|Literary Masters, Inc.
Publicists for Short Stories, Books, Poems and Songs
Long Island, New York 11971
|It was a 3-hour meeting, from 7 to 10 p.m. Lecturers talked on a variety of subjects. Each talk was followed by
a question and answer period. It was an informal, pleasant evening.
The evening always began with a delicious dinner catered by a local restaurant. This year’s host was a Four
Star Italian restaurant that had graciously agreed to sponsor the event in exchange for new publicity . . .
Teachers talk. We all piled as much as we wanted on our aluminum plates, gave our hearty thanks to the chef,
and found a seat outdoors or in the auditorium. The chef really seemed to appreciate the attention to his food
--sautéed shrimp on a bed of Angle Hair pasta with a mild, pink marinara sauce. It came with a garden salad
and warm bread. A chilled Italian Pinot Grigio was served in plastic cups, making everyone congenial.
For Shane, this evening was his opportunity to check us out . . . the female teachers. This year, I walked into
the auditorium about 10 minutes late. I sat in the row across from Shane, just an isle away. Shane couldn’t
believe it. He had not only found the best-looking woman in the auditorium, but I smiled at him before I sat
down. I could tell that he could not take his eyes off of me. I am tall and have long auburn hair. And I was
wearing a sexy black cocktail dress.
Shane could not focus on the meeting anymore. He looked at the lecturers less than he looked at me. Soon
he was enveloped in my presence. I took notes left-handed, ran my fingers through my hair, and crossed and
uncrossed my legs. It was a deliberate tease and I knew Shane was going crazy. Plus, there was no ring on my
The meeting ended. The dean thanked everyone for attending. Everybody applauded the presenters. Then
I stood up with the others. Shane stood up. I smiled at him, and walked out. Shane walked out. I went to the
restroom and dallied just long enough to build Shane's anticipation. Shane waited and waited. When I came
out, he walked up to me.
“Hi,” he smiled. “My name’s Shane. I was wondering if you have time for a cup of coffee. I was hoping we could
share some of our teaching experiences.”
I smiled. “Why, thank you” I said placing my hand on his chest. My fingernails found his nipple under his Polo
shirt. "That's sweet of you.” I continued. As my nails dug in, I felt his gasp. "I appreciate your offer,
but I’ve got to get home. My husband is babysitting tonight, and I’m sure he’s pretty tired. Maybe another
I smiled, and walked away. I did not look back to see if Shane had to use the restroom room now. I'm betting
©2015 Linda McIntire [All Rights Reserved]
|WOW! What a cool story and hot lady. What a great way to build anticipation and then close the door abruptly.
Thanks, Linda, for sharing it with us at Literary Masters,Inc. ****__Jean Ann Morgan.
Linda McIntire really knows how to get the adrenalin flowing. Nothing sexier in writing than tales from the
classroom battlefield and the frumps that try to torment a prey up close. Nice to see the tables turned on this
particular frump! Thanks for an easy-to-read and enjoyable piece, Linda. Great ending! ****__ Captain Apple
I loved your ambush. Particularly at the end. It never ceases to amaze me just how savvy all attractive
women are. Well written, well conceived, and yes, right out of today's classrooms. Good job, Linda. Give us
another. *****__John E. Cashwell.
This is so well written. Simple and swift without a single wasted word. Her work has a style and sound unique
to today's writers. Reminds me of Michelle Banda's writings. Refreshing and fun to read. We are jealous. Do it
again, Linda. ****__Su Chang-Wu.
Terrific! Great ploy to write in the first person present rather than third person past tense. These stories are
usually written from the "male chauvinist's" point of view, exploiting women. Way to turn the tables, Linda.
What a lucky guy that Fred McIntire is. Give us many more. I was panting at the end. ***** __ Anthony
By Linda McIntire
Sunday, March 13, 2015
Rated "PG" by the Author.
A teacher teaches a lesson in exploitation.