Chapter 2: Guilt, Temptation, and a Married Pussy Ravaged
Mrs. Larson stumbled back to bed after Ethan left her in the driveway, her tank top sticky with his cum, her pussy still throbbing from his fingers and that filthy blowjob. She collapsed next to her snoring husband, the faint scent of her student's cock lingering on her lips. Guilt hit her like a freight train. She'd been faithful for ten years--never even glanced at another man--and now she'd let her quiet fucking student shove his dick down her throat. Her cunt was sore, her nipples still hard, and she hated how weak she'd been. *How the fuck did I let him?* she thought, staring at the ceiling, her body betraying her with every wet pulse between her thighs. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to erase it, but all she saw was Ethan's smirk, his thick cock, and her own horny moans.
Morning came too fast. She dragged herself to school, plastering on a normal face. She wore a navy blazer over a white blouse--unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of her lacy black bra--and a grey pencil skirt so tight it hugged her ass like a second skin, the hem stopping mid-thigh to flash her toned legs. Black stockings and four-inch heels completed the look--professional but slutty as hell, her usual vibe. Class was fine; Ethan sat in the back, quiet again, his eyes burning holes through her. She avoided his gaze, teaching Shakespeare like nothing happened, but her pussy twitched every time she remembered his hands on her tits.
After school, her husband called--another no-show, some bullshit about overtime. She stood by the curb, cursing under her breath, when Ethan's car rolled up. "Need a lift, Mrs. L?" he asked, voice smooth, eyes raking over her. She hesitated, her mind screaming *no*, but her feet moved anyway. "Fine," she muttered, climbing in, the AC blasting cold air that made her nipples harden under the blouse. She crossed her legs, the skirt riding up to show a sliver of stocking top, and he grinned. They chatted--normal shit, weather, homework--but his flirty edge crept in. "You look fuckin' edible today," he said, casual as hell. She laughed, brushing it off, "Married, Ethan," but her cheeks flushed, her cunt warming.
He pulled up to her house, and without thinking, she said, "Want coffee? For the ride, I mean." He nodded, following her inside, his eyes glued to her ass as she swayed into the kitchen. She wore no apron--just that tight skirt and blouse, the blazer tossed aside, her bra visible through the thin white fabric. She bent to grab mugs, her skirt stretching so tight he could see her thong's outline--red today, cutting into her pussy lips. Ethan leaned against the counter, checking her out, his cock stiffening. "You're too hot to be a teacher," he teased, stepping closer. She giggled, stirring the coffee, oblivious as his hands brushed her waist, testing her.
He whipped out his phone, snapping goofy selfies--her laughing, him behind her, then dirtier ones: his arm around her, hand grazing her tit, her ass pressed against his bulge. She swatted him playfully, "Stop it, perv," but didn't pull away, her laughter turning breathy. They moved to the dining room, coffee in hand, and flicked on Netflix--some dumb rom-com. Sitting close, their thighs touched, her skirt riding up to show her stockings' lace edges. He slid his hand to her knee, then higher, fingers tracing her inner thigh. She froze but didn't stop him, her breath hitching, pussy tingling as he whispered, "You're so fuckin' sexy, Mrs. L." She barely noticed, lost in his rizz, her body waking up.
