Author's note: The following is quick little story about a student pursuing her teacher. All characters who engage in sexual acts are eighteen years of age or older. Enjoy!
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All of the girls in my grade have a crush on Mr. Moulton.
And why wouldn't they? He's handsome, strong, and sure of himself, unlike the other male teachers at my school, the majority of whom are drab, balding, and merely cosplaying at authority. Though a bit on the shorter side, Mr. Moulton's broad shoulders and solid frame suggest he's a capable enough man -- capable enough to administer the kind of punishment the female students no doubt spend his class fantasizing about. He's built himself a reputation for being a strict, no-nonsense kind of teacher -- otherwise known among the student body as a "hard-ass".
I'm not like the other girls. What I feel for Mr. Moulton is no schoolgirl crush, but a burning passion that I take very seriously. I think about him when my hand wanders beneath the waistband of my pajamas in the middle of the night. It's his cock I imagine in place of the two fingers I plunge into my wetness without abandon.
And the difference between me and the other girls is that I actually stand a chance -- I've seen the way he looks at me. On more than one occasion he's stopped at my desk under the pretense of checking my work, only to brush up against me or to rest his strong hand on my shoulder, allowing his finger to graze the sensitive skin of my neck. Every touch ignites a fire.
Last week, I carefully laid the groundwork for my trap. Mr. Moulton was standing at my desk helping me answer a question in the textbook that I pretended to struggle with. Once he'd answered my question, I said very innocently, "Thanks Daddy-- I mean Mr. Moulton."
I remember several instances of male students accidentally calling female teachers "mom" in elementary and middle school. It speaks to reason that a female student could make the same mistake with a male teacher. Well, perhaps not a female student in her senior year, but what can I say, I've got a terrible memory.
Any embarrassment from possibly being overheard was totally worth it. The shock on Mr. Moulton's face! He shuffled away without so much as a glance in my direction. He was likely feeling very guilty about enjoying hearing me call him Daddy.
More information about my favorite teacher: Mr. Moulton has a pretty blonde wife and two young kids. It was initially quite the gossip when everyone found out that Mr. Moulton's wife is ten years his junior. He's thirty-four, and she's twenty-four, which is not that much older than me at eighteen, if you think about it. The fact that he's a father only adds to the allure for most of the girls in class. I know it does for me.
I've been watching Mr. Moulton. He's stayed late at school for the past three nights. He spends his lunch hour pacing the parking lot while hissing an argumentative tone into his phone. I've spotted him with a hand on his lower back more than once in the past week, moving gingerly, almost as if he's been sleeping on the couch. All of this leads one to believe that things at home might not be all peaches and roses.
He needs this as much as I do. I just have to give him the opportunity.
When Mr. Moulton comes around to collect homework the next day, my hands are empty, my eyes are pleading, and there's a sheepish grin plastered across my face.
Mr. Moulton is taken aback. I'm normally one of his best students. "Darla? Did you not do the assignment?"
"No, Mr. Moulton, I forgot."
His lips become a thin line. "See me after school today." He's angry, and a little thrill goes through me at his tone.
The rest of the day is a challenge. I'm constantly shifting in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't result in my aching cunt rubbing against the hard wood of the chair. After I leave each class, I look over my shoulder to make sure I haven't left a wet spot in my seat.
Finally, the day comes to an end.
I rap my knuckles against the door to his classroom. Mr. Moulton's eyes snap up from the stack of papers littering his desk. He sees me standing in his doorway with a flirty smile and he doesn't quite know what to make of me. He suddenly recalls that he asked me to meet him here and gestures for me to enter the classroom.
I take a seat across from him and wait for him to speak.
"Now, about your grade. I want you to finish the assignment you missed and write me an additional essay on a war of your choice by the end of the week, and I will rectify your grade. Understand?"
I love it when he gives me orders. "Yes, Mr. Moulton."
"Great. That's all, Darla. You can go."
I do no such thing. Instead, I stand from my seat and walk around Mr. Moulton's desk to lean against it. His eyes grow wide at my movements.
"Everything okay, Mr. Moulton? You've seemed a bit distracted lately."
