Quick, get dressed! Gosh dang—where were all your clothes?
You tried to recall the last time you ran a wash. More than a week ago. That explained it.
Now you scraped the back of your dresser drawers for something that didn't break the dress code. "Arugh!" The minutes on that clock were changing far too fast. Well you had to wear something. You tugged on a really tight pair of jeans, which felt a little like a push-up bra for your butt at the moment. Shoving your feet into a pair of tennis shoes, you donned a very lacy, tight camisole with thin straps. Over that, you wore a cute graphic tee you hardly ever got to wear, because it was an off-the-shoulder scoop neck, a detail you hadn't noticed when you bought it on clearance.
You brushed your hair quickly, muttering a curse as you checked the clock again, and grabbed your school supplies, leaving the house without breakfast.
Your heart sped and you blushed as you halted your brisk-walk in front of the blue door to your first period class that read, in white lettering, "US History – Jones."
Mr. Jones always closed the door right when the bell rang, so that those who were late had to endure the shame of disrupting the class with the door's squeaking hinges, which you proceeded to do.
A classroom full of bored and groggy students looked at you with mild disinterest, a couple chuckling in the back row as though it was really that embarrassing to show up to class late.
It wasn't embarrassing, not really. You were okay with coming a couple minutes late to most classes.
But this was Mr. Jones's class. And you liked Mr. Jones. As a teacher, of course; you respected him. He was a good teacher, he didn't take crap from students, his lectures were full of information that actually showed up on the tests, he was strict in enforcing the rules, he dressed very professionally, he was young, he was hot, and that smirk he had when he'd cornered a slacker or cheater made you giggly.
Okay, maybe you didn't just like him as a teacher.
He watched you take your seat in the front of the class, with that special smile on his face that assured he would tease you about this later. He went behind his own desk, leaning on it as he typed something into his keyboard. "You're gonna make me re-submit the role? Do you hate me?"
"I know, shut up, I'm sorry!"
"You're never tardy!" He looked up at you from the computer, smirking. "Bad girl. Is this the beginning of a delinquent streak, I hope not?"
Oh those blue eyes. Like someone had bottled the well-kept blue of Lake Tahoe and filled them with it. As cliché as it sounded, his eyes were definitely impossibly blue.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" you apologized, blushing as you got out a leaf of binder paper to write the warm-up.
He sighed, chuckling. "Hey, you're only a minute late. All I've done is taken role. I haven't even instructed to start the warm-up yet."
"Yes, okay," you said submissively, trying not to let those gawjus blue eyes distract you from your work.
You were about halfway done with the warm-up by the time Mr. Jones instructed the rest of the class to. There were a good ten seconds of groaning, shuffling, desks squeaking and a lot of students asking each other for paper and/or pens. He always allowed ten minutes for the warm-up, but really, if you put any effort in it at all it only took about two.
So you always started it early, so you could have ten minutes to talk with Mr. Jones. As you put your pencil down, he rolled across the floor his computer chair to your desk, straddling the back of it and resting his chin on his hands.
"Good morning," you whispered, flipping over the warm-up and sliding it to the far corner of your desk. He picked it up anyway, laughing quietly as he read it.
"Good morning yourself," he said. "What kept you? You're usually so punctual."
"I was…" You looked at the world map on the wall, rubbing the back of your neck. "I was having wardrobe issues."
He peered over the paper at you, an eyebrow raised and a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I noticed." Oh gosh, was he blushing?
"I'm really sorry about that," you said, crossing your arms. It didn't really cover you up, though, just sort of pushed your boobs closer together, so you put them back down on the desk, blushing.
And he was blushing, too. "I was actually gonna talk to you about that."
Your face felt really hot and you slumped in your desk, pulling the top of your shirt up in attempt to cover yourself more.
"Look, you're a great student," he said, quieting his voice more and leaning in closer. "I like that you listen to me and respect me and all that. And you're really bright. You do well on tests, you don't text during class which is a miracle, and so I've taken to giving you special privileges. No one else in this classroom gets to listen to their iPod while they work, have you noticed? But breaking the dress code is crossing the line."
"I'm sorry, it's not my fault! Well, technically it is, but I wasn't trying t—"
"I know," he said, reaching out to put a hand on your shoulder the way he did, but he blushed and dropped his hand before touching you. "I know you probably have a legitimate excuse, and so I'm not going to write you up this time. But if it happens again, there has to be a consequence. This doesn't just affect my classroom, you came to school like this. I'll let it slide but I can't promise about the other teachers. I'll vouch for you if you get called to the office but this had better not happen again."
"I'm sorry…" you repeated, eyes pricked with tears of embarrassment. "Won't happen again. I swear."
He smiled at you. "Great job on the warm-up. You know what, here," he said, removing the jacket over his crisp white shirt and grey tie. "Wear this. Cover up. Don't worry about it looking silly, it'll probably just look adorable on you."
In a brief spell of shock, you slipped the jacket over your arms. It was so warm!
"Alright, finish up," he said to the class as he stood. "Who wants to tell me about the Kennedy assassination? Anyone? Joe, I know you have a couple pretty good conspiracy theories…"
While he wasn't looking, you pulled the jacket around your chest, burying your blushing face in it. It smelled really, really good.
When you woke up the next morning, surrounded by barely-finished late-night homework, you thought about your first class yesterday and smiled. It made you actually want to get up, even though it was a half hour earlier than usual.
There had been so much homework yesterday, as it was nearing midterms, that you had barely had time for dinner. And you also hadn't had time to run a wash.
