Extra Attention

My lust-addled brain swiftly reached a conclusion; his jeans needed to come off.

Immediately.

The top button was undone, his happy trail running from his bellybutton and disappearing down, like an arrow pointing to the Holy Grail. The prize in question was straining against its confines, and the idea that it was I who did this to him made me writhe underneath him.

"Please..." I begged, because that was what he had reduced me to.

My hands were captive above my head by one of his; every inch of his body was strategically plastered to my naked form, pinning me to his desk and creating a delicious friction when he shifted. He turned me into a needy, frustrated mess underneath him with the skill of an artist.

"Please what?" He spat down at me.

The cords in his neck were strained, his blonde hair was damp, his lips were swollen and his eyes were black as pitch. His face would have been frightening if he hadn't spent the last forty minutes kissing, sucking, biting and licking every inch of my naked body. As it was, I knew he was simply trying incredibly hard not to unzip a little bit more and plunge himself into me.

Which was actually perfect, considering that was exactly what I wanted.

"Please...please..." my arguments, which seemed so coherent in my head, came out in garbled whimpers. "I'm ready now..."

He raised himself slightly, making sure my eyes were on his hand as he lowered it to his jeans.

"You're ready now?" He questioned darkly, and I nodded in response, eyes still fixed on his hand. When he started roughly rubbing himself through his jeans I heard myself moan, without any conscious knowledge of making the sound.

"I'm not sure I believe you. I've spent a great deal of time convincing you – rather eloquently, I feel - how much I want you. You remember my arguments? The ones where I used my teeth, and my tongue, and my fingers?" He was hissing at me, barely managing to get the words out as his hand continued to rub up and down his length.

I nodded more emphatically this time, looking up to meet his intense stare with a desperate one of my own. He ignored my frustration and finished, "and all you can say in response is 'I'm ready now'? Try a little harder."

"I want you to fuck me," I rasped shamelessly – because if this was what I needed to say to get to the Holy Grail – then say it I would. And just in case that didn't work, I pulled out the big guns; the words I know would get him every time. "I want you to make me your little slut, to own me."

His eyes, if possible, became darker, but instead of the harsh glare I expected to see, an amused smirk rose to his face while he shook his head at me.

"Baby," he snarled "I do own you." His tongue ran over my lips in an animalistic gesture of possession.

"But seeing as you don't seem to realize it yet, I think I can spend a couple more hours drilling the message in..."

"Miss Gavin?"

I was abruptly jolted from my day dreaming by the sound of my name being called.

"Sir?" I weakly responded, hoping I hadn't zoned out for too long.

When I looked up, I was met with a harsh, but all too familiar stare. "Personal narratives, first drafts due tomorrow."

I sighed with relief. Oh, just that. "Oh, can we turn them in early? I already have mine done."

As I pulled out the printed copy of my work and held it out for him to accept, Mr. Christiansen looked at me and his expression softened. When he took the assignment, our eyes made contact for a brief moment, causing me to shiver. There's no way he could know that I was just fantasizing about him. Right?

As he continued going over the requirements for the other students, I gathered my composure. I tried not to make a habit of letting thoughts of my English teacher run too wild when I was at school. I knew I wasn't the only one; in fact, some of the other girls would go as far as to hike up their skirts right before walking in to his class. If he noticed, he certainly didn't let on that he did. But of course it's not like he would just openly gawk at them, even if he did notice. I mean, they sort of frowned on that sort of thing; ogling the students.

While everyone wore uniforms at Chilton, it certainly wasn't hard to distinguish the group of girls who spread their legs for any and everything. While I also chose to hem my skirt as high as regulation would allow, I certainly didn't make a habit of going commando underneath, like a few others desperately vying for the attention of our extremely sexy, extremely unattainable teacher. Those girls were naïve, though. Like he would risk his entire career, that he's obviously passionate about, for a slut in a skirt.

