©2011 Jane Colt
All rights reserved. Smashwords edition. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any means, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission. For permission please contact: janecolt@aol.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover images: Image Source, Kalim Saliba (Getty Images)
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About the author.
Jane Colt is the pen name of a successful nonfiction author who is excited to be experimenting with erotic fiction. She has a special interest in writing sexy love stories set around romantic holidays. Originally from the East Coast, Jane is married and lives in California. For information on Jane’s writings, see www.janecolt.com.
A Christmas in Boston
Veronica DeVitt heads to Boston for a job interview that she hopes will bring her home to Massachusetts. But it seems that Fate (or maybe her best friend Amy?) is putting Veronica’s schoolgirl crush—Professor Hugh MacDougall—squarely in her path. Thanks to some accidental voyeurism she shared with MacDougall six Christmases ago, her teacher has been starring in Veronica’s fantasies. Will this become reality?
Follow Veronica as she gets the professional opportunity of a lifetime, discovers some secrets about MacDougall, joins her ex-prof in Boston’s Speedo Santa Run (in which everyone wears bathing suits), warms up with him afterwards in the shower, and has a pulsating time at the Pops Christmas concert.
What’s that beside Veronica’s name on Santa’s list? “Nice”? Let’s hope not!
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DEDICATION
To the Christmas Cookie and the Christmas Cat
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A CHRISTMAS IN BOSTON
By Jane Colt
CHAPTER ONE
HEADING BACK TO BOSTON
“So, do you think Professor Sexypants will be there?” Amy asked.
Even though her best friend’s voice was coming from 1,000 miles away, Veronica could just imagine the big, teasing grin on her girlfriend’s face. “Very funny,” Veronica said as she put her phone down on the nightstand and put it on “speaker” so that her hands were free to finish packing. “I have no idea, . . . and I don’t care,” she lied. “I’m thinking only about the job interview. Then I want to celebrate Christmas with my family and friends and enjoy Boston. I’m doing that talk at dear old Arbor only because you called the President and suggested that I speak to students about their futures. . . . And I’m still mad at you about that, by the way. . . . I don’t know which was crazier. You telling her that the undergrads should see me as some kind of role model or that she believed you. Me, a role model! That’s a laugh,” Veronica said as she finished folding her favorite red cashmere sweater and put it into her suitcase.
“Well, get used to it, honey. You may not like it, but you’re a real goddess to us regular gals,” replied Amy in her characteristic, nonstop, machinegun way of talking. “You barely graduate from Arbor because, instead of studying, you spend most of your time in the dorm kitchen experimenting with muffin recipes. Muffins! When you see a comment on some Minneapolis food blog—and you still need to tell me what you were doing reading a blog about food in Minnesota, of all places, at 3 AM when you had such a hunky boyfriend who would have answered a booty call in a flash. Anyway, when you see some comment from that restaurant owner about wanting to spice up his breakfast menu, you send him—just for fun—a bunch of your favorite muffins. And the next thing you know he offers you a job! And not only that, . . . (Amy finally paused for a breath) . . . your culinary creations are such a hit in the Twin Cities that the owner now wants to make you Pastry Queen of a new breakfast restaurant in Copley Place that will feature your muffins! You are so awesome! . . . And speaking of your muffins—wink, wink—when was the last time they were kneaded properly? Which gets us back to Professor Kissyface. Do you think he’ll show up at your talk?”
“Amy, you’re a riot,” said Veronica with an appreciative laugh, “I don’t know anyone else who can make my laziness and dumb luck sound like a strategy for success. That’s why I love you so much.”
As much affection as Veronica felt for her friends in Minneapolis, there was no one like Amy. She was Veronica’s biggest booster. And since the day the two girls met in the Arbor freshman dormitory, Amy acted like Veronica’s big sister—even though their birthdays were only two days apart.
“You know that it was my parent’s idea, not mine, for me to go to college—and a women’s college at that,” Veronica reminded her friend as she tried to make up her mind between gloves or mittens. “And I really just sent those muffins as a joke. I figured it was the last thing he’d ever expect to get in the mail,” she explained, as she carefully placed her nightgowns into her suitcase. “You know that I had more fun baking than anything to do with school.”
