Trapped With My Teacher

I expect a snarky comment about my lack of cooking skills. Or something, anything, to break this tension. But Tony only looks at me, then away, as though scared to meet my eye. He sits at the single person table in the kitchen and eats in silence. Then he rises and starts to wash the dishes, all without even acknowledging that I’m in the same room. I roll my eyes and finish my own food, then leave him to his own devices and open the back door.

Sure enough, I was right. The snow glistens right at chest height. Good thing we brought in plenty of wood last night. I have a feeling we’re going to be spending more time in this cabin than either of us would like. We’ll be lucky if they clear the roads by tonight.

Tony glances over at me, but if he’s going to tell me not to venture out there in the snow, he must think better of it when he catches a glimpse of the determined, narrow-eyed glare on my face. He just turns back to scrubbing the dishes with the minimal amount of bottled water we have left, because to judge by the lack of anything from the sink, the pipes are already frozen solid.

As for me, I’m on a mission. Because I’ve been thinking about something all morning—anything, really, to distract myself from the awkward reality of being trapped in a cabin with the teacher I hate. The teacher I hate and who I just fucked.

And the conclusion I’ve come to, in my search for a distraction, is this—where is the shower?

There’s a tiny little water closet off the kitchen, little more than a toilet and a sink that no longer functions without the pipes working. But there’s no shower. No bath either. Which leads me to believe it must be elsewhere. And there’s only one elsewhere in this tiny little homestead.

So I shoulder my way out the door into the chest-deep snow, grope around in it until I feel the handle of the shovel we brought over last night from the shed, and start digging.

It takes me the better part of the morning to make a little path for myself from the back door all the way out to the shed. At least it gives me something to do beside stand around the cabin with Tony in awkward silence. And at least, while I’m doing it, I work up enough of a sweat that I’m not cold, despite not currently being curled up in the cozy little living room around the fireplace.

The living room where he fucked me last night. The living room where I screamed my professor’s name while he came.

My shoulders bunch with the dual effort of forcing out those thoughts and focusing on the task at hand.

Finally, after what feels like a couple of hours—and probably was, come to think of it—I make it across the yard to the little shed. Once there, I open the door yet again and face down the far wall. The locked door is still there, and, to judge by the dimensions of this shed, it should lead to a much bigger space than it’s letting on.

With the bright morning sun reflecting off all the freshly fallen snow outside, it’s plenty light in here. Light enough that it doesn’t take me long to find the fake rock stuck obtrusively in the corner of the shed, and then to work the fake bottom off it to grab the key to this mystery door. I stick the key into the lock, turn it, and grin with self-satisfaction when the door swings open wide to reveal exactly what I expected beyond it…

7

Cleaning Up

It doesn’t take me long to prepare. I’ve been ready for this—had my mind focused on it the whole time I dug my path out here. Or at least, what part of my mind I could force away from memories of Tony’s hands on my hips, his thick cock inside my pussy, making me ache and cry out for release.

Most cabins like these—cabins meant for ski holidays on the weekends, not equipped for living in full-time—come with these sorts of outer rooms. I’ve seen more than my fair share on outings with my family. Daddy always claims he’s going to build one in our backyard, though he never gets around to actually doing it. Classic for him.

Me, I’m just feeling more grateful than ever to whomever built this little cabin all the way up here, as I fill up one last bucket of snow, then shoulder my way back through the little shed.

In the back of it, through the locked door, I hit the jackpot. Not only is there a huge claw-footed porcelain bathtub, looking like it just walked into this wood-paneled shed’s hidden room out of an 18th century castle, but there’s also a huge stove in the corner, with iron piping underneath that cradles the tub, as though the stove is holding it in a tight lover’s embrace. I found the stove already stoked with wood, as if someone had been preparing a warm bath here when they were called away. All I needed to do was light it, coax those flames to life, like I’ve already done, and then fill up the bathtub with snow.