Schoolgirl/teacher

Is it okay to keep your glasses on during sex? I kept
mine on while Mr. Fisher was pulling my white cotton
panties down because I wanted to see what he was doing.
They say that men don’t make passes at lasses in
glasses, but in my case that never stopped anyone.

hot pussy

I was 19, and Mr. Fisher was my algebra teacher. We were
upstairs in his den and downstairs I could hear his wife
bustling around in the kitchen, preparing supper, which
I had been invited to stay for. It was very kind of her.
I hiked my ass up off the counterpane so he could slide
my panties down. Put up a fight? Never occurred to me. I
was keen on investigating the possibilities of sex with
older guys and I was quite happy to do it with Mr.
Fisher.

He was supposed to be tutoring me on the math lessons I
had missed while I was out of town. So we had one hour
of privacy in the den, and I honestly thought we really
were going to go over the roots of the quadratic
equation or whatever it was.

Instead he started staring at my chest and blushing, and
you know, I always loved that funny little mustache of
his, and like I said I had my eye out for older guys
that year, so I made it easy for him.

“You know, Mr. Fisher, I’ve always had a crush on you,”
I exaggerated, slightly.

Actually it had not even occurred to me before. But
there was his hard-on sticking out in his pants, and
there were my prematurely ripe breasts sticking out in
my sweater, and it was starting to feel a little warm in
there.

“I think you are very pretty, Jenny,” he said in that
sweet, faintly Central European accented voice of his.
He had a gentle but manly tone. Girls liked him. My
friend Amy had a big crush on him and she was going to
kill me if she ever found out that I had sex with him.

“Really?” I breathed, like I had not heard it a couple
of hundred times before, from practically any male who
had got me alone since I started wearing a bra. “What do
you think is pretty about me?”

Judging from where he was looking the featured
attractions were a double feature — Breast One and
Breast Two. Like I said, supposedly men don’t make
passes at girls who wear glasses, but this is where
staring at a girl’s chest instead of looking her in the
eye lets you down. If he had been looking me square in
the eye he would have noticed the glasses.

“You have such big eyes,” he lied. I dimpled. “And such
soft brown hair.” Actually it is auburn. I reached up to
fluff it up a bit. If men understood sign language they
would be more aware that this is a green light.

“Do you like it like this?” I asked. “Or should I cut
it?”

“Oh don’t cut it,” he said. “I like it the way it looks
now.”

I ground one of my sneakers into the other, squirming as
I looked up at him. I could feel a little chemistry
starting to mix.

“Do you think I am a little fat?” I said.

“I think your figure is perfect.”

“You don’t think my chest is too big, do you?”

“Oh, of course not!” he spluttered into his mustache.

“Anyway I hardly even notice it — I am your teacher,
after all.”

“You are so sweet!” I smiled. “You are such a sexy man,
Mr. Fisher.” I leaned up on tiptoes and kissed him on the
cheek.

I let my soft lips linger for a moment on his cheek
before I pulled away.

“You know a lot of the girls in the class have a crush
on you,” I said.

“Really? Well, you know, one of the girls left a note on
my desk — don’t tell anyone I told you that!”

“Yes — you have that Continental charm.” In an odd way.

Mr. Fisher had once confessed that his ambition had
been to be a long-distance truck driver on the Autobahn,
before he came to America and became a math teacher. You
could see the truck driver in him, even though he was
not a big muscular guy.

“American women always think I am going to kiss their
hand or something — like I am Erich von Stroheim!” he
muttered.

“You could kiss my hand.” I held it out.

He refused with a smirk. “In my town, I never even saw a
hand kissed until I went to university. That is an
obsolete, aristocratic custom. We were just simple
villagers where I grew up.”

I continued to hold my hand out, the back of the hand
facing up.

“I’ve always wanted to have my hand kissed. By a grown
man, I mean, not just a boy play-acting.”

“You’ll find out some day that a grown man is just a boy
play-acting. But if you insist…”

He took my hand in his and bent slightly to bring it to
his lips. He just barely touched his lips to the back of
my hand — no slobber. I felt his mustache tickle my
skin and a little thrill went through me.

I was disappointed that he didn’t click his heels like
in the movies.

“Your servant, mademoiselle,” he smiled.

“Enchante'” I breathed.

