by Lena Little
Russian Teacher
Yes, Daddy: Book 6
Lena Little
© 2020 by Lena Little
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Also by Lena Little
Preview
Alexander Smith, my senior year Russian teacher.
I should call him teacher, but there’s something else I need to call him more.
Daddy.
I’m ashamed to admit the weird thoughts rushing around in my head, but it turns out it’s exactly what he wants to hear.
He wants me to call him Daddy, which is exactly what I want him to be for me.
But my Daddy has a secret.
He might be a bad man, but his heart is good, and it belongs to me.
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1
Alexa
My mom says I have ‘senioritis’ because I haven’t been able to focus on anything this final semester before my high school graduation.
Little does she know I have been focused, very focused, but it’s not on any of my classes. It’s on him.
Alexander Smith, my senior year Russian teacher.
I lean back in the creaky old wooden chair in my room, the one that gives me splinters more often than not, and I pull up my school’s website, heading straight to the Faculty and Staff page.
I scroll down to the language teachers and there he is, those blue-grey eyes piercing right through me, jumping from my screen and into my tiny bedroom that’s not much bigger than a closet.
Just when I’m about to try to do what I’ve tried so many times before, to no avail, the door handle rattles and my mom comes barging into my room.
“Why aren’t you studying?”
Oh, I’m studying all right. It’s just that I’m not studying my course work, but the teacher who instructs it.
“Young lady I’ve made every sacrifice for you for the last eighteen years. You better pass this class and graduate or else you’ll end like your father.”
“How would I know?” I bite back. “I never met him.”
“Lucky you that he drank himself to death before you were old enough to remember.”
My mom’s right. I don’t remember anything about my father, or anyone in my life who filled that role, despite the revolving door my mom has kept on both the front of our run-down apartment and her bedroom.
‘Here today, gone tomorrow,’ seemed to be the mantra most of the gentleman, and am I ever using that term lightly, prescribed to when it came to her. Not to mention most didn’t even stick around until sunrise.
My mom stabs her cigarette into the door jam and throws daggers at me with her glare.
“You will pass that test tomorrow, you hear?”
“Yes, mom,” I exhale, still breathing out the breath as she slams the door and mumbles something under her breath as the doorbell rings. Hopefully tonight’s suitor will be like most of them, bringing over a bottle and before long my mom will be three sheets to the wind and forget I’m in my room, or that I even exist.
Sliding my seat back silently I lift my chair and tilt the back against the knob. My mom refuses to let me have a lock on my door, so this chair will have to do as a makeshift workaround. First, because I don’t want whoever’s over to stumble in here later claiming to be looking for the bathroom, only to decide he wants to suggest the oh-so original idea of a mother-daughter fantasy developing for him…as if I haven’t heard that a hundred times. And second, because I’ve got a fantasy of my own to try and imagine yet again. But hopefully tonight, with mom having already said her peace, she won’t bother me again and I can reach the place I’ve been trying to get to since I first learned exactly what it feels like to put a pillow…there.
Leaving the lights on, so she thinks I’m studying, I take my phone over to my bed, clicking on Mr. Smith’s picture where it takes me to his About Me page…and an even bigger picture of him.
I feel like he’s staring right at me.
Look, Daddy. Look all you want.
Thoughts of this big brute looking man speed through my mind, and I wonder how someone so rough around the edges found himself as a high school Russian teacher. The information about him is basic and bland, almost as if he doesn’t want to attract any attention…but that’s exactly what he’s doing to every girl in our school.
He probably doesn’t even know I exist, just a quiet mousy girl who always sits in the front row to try and get what’s quickly appearing to be an elusive passing grade in his class. I’m trying to pass all right, that threshold which I never have…right here and now, and in a different way.
I slide the pillow underneath my middle, pumping my hips against it, but to no avail. The relief I seek continues to elude me, despite how I move my body over the thin worn-down object encased in polyester. Yet again, I just can’t cure the ache that will surely keep me up yet another night.
I roll over onto my back, wondering what he’s doing right now. Does he think of any of his students, the way the entire female student body thinks of him?
Why is he even here, in our rinky-dink podunk town? Why did he choose to come teach here, just last year, when he has such a specialized skill that he could be teaching in the big city, enjoying all the things to do and fun weekends that city life offers? Sure he looks to be about forty, but life hasn’t aged him one bit, at least not in a bad way.
He has this distinguished, wise look about him that boys my age are years from ever displaying, if they ever happen to acquire the life skills to exude that kind of quiet confidence at all.
