My name is Lydia and I am not a lot of things.
I am not a super model. I do not have perfect breast-length blonde hair or dazzling green eyes. I do not have legs that go on for miles or the kind of pussy that orgasms twenty times and is ready for more...
But I do have a killer set of dick-sucking lips and mischievous brown eyes. My stomach may hang over my pants, but my thighs can grip you tight. I'm short, but I'm the perfect height for bending at the waist to take your fat cock into my throat. I also am blessed with a hot, wet cunt and a willing little asshole.
I find myself to be quite beautiful and quite sexy.
Of course, when I was a girl, I couldn't see these things about myself; I could only see what the bullies were willing to point out.
That is, until my secret schoolgirl's fantasies came to life a year after meeting the hottest man I've ever encountered.
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I was always in love with my teachers. They'd walk around, sternly commanding the classroom. If a man commanded respect from me, I was more than willing to give him my virgin pussy. These dark acts only happened in my mind, of course.
There was one teacher in particular who did me in. "Mr. Smith" was young, nearly 27 when we first met. I was 18, a senior, and in my first AP class. I was nervous- I knew I was smart, but I went to school with kids who had round the clock tutors and no chores to do at home. I would get my homework done somewhere between babysitting and washing the dishes.
He was a short mocha-skinned Italian man with a sarcastic smile and intelligent eyes. He had thick fingers and bulge in his pants that made my mouth water.
Most importantly, he made me feel smart. He was the first teacher I ever had to let us work out our own ideas and being in his class made me feel like an intelligent graduate student instead of an awkward 12th grader who wore too many shirts from Hot Topic.
Within a few days, I was head-over-heels, a lost cause to his quick wit and dangerous chuckle.
I began coming to school early and leaving late so I could talk to him and get some tutoring help. He was never anything other than a complete gentleman, smiling at my jokes and carefully re-describing whatever concept I had missed.
The school year chugged on, and I began transitioning out of my all black over-sized t-shirt wardrobe and wearing clothing that actually hugged my curves slightly instead of trying to hide them under clothes the size of small tents. I gradually introduced color to my clothing. Then hair products to tame my curls instead of a tight, messy ponytail. Then some eye-liner and nail polish, not black and raccoon-y, but subtle and expertly applied (with the help of my older sister). I even pierced my ears, something I had always been afraid to do before.
As the year progressed I was visiting Mr. Smith every day and occasionally allowing more cleavage than was appropriate show during our SAT tutoring sessions. I never imagined anything would come of it, I just wanted to have something to giggle about with my friends after school.
Once he showed me he knew what I was up to.
We were working on clauses and phrases, but I was being slightly deliberately dense about it. He got a bit frustrated and said, "Here! Tell me what the clause is in this sentence!" He then wrote on the board, "Am I to believe that you do not love me?"
I blushed and gave him the correct answer.
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Every night I would lie in bed and massage my clit imagining him. Slowly, at first, as I imagined him stripping off my clothes or grabbing me from behind while his hard cock pressed into my back, then fast and hard while my brain flashed between images of him holding my ass and plunging himself into me or using my mouth as his hard-fuck toy until he blew his load down my throat.
Even as my body twitched and I came down from my orgasmic high, I still believed it was nothing more than a schoolgirl fantasy that would never come true.
Then, on the night of my graduation, my friends and I went out on the town. Nothing too major, just some silly teenage girls having some fun. We ate dinner at a midrange restaurant, went to a movie, wandered around the nearby college campus checking out the boys, and listened to our friend's band. We said our good-byes, and I headed back to my car which I had stupidly parked several blocks away from the others.
I was nearly there when I heard a voice from an alley.
"Hey, baby, how are you doing tonight?"
At no point in my sheltered suburban life had anyone spoken to me like that. I put my head down and hurried forward.
"Come on baby, don't be like that, my friends just wanna meet you."
I looked back and saw three men walk out under a streetlight. I walked faster.
They began to follow, and I began to run. They ran after me.
I had never been so scared. My blood pounded in my ears, and I could hear nothing but my own short, quick breaths.
Then I tripped over one of the many uneven sidewalk bricks that scatter my hometown. I hit the ground, hard, and skinned my knees and hands. Just as I turned around to face my attackers and scream, a familiar figure rounded the corner.
Mr. Smith dropped his grocery bags and shouted, "HEY!"
The punks fled and he helped me to my feet. I did my best to hold back any tears as he held me to his chest. His heart was beating just as fast as mine.
"What were you thinking walking around out here at night alone? A pretty girl like you?"
I blushed at the compliment, but my eyes watered at the angry undertone, "I... I never though... this is a safe town, and I..."
His face softened and he inspected my bleeding knees and hands, "Come on, I live just across the street. I have Band-Aids in my apartment."
I helped him pick up his groceries and followed him across the street. The feeling of pounding blood moved from my ears to a more southern region as I followed the man I fantasized about up the stairs and into his home.
I sat on the counter in his kitchen and hitched my pants leg up while he wiped my knees with a soft cloth.
"You girls are always running around, never imagining all the psychos that live in this town. Terrible things can happen to a young, attractive girl who isn't paying attention," he lectured, on and on, while he placed bandages on my knees and palms, "honestly, what were you thinking?!"
I realized that it was my turn to talk, but all I could think to ask was, "You really think I'm pretty?"
His face flushed and it was his turn to stutter, "Now, Lydia, I... of course... you know... you're very young and young girls can be a target for... these things. ...I've watched you grow from a girl to a young woman, and you need to realize that other men can see that, too."
I smiled and blushed and looked at my hands in my lap.
"Well, Sir, you're not too bad yourself."
I bit my lip and looked at him. Our eyes locked and we stared, silent and tense, for a few seconds.