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Hot for Teacher

Hello all,

I put a poll up on twitter asking what short story would my readers would like to read. The titles were between "Yuletide Ink" and "Hot for Teacher". I'm sure you can tell which one they picked.

Here you go...


Darcy always had a knack for languages.

Most people said it was thanks to her grandmother, speaking to the twins in different languages as babies. But if that had been the case, then Ceridwen would have also been multilingual.

Darcy loved knowing other languages. It made her feel like a spy, speaking in code. The only downside was that there weren’t many people she could speak to in those languages. Canada required students to take French until grade 8 so most had a basic understanding of French.

Oxford held the promise of learning several more languages as well as people who could speak those languages. When an advisor had suggested a linguistics course, Darcy jumped on the chance to take it.

Professor Isabelle Corbyn looked like she walked right out of a pin-up poster and into a lecture hall. Darcy liked her instantly.

“My name is Professor Isabelle Corbyn,” She introduced herself to the class as she confidently strode into the lecture hall. “You can call me Professor, Professor Corbyn, or even Isabelle. Just don’t call me Ms. Corbyn, that’s my mother.”

She wore tight blouses, pencil skirts, and stiletto heels that accentuated her curves. Her hair was jet black and often pulled back into a bun in an attempt to keep it out of her face. Though, oftentimes, a strand would fall loose and hang in the young professor’s face.

“Miss Collins,” Professor Corbyn said, as the students filed out of the classroom for the day.

“May I speak with you?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Darcy tried to act cool, but she was sure she was failing.

The professor gathered her things, in a relaxed manner, as the students left the room. When it was just the two of them, she looked up and said: “Follow me.”

Darcy obeyed. Keeping close stride behind her instructor, but hanging far enough back to appreciate the sway of the older woman’s hips. Deep down, she knew her mother would

disapprove of her behavior.

“You respect your instructors,” Bernadette had told her weeks prior as she saw Darcy off to University.

She definitely wouldn’t want to know that her eldest daughter was spending her summer lusting after her linguistics professor. But Darcy couldn’t help it. She was a young, virile alpha werewolf.

It certainly didn’t help that her professor looked like Jennifer Tilly’s character in the movie, Bound. The only real difference was Professor Corbyn had a very posh accent as opposed to the high pitched tone that was Violet’s voice.

“Sit down,” Professor Corbyn gestured at an armchair across from her desk in her office.

Darcy did as she was told, trying and failing at keeping her eyes off the older woman’s body. She decided to focus on her hands, picking at a hangnail on one of her fingers.

Darcy saw the black, stiletto heels standing inches from the black converse she had painted rainbow flames on. She didn’t particularly like them, she just knew it would piss her father off.

She looked up as her professor leaned back on her desk, her arms crossed over her chest, revealing the bra she was wearing underneath.

Black lace, her wolf practically drooled, I wonder if she’s wearing matching panties.

“Do you know why I asked to speak with you, Miss Collins?”

“No,” Darcy managed to squeak out. She cleared her throat and asked, “Is there a problem with my work, Professor?”

The older woman let out an airy laugh, “Miss Collins, the only problem I have with your work is that not all my students are as brilliant as you.”

Darcy couldn’t help but feel a little prideful at the compliment.

“In fact,” Professor Corbyn continued, “I’m more concerned that you aren’t being challenged enough. I certainly don’t want you to be bored during my lectures.”

“Oh, I can assure you, Professor,” Darcy said as she watched the woman lift herself up and sit on the edge of her desk. Her knees held tight together so as not to show the younger woman too much. “I’m never bored in your class.”

“That’s good to know,” The professor smiled. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Three fluently,” Darcy answered. “English, French, and Gaelic.”

The older woman lifted her eyebrows in surprise, “Not Spanish?”

Suficiente para sobrevivir,” Darcy answered in said language.

Was ist mit Deutsch?” This time, she asked in German.

Ungefähr das gleiche wie Spanisch,” the young woman answered.

“Any languages of the far east?” The professor was growing more and more intrigued by her student by the second.

