both, I got a crush. Like with my 8th grade teacher that I told you about. I really was going nowhere until I was in her class. Of everything she taught me, probably the most important lesson was that I had to earn respect and to do that, I had to take pride in my work. I had such a crush on her that when she'd stay after school to grade papers, I would find excuses to stop by and ask if she needed help." I decide to take a chance and tell her just how big of a crush I had. "By the time I'd finish cleaning her chalkboards I'd be delirious from being so close to her, alone in the classroom. Most of the time I'd get a hardon while my back was to her and I'd have to wait for it go down before I could turn around and tell her I was leaving. She had the cleanest chalkboards in town."

"One day, even, she asked me to get a map off the wall and I had to stand on a ladder. She stood behind me to steady the ladder and when it wobbled a bit, she also put a hand on my hip. I thought I was going to cum in my pants. I think that was when I started to realize that I was pretty endowed even in the 8th grade because when I got down off the ladder I couldn't hide my hardon and for just a split second her eyes opened in surprise and I saw her give a little smile. But there never were any hints that she was leading me on, then or any other time. I went back to visit her several times over the years, the last time when I was close to graduating from college. By then she was ready to retire but I still thought she looked great. That was ten years ago."

She says to me, "It makes me feel good to hear that. Too many students today think respect is a birthright when it's actually something you have to earn." Then she chuckled while adding,"I've always known I've had a lasting impact on some former students but I thought the crushes fade. By the way you talk, it appears some do not. It certainly never has been my intention to create such a situation but I've noticed that many of the male students who have come back to see me I thought once had crushes on me. It's a little flattering."

We sit in silence for a few minutes before I hear her let out a big sigh and then get up from the bed. Cast on the wall before me I can see her shadow. I recall vividly my 8th grade teacher and the crush I had on her. It has been years since I had these thoughts but I wonder once again what my 8th grade teacher looked like naked. Once upon a time I had spent hours thinking about that.

Meanwhile I very faintly hear the sound of a zipper slowly being pulled followed by the soft plop of clothes dropping to the floor. I assume she is changing clothes but with me in the room and I'm actually a little embarrassed because I can watch the shadow of her undressing.

"Do you know, Mr. Valentine, because that is your new name, that in literature there are various characters who also are named Valentine. You do like to read, don't you?" I don't answer right away and she calls to me again. "Mr. Valentine, I'm talking to you," she says.

I turn my head in her direction and she is approaching, illuminated by the light from the window. Her skin appears pale and almost ghost-like. And I can see all of her skin because except for her high heels, she is naked.

"Do I have your full attention now, Mr. Valentine?" and I whisper definitely, oh yes. "I'd like for us to talk some more. In particular I want to ask you some questions about your namesake. Maybe they will help you to pay attention and help me assess your character."

She stretches out a hand to touch me and when I stiffen, she tells me to relax. Her fingertips start to sensually trace figure-eights on my skin, first below my ear and then into the curls of hair that run down to the nape of my neck. I look at her in awe and want to lean forward and suck on her nipples. Her other hand slides down my chest and finds my hardening cock through my pants.

"Mr. Valentine, I do appear to have your full attention!" she exclaims in mock surprise while she massages my cock until it becomes long and hard.

"That must be quite painful, a dick like that confined in your pants. What, it must be eight or maybe even nine inches long, and thick, too. Your girlfriend walked away from that?" She keeps her hold on it.

"I think you'd be more comfortable if I'd pull it out of your pants for you, but I think it's a privilege that you have to earn. Tell you what, I'm going to ask you three questions about other characters named Valentine and for each correct answer, I'll let a little more out."

"First question, and I'll make this an obvious one. Was there really a St. Valentine?"

I'm in luck, ironically, because when my ex-girlfriend and I were planning our now defunct romantic getaway, we had actually looked this up. "Yes," I answer, "third century Roman."