At 28, he was still relatable while managing to get his point across, so it was no surprise that he was overwhelmingly voted the students' favorite teacher every year. Because I was on an accelerated path, I was placed in AP English for my senior year. It took a paper almost 10 pages long to be accepted to the course, but I knew it would be well worth it. As far as college recommendations go, Mr. Christiansen only wrote them for the most dedicated students; and I planned on being one of them. My priorities always stayed on academics and sports, hoping maybe one of the two would pay off with a scholarship. As the school year drew to a close, I was already in pre-season for field hockey, and expected to be named All-State in the fall, as it would be my senior year.

The next day as we left class, Mr. Christiansen stopped me as I passed his desk.

"Miss Gavin, a moment?"

God, I loved hearing him say that.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'd like to discuss your paper with you if you have the time." He said taking a seat at his desk, bringing my paper to the top of the pile.

"Of course, is something wrong?" I nervously asked, running my hand through my hair. I couldn't really believe that since I double and triple checked that I met all the requirements.

"Not wrong, per se, I just wanted to discuss your topic with you."

I took a seat in the chair in front of his desk, automatically on edge. The personal narrative was supposed to be about something we were passionate about, and I chose field hockey. I'd been playing since grade 7, and dedicated a good amount of time to it year round, so it seemed like a no-brainer to write about.

"Your paper is well structured and well written, and it's of tamer subject matter, which I thoroughly appreciate; trust me," he joked, which led me to assume those pantyless sluts decided to write exactly what they were 'passionate' about. "But the assignment was to write about something that you are passionate about, and I didn't see a lot of passion in your paper."

"Is there something I can do to fix it?" I immediately ask, hoping I hadn't completely botched the assignment.

"No need to panic, Miss Gavin. You're an excellent student, and a very talented writer, but your paper lacks the conviction that needs to be present when writing about something you're passionate about. So, that said, I'd like you to choose a different topic," he explained calmly.

I think my face visibly fell. Start all over?

Fuck my life.

"I'm just not sure what else to write about," I admitted, biting my lip in frustration.

Start from scratch? Really?

"Is there an organization that you feel strongly about? Are you pro-life? Pro-healthcare?"

I shake my head and shrug in response. "I'm not very big on politics, and I'm not a member of PETA," I joke softly.

"What else do you like to do besides sports? Dig deeper," he probes with an encouraging stare.

I felt put on the spot. Did Mr. Christiansen really care if I was passionate about anything? I was passionate about fantasizing about him on a daily basis, but of course I couldn't write about that. Or ever admit that aloud.

"I like to dance."

He smiled and motioned for me to continue. "Tell me about that."

"I've been taking ballet classes since I was four years old, and I still do three days a week. I also spent half my summer in dance intensives." I shrug. This probably bored him to death.

"That's a lot of time to dedicate to one thing, why do you like it so much?"

I chewed my lip looking for the right words. I could feel his electric blue eyes imploring me for an answer.

"It's not fun, exactly, and it's never easy, but nothing makes me happier."

His eyebrows raised with intrigue, "interesting, why is that?"

"It's hard to explain, really. It's all about discipline and precision. The rules of classical ballet are very cut and dry; there's something comforting about the structure while always striving for perfection. But you have to feel it and enjoy it, because if it's forced it will read that way in your movement. It's 50% of holding everything in, from your posture and center and controlling every move your body makes, but then it's 50% of just letting go, of feeling the music and using your whole body to convey emotion. But it's like, that sense of control that helps me let go and just feel it. It's euphoric."

I was completely sure that none of it came out coherently; there was no way he could understand any of that. I hesitantly looked up, knowing he was about to steer me in a different direction. His expression was completely was unreadable, and I already felt stupid enough for that overly descriptive explanation.

"I'm sorry, is that stupid?" I frowned.

Of course it was stupid, how could that make sense to anyone?

"Not at all," he assured, "it's very mature to be so aware of all those emotions. This is definitely what you should write about."

It was comforting for him to validate the way I felt, fulfilling even. I smiled in appreciation at his kind words and slowly lifted my gaze to his, feeling more comfortable in his usually nerve wrecking presence.

"Thank you for the feedback, sir. I really appreciate you taking the time to help me, especially if I can improve."

"You're a dedicated student, Ashton. I'm always happy to help; it's what I'm here for, you know." His lips turned up into a smirk, and I practically melted in front of him. His smile was about the sexiest thing ever.

