04

This story is an exploration of real-life events. It will be told in numerous installments, each chapter as brief as possible. 750 words exactly, per Literotica rules. From start to finish, each submission will be drafted, edited and submitted for publication within a 2 hour period. All individuals depicted are at least 18 years of age.

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Chapter 3:

Hands on the wheel. Disbelief. Uncertainty. Light-headedness. Confusion. Lust. Self-loathing. The emotions swirling in overwhelming torrents as I shift into drive and lift my foot off the brake. Drifting forward, the shadows wash through as I roll under a lone street lamp. Bewildered and uncertain of reality. The caustic light grazing the dash, my left index and middle fingers glisten, pasty and slippery. I scratch my nose which doesn't itch, an excuse to bring those damp digits closer so I can test the veracity of what just happened. A faint sourness, a slight mustiness. And something else. Sweet. Yes, very familiar but very out of place. Aha! Strawberries. The unmistakeable smell of ripe, freshly sliced strawberries. I haven't been with many women in my lifetime, but I never expected a woman's parts to literally smell good enough to eat. I glance over at her, no longer cowering against the door ready to make a break for it. Now, she sits comfortably and naturally, legs together and hands folded between her thighs, her face betraying an ever so subtle grin as if to announce to the world how fucking pleased she is with herself.

"What does it smell like?" She asked. This disarmed me, as I hadn't realized my subtlety had failed.

"You saw that, huh?" I ask in sheepish surprise. "Like teenager," I tell her, one corner of her mouth raising a bit in a self-satisfied smirk. I don't know if I should say something else, or taste my fingers. She has been so forward and direct, I want to repay the gesture. I reached my left hand over to her and placed it on her breast, firmly gripping it and feeling a relaxed breath exude from her chest. Driving on, one sticky hand on the wheel, the other somewhat awkwardly reaching over for a juvenile tit-grab.

"Don't go back out to the main road. Turn left here. At the top of the hill turn left again and follow the road." She reaches up with her hands and holds mine against her breast, glad for the intimate contact and not wanting to risk me taking it away. I follow the now completely dark road, which doesn't appear to have any houses along its winding stretch. It gradually meanders up and along the hillside overlooking her neighborhood. Feeling her hand softly stroking the back of mine pressed against her unblemished tit, I glance over to see her looking down at it, feeling her chest rise and fall in deep breaths, the warmth of each heavy exhale brushing across my hand. I slow the car gradually, squinting for the road and rolling to a stop. It simply ends in a patch of dirt. Regrettably, I do have to slide my hand away to shift the car into park and switch the ignition off. I shift sideways in my seat and reach across with my left hand to now cup her right breast, not wanting it to go unattended. It feels slightly smaller than her left, but no less perfect. As she holds my hand firmly against her, caressing it, she looks up towards me, perhaps for the first time ever, with a wondering look as if to say 'Well, what's next?'

"So where'd your ring go, married guy?" she teases.

"Ah, yeah. I'm — I'm sorry," I stammer. "I meant to take it off, but I was so distracted I completely forgot."

"Don't be sorry. I like it. I noticed it right away." She pauses, nibbling her lower lip in thought and pensively looking down at my now ringless left hand. "I feel like a bitch for asking this, but..." She hesitates, her tensions rising. "Will you put it back on?"

Naturally, when a girl who has just put your fingers deep inside of her asks you to put your ring on, you do it. I fumble in the door pocket and slide it back in place. She takes my hand, examining the band. I can't help but feel a wave of guilt as I stare down at it as well, thinking about my ever-faithful, albeit undersexed, wife. She turns it about on my finger several times as a knot of regret and fear begins to coalesce in the pit of my stomach.

"I just love seeing it on your finger," she says. Then, in nearly a whisper she looks up at me and utters so sweetly, "It's making me super wet. Blake, put your ring inside me?"

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Chapter 4:

I roll over and stare at the patterns in the popcorn ceiling — delicate, creepy shadows slither across the textured surface. I'm so tired it aches in my bones. It's the kind of tired that grips you at the edge of sleep and holds you there mercilessly. Teetering on the edge, sounds and voices from the day echo through my brain. I hear the grumblings of one of my laziest, most entitled pupils as I hand his paper back to him. I hear several administrators politely admonishing me, suggesting I be more aware of how certain decisions I make can have a larger impact on St. Anthony's sustainability. I hear shockingly large numbers that reflect enormous donations made by parents and grandparents of this one particular miserably insufferable child. I hear my own words futilely echoing something about intellectual integrity, accountability, responsibility, yada yada yada. I hear the Headmaster's very direct instructions — consider the school's future...child's potential...admission to a top university. I'm livid. But I also hear the reminder that I'm still within my two year probationary period, and if I cannot fit in with the St. Anthony "family" I may not be asked to return for fall semester. The sounds rattling in my brain build to a crescendo, echoing through my skull. My rage builds, partially at the situation which has now been repeated several times, but mostly at myself for allowing this nonsense to keep me awake at night.

I need a distraction and my wife's cold rebuff has left me to my own devices. I pick up my phone, the glow shifting the sinuous shadows on the ceiling. I load up some of my favorite bookmarked pages. Mostly pretty soft core stuff, young girls partially clothed, most appearing of similar age to many of my students. One of my favorite models reminds me so much of one student in particular, Lara. Breasts fully filled out, legs so long that whatever length skirt she wears always appears to be seductively too short. I look at my phone, the girl laid back on a couch, her legs splayed out wide, hands coyly tucked over her crotch, knee length striped tube socks and sexy sneakers, from one of which dangles a pair of bunched up panties. In another she's on the floor on her knees, backside pointed up in the air staring back at me with a timid look. The same panties now on the floor, shoes slipping off her heels. A hand tucked underneath with a middle finger covering her slit to leave enough to the imagination, but ruddy swelling labia spreading out on both sides of her long finger. Her small breasts hang down like seductive low hanging fruit. I'm always startled by how perfectly her face and tits resemble Lana's. Of course I don't know about her other parts, although I fantasize often. I do daydream about bending her over, not feeling too guilty since she's a senior and of age. Besides, I could never bring myself to go through with something like that, even if the opportunity presented itself.

I'm so painfully engorged thinking of Lana, one of my prized pupils for so many reasons. Her intuition, her sense of humor, her intelligence. Her smile, her lips, her cleavage. Her interminable legs, the way she sits down next to me at after-school tutorial. The way her bottom rounds out when she bends over the desk right next to mine, the way her nipples bulge when I pinch them, the way she coos quietly when I slide her panties down and brush her velvety mons with my finger. How her moan reverberates when my engorged member begins to slide its way past two shimmering, welcoming folds of — I feel my wife shift in the bed and quickly snuff out my phone. She's still asleep. I turn it back on and hold myself, squeezing the blood further up into my shaft and feeing my glans swell like a balloon, picturing the purplish color it's turning, the pain building as my sexual animus seizes control. I don't even have to stroke myself. I stifle my gasping breaths as streams of hot fluid burst forth, thoroughly soiling my boxers and the 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Trying to catch my breath I lay there spent in darkness. It's completely silent except for the whirling of the ceiling fan. And one word that echoes not through my head, but through the space of our room. She growls, "Pervert."