Teacher 11

Sometimes, when I'm all alone in the privacy of my bedroom, I wonder if you still remember me.

I was different then, of course. I was the temporary stand-in teacher at your school; the young one, not all that long out of training college, trying to interest a group of twenty or so young men in English Literature and doing my best to keep their minds off the fact that their teacher was pretty, well-proportioned and, at least for some, the stuff of their fantasies.

Oh, yes, I noticed. Well, to be honest, I couldn't help but notice, could I? When you have an eighteen year old lad at the back of the room desperately trying to look as if he's concentrating on the lesson but actually masturbating furiously beneath his desk well, believe me, the teacher notices! The trouble is, of course, that they don't tell you how to deal with this kind of situation at teacher training college!

No, I know that wasn't you. It was a lad named -- I think -- Gregson, or Grigson, something like that; the one with the John Lennon glasses and the buck teeth. You were always sat in the front row -- and I strongly suggest that you were the one who managed to remove the 'modesty panel' on my desk so you could stare at my legs when you thought I wasn't looking. They never did find that panel, did they?

I can remember my first day at that school as if it was yesterday -- how nervous I was as I got myself ready to leave the little two-bedroom bungalow that my husband and I had rented on a one-year lease.

We'd only been married a few months and we were both already beginning to think that we may have made a mistake. John, my husband, was a wages clerk with the local council. He made a reasonable salary but a fair amount of it went on nights out with his pals. It was a habit he hadn't managed to break and, although I'd gone with him in the beginning, it soon became clear that I wasn't really wanted amongst the all-male company that he preferred.

His pals were all still single, they were in the local pub almost every night and their conversation revolved around football, cars, and the sexual adventures they claimed to have enjoyed each weekend. They were still 'boys' and, looking back, I see now that John was pretty much the same.

I still went occasionally, but it was an uncomfortable feeling when I was with them. I wasn't able to contribute much to the conversation, most of the 'jokes' they shared either went over my head because of the obscure sexual references or were so crude that they just weren't funny. Eventually, I stopped going and returned to my favourite pastime -- spending my evenings reading all the modern classics that I'd somehow managed to miss; Steinbeck, Conrad, Tolkien and, almost like a guilty pleasure, Dashiell Hammett.

It was okay, but it wasn't anything like I'd imagined married life would be. After coming home from the pub -- usually with at least half-a-dozen pints of beer inside him -- John wasn't exactly the loving and romantic partner he'd been during our courtship and the first few weeks after the wedding.

We'd originally met at the 'icebreaker' disco at the University of Bath. His sister was a fellow student and she'd brought him along because she'd recently broken up with her boyfriend. I was a very shy 19-year-old, many miles from home; on my own for the first time in my life and probably looking as if I was scared of my own shadow.

His sister, Lucy, introduced us and that was it! I was smitten with the cheeky grin of a tall, dark and handsome young man and he simply swept me off my feet. He kept me company throughout the evening, nearly danced me to exhaustion and, walking back to my residence, asked me to go to the cinema with him at the weekend. We did a bit of kissing and cuddling in the entrance hall before he went home -- we used to call it 'snogging' -- and I couldn't wait to see him again.

He'd kept it cool for the first two or three weeks, just a lot of 'snogging' and a little bit of petting but, there came a Saturday night when he told me that his parents were away and he had the house all to himself. When he asked me to go back there 'for a coffee,' I knew exactly what he meant, but I'd already made up my mind that I was in love with him.

It wasn't a huge step for me. I wasn't a virgin. In fact, I'd had two lovers in the past.

The first had been in the back seat of a Ford Cortina which wasn't very satisfactory. His first attempt had ended badly when he managed to erupt into the Durex as soon as he got the it on. I'd been determined, though, to sample the delights of being a 'grown up' so I'd waited patiently until he was ready to go again. The replay had been a bit more successful -- but only a bit. He'd managed to get it inside me -- which hadn't hurt as much as I'd anticipated -- but only completed about ten seconds or so of before he'd finished.

My second time had been with an older man (well, in his twenties anyway), and it had been a little better. Unfortunately, I hadn't been able to appreciate it much because I was fairly drunk at the time. It was at a party in the nurse's quarters of the local hospital; a friend had invited me and, somehow, I ended up going to someone's empty room with a man I can barely remember now. I do recall that he was gentle and considerate; that he took his time and tried to make me enjoy what we were doing but, dulled by the alcohol, I'm pretty sure that he got more out of it than I did. I never saw him again after that night and so, by the time I got to university, I was pretty much convinced that sex was overrated and over-hyped.

Then John took me home with him.