"Well, I better go. I have rehearsal for Cotillion and they stone you on the spot if you're late." I joked hesitantly, not wanting this time to end.

"Cotillion?" he inquired.

"Yeah, you know, white dresses, large staircases, demure curtseys while the president of the Daughters of the American Revolution declares we are officially open for business."

Mr. Christiansen gave a hearty chuckle at my sarcasm.

"My sister's daughter is taking part in that, I think. It's at the end of the month, yes?"

"Yeah, right after finals are over with." I nodded.

"Well then good luck on walking down a staircase." He grinned as I stood up to leave the classroom.

-:-

The school year came to a close much too quickly. I continued working closely with Mr. Christiansen on my personal narrative and the hard work paid off with an excellent grade. I spent an obscene amount of time in my bed at night fantasizing about how those sessions could have gone, imagining him doing all sorts of dirty, violent things to my body. There were a few time during our meetings when his gaze held mine longer than usual, but of course I had to brush it off, because it was probably just all in my head.

I figured out which girl was his niece, turns out her name is Jessica and she goes to another prep school not far from mine. None of my real close friends were participating in the ball, (most of them didn't have the society type parents) so I struck up conversation with her and eventually found a decent friend in Jessica. We were both in the same boat, just trying to please our parents since we didn't care too much about this stuff. It was nice to have someone to commiserate with during the long, sometimes painful, mandatory etiquette and waltz classes. I had impeccable table manners and could do the waltz since age 7, so I felt it all rather unnecessary.

Jessica and I arrived at the venue together, hair and makeup done, so all we needed to do was put on our dresses. When we walked in to the suite with the other debutantes, it was chaotic. Girls rushing around to take curlers out of their hair, crying over which lipstick would be the right color, freaking out over miniscule zits that mysteriously popped up overnight. Jess and I just found ourselves a corner to relax and share a bottle of wine while we passed the time until we needed to get dressed.

I was eternally grateful that the days of the mandatory hoopskirt were over, as I chose something much simpler. My white lace dress was form fitting with a sweat heart neckline, pooling out slightly is it fell. The soft cap sleeves added just a touch of elegance, and the back plunged a little lower than usual for a flare of drama with a silk chiffon sash to bring everything together.

The ceremony went off without a hitch, and I walked down the staircase without tripping, despite my slight buzz from the wine. School had let out just a few days prior to the ball, and after a grueling week of finals, I decided I deserved a night to let loose and enjoy myself. And the open bar helped me do just that. Jessica and I were well on our way to being wasted, toasting as we received our newly filled glasses from the bartender.

"Ladies, you look lovely."

Oh, that voice...

"Uncle Dan!" Jessica whipped around, throwing her arms around her uncle to greet him.

I, on the other hand, took my time to turn, knowing the censor in my mind was almost gone. I did not want to make an ass out of myself in front of the man whose face flooded my mind every time I played with my pussy.

"Jessica, you did wonderfully. As did you, Miss Gavin." He acknowledged me with a knowing smile.

I wish I had known he was coming, I probably would have decided against drinking.

"Thank you, sir." I smiled gratefully, and sipped my wine again.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Jessica announced, "I'll be right back."

And then there were two.

Mr. Christiansen waved to the bartender for a drink before turning back to me. "I trust that's sparkling cider, Miss Gavin."

"As you should, sir." I winked.

"So what are your summer plans?" he asked, taking a sip of his martini.

"I start my summer intensive next week, and by the time that's over with I'll be starting two-a-days for field hockey." I shrug. I wasn't really all that interesting.

"Well it's good to stay busy, idle hands and what not." He joked.

What I'd like to do with my idle hands...

"So, may I have this dance?"

Mr. Christiansen stretched out his arm, feigning the gentlemanly way of asking someone to dance. I smiled and nodded, downing the rest of my wine before taking his hand to the dance floor.

Now before you get all up in arms about the fact that I'm dancing with my teacher in public, let me remind you that the upper class needs not worry about silly things such as student-teacher scandals. In fact, this was the kind of place that no one was concerned because they assumed I knew it would be social suicide for myself and my family. It wasn't uncommon for the older generation at these things to ask for a dance with the newly outed-to-society women.