“Hold on there, girlfriend!” interrupted Amy. “You’re going to tell me that all of those ‘office hour’ visits with Professor Huggybear and those romantic walks home to your dorm after his class weren’t fun?” Amy said with a laugh. “I’ve seen you do that sweet, innocent, flirty, airhead act to reel a guy in—and I know how much you love doing it. ‘Oh, Professor,’” Amy continued without missing a beat, but shifting into her best little-girl voice, “‘I’m just a girl, and you’re so big and strong and smart. Will you p-l-e-a-s-e explain Socrates to me—just one more time?’ I bet that as you sat on the couch in his office pretending to take notes about what he was saying, you crossed and uncrossed your legs every couple of minutes so that he caught a glimpse of those sexy rose panties you’d use to drive a guy crazy. You can be such a tease when you want to be—and I know you had a major crush on him. For three years! And you expect me to believe that you aren’t desperate for him to show up and say to you, ‘Oh, Veronica, now that I’m divorced I must have you because I was hot for you the entire time you were at Arbor, but because you were my student I couldn’t tell you that. Every time I saw you at Arbor I pictured you naked, and I’ve thought about your cute little body every day that we’ve been apart. And now that I’m free, I’m going to carry you back to my apartment where I’ll rip your clothes off, screw your brains out, make you come like no man has ever done for you before and spend the rest of my life making sure that your every fantasy comes true”
“Amy! You are so bad,” Veronica said, laughing so hard she could barely talk. “OK, I had a schoolgirl crush on one of my teachers. Big deal. Who hasn’t? And, yes, it continued after I finished his course. Even you said you thought he was cute in a funny sort of way. But I really did need help understanding that stuff to pass his course. And you know that those ‘romantic walks home’ were because a few girls had their purses stolen going home after night classes. I was scared. I knew MacDougall lived on the same block as our dorm, and that he always walked home after class. So I asked him if he’d mind if I tagged along because I didn’t want to get mugged. He’s a nice guy, so he said ‘Of course.’ I was a frightened sophomore. He was my teacher. It was his job. That was it. End of story.”
“End of story? . . . Fine, if you say so. . . . So in that case,” Amy responded, trying a different approach, “he’s just the guy for you to end your dry streak with! By my count, it’s been months and months and months and months since you’ve gotten laid. . . . Let’s see . . . Kirk . . . the pastry chef . . . after that Valentine’s Day soirée the two of you worked . . . right? . . . So if I know you, you’re horny as hell by now. . . . Honey, you need to have hot nasty monkey sex! It’s a health thing! You’re about to explode! Please get laid! . . . And cute Professor Bedroom Eyes is available. . . . It’s the perfect Christmas present—for both of you. . . . I don’t care what you say, I know you’ve been fantasizing about him all of these years every time you turn on your vibrator. And he’d have to be a eunuch not to fantasize about you. Get real, girl! Every male teacher dreams of having sex with his adorable female students. If nothing else, think of the great memory you’ll be giving him. Do the man a favor. It’s Christmas! Seduce him! I bet his last words will be, ‘I die a poor, but happy man. I may have been a simple teacher, but at least I nailed Veronica DeVitt.’”
“Amy, you are s-o-o-o-o off target,” Veronica said, zipping up her suitcase. “Honestly, I can barely remember what he looks like,” she added a little too quickly—grateful that Amy couldn’t see her turn red (or squirm as she pressed her thighs tightly together) over her friend’s suggestion that Veronica and her former teacher have hot sex.
“Sure, sure. That’s what you say now. And maybe you believe it,” Amy said. “But let’s see what happens once you get here . . . ‘Oh Veronica! (moaning noises) Oh Professor Honeybunns! (loud moaning and kissing noises) OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“I hope you’re talking to me from home and not from Starbucks,” said Veronica, laughing even harder at her friend’s antics, “because otherwise you’re putting on quite a show. . . . But I’ve got to run if I’m going to catch my plane. The taxi should be here in a few minutes. You still picking me up at Logan?”
“Absolutely, sweetie. I’ll be waiting in the cell phone lot. Give me a call when your luggage comes up. See you in a few hours. Love you!”
“Love you, too” answered Veronica as she fastened her favorite Christmas tree brooch onto her brilliant red coat.
“And one more thing, Vee,” added Amy.
“Yes?”
“I am at Starbucks! And everybody here wants to say something to you. . . . Go ahead, gang!” she shouted.