Darcy shook her head, “I can say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ in Japanese, but that’s about it.”

“Any others?”

Darcy shrugged, “A bit of Russian.”

“Russian,” the professor practically purred. “Really?”

“I mean,” Darcy said, surely she was reading far too much into her instructor’s reactions. “I can’t sit and read Tolstoy in his native tongue, but I can understand enough of what the bad guys are saying in spy movies.”

Professor Corbyn smiled and moved to cross her legs. Darcy glanced at the direction of the movement and caught a glimpse up her professor's skirt. She tried to hide her surprise but knew her eyes must have given her away.

“Do I make you nervous, Miss Collins?”

Darcy felt her cheeks burn. She dropped her eyes to her feet. Focusing on those stupid, stupid rainbow flames. She really hated that she painted them on her shoes. They looked so juvenile.

“N-no,” she answered, finally.

“Are you sure?” The older woman asked. “You seem… uncomfortable.”

Darcy shook her head, her wolf howling in the back of her mind. “I’m worried,” She admitted.

“Worried,” the professor repeated, as she leaned forward. “Whatever could you be worried about?”

“Failure,” Darcy said, surprised how forthcoming she was being. She wondered if perhaps there was more to her professor.

She wasn’t a vampire, so she certainly wasn’t glamouring the werewolf. Darcy tried to take in her scent, thinking that she might be a Fae of some kind. But the only scent Darcy could catch was honey and lilacs.

The scents were real, not chemically created. Darcy got excited when an image of her naked professor washing herself with homemade soap popped into her head.


Darcy nodded.

“Miss Collins, you could spend the rest of the term doing nothing and you would still pass my class. You are not going to fail.”

“It’s not just your class,” Darcy said. “It’s everything. I always mess things up. The only thing I’ve ever wanted was to go to Oxford. Now, I’m here… it’s just a matter of time before I fuck this up… Like I always do.”

Darcy’s eyes fixed back on her hands in her lap. She was picking at the hangnail again. It stung if she pulled too hard at it. Her hands were suddenly stilled when her professor placed one hand over her own.

Darcy stared for a moment, surprised at the comfort the older woman’s hand provided her. Her skin was warm and soft. Unlike Darcy’s own hands, which were rough and calloused. She was so focused on the feel of her professor’s hand over her own, if the professor was saying anything to her, she didn’t hear it.

Suddenly, soft fingertips were under Darcy’s chin, bringing Darcy’s gaze back up to meet the professor’s eyes. Darcy made special care to keep her gaze on the older woman’s eyes rather than down her blouse.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” The raven-haired woman said in a breathy voice.

Darcy felt the blood drain from her face. “I-I-I’m sorry?”

“Don’t act coy, Collins,” She smiled as she slid off her desk and moved into the younger woman’s lap. “If I had a pound for every time I caught you peeking down my blouse, I wouldn’t have to work.”

“P-professor,” Darcy stammered, keeping her hands on the arms of the chair. “I-I swear, I never meant to. It’s jus-”

Professor Corbyn put a finger to Darcy’s lips, stopping her rambling. “If I wanted it to stop, I would have simply buttoned up.”

“Wha… I… Wait…”

The professor chuckled as she moved Darcy’s hands from the arms of the chair to the small of her back.

“Professor Corbyn, I-” Darcy was interrupted when her instructor’s lips pressed against her own. Darcy’s head spun as the other woman opened her mouth and slipped her tongue between the werewolf’s lips. She pulled away after a minute, smiling as Darcy growled at the loss of contact.

“Tell me:” The professor leaned over and whispered into her pupil’s ear, “Kakogo tsveta nizhneye bel'ye ya noshu?

(What color underwear am I wearing?)

Darcy swallowed, thickly. “Vy ne odety, Professor.

(You’re not wearing any, Professor.)

The older woman smiled as she ran her hand through Darcy’s hair, “Miss Collins, I think given the circumstances you should call me Isabelle.”

Darcy growled again as the woman in her lap nibbled on her ear lobe. “Only if you call me, Darcy.”

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