The Art Teacher and the Student The Next Sautrday [FM]

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The Art Teacher and her Student [FM] from gonewildstories

On Friday at the end of class she handed me a note. The note read “we need to talk this weekend”.

It was all the note said. All I got. Inside, I had been a heap all week. She seemed OK, but I think she was struggling too.

Saturday I rallied, I dressed well, crisp 501s, blue western shirt and my cowboy boots. It was 1980s Texas in the wake of Urban Cowboy, sue me. I eschewed cologne. Mom wanted to know where I was going, my only response was “out”. Only reason I know this is that those clothes and that attitude were my go too in the early ’80s (sorry about the attitude mom, RIP).

I arrived and looked up at the second floor apartment. I was gutted. I almost turned for home. Longest 50 yard walk I’d ever made, the weight of the world ate at my shoulders.

Through the door I hear Fleetwood Mac’s Oh Well playing. I remember hesitating before I knocked. The door was green. She opened it looking sexy, stunning, alive. The opposite of where I was. I noticed her dress of autum colors, it suited her and her light coppery red hair. There was a folding table in the center of the room and two folding chairs amid all her hyper realism paintings. She worked in oil so the room smelled of canvas and linseed. Food was on the table, I can’t for the life of me remember what kind. Honestly, it was all about her, I had to know why I was here.

What stopped my heart was the kiss, like the first one, she pressed into me on tip toes. I remember being shocked. Tongues fought for control, my arms wrapped around her, my cock grew. I was aroused, and I was honestly angry because to me it had been “over” all week; now this. But I was losing that battle as I held her tight and wanted…what? I wanted everything. Perceptions be damned. I wanted her. Two struggling artist against the world. Yes, it might have been my crotch talking.

She broke the kiss and said something about boundaries, school, shouldn’t, parents–probably; my cock heard little of it. She also said that she had tried to not think about us and that night since then. Until Thursday. What happened on Thursday I’ll never know. I was elated, I was angry, I was confused.

My hands grabbed her ass and I lifted her five foot frame off the floor. Her legs snaked around my waist her arms arond my neck. I remember lumbering to the bedroom and throwing her on the bed. I was on top of her pushing the dress up, roughly kissing her, biting her neck. She exposed it for more. The arch of her alabaster neck and shoulder on the bed of red hair stuck in my mind, years later I dreamed about it. I tore at her bodice, wanting to devour her b cup breasts and pink nipples. Man I love a good nipple. My light bites left pink marks on her pale skin and elicited tiny gasps from her.

My hand was pushing the lacy panties aside as I tried to play with her wet pussy. My mouth sought nipple. I was moving between devouring kisses and her breast. I was like a man who was starved. I remember the look of bliss on her pretty face as I fingered her like she had shown me. Again I kissed her deeply and she complied hungrily. It wasn’t genteel, it was increasing desire and abating anger fueling lust. I remember her reaching to unbutton my jeans but I knocked her hands away, my lust wanted control as I stood on knees over her and pushed my 501s down. No mean feat with how tight they were. She raided my briefs and grabbed my cock and began to stroke.

She was exqusite. Almost posed. She looked as good as any Penthouse model to me. Buttons open on the bodice, some popped in my initial rush. Her breathing hard, tiny white hands, spots of dried oil paint from her work on them; one trying to hold me the other grinding feverishly on her crotch making wet sensual sounds as I fumbled angrily with the button fly. Her small breasts capped with those pink, perfect nipples resting in the nest of the brown, orange, gold, and hints of green cloth. Painfully beautiful. How could she do this to me; twist me one way then another? I guess I still had a lot to learn about women.

I dove in, didn’t even wait for her hand to move as I split her. I remember her looking at me as she put her hands, wrists crossed, above her head. I grabbed them and began to pound as I watched her pretty face contort in ecstacy. To this day I Love to watch a womans face when she is in the moment, riding the waves until she cums. I was beyond aroused. I’ve only been in that mental space a hand full of times so they stick. Later in life I got to where I called that space “wilding”. A desire to devour someone sexually, take them, become one with them. After a couple of minutes she arched, mouth open eyes lidded. She mewled in a way that stoked me. I came hard, it was memorable; like the first time you cum in your life, I kissed her and collapsed on her chest sweaty and satiated. Feeling the dress between us, smelling us in the air of the room. Still just a little angry. Inder me she was bteathing deeply body still tensing.

I remember she pulled me up and kissed me all over my face almost manicly, eyes wide, body not fully over her orgasm. “Fuck.” She fell back and tensed. “FUCK.”

I watched porn on VHS back then. Rented tons of it from the smiling Korean lady at the video store. Read Hustler, Oui, Penthouse, newsstand BDSM books and picture magazines. Bondage wasn’t widely accepted then like it is now. I’d always felt a little shame because of my desire to dominate and restrain the fairer sex. What I did wasn’t especially bondage, but restraint on a willing woman. But boy did that reality hook deeper than any VHS or book. Control, I liked it.

I sat naked in the front room amid hyper realism paintings. She kept the dress on in its ravaged state, breasts exposed hair tousled. Greviously pretty. Again a clear picture of her sitting in a folding chair, drinking wine and talking. I don’t remember what about. I’m sure it had something to do with PDA at school. I remember her talking to me but staring at my cock at times and me finding it funny.

We ate. Grapes were involved, green ones. I grabbed her and the bunch of grapes and pulled her to the bedroom. I remember feeding her grapes. Dragging them across her body, teasing her nipples. Placing a grape in my mouth and feeding her. I remember her surprise at my near constant hardness was funny. Ah to be 18 again. We loved again, slower. We looked at each other as I slid into her. I remember her tighness. It was wonderful, sensual.

It lasted until the October after I graduated. I grew tired of the boundaries. She did too at times because I remember early on her dragging me to her office after school a couple times, locking the doors to suck my cock. Both times she said something about how we shouldn’t have done that.

I was hounded by mom and dad about who she was. She did not want to meet them. I wanted to meet her folks. Her claim was they lived out of state. The last straw was at a restaurant. She ran into a fellow artist and introduced me as an up and coming young artist, not as her boyfriend. I started doing passive aggressive shit. The last time I saw her we argued in the front room and she called me a child. Thst broke something within me. I turned on my heel and left. She tried to stop me, might gave even said she was sorry, but I was done. Looking back I think she was looking ahead to the holidays and how awkward it would be. I’ll never know I guess.

Three years and lots of spiraling brought me back to her apartment. Something about October. She was gone. The hispanic dude said he had been living there a year. I didn’t think to go to the office and see if there was maybe a forwarding address. Instead, I got in my car, went to a park and looked at the lake until dark. And yes, I cried.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/xn2vax/the_art_teacher_and_the_student_the_next_sautrday