Veronica heard the sound of dozens of voices come out of her phone, “Merry Christmas, Veronica! . . . Please get laid!”
“Love you!” Amy shouted. “Watch for the photo!”
And not 30 seconds after ending the call, Veronica received a picture on her phone taken by the barista from behind the counter at the Starbucks in Quincy Market. Amy’s wearing a Santa Claus hat, her bright green winter coat and her signature candy cane stockings. She’s standing in front of a crowd of people with a big sign that reads “Merry Christmas, Veronica! . . . Please get laid!”
“Amy, you character,” Veronica said out loud. She could just picture her friend recruiting everyone at Starbucks to yell what’s on the sign into the phone and pose for a picture. It was just the latest in the list of unpredictable things Amy did trying to spice up Veronica’s sex life. She was a real sweetheart that way.
It wasn’t the strangest thing, mind you. That was probably the time Amy arranged—from Boston—a blind date for Veronica—in Minneapolis—with one of the players of the Minnesota Vikings. As Veronica grabbed her suitcase and headed downstairs to meet her taxi, she reminisced about the episode and felt grateful to have such a terrific friend.
For no particular reason, Amy decided that Veronica should date a professional football player. So she researched the Vikings’ roster and found a guy she thought would be a good match for Veronica. Then, she got him on the phone by pretending to be his agent calling about a glitch in his contract. She was completely honest about what she was up to, sent Veronica’s picture to him over the phone while they were talking and asked him to agree to drive 30 miles to meet Veronica for a hot air balloon ride (something that Veronica always wanted to do). Amy would make all the arrangements. She was so sincere—and the Viking was such a nice guy—that he agreed. When Amy called Veronica, she simply told her friend that she was taking a balloon ride as a birthday present, and there was a special surprise to go along with it that Veronica wouldn’t find out about until the ride. Actually, Amy had unusually good instincts about guys—although when Veronica told her what a great time she and the Viking had, Amy deflected the compliment by saying, “The idea that you’d like Brandon was a no-brainer. I assumed a professional athlete would have great endurance between the sheets. And what woman could resist a nice tight end?” Veronica and Brandon dated for six months and broke up only because he got traded to the 49ers and neither one of them wanted a long distance relationship at that point in their lives. But they had a great time together, and both of them were sad to see things end.
In fact, knowing Amy, Veronica wouldn’t put it past her to arrange something in Boston. Oh no!, she said to herself with a start as she stepped into the sub-zero Minneapolis cold and headed for the warmth of the taxi, Amy’s already arranged the talk at Arbor. . . .Professor Sexypants! . . . She wouldn’t!
CHAPTER TWO
PROFESSOR MACDOUGALL, HEARTTHROB?
Hugh MacDougall had been Veronica’s philosophy teacher in her sophomore year at Arbor College—one of the many small colleges tucked away along the historic streets and alleys of Boston. Arbor was located by The Fens—one of the parks in Boston’s famous “Emerald Necklace.”
Veronica took the class to fulfill one of her “gen ed” requirements. MacDougall was the typical “absent minded professor,” which made him an unlikely heartthrob at the all-girls school. He wore a bow tie, sweater vest, horn rimmed glasses, carried a pocket watch and used only fountain pens. When Veronica took his class, he’d been out of graduate school just a few years. This meant he was only in his late 20s, although he looked and acted like his colleagues 40 years older. He had a perennial rumpled look, used Old Spice after shave, and always wore the same boring academic brown, Harris Tweed sport coat with elbow patches. . . . Except for the one day he wore a rust colored corduroy sport coat without any elbow patches—which produced one of the funniest things Veronica had ever seen in a class.
MacDougall was a “leaner.” Whenever he lectured, he’d lean against something. He’d lean against the blackboard (and always get chalk on his jacket). He’d lean against the wall. Whenever someone asked a question, he’d lean on the lecturer’s lectern—his elbow resting on the podium with his jaw nestled in the palm of his hand while he listened. One day, as someone in class started asking a question about Plato, MacDougall went to adopt his classic “listening” lean by placing his elbow on the lectern—on the highly polished wooden lectern. Without the suede patch to act as a brake, the teacher’s elbow shot across the slick surface, and—accompanied by an audible gasp in the classroom—his head started crashing towards the podium. Fortunately, MacDougall was able to catch himself before slamming into the lectern. Pretending that nothing had happened, he simply answered the question and continued lecturing. But he never showed up in class again without what Veronica now thought of as “safety patches.” Every time Veronica saw any of the faculty wearing sports coats with elbow patches, she couldn’t help but giggle.
