*** Disclaimer ***
The following story is a work of fiction. It contains themes of cheating, cuckoldry, voyeurism, and NTR. If this isn't the fetish for you, don't waste your time flooding my inbox with hate mail-- it'll only make me want to write and post MORE cuck stuff (unless, of course, that's your goal...).
Otherwise, I love hearing from fans, and welcome any suggestions, thoughts, criticisms, or fantasy ideas. Enjoy!
This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are at least 18 years of age. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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ROY'S CONQUESTS: HOT FOR TEACHER
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Welcome back to another installment of my sexual exploits, young readers! A lot of you have written in, asking if I'd be willing to share some of my wisdom so that you too could become seducers like me. The fact is that I'm not a good teacher. But I am a hell of a good wingman, at times. And speaking of teachers...
Today, I'm going to tell you a story about philanthropy, where I helped out a wishful thinker fulfill his dreams of fucking the shit out of (you guessed it) a teacher.
She lived behind me for about a year now. Tracy Parker. A young teacher with strawberry blonde hair that had a natural curl about it. Like one of those free-spirit hippies from the 70's-- light and airy from all the time spent in the summer air. She even spoke like one-- with a soft silky voice that could soothe anyone. You couldn't imagine a girl like this getting angry. Her manner was as though she'd just come from a massage-- in a sleepy relaxed voice that I found calming. Her eyes-- big and bright blue with naturally long lashes-- were always half lidded to match her 'everything is going to be okay' demeanor. She had a big smile and very full pink lips. 'DSL's (as you younger pups might call 'em).
I personally found her features strong, yet forgettable. Her face could be a perfect double for a young Brenda Strong, but with the wild curly hair of Dina Meyer. If you don't know who those two actresses are, look 'em up on the google! Everyone has a cell phone now, so there's no excuse!
As far as body, oooh boy. I hope you readers are leg men, today. She had a nice fit little body that she took care of. She never failed to go for her regular runs around the neighborhood in her little gym shorts and tanktops. She once told me that she played soccer all throughout high school and college. I believed it. She had, what I call, the "soccer legs". I'm talking smooth tanned thighs, thick with muscle. Solid, but certainly not chubby. They looked like they could squeeze the air right out of your lungs.
Naturally those legs came with a round ass that you just wanted to grab, or bounce a quarter off of, I'm not sure which. Her tits were misleading. C-cups have a way about them, where they don't always look as big as they sound, but they have this perfect shape. If you're a fan of porn star Lexi Belle, then you know what I'm talking about. That's what we're dealing with here. Uninspiring in a tee-shirt, but when a dress demands cleavage, WHAM! Where did those come from? And with nothing at all... delicious.
She and her husband were both about thirty, and their backyard butted up against mine. They'd moved into this school district, chasing her dream of getting tenured. Unfortunately, those opportunities are rare, it seems. The older generation of teachers simply refuse to retire. You know who I'm talking about-- the cranky old bats who force-feed students antiquated bullshit like Dickens and Twain, and beat the desire to learn out of these kids by making it a chore. I'll be the first one to say that my generation is the worst for this! You want to motivate this new generation? Then get with the times, and step aside so they can discover the joys of reading from a sexy thirty year old broad with great legs!
Regardless, poor Tracy fell into a trap that happens to many young teachers who are waiting for the 80 year olds to finally croak-- she got stuck in a never ending cycle of getting hired by a district, working tirelessly for a few years, right up until she'd be due for tenor, only to be let go and have to start the cycle again.
Thankfully, her husband Greg was patient and paid most of the bills-- some job in software development.
To be honest, the couple never really jumped out at me much. They were nice enough, but lay-low. And for as attractive as Tracy was, she was one of those girls you could easily overlook. You just needed to take those extra few seconds to appreciate her, to realize what a sexy young lady she was. And in today's world of distractions, revealing clothing, loose women, and big fake hooters, that's hard to do.
I wouldn't say Mrs. Tracy Parker was a knock out, but she was definitely the object of desire for someone close to me...
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His name was Kyle Curran, and he lived several doors down in the same neighborhood. He had a reputation for being something of a dimwit. I'm not up to speed on the politically correct terminology. The boy wasn't "special", but I guess you could say that he was... slow? Awkward? He reminded me a bit of Lenny from Of Mice and Men (speaking of high school literature), or Forrest Gump. Definitely functional and competent, but not the brightest bulb.
He was gawky, built thick and solid, with a blank stare and a bullet shaped head. He had a chubby face, a big shy smile, and some solid muscle hidden somewhere beneath all that baby fat.
