Ethan was the invisible kid--quiet as a fucking shadow, acing every test, the kind of nerd teachers patted on the head and forgot. But Mrs. Larson? She was a walking wet dream, and he'd been stroking his cock to her for months. Mid-thirties, with a body built for sin--huge, perky tits that begged to be sucked, a round ass that jiggled under tight skirts, and legs that went on forever. She dressed like a slutty vixen every damn day, and Ethan's balls ached just watching her strut around class, her perfume a mix of flowers and pure pussy heat. He kept his mouth shut, his dark thoughts festering--until the farm excursion cracked him open.
The bus ride out was torture. Mrs. Larson plopped down next to him, wearing a crimson sundress so short it barely covered her cunt--thin straps digging into her shoulders, the neckline plunging so deep her tits were one bounce from spilling out. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, bright red against her tanned thighs, and when she crossed her legs, he swore he saw a flash of black lace panties. "You're quiet today, Ethan," she purred, her voice low and sultry, lips glossy with pink lipstick. She leaned close to point out the window, her hair brushing his arm, and her scent hit him--sweet, musky, like she'd just fucked someone in the bathroom. His dick stiffened, pressing against his jeans. "Just soaking in the scenery," he muttered, eyes locked on her cleavage, nipples poking through the thin cotton. She smirked, blushing, and shifted, her thigh grazing his. He knew she felt his heat.
The hike was where the darkness crept in. The other students--lazy little shits--flopped onto the grass, whining about blisters, leaving Ethan and Mrs. Larson alone on the trail. She walked ahead, that red dress riding up with every step, barely covering her ass cheeks. Sweat glistened on her back, the straps slipping off her shoulders, and he could see the outline of her thong cutting into her crack. "Fuck, you look like a goddess out here," he growled, voice thick with lust. She turned, laughing, her tits bouncing. "Oh, my shy Ethan's got a mouth now?" she teased, but her eyes were dilated, her breathing quick. He stepped closer, close enough to smell her arousal. "Shy's gone, Mrs. L. You're too fucking hot to ignore." Her cheeks flushed, lips parting, and he saw it--her pussy was wet under that dress, he'd bet his balls on it.
They stopped at a creek, her bending to splash water on her face, the dress hiking up to show her thong--black lace, soaked through, her cunt lips plump and begging. He snapped pics with his phone, her oblivious, then posed her for selfies: her arm around his neck, tits mashed against his chest, his hand "accidentally" brushing her ass. "Send me those," she said, voice husky, and when he grinned, "Then gimme your number," she scribbled it on his wrist with a pen, her fingers lingering, electric.