He didn’t let go of my hand. I was breathing a little
quickly and my head was swimming. I had the oddest urge
to throw my arms around him and squeeze him so I just
said “Can I hug you?” and threw my arms around him
before he could say no.

I squeezed him and pressed my adolescent breasts into
his chest. After a long pause his arms gently clasped
me, and I snuggled into him.

“Jenny…I think…” he began.

I pressed my body into his, so he could feel how warm
and soft I was. I looked up at him hopefully, pursed my
lips and gave him my best “kiss me you fool” expression,
practiced in front of the mirror.

“Jenny, I think that is quite enough. I am flattered,
but we have to remember that we have a teacher-student
relationship. I am a married man. Adina is downstairs
making you dinner right now.” I could hear her
clattering the pans in the kitchen.

That’s why you should lock the door before you ravish
me, I thought.

I pulled away from him reluctantly, rather hurt. I
looked pointedly at his crotch — big erection. Men are
so contradictory. His body was telling me in plain
language the exact reverse of the words that were coming
out of his mouth.

“If we were the same age, and you weren’t married…what
would you do?”

“I suppose I’d kiss you. I wouldn’t let the chance to
kiss the prettiest girl in the school pass. Even if you
slapped me for it.”

“And do you think I would let you kiss me? Because…I
would.”

“It’s too bad I’m not twenty years younger.”

“I don’t think it’s bad at all. I prefer older mature
men to boys my age.”

“I suppose we older men should be grateful for that. Why
do you feel that?”

“Well,” I blushed. “I want to tell you but it is hard to
say.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Come, sit down here on the day bed with me.” It was the
sort of little den under the eaves that has wood-paneled
walls, a sloping roof, a little desk and a day bed. I
don’t know whether the bed was to seduce schoolgirls on
or whether it was there so the master of the house had a
place to sleep after getting kicked out of his own bed
by the mistress.

He sat down next to me.

“It’s rather warm — do you mind if I take my sweater
off?”

Why would he mind? I made a big production out of taking
it off in a way that displayed my breasts to their best
advantage, straining against my shirt fabric as I peeled
the sweater over my head.

Then I unbuttoned a couple of shirt buttons. Well, it
was warm after all, but it didn’t accomplish much
because the shirt wasn’t gaping, so he couldn’t see down
it anyway.

“People always treat me as if I am older than I am,” I
began. “You know — because I started developing early.”

“Ah,” he said.

“People started treating me as an older girl after I got
my first, um, you know…” — I whispered with a red
blush — “bra. You know, boys and men, looking at me
that way. They thought I was older — older boys asking
me out, even men your age.”

“Boys your age…?”

“Were afraid of me. Still are! Oh Mr. Fisher, you can’t
imagine what it’s like. Boys my age treat me like I am
an older woman. They look at me, but they are afraid to
talk to me. And it’s all because of –” I looked down at
my chest ruefully “–these.”

I put my hands on my boobs, cupped them, and held them
up for inspection. “It’s all because of my big chest,” I
said shyly, with a red face.

My shirtfront still wouldn’t gape so I surreptitiously
tugged at it when he wasn’t looking to make the neck
gape. Now my white cotton bra was visible.

“It’s so embarrassing being the girl with the biggest
breasts,” I sighed. It was a Judy Blume moment to be
sure. Actually my breasts were not a big problem but
teachers always want to hear about a problem — they
will hear you out if you are suffering from some sort of
adolescent angst because they all want to be the teacher
that kids go to with their problems. And this works on
me too, now that I am in the teaching profession.

“Have you ever read “The Sorrows of Young Werther”?” he
asked.

“No.” Why are teachers always trying to get you to read
a book?

I thought we were talking about my breasts.

“You should. It’s a bit advanced for kids your age but
you are a very bright girl, I think you would appreciate
it. It’s about a young man who can’t see that his
terrible problems are really quite small, in the vast
scheme of things, but he becomes so obsessed with his
own misery that he kills himself in the end, for little
reason.”

Well, if that isn’t a plot spoiler.

“I’m not going to kill myself just because Tommy Jones
calls me Chesty LaRue when he passes me in the hall,” I
muttered.

“Everything changes rapidly when a young person is your
age. It’s hard to adjust to the pace of the changes
going on. It’s normal for boys your age to be afraid to
talk to girls. I myself was completely tongue-tied with
the opposite sex until I was in my second year at
university.”

“What happened then?”