I rested on hand on his shoulder, and he took my other hand in his as we started to sway slowly with the quartet.

"You're quite the breath of fresh air, Miss Gavin." He mused as he looked down at me.

"Am I?" I challenged, also with a smile. What the hell did that mean?

"You're not like your classmates, very reserved, mature for your age."

"That's because I wear panties under my skirt in your class." I roll my eyes.

Oh god, did I really just say that out loud?

He chuckles whole heartedly, clearly knowing what I was talking about.

"Well yes, there is something to be said for that, as well." He said, still smiling.

His grip on my back was firm, and it felt heavenly to be so close to the man I'd wanted for so long. I reveled in the feeling, the way he smelled, how his eyes caught the light of the chandelier above us. I would have been lying if I said I wasn't turned on. But perhaps that was partially due to the 9 glasses of wine.

"Does it get uncomfortable? For them to be so shameless about it, I mean." I inquired.

"Yes, it definitely does." He admitted.

"They just don't use their common sense. If I actually believed flashing my naughty bits would work, I'd have done it months ago. But it's not as if you'll just go blind with passion and take me right in front of the whole class, which is unfortunately what those girls really think will happen, eventually."

What the hell am I saying? Get ahold of yourself, Ashton!

"Months ago, huh?" he teased.

I blushed and tilted my head down, feeling like I'd just been caught. "No, probably not. I'm not that bold."

"So I've noticed," Mr. Christiansen said with an amused smile playing on his lips, "it's refreshing. Because you're right, most females- not just students- can be quite shameless when they approach me. So the way you blush, and get shy with me is endearing."

"Well, thanks.." I tried not to grin like an idiot, and I kept my eyes cast downward. "I'm not always this shy, though..."

He's making it sound like I'm a huge prude...

"No?"

"No... I don't live in a convent..." I defend, weakly.

I'd let you fuck me senseless in the coat room and beg for your cum like a slut...

"In fact, I have a naughty side, too! I just hide it better because I'm classy." I smiled proudly. Was it obvious that I was drunk?

"I hardly believe that suits you." He countered.

"Oh yeah? That day I handed in my assignment early, when you caught me not paying attention? I was thinking about you pinning me to your desk and teasing me until I begged for you to fuck me like some wanton slut and own my body." I challenged.

Did I just cross a line?

No, I leaped over it with stilts and wildly long legs.

His eyes darkened a bit at my admission, but I was too drunk to care.

"We all fantasize about you," I say petulantly, "but I'm not stupid enough to believe I have a chance. You are my teacher, and unlike the mindless sluts, I actually have a grip on reality, drunk as I may be."

"Ashton..." he began.

"Don't worry," I interrupted with a lazy smile, "this won't be weird. I'm not going to start some cliché seduction plan, I will keep my panties on in your class, and you will write me a brilliant recommendation to Yale in the fall."

"Oh, I will?"

There was still a smile plastered on his face, which is probably why I was capable of being so bold.

"I mean, I hope you will." Well. That confidence was short lived.

"You know I think you do it on purpose." He declared.

"What?" I asked, caught off guard.

"Tease me with that little innocent act of yours, spending so many afternoons staring at me with your big eyes, all 'I need it, Mr. Christiansen', and then do things like taunt me with the knowledge that I can'treallydo anything about it."

My jaw must have dropped to the floor.

Was he serious?

"I bet you'd do so well on your knees, Miss Gavin." He whispered harshly, "and you're making it very difficult not to drag you out of here with a fist full of hair to find out justhowwell."

"It's scary the way you can read my mind..." is all I could think to say.

I felt the pads of his fingers putting more pressure on my back; I could tell he was weighing his options. I couldn't believe we were actually having this conversation, and he was actually trying to decide on whether or not to take me out of there to fuck. I had to press my legs together and try to alleviate some of the frustration that built up from this conversation.

"Head up to the fourth floor and walk all the way down to the end of the hall, there's a conference room that isn't used anymore. I'll be right behind you, I just need to say my good byes."