A teacher, forty-three, begins an affair with a student’s father – one hour in the morning, Tuesdays, for six weeks. A story about what starts innocent and ends up not. 18+.
It started with a parent-teacher meeting I’d forgotten. Henrik had emailed me the day before saying he’d come at two, and I hadn’t read the email because I had two other parents at the same time and had mixed up the dates.
He was punctual. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t have Mia’s notebook, I didn’t know the last test results by heart, and I sat across from him like a teacher who didn’t have her job under control.
“You’re not prepared,” he said after three minutes.
“No. I apologize.”
“Should we reschedule?”
“If that’s okay with you.”
“I have time Tuesday morning. Eight o’clock.”
“I have a free period Tuesday at eight.”
“In the teachers’ lounge?”
“In the teachers’ lounge.”
On Tuesday at eight, he was there. He’d clearly made an effort – a shirt, pants without wrinkles, which isn’t a given for a man in his mid-forties with a daughter in high school. I’d made an effort too, more than I should have for a parent-teacher meeting. I wore a tight skirt that ended just above my knee and a white blouse with the top button undone, so a hint of my cleavage was visible. I’d painted my lips red, and I felt my heart beat faster when I saw him.
We sat across from each other, with Mia’s notebook between us, and I explained what Mia was good at – Latin, especially grammar – and what she was worse at – translations, because she stayed too literal. Henrik listened, asked sensible questions, was patient. But as I spoke, my gaze kept drifting to his hands. They were large, with strong fingers resting on the table, and I imagined them touching my body. I felt a pull in my lower belly, a wetness gathering between my thighs as I tried to stay professional.
After twenty minutes, we were done.
“Thank you very much, Frau Egger.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stood up. He took his jacket from the chair. At the door, he turned around.
“Frau Egger.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to embarrass you. But if I don’t tell you this, I’ll leave this room and kick myself. You have an unusual way of listening.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I talk, you look at me like I’m an interesting book. No one’s done that to me in a long time.”
I thought about how to answer. I had a prepared answer, a professional one. It didn’t come out. Instead, I felt my nipples harden under my blouse, as if my body already knew what was coming.
“Herr Reisinger.”
“Henrik.”
“Herr Reisinger.”
He nodded. He left. I stayed behind, my breath shallow, my hands trembling as I stacked the notebooks. I knew this wasn’t the end.
The next Tuesday, he came again. Without an appointment. He came at eight. He knocked. I was alone in the teachers’ lounge. The room smelled of coffee and paper, and the sun fell through the window as he entered. He wore a dark blue shirt that clung tightly to his chest, and I saw the contours of his muscles underneath. My pulse raced.
“Frau Egger.”
“Herr Reisinger.”
“I thought I’d ask you something without overthinking it.”
“What?”
“Whether we could meet once a week. Here, in the teachers’ lounge, Tuesday at eight. One hour. We talk. Nothing more.”
I looked at him. He was a man in his mid-forties, with a wife I knew he’d been with for years, and a daughter in my class. I was a teacher, forty-three, divorced for five years, with no current relationship. What he was proposing was so transparent in its unusualness that it really left no room.
“You mean we talk. Here. One hour.”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Whatever you want. Books. Your students. What two adults talk about.”
“And what is this, really?”
“What is what?”
“What you really want.”
He looked at me. He held his gaze a second longer than comfortable. His eyes wandered over my blouse, over my skirt, and I felt my body respond – my breasts grew heavy, my thighs pressed together as if I needed the pressure between them.
“What I really want, I don’t know. I know that last week someone listened to me, which I haven’t experienced in years. I want that again.”
“And Frau Reisinger?”
“Frau Reisinger and I have been two people living in an apartment for three years. She doesn’t listen to me anymore, I don’t listen to her anymore. We don’t hate each other. We just don’t hear each other anymore.”
“And you want to solve that with your daughter’s teacher.”
“No. I don’t want that. I want an hour.”
I took a deep breath. My breasts rose under my blouse, and I saw his gaze fall on them, a moment too long. “Once a week. Tuesday at eight. One hour. Nothing more.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
The next three Tuesdays passed like a blur. We talked. About books, about movies, about his work as an architect, about my students. But the air between us was thick with tension. Every time he leaned forward to underline something, I smelled his aftershave – woody, warm. Every time I laughed, I saw his eyes linger on my mouth. I wore tighter skirts, deeper necklines. My panties were soaked after every hour, and I had to change in the bathroom before going to class.
On the fourth Tuesday, he didn’t knock. He came in, closed the door behind him – a soft click that shot through my body – and stood in front of me. No table between us. Just inches.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he said. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
“What?”
“The talking. I want you. I want your body. I want to know how you smell, how you taste, how you moan.”
My heart beat so loud I thought he must hear it. “Henrik…”
“Don’t say you don’t want this too. I see it. Every time you move, every time you cross your legs – I see how wet you get under that skirt.”
I swallowed. My hand trembled as I raised it and placed it on his chest. I felt his heartbeat under my palm, fast and hard. “What if someone comes?”
“No one comes at this hour. You know that.”
He stepped closer. His hand found my waist, pulled me against him. I felt his erection pressing against my stomach, hard through his pants. My breath caught.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his mouth at my ear. “Tell me, and I’ll go.”
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I pressed closer, let my hand slide from his chest to his belt. I unbuckled it slowly, my fingers clumsy, my heart pounding. He groaned, a low sound that vibrated through me.
He pushed me back against the table. Papers scattered. I felt the edge dig into my thighs as he hiked up my skirt. No panties. I’d stopped wearing them after the second Tuesday, hoping for this. His eyes went dark.
“You planned this,” he breathed.
“Yes.”
He pushed two fingers into me without warning. I gasped. I was so wet they slid in easily, and I arched my back, pushing against his hand. He fucked me with his fingers, watching my face, watching my mouth fall open.
“You’re so tight,” he said. “So hot.”
I moaned, not caring who might hear. He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, tasting me. The sight made me clench around nothing.
He unzipped his pants. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head glistening. He stroked himself once, twice, then positioned himself at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did. He pushed in, slow, inch by inch, until he was buried inside me. I cried out. He filled me completely, stretching me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist to pull him deeper.
He fucked me on that table, hard and fast, his hand over my mouth to stifle my screams. I came within minutes, my body convulsing around him. He followed, pumping into me, groaning my name.
We stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard. Then he pulled out, tucked himself away, and helped me straighten my skirt. No words. Just a look that said everything.
He left first. I stayed, my thighs sticky, my body trembling, knowing I’d count the days until next Tuesday.
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