We were on the 3-seater couch in his parents' living room. I was pretty nervous, but that probably just made me even more excited. There was a Jethro Tull album playing softly in the background when we began kissing. He was gentle and patient -- a hint of urgency about the kisses but not too much and I soon began to relax, enjoying the minty taste of his breath and the smell of his Old Spice after-shave. I can't even remember us moving to lie down; I can barely remember him lifting my sweater and pushing my bra out of the way to fondle my tits. He'd done that before, and he was good at it; he knew exactly how firmly to clasp the flesh and how to torment my nipples superbly, but that night it seemed better and more arousing than ever before. He sucked on them and nibbled with his teeth -- which I found wonderful; so wonderful, in fact, that I didn't make the slightest objection when his hand slid down on to my leg. Nor did I flinch when it moved higher beneath my skirt. In fact, in all honesty, I opened up for him -- anxiously awaiting the touch that finally came when he reached the crotch of my knickers.

I didn't do anything (I didn't know, then, that I was supposed to), but just left him to kiss me, to slide his fingers inside the material and to begin playing with my honey pot (that was the name we used for it!), and to slide one finger inside me very gently. I was already starting to moan and gasp a bit, so I made no move to stop him when he carefully pulled the knickers down -- in fact I wriggled a bit to help him do that -- because I really wanted him.

I know he asked if we needed to use a Durex and I said it wasn't necessary -- my mum had insisted on me going on the pill before I went to university -- and then he was settling into place between my legs. There was a brief fumble before he managed to find the target and then, with a gasp of delight from both of us, his cock slid sweetly into me. His thrusts were slow and gentle but, even so, he'd cum long before I could that first time. The second time though, later that night, was beautiful; we were in his bed and he fucked me properly -- slowly at first, then rising to a fierce pace that made me cum and cum and cum! I couldn't believe it. I'd had orgasms through masturbating, but this was the first time I'd had one from having a cock inside me and, believe me, it's a very different experience!

After that night we fucked each other at every opportunity. During my period, I learned how to give him a blow job; I've never been very good at it and I've never been too keen on it, but I was in love and I wanted to keep him happy. A few weeks later he moved out of his parents' home and we got ourselves our first flat. And we were happy.

All through my time of studying we spent loads of time in bed together -- trying to learn every way we could of turning each other on.

It was only after we were married that it changed. He'd always had one or two evenings with his friends and I'd never objected to it. Unfortunately, there was a glut of teachers at that time and finding a post in my chosen profession was an uphill task. So I'd done a few different jobs to contribute to our finances, but they were poorly-paid and tiring. That was when he started going out more with his pals.

The temporary post was my first and I was terrified. The previous week I'd been shown around the school by one of the older teachers -- Mrs McCorquendale -- and she'd given me several warnings.

"Whatever you do, My Dear, don't get into a situation where you have to spend any time alone with one of your pupils. If you do, he'll immediately go out and tell his classmates that you were definitely 'coming-on' to him -- even if you've done nothing more than set him extra homework. Oh, and don't, whatever you do, wear short skirts! These lads are 18 years old; they don't think with their heads -- that's left to other parts of their anatomies."

And that was when I met you, wasn't it? Did you think I didn't notice you staring at me?

Oh yes, a lot of the lads did that, didn't they? In fact, I still wonder about the few that didn't! But most of them were in little groups that used to snigger at whatever grubby little things they were saying to each other about me. I never saw you doing that -- maybe that's why I noticed you?

You were a bright pupil, but one who didn't seem to be reaching his full potential. You were popular enough, but still something of a 'loner.' I could read your look; I knew what kind of things you were thinking when you stared at me that way and, I suppose, it wouldn't have affected me at all if everything had been all right in my marriage.

Don't get me wrong -- I loved John and I would never have done anything to hurt him. We'd started to have arguments, though. They really began when I had to work a bit later occasionally -- usually for after-school staff meetings -- and his tea wasn't on the table when he came home from work.

He was old-fashioned about that. It was my job to have the meal on the table and the idea of going into the kitchen and making something for himself simply never occurred to him. We argued about that, and then we argued about the time he spent at the pub -- and those few weeks became among the most miserable in my life. We barely talked and, when I made a nice meal, he'd often say he wasn't hungry and he'd get something from the chip shop on his way home from the pub. He slept on his side of the bed and I slept on mine -- and it was as if we'd suddenly become strangers.

I tried talking to him -- I even tried to accept the blame and apologise to him -- but nothing worked. There were even times when I wondered if he might be having an affair but, to be honest, in a small town like that it would have been virtually impossible to do something like that without it becoming public knowledge very quickly. I also knew there was no one at work that would be of any interest to him.

