Have you ever had a relationship with someone who was so infatuated with you that they would do almost anything for you? A person who was so infatuated with you that you could take advantage of and manipulate them to do things they would never consider doing with anyone else and give you whatever you wanted? So obsessed with you that they would give in to all your sexual desires regardless if they thought the things you desired were degrading and perverse to them? Someone who would do almost anything you wanted just because they were afraid you would leave them?

I’m not talking about a romantic relationship where that person was in love with you, although romance and intimacy can be part of it if you wanted it to be and they desired the intimacy and romance part as well. No, I am talking about just pure infatuation and obsession, which is mostly sexual lust. Someone who was so infatuated with you and desired you sexually so badly that you could treat them any way you wanted and they would never leave you?

I had that type of person in a relationship once when I was seventeen and it lasted for almost years.

When I was a teenager, I had two main fantasies, fucking an older woman and fucking a white girl. At sixteen, I fulfilled the first one and at seventeen I fulfilled the second one.

The first white woman I fucked was my forty-two-year-old, married, high school history teacher. We had an affair that lasted almost two years. She became infatuated and obsessed with me, and I took advantage of that infatuation and obsession as much as I could.

Mrs. Sally Sinclair was a history teacher at my public high school. She was my history teacher from my freshman year until my senior year. We started our affair at the end of my junior year of high school when I was seventeen, and it lasted until I was eighteen and went off to college.

Mrs. Sinclair was not the clichés hot teacher all the boys had a crush on. As far as I knew, I was the only boy in school who had a crush on her and found her attractive and sexy. I heard none of the other boys in school talk about her in the locker room like they would talk about Mrs. Drew, a math teacher.

It was not that she was unattractive, at least to me. She was not beautiful or not even cute to any of the boys in school. Mrs. Sinclair’s face was not unattractive, but it was plain looking. Her body type was certainly not the type I was normally attracted to either.

Mrs. Sinclair was not even the type of woman I was typically attracted to, but I had a major crush on her and lusted after her badly. I didn’t know why I found her body sexy, but I did. Mrs. Sinclair didn’t even have much of a body at all as far as curves went.

Before I had sex with Mrs. Sinclair, I had sex with two girls and one woman.

The first older woman I had sex with was in her early thirties. I never did get her exact age because I didn’t ask. I met her when I was working part-time at a local chain name hotel that was franchised to a local entrepreneur. She was from Arizona and stayed at the motel for a little over three weeks for her work. She was there to open up a new location for the company she worked for.

Carla was a dark-skinned black woman who had a pretty face, a thick body with large breasts, wide hips, and large ghetto booty. Carla taught me a lot when it came to fucking and pleasing a woman. She taught me how to eat her pussy to make her orgasm, how to be more patient with foreplay, how to pay attention to a woman’s clit, and other things. The best thing she taught me about pleasing a woman was how to find her G-spot.

One of my jobs at the motel was to deliver extra towels, set up roll-away beds, etc. for guests when the day staff had gone home. I had seen Carla when she checked in and around the motel coming and going and even once brought her extra towels one night. We had said hello to one another when we saw each other and once had a conversation in the parking lot. It was during that conversation I found out why she stayed at the motel for such an extended period.

The beginning of her second week staying at the hotel, she called down to the front desk just as I had clocked out and was now off of work. She told the desk clerk that she needed new bed sheets because she spilled some soda on the ones on the bed.

Diane, the desk clerk who worked the late shift, told Carla there would not be anyone on duty who could bring her fresh sheets until the morning, but if she wanted to come to the lobby, she could pick some up. Since I had just clocked out and was about to go home, I told Diane I would bring them to her.

When Carla answered the door to her room, she was wearing just a towel and her hair was wet. She said she had just gotten out of the shower. She asked if would be so kind as to come into the room and put the sheets on her bed.