Lots of Veronica’s friends developed crushes on the male faculty. But most of them were on the swarthy, buff, green eyed, dark haired mathematician from El Salvador who ran the Boston Marathon every year. In fact, it was now an annual tradition at Arbor for “Luis’s Lovelies” to troop a few blocks over to Beacon Street, cheer for—and take off their panties and throw them at—the sexy professor as he entered the last couple of miles of the race. It all started the year the math prof became an American citizen. Before class, someone snuck into his classroom and wrote on the blackboard: “Congratulations to Professor Medilla—America’s newest citizen—who’s running in the Boston Marathon on Monday! Let’s give him an All-American panties salute when he’s coming up Beacon Street!” Nobody ever found out who the culprit was, but it caught on like wildfire. Since the Boston Marathon is always run on Patriot’s Day, everyone loved the patriotic theme. So as Medilla passed the 24 mile mark, he was showered by red, white, blue and American flag design panties and thongs. It became an instant tradition. And much to the chagrin of Arbor’s president, the local media covering the marathon would mention it every year in the same breath as the “scream tunnel” that the women from Wellesley provide at the 13 mile mark.
But Veronica’s crush was on the absent-minded philosopher, not the studly mathematician. And there were a couple of reasons for this.
First, he’d been especially kind to her. Veronica wasn’t the world’s best student, and MacDougall had always been willing to help her. And he did so without making her feel stupid about the fact that she needed extra help to pass his course. “It just takes some people longer to get this stuff,” he’d say. “The important thing is that you’re trying and doing your best. That’s all I ask.” Since that’s exactly the same sort of thing her parents would tell her when she got discouraged, it made her feel that MacDougall was basically a sweet guy who genuinely took an interest in how she did—kind of like an uncle.
Then there was what Amy had called “those romantic walks home.” But, again, that was just Veronica’s teacher being thoughtful. There had been a series of purse snatchings. What Veronica found touching, however, was that after the thief was caught, MacDougall made up some excuse to make sure that he walked Veronica home. He usually said something like, “Veronica, I’ve been thinking more about that question you asked, so if you have the time, let me explain things to you as I’m walking home.” Veronica quickly figured out that this was just a ploy so that he could make sure she was safe, and her heart was warmed by the kindness.
You might think that the sight of the young prof and his cute young student walking together at night would at least produce some salacious rumors among Veronica’s classmates. But there wasn’t any gossip.
Well, that’s not entirely true. There weren’t any rumors about MacDougall and Veronica. But the year before Veronica came to Arbor, there had been rumors about MacDougall’s wife. Mrs. MacDougall was also a professor, but at Boston University, not Arbor. No one at Arbor had ever met her during her short stay. But there were stories aplenty at BU that suggested that Prudence MacDougall was more than a little strange. She announced in her Early American Literature class one day that she knew so much about the subject because she’d had an earlier life as a New England Puritan and had actually written some of the material she was now teaching. Fortunately, BU was saved the trouble of figuring out what to do about Mrs. Professor MacDougall when she simply disappeared one day without a trace. She abandoned her classes and her husband—reportedly leaving a note on the dining room table that said she had emptied the couple’s bank account and was running away with her football player student assistant. Because Hugh MacDougall refused to talk about any of this, no one knew how much of this was true. But since all of the women who offered to “comfort” MacDougall were politely turned down, everyone concluded that Prudence skipped town with her student because MacDougall wasn’t interested in sex.
But Veronica didn’t believe that. As a matter of fact, the real reason for her crush on MacDougall was because of something that happened during the final time MacDougall walked her home. In fact, this was exactly when her full-blown “I get weak in the knees (and warm, wet and tingly somewhere else) whenever I think of this man” crush began.
It was the night of the final exam in MacDougall’s class, right before Christmas break. As MacDougall and Veronica turned the corner and started heading down Brookline Avenue, the prof launched into his explanation of some odd idea of Socrates he’d asked about on the exam. What caught his student’s eye, however, was that one of the windows in the girls’ dorm on the other side of the street glowed a beautiful red.
