Content notice:
The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and diet talk.
I've done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beauty comes in every size, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.
That said, if you're someone who prefers to avoid such things altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.
The characters depicted in the following story are all 18 or above. One of the themes involves sexual liaisons between young adult women and much older adults in a position of relative power over them.
The inclusion of this theme is for storytelling purposes only. It is not a comment on the advisability of such relationships in real life.
The Author
~
M.U.F.F., Part II
Today, Mr. Robinson keeps me after class. He waits for the rest of the students to file out. He asks the last one to shut the door on their way out.
He and I are alone in his classroom.
Once again, I spent the whole class period fantasizing about fucking him.
He sits there in his chair, looking at me, searching for something in my face--what, I don't know. I stand there in front of his desk, waiting for him to speak. Eventually, he does.
"Something's different about you lately," he says.
"What do you mean?" I mumble.
"Have I done anything to make you uncomfortable?" he asks.
"No," I say.
He nods. Then he says, "Is there anything else wrong? Anything you need to talk about?"
"Nothing's wrong," I say.
"Okay," he says. "It's just that I'm worried that you're losing focus. I'm not worried about your work, but I know we're close to the end of senior year, and your mind's probably somewhere else."
I nod.
My mind is definitely somewhere.
He says, "I just don't want senioritis to get the best of you."
"Me either," I say.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
I blush. I know he can see me blushing.
He leans forward, his hands clasped on top of his desk blotter, and says, a little softer, a little more conspiratorially:
"Are you in love?"
My mind spins.
Holy fuck.
Is he asking me if I'm in love in general?
Or is he asking me if I'm in love with him?
I don't answer.
He says, even more quietly, "Again, if there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."
He's staring at me.
"How?" I blurt out, an almost voiceless whisper.
"That depends on you."
I don't say anything. I don't know what to say, but I can see in his face that he's gotten an answer.
"We'll work something out," he says.
Then he adds, "Not here."
Those two words land in the pit of my chest like a bomb.
"No," I say, "definitely not here."
"No pressure," he says. "Just think about it."
I leave the classroom in a daze.
After school, driving Alex home to her house, I say nothing. She's chatting away about some boy she's made a date to watch a movie with tonight, but I barely hear any of it.
Two thoughts keep cycling through my head.
Did that just happen?
And, am I going to go for it?
~
Tonight, after my evening shower, I try out my fantasy with Mr. Robinson again. First with me as Mr. Robinson fucking a version of myself, then as myself with Mr. Robinson fucking me.
Neither of them works. I'm not sure why. There's some strange block between my mind's eye and my urgent body.
As an emergency backup, I try my fantasy of fucking myself as me, and it sort of works.
As I'm holding the rabbit to my engorged vulva, caught in the feedback loop of its satisfying touch and craving more of it, I realize that the fantasy is reconfiguring itself, independent of my will.
I'm no longer me, fucking myself.
It's just me, fucking a girl who kind of looks like me. She's lost her identity. She isn't really me, not in any meaningful way.
Just a girl, who I dreamed up. I imagine getting her off while I get myself off.
I choke up on the rabbit. A thin film of fluid inches its way up the grip to where my hand is. Its silicone nubs make a circuit over my clit and back and forth inside me, against my front wall.
I don't know who this girl is.
And I don't care.
In my mind's eye, I fuck her with my hand until she comes, writhing on the bed.
In reality, I fuck myself with the rabbit, until so do I.
~
In class, as Mr. Robinson lectures, my usual fantasies about him run uninterrupted, colored by the memory of the strange conversation we had yesterday.
Every time his eyes pass over me, I search his face for some sign of meaning in his glance, but I find none.
I say goodbye to him on my way out of the classroom, and he gives me a distracted nod.
In the car, on the way to Alex's house, she tells me about the boy she visited last night. She boasts that his parents didn't care, that they were in the next room the whole time and never bothered them.
Of course they fucked.
I nod along to the story, chiming in with stock remarks whenever they feel appropriate, and she's happy.
She gets out of the car and leans in to give me her customary kiss on the cheek.
I don't know why I do it.