“Oh, an older fraulein taught me to be less afraid and
to have some regard for myself as a man. She was quite
kind to me.”

“She was your, um, lover?”

“Yes.”

“How much older was she?”

He looked embarrassed. “Oh, about 10 years, I suppose.
We never discussed her age — you know, a woman.”

“What did she think about having a younger boy for a
lover?”

“Well, how does one know! I suppose she had an instinct
to encourage me, as a protege.”

“Was she your first…?”

“What a question! I won’t say. And you…?”

“And me what?”

“Your first yet? Or still pure?”

I was as pure as the driven slush. My Girl Scout troop
leader’s son had broken my cherry when I was 12.
“I have had some experience,” I said. “Boys my age don’t
really seem to know what to do. They aren’t very good.”
“Well, that comes with practice. I was terrible at it
when I first started.”

My bra was still visible and I suddenly realized that he
had been staring at it. I took a deep breath to expand
my chest.

“An older guy…you know. I, uh, like older guys, I
mean, you know? And I really like you. You are so sexy.
I love that little mustache of yours.”

(I’ll tell you a little story about Mr. Fisher. One time
my classmate Patricia went into a newsstand with him, to
get a cup of coffee. The woman behind the counter saw
him, pulled out a new issue of a dirty magazine, HUSTLER
or PENTHOUSE or something, pushed it at him, smiled
wickedly and said “Your usual, sir?”)

“Jenny, just because you have big, uh, you, know,
doesn’t mean…”

If a man simply will not take the hint there is only one
thing to do. Well, actually there are about four things
you can do but I took the direct route, and leaned up
against him and kissed him on the mouth.

He started to fight and I held on. Not necessarily like
grim death, but he wasn’t putting up that much of a
fight. After a few seconds he stopped struggling and
kissed me back.

Now we are getting somewhere, I exulted.

I teased his lips with my lips and then I forced my
tongue into his mouth. His breath tasted of beer and
pipe smoke. It was a nice leathery masculine taste,
like the manly way he smelled.

His tongue played with mine and slipped into my mouth.
I cuddled up tight against him as we embraced and kissed
passionately. The door wasn’t locked, and the kiss
lasted about 5 minutes. I could hear his wife running a
mixer in the kitchen and I wondered if she would come
upstairs and catch us. She wouldn’t dare report us to
anyone — Mr. Fisher would lose his job and she’d be
hard up for alimony with him unemployed.

At last we pulled slowly apart and looked deeply into
each other’s eyes — his were a sparkling grey like a
winter sea. I figured we had only another 40 minutes or
so before dinner was served. I started undressing.

I unbuttoned the rest of the buttons on my shirt. Mr.
Fisher watched me, and I pulled my shirt open to show
off my lacy white 34-C bra. I turned around and said
“Can you unhook me, please?”

Mr. Fisher got up and walked away. I was crushed. Then I
heard the door click. He was locking the door. Oh.

He walked back and said “of course — my pleasure” and
unhooked my bra for me.

I pulled my cups off without any ceremony and he saw my
breasts. Full, round, creamy…take your pick of
adjectives, they were a nice set for a girl my age.

That was a couple of decades ago…they are bigger now
but they don’t ride as high on my ribs as they did then.

I was the girl who made men remark “What a pair of
tits!” as she walked past. The most flattering insult a
girl ever heard.

My flesh was a pale, ivory white, and my nipples stood
out scarlet red against it. They were stiff now,
straining hard with excitement.

“I think you have the most beautiful breasts I have ever
seen, Jenny.”

I had heard that before, but mostly from boys who hadn’t
seen many to compare. It’s not hard for a boy to say
that when most of your competition is still in training
bra sizes.

I blushed. I wanted to hear stuff like that from an
older man.

“You have the chest of a grown woman. You have a bigger
bosom than my wife. And they are so perfectly round.
Such perfect third degree polynomial curves!” At least I
think that’s what he said.

“I always wondered what kind of curves they were.”

He reached out a hand to stroke them, softly. And then a
moment later I felt his mustache tickling my tit as he
kissed my nipple.

He kissed my other nipple, and brushed them gently, and
then started sucking, hard.

I let him suck me for a while and then I started
wiggling out of my skirt.

I got my skirt off and then he pulled my panties down.
Before I could kick my sneakers off he had his head
between my legs nuzzling my thighs, and then his
mustache was tickling my clit as he stroked my labia
with his tongue.

