Dana: Thing of Beauty [MF, student/teacher]

Happy new year!

Here's another story I wanted to share with you. It's a student/teacher first-time tale:

Dana: Thing of Beauty

Dear Allison,

I promised you that I’d write the story of my first time with Dana, my teacher and first lover. Never let it be said that I didn’t keep my promises. But I have to tell you: writing this, it’s had me as nervous as the virgin I was back then. Palms sweaty, shivering. The only thing that’s kept me going is remembering your face when you asked me to write this for you — how could anyone ever deny that face anything? But because of that face, I couldn’t write it to you; when I tried to think about you as I wrote, it became much less about what happened then, what I experienced then, and much more about what I have experienced with you.

It’s funny: I’ve written my whole life, but I’ve never in my life written a sex scene. This was the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to write. It was too easy to make everything sound ridiculous, or to turn myself into way more of a smooth operator than I ever was.

In any case, as I wrote this, I had to visualize writing for a kind of faceless, genderless reader, because otherwise it came out all wrong. I’m sorry.

You asked me what it was like with Dana, that first time. I wanted to show you, as close to reality as I could, what I actually felt like, what I was thinking. Well, if I were being honest I’d say that I wasn’t thinking at all, but you get the idea.

It was fun to dive back into that eighteen-year-old hormonal soup — even as it was more than a bit humiliating to remember. It actually made me feel a bit badly for poor Lucas, even if I did want to tear his balls off with my bare hands after you talked to me last winter.

This also had me trying to put myself in your shoes, which was hard for me. I feel as if I have spent so much of our relationship trying to protect you, trying not to overwhelm you. Thinking about Dana, I found myself realizing that she really hadn’t tried to sugarcoat anything for me; she always seemed to recognize that there were some things that I needed to learn on my own. As I told you, she was a very, very good teacher, whether it came to writing or to love. If I haven’t given you that chance, Allison, please, please forgive me. It’s not because I don’t believe in you, but because I care for you too much.

I hope that you enjoy this.

Love,

Ken

P.S. Don’t laugh at me too much. Just remember: I too was a teenaged boy once.

~/~

Ms. Norris’s Senior Composition class was twenty-five boys and five girls. It wasn’t because the girls didn’t like her — she was a terrific teacher. They just got sick of watching the guys salivate whenever this petite, self-described former cheerleader leaned against her blackboard or hitched her skirt up to sit on her desk.

The seniors in this class reversed habits they’d developed since they were freshman: the jocks sat at the front. And I sat in the back, with the girls. I was no fool. And I could see Ms. N. just fine from the fifth row.

Listening to her lecture on rhetoric and essay structure, it was hard not to be seduced by her structure: heart-shaped, elfin face, cupid-bow lips, porcelain skin with a dusting of freckles, pert, up-turned nose that perfectly echoed her pert, up-turned breasts. The only sign of her age — she was in her early thirties — was a single streak of silver in her straight, shoulder-length black hair. In retrospect I think that may have been the sexiest thing about her.

She could see me just fine, too. When one of the goofs in the front row tried to impress her with some mis-learned bit of knowledge (‘the edifice complex’ was a particular classic), she inevitably favored him with a smile, and then snuck a wink my way before continuing the lesson.

One day, toward the end of the first half of the semester, she handed back an essay; the assignment had been to present a forceful argument against any law we thought was unjust. For some reason, I’d chosen to write on the statutory rape law for our state — at the time, it covered only girls, which struck my nascent sensibilities as sexist. It seemed wrong that if a thirteen-year-old boy were to sleep with a seventeen-year-old girl, he would be guilty of statutory rape. (That was my understanding of the law, in any case.)

She had given my paper a B — well below my usual standard. On the back page, she wrote, “Your passion may have gotten in the way of your argument.”

After class — it was lunchtime — I came up to her and asked about the grade.

She listened politely, but she wasn’t going to change the grade. “I think this really touched a nerve for you, Ken.”

I began to fume. “I can think of half a dozen male teachers here who are sleeping with their students. Mr. Loesser next door! He married a former student! They shouldn’t be doing that — supposedly they’d be arrested if they were caught. But I think everyone looks the other way, because if a woman teacher did the same thing, it would be just fine.”

She smiled at me, a little cat-like. “I’m not sure I follow the logic of that.” She stepped closer. “You don’t think, if I were to sleep with a student, someone would mind?” She stared up at me, and I realized for the first time that her eyes were green, and bottomless.

I began to hyperventilate. Then I began to sputter. Then I backed quickly out the door. I spent the lunch hour bent at the waist, legs crossed, trying to hide an irrepressible hard-on.

For the next week or so, I couldn’t look Ms. Norris in the face. Eventually, I was able to pretend that I hadn’t humiliated myself, and began to participate in the class again.