He was known throughout the neighborhood as the "Lawn Mower Boy". Every spring, he'd make his way door to door, offering services like lawn-mowing, hedge trimming, gardening, and heavy lifting. That's how I came to meet Kyle several years back. Most folks in my neighborhood opted for professional lawn services instead of going with Kyle-- they could afford it.
And while I always took a special joy in maintaining my own yard and garden, Kyle was a sincere young man with a big heart, so it was hard to turn him down. In the end, each spring I'd hire him, and find something for him to do. His rates were dirt cheap, so it didn't set me back at all to help out the young entrepreneur. In fact, too cheap. The poor guy was underselling himself.
I once asked him what he wanted to do with the money he saved. He just sort of smiled blankly and said he'd like to buy a bigger lawnmower, and now that he was old enough to drive, maybe a truck with his name on it, to haul it all. That melted my heart, the little sonofabitch. I made sure I always overpaid him. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, but he became my weekly slow-talking outdoor buddy.
***
Like clockwork, Kyle rang my bell on the second to last week in April.
It was hard to keep the amusement from my smile when I greeted him. "You know, you arrive on my doorstep on the exact same date, each year."
He blinked at me for a moment, and I could see the gears turning behind his eyes as he thought about this. "Do I? I- I never gave it much thought."
I believed him. "Then you are a machine, my young friend."
He smiled sheepishly at that. "Like the Terminator?"
"Sure, we'll go with that. So what brings you here?"
"Do you want me to cut your grass today?" He always asked the exact same question in the exact same way every single day he came. I could have said it with him, like repeating a line from a movie you've seen a million times.
"Damn right I do. Actually I'm planning on redoing the stones in my garden, so I may have some heavy lifting that might be too much for an old man." That was a lie. I was in great physical shape, even at my age. I hate to be one of those guys who repeats the same stories, but for the benefit of you readers who haven't met me yet, I keep very fit. I always draw inspiration from Jack Lalanne. My greatest passions are home-care, seducing women, and fitness. My biceps are as large as my head, my chest is broad and hairless, my abs are washboard, and my thighs are thick, with a pair of upside V's in the right places, and what's swinging between them could certainly count as a muscle. My dick could have its own area code. I don't know what genes I inherited from my folks, but I assume my dad was part horse.
In my 60's, I'm more fit than the average twenty year old, so is it any wonder that I have such success with women? My hard body and unassuming demeanor versus the doughy bodies and youthful insecurities of their husbands and boyfriends. No contest. And I keep all of this hidden behind a clean-shaven smile, and the neatly combed blonde hair of an all-American suburbanite.
"Then I'm your guy," Kyle declared at the mention of the garden stones. I slapped him on the back." He beamed, looking like he wanted to say more, but then just stood there. Sometimes, it was difficult with him. He didn't always pick up on the social cues that come naturally to guys like me. But I guess not everyone is me. Hell, most people would be uncomfortable with just the way he stood there, lost and waiting for me to direct the conversation.
"So where's your truck?" I asked him, glancing at the empty driveway. He'd arrived with his push-mower, an extra container of gas, and little else. "I've been expecting to one day see a big red work truck with yellow letters reading 'Kyle Curran Garden Man.'" I made sure to rhyme it.
The young man lit up for a moment, pleased by that image. I told you, he was a little bit 'tend them rabbits, George.' But then he deflated. "My parents don't want me to pay in cash for it. They want me to finance it," He scratched his head and looked blank. "I don't really know what that means. But because of my age, they have to sign something with me. Some papers." He shrugged. It was painful listening to him try to comprehend a simple loan transaction, but I didn't want to fill in the words for him. "And they don't want to sign it this year because I'm being held back again. They said if I get too distracted with toys, then I'll never graduate high school. I don't get it. A truck isn't a toy."
It was no secret that Kyle had been held back before. But while most students in his shoes had to repeat grades because they were screwing around and skipping, Kyle was actually trying. He was just a remedial student who wasn't getting most of it.
I felt bad for him. "How old are you, son?"
He paused and thought about it. "Ummm, 18 last September."
"You're 18 then. Why don't you just buy it yourself, regardless of what your parents say?"
"They said they have to pay my insurance, so it's their decision." He took a deep breath and let it out in an animated 'awe-shucks' sigh.
"That is quite a cache twenty-two," I admitted.
Kyle just blinked at me with the dull uncomprehending eyes of a cow.
"C'mon, I'll show you where the stones are," I led him around back.
***
Mulch bags filled with garden stones were stacked by the shed. Kyle set to work spreading them around by the fence, grunting with the effort. His face a dark shade of crimson, as beads of sweat bloomed across his forehead.
Normally, I weed, or prune the flowers while the lawn guy does his thing. But on this particular day, I had some indoor cleanup to busy myself with. I left Kyle to his devices, trusting him to handle the simple menial jobs that he seemed to relish in.