Mr. Fisher was only the second guy to do this to me but
I was already growing quite fond of it. Chuck, who had
been my boyfriend for a couple of months after we met at
camp, had introduced me to the pleasures of oral sex —
on the receiving end. He was not adept at vaginal
intercourse but he could make me come with his mouth,
parked in lover’s lane in the back seat of his car.

Oh, oral sex, good. I liked cunnilingus. Mr. Fisher was
as good at it as Chuck had been — evidently Chuck
didn’t have a monopoly on the technique.

After a little while my vaginal lubricants came and soon
his mustache was soaked in them, as I discovered when he
came up for air and I kissed him. I was very excited,
but he didn’t finish me with his mouth. Instead he
dropped his pants, pulled down his boxers and pulled out
his cock.

He had a nice looking hard red cock. It was not
particularly big or small, sort sort of fat and stubby.
He was not circumcised but that did not throw me because
I had seen one before. It was rock hard, pointing right
at me.

I had a sort of hazy expectation that a grown man was
supposed to be twice as big as a boy my age, down there,
and it was always a slight disappointment to me when an
older man wasn’t hung like a Missouri mule. Mr. Fisher
was average, and plenty big enough to do the job, but I
had this sort of fantasy, I wanted to see a big one, and
it took me a long while to really come to believe what
the friends I confided in told me — that Bruce had been
a freak and that I shouldn’t expect other men to compare
to him. Bruce had been my first older man and he pretty
much ruined me for boys my age. And he was quite well
hung, although it was not until years later that I
understood how exceptional he had been in that regard. I
expected other men to be like Bruce.

Mr. Fisher spread my legs and loomed over me. I opened
my plump thighs and looked up at him. I still had my
glasses on, because I wanted to see what he was doing,
and I watched his dick descend toward my pussy and nose
its way in between my labia.

Then he had to sloosh it up and down in my slot for a
minute trying to find the hole. I have no idea why this
is so difficult. I mean, it’s the most important thing
in the world, and there it is right in front of you, so
why is it hard to find?

I was only 19 and still fairly tight and he had a little
difficulty getting the fat head of his thing inserted
into the hole. Then he tried to push into me.

It didn’t go in, at first. He pushed back and forth and
finally it popped in a little.

Well, one size fits all, they say. I could feel him
stretching me down there, even if he wasn’t huge. As he
made firm little thrusts trying to get his cock into me
I rocked back and forth on my ass trying to help him get
in.

At last the head of his dick popped in past the tight
ring of my vestibule, and I felt it poking into the soft
interior tissues.

“It feels good, Mr. Fisher,” I whispered. “Fuck me,
okay?”

“Dinner in 15 minutes!” his wife shouted from the foot
of the stairs.

Eeep!

“We’ll have to make short work of this,” Mr. Fisher
said. Short work?

Well most of the boys I knew could finish in 2 minutes
flat. Or less.

He rotated his ass and sort of corkscrewed his dick into
me. It was a neat, thrilling feeling, getting your
vaginal insides swooshed like that.

Then he began thrusting harder and gradually drilled all
the way down into me, until his pubes were butting up
against my excited little clit.

Once fully ensconced he wasted no time in starting long,
full strokes in and out of me. My vagina lubricated to
ease the way and pretty soon we had a good deep
thrusting rhythm going, him pumping up and down with his
hard, muscular ass and me eagerly humping up into him to
receive his thrusts.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. We were going to
have to wipe the come off and get back into our clothes
in 10 minutes, and the clock was ticking.

The daybed did not have squeaky springs. He was fucking
my ass hard into the bed and I expected to hear the
springs creaking loudly with every thrust to give us
away, but it didn’t make a noise.

My cunt was hot and thoroughly lubed. His dick was rock
hard and slick with my juices and he slid in and out,
firm and fast, over and over. He held his weight up on
his arms and I could see down between our crotches to
where his prong was sliding in and out of me like a
piston. And I could feel that piston effect too, as I
watched.

“I’m on the pill,” I whispered. “You can come inside
me.”

Actually I had gone on the pill while I was dating
Chuck. My gynecologist, or rather the gynecologist my
mom took me to, just offered them to me — two cycles
worth of free samples. So I had to try it, I mean it
was free and I had a boyfriend and no more messy
condoms. I was on the pill that time for less than a
year before I gave it up, but I was still on it when Mr.
Fisher jumped me in his den, so I let him know.