So, I tried to be sexy for him. I looked in the mirror and what I saw there seemed pretty damned good -- even if I do say so myself! I saw a five foot-four inch strawberry blonde with long and very thick hair, a very pretty face, a neat and trim 34B-26-36 figure and really nice and well-shaped legs. I also saw a woman who loved her husband and desperately wanted him to start fucking her again!

And during the day, I saw you. I saw an 18-year-old with a severe crush on his 25-year-old teacher. I saw a look of almost desperate longing in your eyes whenever I looked at you. I became fascinated by the effect I seemed to have on a handsome, well-built young man with an athletic figure who, within a week of me arriving at the school, had gone from being a near-total slob to being smartly dressed, and whose slouch had disappeared to turn into an upright six foot or so tall figure with an impressive stature.

You were always polite and well-mannered, but you were also clumsy whenever I was around, weren't you? I noticed that, too -- in fact, you'd be surprised how much your teacher noticed.

When you were sat right in front of me in class and you started squirming around in your seat, did you think I didn't know that you were trying to get comfortable with an unwelcome erection? Of course I noticed! And I was partly embarrassed, partly flattered.

I imagine that I haven't told you much that you didn't already know, have I? But I will now.

I'll bet that you didn't know about those nights when I was at home, on my own, reading Madame Bovary, when I suddenly began to feel quite turned on. Those were the nights when I went to bed early; the nights when I closed my eyes and wished that John was there beside me. The nights when I thought of his smooth hands caressing me, touching my breasts, teasing my sensitive nipples.

And then, when the bitter thought occurred that he could be there if he wanted to be -- that he could be exploring my body freely but preferred to be with his mates -- that was when I began to think about you.

Yes, I did. I imagined your firm, strong young body lying next to me in that bed; naked. I imagined myself giving you guiding touches and gentle encouragement -- letting you know what I wanted you to do -- feeling the warmth of your flesh against mine; taking your hand and placing it on my bare breast. Then I thought how good it would be to feel your enthusiasm as I drew your head down to suck on each of my nipples in turn.

My own hands would slip down between my thighs, and I would pretend that it was your long, thick fingers that were exploring me, eventually finding my clitoris and working it back and forth.

By then, I would be gasping and moaning and, in my mind, seeing your face -- filled with passion and desire. My fingers would slip easily inside me and I would almost believe that it was you; that you were on top of me, your arms were around me, and it was your hard, stiff cock that penetrated me and began pounding so fiercely and wantonly that, within a few minutes, I would cum with more force than I'd never known before.

On the following day, the fantasy would still be there; inside my head and so vivid that it was almost real. It was so disorienting that, when I passed you in one of the corridors, I could almost hear myself saying; "Last night was wonderful. Can we do that again?" But, thank heavens, I never did; I just walked on, knowing that you were staring at my rear and admiring me.

Then there was that one time when we actually found ourselves alone, just for a few minutes. Do you remember that? It was after the lesson and you'd stayed behind to collect the books for me. All of the others and gone and I watched you as the copies of 'To Kill A Mockingbird' were gathered up, and I felt the most intense desire I'd ever known. You were so vulnerable and so beautiful; your movements, even in that simple task, seemed so graceful and so masculine that I could actually feel my juices beginning to emerge. The room wasn't being used again that day and I was free for the following lesson period.

When you came to the desk with the books I didn't realise, at first, that I was staring at you -- but I know that you did. I saw the blush begin to rise in your cheeks as I stood up to take the pile of books from your arms to put them away in the cupboard -- and felt your eyes boring into my chest then, realising I'd noticed your gaze -- quickly rising to meet my eyes.

When you handed them to me, I felt the purely accidental brush of your fingertips against one of my nipples and it made me dizzy. At that moment, if you'd had the nerve to do it, you could have asked me to come to some quiet place with you and make love -- and I wouldn't have been able to refuse.

But a moment is all that it was. And then you were gone to your next lesson and I slumped into my chair feeling exhausted and drained.

That night, John came home early -- and sober. He'd had an argument with his mates when he'd told them that he needed to get home because they'd started teasing him that he was 'hen-pecked.' He told me all about it -- we talked for a long time, we sorted a lot of things out, and later that night we made love with incredible passion.

The crisis passed. We stayed together -- happily - for over twenty-five years; until he died last summer.

I'm a widow now and my three children are grown up and gone. I still teach, and I love my job.

But sometimes I remember that first temporary job and the boy who, for a little while, thought he was in love with me. I think about the young man who never knew how much he tempted me.

Do you remember that? Do you remember that young teacher, who was pretty, well-proportioned and made your heart beat a little faster?

Do you?