He’s taken our language department, and cranked it up to the next level, and my blood pressure along with it. We used to only have Spanish, but due to the overwhelming success of his class, and the amount of students that are on the waiting list for next year, our school has tried to find teachers for other languages like French and possibly even Mandarin.
They don’t seem to understand. Russian is a gruff, abrasive, confrontational language…and it suits this man to a T, and the kind of voice every woman in town imagines in their deepest, darkest fantasies.
The way he stands behind that teacher’s lectern, his deep husky voice booming out words for us to repeat, has me wanting to repeat senior year just to experience the thrill each class gives me all over again.
I sit there in the front row, wondering why he stays locked in place like his feet are buried in wet cement as he refuses to come out from behind that big wooden box that sits about waist high on him and blocks me from getting the full view of this tree-trunk of a man, corded with muscle in all the areas I can see, and surely the areas I can’t.
One day, just one time, I want to act out so he’ll take me into his office for a little discipline, or keep me after school for detention. The problem is I can barely get my mouth open long enough to repeat the words he says without drooling, let alone cause a scene which could get me into the good kind of trouble.
I roll back over and gyrate against the nearly transparent sheet, my hips grinding into the mattress as I imagine him bending me over his desk and teaching me about the birds and the bees, or whatever i
t’s called in his native Russia. My mind pictures that thick accent of his as he tells me to act like a proper young woman, and not a little Lolita, as if I could be a flirtatious, trouble-making, Lollipop sucking tart.
Oh Daddy, I could be a lot of things for you…if you’d just show me.
And I want him to show me his country one day, all the knowledge about the world he holds inside, and his past. The man is a complete mystery to us all, just like Winston Churchill once referred to his motherland of Russia as ‘a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.’
That’s the million-dollar question. What’s the key? How do I get his attention? And how can a young, innocent girl like me give him what he wants?
Impossible, just like the climax that I clearly won’t be reaching tonight, yet again.
I want to reach out to him, that’s what I really want. To put my tiny hand in his and let him be my father figure, and to let those big rough hands of his which wrap tightly around his lectern, wrap their way around my body.
“Daddy,” I whisper quietly enough that my mom and her ‘guest’ in the other room can’t hear. I push my pelvis farther down into the mattress and move my midsection in figure eights, but with no result. “Please, Daddy…” my voice trails off.
Every night I say please, partly because I want that first explosion of my life, that experience, and also because I want to please him one day. A day which will likely never come.
I’m a good student. I get good grades in every other class in school but his. I’ve never so much as been given anything lower than a B+ in any other class until now.
I don’t understand how I’m on the borderline of passing and failing, nor do I understand these feelings he’s giving me. These paternal thoughts wrapped in pleasure, his big body slamming into me as my hands slide down the chalkboard as I look for anything to grab ahold of as every thought in my mind spirals out of control.
And tomorrow is going to be that spiral I fear, yet embrace at the same time. If I fail tomorrow’s final exam, I have to make up this class in summer school, or repeat all of next year. The scholarship I worked so hard to get will be lost, and I’ll become another soul lost to our little town, destined to never leave, to never see all those places I see on Instagram, to never amount to much of anything.
But what if failing gives me another chance to finally muster up the courage to tell him what I really fear? To show him what I want him to do to me, where I want those big, thick fingers of his to trace along my body.
My mom knows I need to pass so I can get out of her hair, hopefully make some money one day so she can retire from her life of questionable disability checks she receives from her ‘accident’ at the factory, the burden of taking the bus to the nearest big city once a year to verify she’s still unable to work, to stressful for her to bear.
She claims the rickety old bus with it’s worn out shocks hurts her back. That doesn’t really make much sense considering how much time she spends on it.
And just like that I roll back over onto my back, grab my vocabulary list and start studying again. I need to pass this exam tomorrow and there’s no way not to do that without studying. There’s no way any luck can be involved because the final exam is meant to show off everything you know, not allowing you to hide anything.
Because the final exam isn’t written or multiple choice.
It’s oral.
And it’s in just over twelve hours.
2
Alexander
I can smell her before I hear the light tapping on the door.
Her scent is indescribable, and what it does to me, as her teacher, is inexcusable.
“Come in,” I bellow, and she puts her shoulder into the door, opening it as quietly as her knock.
There are five hundred and fifty-seven students who need to pass final oral exams this week, yet none of the other five hundred and fifty-six matter. Only her.
I shuffle the papers in front of me, pretending to prepare the questions I have prepared as the young woman from the exam oversight committee stands next to me.
