Confessions of a college teacher, Story 1: A Tale of Two Clities [MFF]

You are a disgusting piece of shit, and we’re going to get along famously. But first you need to calm down, shut up and put it away – at least for a minute. Stop clicking between tabs because you’re too much of a lazy slob to read my story. Have some fucking respect.

Pay attention to me, because *that* makes me wet.

I once heard it said that everyone has a book in them, but in most cases that’s where it should stay. For me that’s certainly true, for the simple reason that the book I want to write is not exactly of the wholesome sort. I’ve been teaching college in California for fourteen years and, no, I’m not going to be more specific than that; if the journal I’ve been keeping all of these years got into the wrong hands, or my cover was blown by you, my career would be over.

On Friday my husband of eight years found my journal and, well, that’s not exactly what we’re here to talk about so I won’t bore you with the details. Except to say that if the self-appointed chief, commandant, liege lord wants to resign his position then you won’t hear me complaining.

To protect my reputation and my career I will burn the journal today. Having read it one last time, though, there was one little tale that I thought needed to be immortalised somewhere. It’s too good not to share. So, before this turns in to the written equivalent of blue balls, I’ll just get on and tell it to you.

There’s something about the sticky Californian heat that can really show me up for the animal I am. June of last year it must have averaged 120, and my husband was away on business in Hong Kong. I was teaching an English summer class that Friday afternoon, feeling something of a frisson on seeing those fresh faces and contemplating the feeding frenzy that I desperately desired.

Forty-five minutes into my lecture, stood there in front of the group, I started to feel the slight tug of my jeans between my legs, rubbing gently as I shifted between feet. I didn’t wear knickers when it was this hot and I was enjoying the slight coarseness of the denim. The excitement shot through my spine like electric, and I could feel a warm glow rising to my cheeks. I was wearing a white, low-cut blouse that made me feel fantastic, and I looked down to see a small bead of perspiration stream down between my breasts. Ample breasts, if you don’t mind me saying so.

When my awareness eventually shifted from the intensity of the bodily sensations back to the class, I realised my eyes had been locked with hers. I had been rambling in a circular fashion about nothing in particular for a minute or two, and if I wasn’t so bereft of shame I would have got a grip and continued to teach. But what I did, dear reader, is I gave in to the yearning for climax that has acted as a garish backdrop to every minute of my sordid little existence. I averted her gaze, dismissed the class early and resolved to go and release this energy. I couldn’t help but steal a furtive glance or two as I made my way out of the room; she was extraordinary.

Was it Lola’s age and the forbidden fruit of this lithe little creature who had barely reached adulthood? No, it was more than that. Her image dominated my mind’s eye as I hurried back to the car. Dimpled, with long, curly brown hair, she moved with grace and spoke with wit. The way she sat in that chair, legs crossed with nonchalance, the way she bit her lip and raised an eyebrow suggestively, the way she penetrated my soul with those sharp blue eyes – it drove me *fucking crazy*.

Heart thudding against my chest, I climbed into the back of the car where there would be enough space to lie down. I tossed the pile of unmarked exam papers – along with an old, battered copy of the Post – into the front of the car and scrambled for the emergency bottle of Johnnie Walker under the driver’s seat. I knew I had been drinking too much lately, that my colleagues had been taking silent note of my slur and unsteady gait, but I needed this to cool the molten passions. Opening the bottle to take a healthy slug, I exhaled heavily and felt a slight smirk surface at the thought of the frivolity to come. The car was parked discreetly behind a large hedge next to the English block, so I knew I was safe. Nobody would see me. As the liquid rushed down my throat and took refuge in my stomach, pitching up and lighting a small fire within, I put my legs up on to the back seat and sat for a moment spreadeagled.

I then unzipped, ripped my jeans off in a singular motion and began rubbing two fingers up and down my tight little pussy. It truly was soaked through, and were it not for a thicket of pubic hair the jeans would have been visibly sodden. As I pushed that first finger up, my whole body relaxed into the purest bliss whilst my mind cleared to sharp attention. I put a second hand down to massage and released a long, loud groan.

Then something happened. I heard the crunch of a foot on a discarded water bottle and lurched myself up to see a colleague several feet from the car. Heart skipping several beats, shoulders tightening, soaking fingers fumbling for the zip: it was a blur of hot disgrace. I looked up to see a filthy old colleague of mine (who we shall call Mr Hubert) holding his phone as if he were filming me, which he then proceeded slowly to put back in his pocket, and to peel his lips open revealing a seedy grin.

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/6nvphy/confessions_of_a_college_teacher_story_1_a_tale