"Ms. Hexmiup," She wrote clearly on the whiteboard that first day. "Ms. Hex-mee-oop" She pronounced for us. But for the rest of the time I was in her class, to me, she would always be known as, "Ms.-Sex-me-up." She was my English teacher in high school. Senior year, she was also an object of lust for my teenage brain. I sat up in the front row, and always paid close attention, every class. Some students would have avoided sitting across from the teacher's desk, but I chose it on purpose. I was in lust with her shape, and the way her body bounce and curved. Watching her pace back and forth in front of the classroom as she taught us, I would lasciviously study her body as she spun around walking from one side of the room to the other. Her round, feminine features excited my imagination dilating my eyes. As she paced she would pass my desk and I would inhale her perfume and find myself feeling aroused by the way her dress would sometimes flirtatiously touch and caress the edge of the desk. And when she'd reach the far side of the room and turn around, I would watch closely to how her shape would change with every angle. With her arm stretched out high, I would study as her chest would jostle and jiggle and move as she wrote on the whiteboard. From my vantage off to the side, I would hypnotize myself watching her breasts bounce about as she wrote words on the wall. But I especially loved it when she'd be at her desk. As she would press her breasts together. She would lean over and write in her notebook, and her buttoned up blouse or dress would offer me a glimpse into her deep cleavage. I may have looked longer than a glimpse on those days. As she would pause from speaking to find her place or move on to the next topic, or as we were all quietly reading and she was silently planning ahead in her mind, reading the prompts in her notes, I would peak up and down into the deepness of her smooth skin, and the whiteness of her breasts. The only thing better than when she was sitting at her desk was when she would be leaning over the table top, holding her glasses to her face, referring to her notes in her lesson plan in the middle of a lecture, she would seem to intentionally face towards me, giving me a personal show as she leaned forward and her breasts would rise up, threatening to spill out over her bra, giving me a much more substantial look at what drove me wild with desire on a daily basis.
You see, Ms. Sex-me-up was simply gorgeous. She had pale, soft skin. She was voluptuous, with sexy mischievous eyes. She was tender, had an empathetic voice, and was feminine and effortlessly sensual. She was a mature woman, a goddess. The perfect little middle aged milf. Her button-down blouses always seemed so crisp, but probably not because she ironed them. The fabric was always stretched across her massive, bountiful breasts so tightly. With the right sheer fabric, on the right day, one could make the lines of her bra, and one could even tell if the bra had a smooth fabric or was lacey. I loved her curves so much. I didn't care that she was older, or a little chubby in the middle. I loved how soft she looked. How feminine. She made me hard just looking at her. And I just wanted to feel her body all over, smooth my hands over her waist and hips and grab her ample ass. I'd often sit there, in class, listening to her feminine voice read excerpts from literature and just zone out, often I'd find myself picturing an encounter between us. Coming to her, after school, seeing her leaning over her desk reading her lesson plan, and just attacking her, pulling down her pencil skirt and forcing myself on her, pumping until I was exploding cum inside her. There were quite a few versions of that, replayed late at night or alone in the shower. I felt an animal attraction to her, and fantasized about various encounters.
But mostly, When I was fantasizing about her, I imagined abducting her, binding her body in rope, gagging and blindfolding her, and eventually locking her in some room somewhere, chaining her up- and before having my way with he. I'd rip open her blouse, free her breasts from her bra, and suckle on her nipples. I sound perverse, I know. But I would fantasize, every day, about her soft breasts on the skin of my face, her big nipples in my mouth, and the freedom to squeeze and nibble and suckle until my mouth was raw. Sometimes I imagined her liking it, inviting me, begging me to do it, eventually longing forward to having me suckle her as she succumbed to Stockholm syndrome, my prisoner, my sex slave. But mostly I imagined taking her against her will, and making her my reluctant captive, as I suckled her breasts multiple times a day, every day, before fucking her in imaginative ways.
I always knew how sick that was, that I was, and I was ashamed to feel that way. Ashamed of my fantasies, specifically ashamed of finding perverse pleasure in wanting to suckle on her, and ashamed that I would consider abducting and tying someone up for my own sexual pleasure, I wasn't a monster. Eventually I matured a bit, and started dating a girl seriously. I was so consumed with her and trying to get laid that my fantasies for my teacher waned a bit, that is, until the night before graduation.
It was at a popular restaurant with my parents, a few friends, and their parents. We would all eventually find ourselves sitting in a back room celebrating the end of high school. It was kind of a posh place, a little too expensive, but it was popular with people because it had a giant u-shaped bar in its center with large open kitchen in the back that was always loud, with murmuring and the clanking of pots and pans. But the food was excellent, and the bar was always hopping.