Two days before vacation — it was my birthday — she gestured to me to come talk to her as the rest of the class struggled with backpacks and umbrellas. After the last students had straggled out to eat lunch in the drizzle, I slumped my way over to her desk. I had spent most of the period visualizing Ms. N bent over the desk, her denim skirt up over her white ass, fucking her, there in front of the whole damned class…

“Ken,” she said, very intent on the attendance sheet, “I’m sorry I embarrassed you that day.”

“You didn’t embarrass me, Ms. — “

“Dana,” she insisted.

“Dana,” I said. “You didn’t embarrass me. I embarrassed myself, by my own reaction. I… That wasn’t your fault.”

She looked up at me, locking me again in that green gaze. This time I managed to keep my knees from buckling. “It’s your eighteenth birthday, isn’t it, Ken?”

I nodded.

“Any plans for the break?”

I was probably to going to spend Friday night sitting in one of my friends’ cars drinking beer, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “Nothing exciting. Going on a college trip next week.”

“I’d love to hear how that goes.” She took a deep breath and I had to work hard to keep my eyes on her face and not stare down at the sight of her chest stretching the tight black turtleneck that she was wearing. “I’ve got a present I’d like to give you. Do you think you can come by after school?”

I looked out the upper half of the classroom windows — the lower half was painted in, to cut distractions — at the steady rain. “Well, I was supposed to go to track practice, but it looks like a rainout.”

She smiled. A faint flush seemed to wash across her fair cheeks. “I’ll see you then.” Then she went back to her papers, and I walked out — not caring so much about the tent in the front of my jeans this time.

Through French, Pre-calculus and one of Mr. Harris’s legendary lectures on the Civil War, all I could think about was what sort of present Ms. Norris — Dana — might have for me. A book, I thought. Must be a book. English teachers always give books.

After Mr. Harris had finished reenacting Sherman’s March to the Sea to a round of applause, I gathered my stuff and wandered back to the English department building. I tried not to let the possibility — the probability, even — that I was looking forward to something more than a book render me a total blubbering mess. I kept trying to dismiss visions of Dana bent over her desk from my head.

I knocked on the classroom door, and was greeted with a quiet “Come in.” After taking a deep breath, I stepped through the door.

She was standing with her back to me — not in the lingerie I had been attempting not to visualize, but in the black turtleneck and button-up skirt that she had been wearing at lunch. She turned around, smiled, and walked toward me, holding out… a book.

I smiled, trying hard, now, not to look disappointed. I took the worn hardcover: a volume of Keats’s love poems. Well, that was interesting. I looked up, about to say thank you.

“Open the cover, “ Dana said, her arms folded in front of her, as if she were suddenly cold. “Read the inscription — read both of them.”

Dutifully, I opened the book to the title page. There were indeed two inscriptions. The top one, written in a strong block print, and dated about fifteen years earlier, read:

To Dana,

Who is as fine a student and teacher as a man could wish for,

Love, John.

Below, in the small, fluid script I knew from so many papers, was an inscription dated that day:

To Ken,

Who is a finer student than I ever was, and whom I hope to continue to learn from and to teach.

Love, Dana

I looked up.

She was staring at my chest, her arms still folded, looking suddenly very small. “John was my Senior English teacher. He taught me a huge amount about writing, about reading poetry.” Her glance ran over the book in my hand and she gave a small, shy smile. It was disconcerting to have this brash, flirtatious woman acting so timid, so much like a teenager. “On my eighteenth birthday, he gave me that book, and…” She looked up at me, face pale and eyes dark. “He became my lover. He was wonderful. He taught me… so much.”

She reached up to my cheeks and paused, her eyes an open question.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers. Our tongues met, and the heat from her mouth flooded through me, soothing the flip-flops that had been trampolining in the pit of my stomach. I reached my hand toward her breast. She stopped my hand, broke our kiss, and rested her head on my chest. I was breathing like a bull ready to charge.

“In spite of what you might think, I haven’t ever done anything like this, Ken,” she sighed. “I’ve never gotten… intimate with a student.” She looked up at me. “It’s not true, you know. If anyone found out about this, I would be fired.”

Then she sashayed over to the desk, peaking at me over her shoulder. “Lock the door, will you?”

When I turned back from the door, she was smiling that cat-like grin again. Smoothly, she pulled her turtleneck over her head, revealing a purple French-lace bra. I couldn’t breathe. Then, with a strong tug, she popped the buttons that ran the length of her denim maxi-skirt, leaving her in nothing but the bra, matching panties, and her stiletto-heeled boots. She gave the skirt an elegant flip and it fluttered on to a student desk in the front row. Kicking her boots off, she crooked her finger, gesturing me to her, and reeled me in to another embrace, this time pressing her breasts into my searching hands.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/1uncti/dana_thing_of_beauty_mf_studentteacher