Mr. Fisher grunted in response and then he rolled over,
taking me with him, so that I was on top. I wasn’t
entirely sure about this on this on top thing but
according to Cosmo it was a good thing so I got into it
and and started humping my big ass up and down on his
stiff pole. It was good to have the control and go at my
own speed and just let him be stiff for me.

His hands were free now that he didn’t have to support
his weight and they came up to clutch my boobies. It
felt nice. He squeezed my breasts and teased the
nipples. I pumped up and down on his shaft, lowering my
wet pussy onto him. My cunt felt like it was on fire. I
couldn’t come yet but it felt good. I fucked him that
way for a couple of minutes and then he rolled us over
again and started thrusting hard into me from the male
superior position.

The feel of his dick sliding in and out of me was
heavenly and my cunt started climbing toward the
orgasmic zone. A lot of firm, regular thrusts is all it
takes, and he didn’t fuck like a boy. The firm, steady
thrusting part is the part that Chuck hadn’t yet
mastered. Mr. Fisher had I guess had twenty years to
practice with his wife so he could just fuck, fuck, fuck
like a machine without shooting off in two minutes, or
having to slow down to cool off his overheated dick. It
just stayed hard and kept pumping into me, and my pussy
went along with it, wet and needy, climbing toward my
much-longed for orgasm…

“Five minutes!” his wife shouted from the foot of the
stairs.

“Shit!” he muttered.

“Shit,” I echoed.

The thrill of danger made it a lot more exciting,
knowing she was downstairs and we could be caught in
flagrante if she came in.

Should we play it safe and stop? Oh god no, I thought,
don’t stop. Not now! My pussy felt so good.

My cunt was definitely on the way there now and I felt
him pause. But it was only to put one of his hands in
between our crotches and started rubbing my clit between
thrusts.

“Oh!” I said. Oh. My clit felt good being touched like
that — he had a good touch.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…the bedsprings continued not to make
any noise, but I could hear panting and was not sure if
it was him or me or both of us. I undulated my crotch
under his hand and around his thrusting cock. I felt him
come inside me. Big, gushing pumps of sperm spraying
into me, saturating my womb, trying (unsuccessfully) to
get me pregnant. Lucky I was on the pill.

As soon as he finished coming I thought the show was
over but he surprised me by rolling off the bed, putting
his head between my legs and planting a big wet lick of
his tongue on my slit. And then he started licking me
gently, over and around and up and down my labia, while
one of his thick stubby fingers worked its way into my
vaginal hole.

“Dinner time!” Mrs. Fisher shouted. “Come and get it!”

“We’re coming in a minute!” Mr. Fisher shouted. And with
that… I was. I arrived at the orgasmic plateau and my
pussy started to spasm hard, clenching on his finger,
vibrating under his ministering tongue, pulsing in hot
flashes that curled my toes, as my legs hung limply over
his shoulders.

“Ah….” I murmured. Couldn’t make any noise with her
down there. My sweet orgasm…Mr. Fisher had done it for
me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“We’ll be down in two minutes!” Mr. Fisher shouted. Then
he got up, wiped himself off with a handful of tissues,
and handed me some. I wiped myself off and we got
dressed quickly, in silence. In all the excitement I had
never even kicked my sneakers off so it didn’t take that
long. I wondered if we smelled like sex. Well, the
dinner table smell would cover it, I guessed.

“Thank you, my little dumpling. Not a word to anyone,
okay?”

I nodded in assent.

We went down to dinner, after exchanging a quick
appraising glance.

“Dinner is served,” Mrs. Fisher said. She smiled at us.
I sat down at the table.

“Would you like to say grace, Jenny?”

I was surprised — I had always assumed that Mr. Fisher
had been raised as some sort of communist, since he had
grown up in that part of Europe and had that sort of air
about him.

“Thank you lord for what we have received today,” I
said, and meant it. I gave Mrs. Fisher a sweet innocent
Girl Scout look that was a lie and I gave Mr. Fisher a
not so innocent look that wasn’t. Creeped me out, having
dinner with her right after boinking her husband. I
could not get out of there fast enough after it was
over. Her strudel was good, though.

“Don’t forget your homework,” he said, handing it to me
as I left.

We never did get around to going over the lessons I
missed.