I hated it. I was such an introvert at that age. I wanted to get the food and go, sit at my tv or computer and relax. Instead, I was in formal wear, a suit without a tie. And I had my hair plastered to my head. I felt uncomfortable and I could swear people were staring at me. My friends were all talking about the colleges they were going away to and I felt like a reject, like a loser, lonely and left out because I was staying local, and now regretted that choice, feeling left behind by everyone else.
I was supposed to be happy, but I was quickly sinking deeper into my own head, feeling depression coming on. I was acting out of character to the place and for the event, and it made me feel even more alien to the people around me. To add to my weirdness, I came alone, I made a big deal about having to drive myself in my own car, but got there late enough to have a difficult time finding parking, and, because I'm an idiot, I smoked a hit of really potent pot from my pipe in the parking spot. I also smoked cigarettes back then, so to cover up the scent of pot, I remember sneaking a smoke behind the restaurant.
Before I got to the front door, I saw the group of everyone, just as their beeper/buzzers were going off, as they headed from the lobby, past the hostess, into the building. I danced around to the side of the building to avoid being seen and finished my smoke as I studied the line of people in fancy clothes with their wealth, refined looks, and, of course, all the beautiful women. I've always been extra attracted to a woman in formal wear. A dress or gown, has aroused me as much as lingerie. Before long, I found myself comparing the features of every woman in the queue as I did when I would compare the women in the victoria's secret catalog. One woman caught my eye. I could only see her from the side, but her profile was magnificent. She was so curvy and showing off so much cleavage that it bubbled out of the top of her tight dress.
I remember feeling electrified at the sight of the pale orbs of soft flesh and being so envious of whomever she came with. After stomping out my cigarette, I walked to the front entrance. I was kind of high and a little hard as I walked up to the really pretty hostess whom I recognized from my school. She was a couple grades lower than me, really cute and a little stuck up in just the way I liked, but she was also really popular, and I on the other hand, in the last year, had gone from being known as one of the smart kids to being known as one of the potheads. She clearly despised me and it showed on her face. Approaching her, I inhaled deeply, gathering courage, and said my last name. Smelling the smoke from my breath she frowned, "I know who you are." She said curtly, and pointed to a room in the back, handing me a menu. Normally a cute girl saying they recognized me would have been cause for celebration, but she was so spiteful as she spoke, it left me feeling cold, empty and depressed.
The whole night was going to be a series of slights and insults to my teenage heart. Sitting at that table, in that back room, with the roar of the restaurant, the quiet music, the constant clanging of plates and pots and pans, I listened to the inane conversation and was largely excluded from everyone's attention. I remember completely dissociating at one point, quietly getting up as if to use the bathroom, leaving the room before the food arrived, and wandering around the large restaurant alone, maneuvering between servers and customers before making my way out to a balcony that is usually only open in the day. It was unlocked as I tried the handle and I quickly slipped outside and closed the door behind me to find myself captivated by the view of the city, the distant skyline, and feel of the night air. I took a step to the edge, holding the railing, closing my eyes and listening to the roar of traffic from all around.
Thinking about everyone and how my future was so uncertain, I let my mind wander. I wanted to go back and redo the last 2 years of high school, I wanted to have a future, a trajectory, a purpose. I wanted to be braver, to experiment more, to socialize more, to fuck-around more, to really experience life. I felt like I had been sheltering myself too much and regretted my timidity. I felt like I had been wasting my young life. The frustration overcame me and I sighed hard and yelled, "Fuck me!"
"With an ass like that I'd volunteer." A woman's voice said from behind.
I remember it sounded familiar and as I turned around and locked eyes with her, I simply could not hold the gaze, feeling the magnetism of her exposed skin, seeing the of the top of her breasts in the corner of my eye, I let my gaze drop as I witnessed her breasts squeezed and bubbled together, bulging from her square necked dress. I felt my eyes locked-in on her overflowing breasts, as my jaw dropped open.
"Ms. Sex-me-up!" I whispered in surprise.
She also seemed shocked that it was me, and made an embarrassed noise, laughing at herself, apologizing to me, explaining that she had no idea it was me or that I was even at the restaurant.
"I've been drinking a bit more than I should've. I'm so sorry." She said giggling still.
"It's ok... No one has ever said that about my butt before." I said quickly in response.
She laughed again and shrugged, her almost empty glass waving a bit in the air, sloshing the contents a bit, "It is what it is. You have a nice butt." She said, perhaps a little uncomfortable having created the situation with a student; she cleared her throat, before gulping down the last of the drink, and swiftly set the glass on a small table with a loud clunk, in an exaggerated movement.