Snap. The smile left your face. You had promised Mr. Jones you wouldn't show up in scrappy clothes again! Scuffling to get all your homework in your bag, you ran out to the washing machine with a basket full of clothes. A full wash would take way too long. You picked out a couple of outfits and threw them in, turning on the machine.
You went about your usual morning routine, minus the clothes, and had time left over. The minute the washer went off, you threw the sopping clothes into the dryer, but according to the clock, you only had fifteen minutes before you had to leave.
"No, no, no," you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Not happening…" You scrambled around your room, coming up with the same exact results as yesterday, except today you didn't even have jeans. Only shorts, and short skirts. You picked the longest skirt out. It was barely six inches long. Why did you even have this?
Okay, no panicking, you would just…pull it down obsessively so it didn't show anything. Now time for a shirt.
Nothing but spaghetti straps. You put one on, cursing at yourself for not being more prepared, and then remembered, hey, you could wear a sweatshirt. Why had you not thought of that yesterday?
You entered the classroom on time. Early, even, and sat down, pulling nervously at the hem of your skirt before frantically getting out a piece of paper. You didn't look at Mr. Jones, just wrote the warm-up.
"Nice to see you on time this morning," he said, not looking up from the computer. You didn't answer him, writing like mad. "Um, hello?"
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him look up. He sucked in a barely audible breath and you could sense him tensing up. Then he cleared his throat, busying himself with a stack of papers.
Finished with the warm-up before class even started, you put your head down on the desk, thoroughly embarrassed. Mr. Jones called out for any absent students, answering his own questions of who was here.
"Alright, warm-up's on the board." You heard his footsteps getting close to your desk, stopping right in front. He tapped the wood with his knuckles. "Hey. Head up."
You lifted your head, face-to-face with Mr. Jones who was crouching in front of your desk. His lips were pressed together, eyebrows raised, and his eyes darted under the desk for a brief moment, blood rising to his cheeks.
"Thought we talked about this," he said softly.
"I am really sorry," you moaned, dropping your face into your hands and pulling at your hairline. "I know I promised this wouldn't happen again…I didn't have time to run a wash last night, I had so much homework…"
"Come out to the hall," he said simply, standing up straight and walking to the door. You headdesked, miserable, and then got up to follow, tugging the bottom of your skirt as you walked through the door without looking at him. He leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, silent. Was he waiting for you to look at him?
You raised your head to his disappointed face. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, looking up and down the hall and spying an open classroom. "In here," he said, opening a closet used for new workbooks and the confiscated items of disobedient students.
You stepped into the small, dimly-lit room, blushing even more (if that was possible) when he shut the door behind you two. There were only about two inches of space between your bodies. You could almost hear him thinking this was a bad idea.
"Hey, look at me," he said, struggling to keep his tone of authority and clearing his throat. He wasn't used to talking to you like he had power over you. It was usually like he was just a friend who happened to be in charge of your grades. "I trusted you to follow the rules on this one. Not having time to wash your clothes is not an excuse."
"It's the truth, though," you whined, backing up against a shelf of Spanish 2 workbooks. It was getting a little stuffy in there.
Mr. Jones opened his mouth several times, closing it again, and bit his lip, sighing and slumping his shoulders. "This isn't about the dress code…"
You held your breath, waiting. He leaned back against the door, scratching his head and then folding his arms over his chest.
"It's personally…very h—difficult for me to teach the class when…" He sighed again, very much coming across like he was struggling to breathe correctly. "You…have a very distracting body."
Your jaw hung loose. Did he really just say that? "I…what?"
He blushed darkly. "Okay. A lot of female students have crushes on me. So it wasn't really a surprise to me when you started acting all cute with me…"
Crap, you'd been obvious?
"But you still listen and respect me," he said. "You care about learning, not just getting with me. I mean, there's a reason I quit the private tutoring sessions; the only one who would've actually taken them seriously is you but you don't really need it."
Your heart swelled with pride as it pounded with nervousness and you got all jittery, like you hadn't had breakfast.
"And I…have grown…" He cleared his throat. "Quite attached to you, too. You're the first student who treats me like an actual person, not some teacher trying to ruin their lives or a…school hottie or something. That's part of why I treat you special. But…um…obviously, it isn't really…legal for us to…" He stopped, pressing a knuckle to his lips and not daring to look at you. "For us to have any sort of relationship."
"R-right," you said, trying to encourage.
He looked at you, and then looked away. "I'll be honest, when you dress like that, it's really really hard for me to try not to want to keep you after class, lock the room and kiss you during passing."
At such a bold admission, you had to hold onto the shelf behind you so as not to melt into a puddle on the floor. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "Oh man, I really shouldn't have said that. That was way out of line."
Your face just got hotter and hotter the more he stumbled over his words. "Can you…I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, can you just stop talking for a minute? This isn't really sinking in."
He held his breath, biting his lip. You stared at him, white-knuckling it on the shelf. It felt like a good full minute before anything happened.
And when something did happen, it was Mr. Jones stepping forward and taking your face in his hands, kissing you right on the lips. Your eyes widened in shock but then closed and you wrapped your arms around his neck, sighing and kissing back.
"Mmn," he whined, holding you by the waist. His tongue slipped between your lips and you let him in, heart racing and face flushing. This had only happened in your dreams before, and it was about twenty times hotter now that it was real.
You gasped, pressing up against him when his hands slid down to your ass, lifting your skirt and giving you a squeeze. Oh. My. Gosh.
It was over way too soon, both of you panting as you broke apart. "We need to get back in class," he said, voice breaking.
"Uh-huh, I understand," you breathed.
"Meet me in here at lunch."