The idea that someone has to be in the room to avoid lawsuits is a joke to me. In Russia, paying a bribe to your teachers is a way of life, whether you have the right grades or not. Here, it’s looked down upon just as I look down on this tiny little thing as I rise from my seat, making sure the stack of books stays in front of my waist, hiding my massive need for her.
“Ms. Andrews,” I nod, confirming I verify her presence as the student scheduled for this time slot. The oversight committee member makes a mark on her name and nods at me to begin.
Oh, I’m ready to begin all right. I’ve been watching this girl the entire semester out of the corner of my eye, doing everything I can to avoid eye contact which would have surely sent me into immediate climax right in front of an entire room of rowdy high school students, my dream angel not included.
She never makes a sound as her eyes stay tracked on me the entire class, every time. I still for the life of me can’t figure out how she was on track to be the school valedictorian, but because of my class has lost her chance. Not only that she’s on the verge of failing, just like my control right now.
I want to grab her, and begin a different kind of test all of my own. Flip her over and slide in-between her folds and see if she’s as innocent as she seems. Hell, the thought of kidnapping her on her walk home from the school has crossed my mind more than once or twice, or ten times.
I’m always there, lurking on my motorcycle in the distance, helmet on so she can’t see me, making sure she arrives home safe each and every day after class.
How badly I’ve wanted to pull her onto the back of my bike and take her to my place, or better yet detain her after school and show her who she belongs to. Show her who her real Daddy is, her records showing the biological one has been missing from the picture for what amounts to her entire existence.
The thoughts I have for her oscillate between paternal and absolute animalistic lust. What would my fellow teachers, administrators, and the principal think if they knew what I do when I go home at night. If they found out how I jerk myself dry, until there’s not a drop of energy left inside me before I finally pass out each and every night, her on my mind, in my dreams, claiming every part of my brain.
Since the first day she stepped foot in my class this semester, on the first day of this year, her senior year, I’ve been drawn to her like a moth to a flame and damn am I ready to feel the fire. She calls me like a bear searching out honey, and am I ever ready to taste the sweet nectar between her legs.
I don’t even remember administering the final exams for the last three students, my thoughts on her and keeping my rock hard erection out of sight, the fucker rising up in anticipation of her arrival…the final exam of the day. Just the way I scheduled it.
I told the school board I wanted to do it in reverse alphabetical order, said that’s how we do it in my native homeland. What a crock. It was all a ruse to get her here at the end of the day, so I could do what I should have done to her the first day I saw her.
Make. Her. Mine.
I’m the teacher, the one with the answers. So why is it I can’t answer these simple questions myself…
Why does she make me feel this way?
Why does she bring out this fatherly feeling inside me?
Why does she make me feel like a Russian bear after a winter hibernation, wanting to wrap my arms around her and keep her safe and warm. And tear to shreds anyone who looks at her, limb by limb?
Her long blonde hair cascades past her shoulders as she enters the silent room. Not a stitch of makeup and yet she looks more beautiful than any other woman in the world. Natural. Perfect. Her.
She is everything.
She looks up at me through those curly eyelashes, her huge brown eyes hitting me right in the gut and sounds of Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl ringing in my ears.
She’s my brown eyed girl all right. Mine and on
ly mine.
I pull my vision away, not wanting the sick thoughts I have for her to make my mind go any blanker than it already is.
Normally sick thoughts are not something I shy from, but then again those kinds of thoughts never involved a woman. I’m not a good man, that’s for certain. I’ve seen things and done things that most couldn’t do if their life depended on it, yet I did with ease. Survival is the name of the game on the cold, hard streets of Moscow, and that’s exactly what I did.
Not anymore. I’ve made it to America and now I’ve found the only woman who’s ever made me feel this way. Yeah, I may be six foot five and made of marble, but the first moment I saw my little princess I knew immediately that I was in love, a feeling I had no idea existed inside of me. And it didn’t, until her big brown eyes reached into my chest and pulled it out, sitting it right in front of my own two eyes to see, and more importantly, to feel.
And I want her to feel what I’ve never felt. Safety. And she will thanks to this new facade I’ve erected, and carefully maintained for an entire semester, as a Russian language teacher.
I still keep a full-size punching bag, Russian kettlebells, and other workout equipment in my garage in case any of my enemies track me down. That’s assuming they’re dumb enough to poke the bear and smart enough to find me half way across the globe.
Not a chance, just like there’s no chance this little girl isn’t mine. Soon. Very soon.
But something tells me that when my ability to hold back my hunger for her caves, and I devour her as I know I will, she will see me for who I really am…a beast who needs his beauty, and one who won’t stop until he gets her. In all ways.
