Some had said he'd been mad to take the job at the public prep school. Sure, he had a PhD, but he didn't need to see his name in print, and he didn't need the pressure of getting it there. The money was decent, the rhythm suited his lifestyle, and the students were highly intelligent and largely disciplined in this selective all-girls' school.
Others, all male friends not surprisingly, thought it was a great idea. They thought of him surrounded by nubile females every day and their imaginations ran wild. He had to admit that some days it could be trying. He was one of only a handful of male teachers – all married, all over 40 – but he was the youngest at 44. The hormones floating around and the looks some of the girls gave him were overpowering sometimes. But you'd have to be nuts to act on it – you'd lose your job and never get another one. In his five years in his post, he had successfully avoided even a whiff of trouble. That was about to change.
She was a senior, and her skirt was exceptionally short, even by the standards of the uniform. She had amazing legs, he had noted to himself in a detached way. It helped if you imagined the legs unattached to the rest of the body. That way you could safely fantasize about them without getting a hard-on every time you saw the girl in question.
The problem with this one was that she did not look at him adoringly like the others. She looked at him in a whole other way. A way that said she knew the effect she had on men; a way that was not comparable to the other girls who had simply found a handy focus for their overactive hormones. When she was in class, he didn't walk around the room as he usually did, but took care to stay well behind the high table. Just in case.
Tonight, he'd gone with some of his buddies to a bar in a small town some thirty miles away. He had been surprised, and somewhat alarmed, to see her there when they walked through the door. Apparently she worked there, judging from the tray she was carrying around. And - Christ! - she was wearing denim shorts that were cut so high you could appreciate every inch of those fine, fine legs, and some of her ass too. He swallowed and suggested to his friends that they take a seat in the part of the room that another girl seemed to be working.
All went well for a couple of hours. He and his friends talked baseball and politics and women – the usual guy talk – and he had almost forgotten that she was there. Almost. Occasionally, he would look surreptitiously at those luscious legs as they weaved between the tables, and the thought would flit, all but unconsciously, through his mind of how good they'd look around his neck. She didn't seem to have seen him though. He'd picked the seat right in the corner on purpose, away from the overhead light. The trouble started when, after a few beers, he inevitably had to go pee.
As he came back out of the restroom, he almost walked into her.
"Oh! Sir!", she said surprised, "what are you doing here?"
He felt a little embarrassed. "Well, you know, teachers have lives too," he shrugged. "I didn't know you worked," he said, trying to sound casual.
She explained that it was just a part-time job on a Saturday night to give her some money for clothes, make-up and movies.
There was a brief but very pregnant pause, and then they both spoke at the same time. He apologized and insisted she go first.
"Well," she said, looking coyly at him through her lashes and twiddling a finger through a strand of her hair, creating a reaction inside his jeans, "I was only going to ask who you were here with."