One of the coeds on the second floor had invited her boyfriend over—and the curtains that covered the floor to ceiling glass wall were wide open. As MacDougall and Veronica got to a point opposite the building, she could see a couple dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus decorating the Christmas tree in a room lit only by the red lights that covered the thick spruce. The young woman’s boyfriend placed the star on top of the tree, and the two of them stood and admired the decorations as they hugged. Hugging quickly led to kissing. The ruby glow was perfect for romance and seemed to fuel the couple’s hunger for each other. The kissing grew more passionate. The coed whispered something into her boyfriend’s ear, and whatever it was turned him on so much that he started tearing her clothes off. He ripped her red dress open as buttons flew everywhere, and he tore off the delicate white lace bra with one strong yank. As he fondled her creamy white breasts, she unbuckled his wide black belt. Ripping open his red Santa jacket, she started kissing his chiseled chest and ran her hands over his hard body. She moved lower, grabbed the front of his pants and pulled his fly apart with such force that one of the buttons flew up and clicked against the window. To “Santa’s” obvious delight, she knelt down in front of him, pulled down his black boxers, put her hands between his legs to caress his balls and started teasing his stiff shaft with her tongue. She flicked the tip a few times and then slowly took as much of his hard cock as she could into her mouth. Her boyfriend slid his penis in and out of her willing mouth until his expression showed that he had other ideas about what to do with his cock. Apparently reading his mind (or maybe some other part of him), she removed her lips from his penis and covered it with a condom.
Her boyfriend pulled her up and grabbed hold of her tiny white lace G-string and ripped it off her with a single tug. He stepped out of his torn red pants, let his Santa jacket drop to the floor and pulled off the remnants of her Mrs. Claus dress. He then pressed their naked bodies together as he kissed her passionately and they ran their hands up and down each others’ bare flesh.
At this point, Veronica noticed two things. First, as she watched the young man’s large hands forcefully squeeze his lover’s soft, shapely ass, she not only envied the young woman, she felt her body respond to the sight of such passion. Her breasts tightened. Her sex got moist. Her breathing quickened and deepened so much that she turned away from MacDougall so that he couldn’t see the visible sign of her arousal—the warm, white, crystalline breath that emerged from her mouth as she exhaled forcefully. Second, despite the fact that MacDougall had continued droning on about Socrates, Veronica realized that the whole time the randy couple had been going at it, she and her teacher had been walking back and forth directly opposite the lovers—and always had a prime view.
Normally, when MacDougall talked as he walked, he’d occasionally stop and then continue on his way. This time, he’d stop—then walk back down Brookline a few yards, stop again, turn around and walk back the other way. The whole time he talked, he had an unobstructed view of the action. Is he watching the couple like I am? wondered Veronica. Or is he just absentmindedly pacing back and forth the way he does in class? She couldn’t tell whether he was looking at the sexy couple because of the way he always moved his head around when he explained things. He was either staring into space to gather his thoughts, or he was doing his best to conceal the fact that he was relishing the show as much as she was. But definitely not wanting to take a chance that he really was oblivious to their front row seat to the racy festivities, Veronica asked MacDougall to repeat what he’d just said about the ancient Greek thinker—knowing it would buy her at least another 15 minutes of voyeuristic entertainment.
The young man on the other side of the glass then put his muscular hands around his girlfriend’s trim waist and forcefully turned her towards the transparent wall. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she then looked directly at Veronica and MacDougall and pressed her body—her full white breasts, the rosy circles atop them, her stomach and the dark vee between her legs—into the glass as though it were a lover she hungered for. Then her boyfriend pulled her back, leaned her down so that she was supporting herself with her hands against the glass, and took her from behind. As he thrust himself into her, one of his hands reached round and massaged her breasts while the other went between her legs. This was clearly not the first time the young couple had used this position, because her face showed that he immediately started stroking exactly the right spot in exactly the right way. She came quickly—although definitely not silently. The glass muffled her moans, but her face showed their intensity. Fired by his girlfriend’s passionate release, the young man now repeatedly pounded her from behind until he too came. After recovering and uncoupling, the girl blew a kiss to her audience, took her boyfriend’s hand, and led him to the bed on the far side of the room—signaling that she, unlike Christmas, wasn’t about to come just once.