In a previous MMMonday post I wrote about my dalliance with the idea of hooking up with a much younger man. I have been chatting with such a man who has a very active imagination. Of course one of his fantasies is fucking his teacher. After a conversation with him this scenario popped into my head.
I meet him after school, still wearing my school clothes. I even leave my name badge on. For authenticity. It adds to the anticipation. He is sitting in the corner of the coffee shop with his notebook out in front of him. A smile plays over my lips. The only thing that would make this better would be meeting in a library.
“Hello Jai,” kids with ‘J’ names are always the ones who give teachers the most grief.
“Hello Miss,” he looks up from his book. I bend down to see what he is working on. My blouse falls open. Did I forget to button it properly?
“What are you working on?” I ask as if I truly was working, completely oblivious to him looking down my blouse.
“Just this stupid Trigonometry,” he replies. A phrase I have heard a thousand times from frustrated students. Including a several awkward boys whose names started with J.
“Trigonometry is not stupid,” my voice is transplanted directly from my classroom. “It is really quite simple. See you put the formula into a triangle like this. Then you fill in the bits that you know, and the triangle tells you if you need to multiply or divide.” I had taught this a million times but even now, even when it wasn’t really the point, I was still oblivious to his gaze.
Then I feel his hand on my thigh. Under the table he lifts my skirt and his fingers trail up my leg.
“What do teachers wear for underwear?” His voice was quiet.
I sit very still. The boundary we just crossed is raw for me. All my professional life I have avoided thinking about situations like this. I have ignored the possibility that a student may be having this exact fantasy as I try to align the numbers on the page for them. For a moment I wonder if this scenario may be too much. But here in this coffee shop with a consenting adult it is different enough. These things don’t matter. I push away the thoughts, close them in a box. They belong to a different me. I shrug,
“What do you think?”
His fingers creep up my leg to graze the edge of my knickers. My groin tingles. I feel a trickle of wetness between my legs. His lips curve up in a smile. His fingers slide under the elastic to stroke my slit.
My legs fall open as his fingers stroke me. I struggle to maintain my composure.
“So, I would like you to have a go at this problem,” I re-direct him to the trigonometry on his notebook.
He grinned at me, “But Miss, CEEBS.” He is even using the same words as my students now. The division between fantasy and reality blurs even more. His fingers penetrate me, I gasp. His face is very close to mine. “Is there anything else you can teach me?”
My breathing is heavy. I struggle to focus, aware of the people moving around us, wondering what they can see, what they are thinking.
“Not right here,” my voice is low.
He continues to slide his fingers in and out of my sopping wet cunt. I feel as if I will be sitting in a pool of my own desire. “Where then?”
“My house is just around the corner. There is no one home.” Trigonometry is forgotten. Right now I am very interested in anatomy.
He smiles, like a teenager that he was just a few short years ago. “Let’s go then!”