As I was putting the sheets on the bed, Carla made no attempt to get dressed and sat in the chair in the room and watched me change the sheets. I noticed the sheets on the bed were not wet and nothing had been spilled on them. The towel had ridden high on her legs and you could almost see her pussy. She smiled at me.

I was not and never have been a shy person and I took the hint or the perceived hint. As I walked to her, she got up and dropped the towel. We kissed for a while as I had my hands on her ass and then she got on her knees and unbuckled my belt, unbutton my pants, pulled my pants down, and pulled down my underwear. She gasped in surprise and smiled wickedly when she saw my erect penis and took it in her mouth.

We gave each other oral sex and then fucked. We fucked several times that night. Over her three-week stay at the motel, I went to her room every night I worked and even some nights I didn’t work. Based on some things she said to me, Carla thought I was older than sixteen years and I was not going to correct her. I was afraid if she knew I was only sixteen, she would not want us to fuck anymore. I was not going to give up a good thing.

I continued to fuck Carla for her entire stay at the hotel. I would get off work at eleven at night and go to her room. It was during the summer and school was out, so I didn’t have to be home. I would just call my mother and tell her I was going to hang out at some friend’s house and spend the night.

Carla let me fuck her in the ass a few times, a first for me, but one of the best things she showed me was how to find a girl’s G-spot. At seventeen, I had no clue what G-spot even was. I had never even heard the term before.

“How will I know when I find it?” I asked her.

I had been going down on her pussy and had my head between her spread legs. I didn’t mind asking or showing my ignorance. I was her willing pupil when being taught how to sexually please a woman.

Carla giggled. “Oh, you’ll know. Trust me,” she answered. She then gave me instructions on how to find it, as I had three fingers in her pussy.

She was right; I did know when I found it. The area of the inside of the roof of her pussy felt different. I also knew from her reaction. Carla was loud when she was getting fucked and louder when she had an orgasm, but when my fingers found her G-spot and she told me how to stimulate it, I thought I had better call a priest for an exorcism.

She bucked her hips and screamed out to tell me to go harder and not to stop. When she had an orgasm, her entire body spasmed and shook and she screamed even louder. I was pretty sure that guests of the motel several rooms down were about to call the police, thinking a poor woman was being murdered. After her orgasm ended and I pulled my soaked fingers out of her pussy, Carla’s thick thighs and stomach were still quivering. It was fantastic.

Why was I a woman in her early thirties attracted to a boy in his teens? Well, besides Carla being away from her home, lonely, and from the sexual things we did, and she taught me, I pretty much assumed she was a promiscuous woman. But it was also because of the type of person I was as a teenager and up until my upper twenties.

I was a very good-looking young black man. I am not saying this to brag; it was just a fact. I was an extremely good-looking teenage boy and grew to be an extremely good-looking man. The type of boy whom girls would whisper about when he walked past them in the halls at school, the type older women and married women would flirt with, although they never had any intention of doing anything else besides flirting.

I didn’t have boyish good looks; I outgrew that when I was fifteen. At seventeen, when this story takes place, I was already six foot three inches tall and would grow to be six foot five. I was the ruggedly handsome, masculine type. At seventeen, I already needed to shave every day, which I did most of the time, and had chest hair I was very proud of. My chest hair was thick and the coarse hairs spread out over the center of my chest and a line of the thick hair ran down the center of my chest to my stomach.

I had an impressive body as well, a body that I worked hard at maintaining by lifting weights and running. My skin color is a dark brown complexion. I was not obsessed with the exercise but exercised obsessively. I did so because I played football and was good at my position. I started in Pop Warner when I was little, then Junior Varsity, and at seventeen and a junior in high school I was the starting inside linebacker and also played back-up tight end on offense.

I had hopes of getting a football scholarship so I could go to college. I knew I was not good enough to play for a Div. I college and play in the NFL, but several lower division colleges and some FCS schools were interested in me. My dream college was the Citadel in Charleston, SC.

Being so good-looking, you might ask why I had only fucked two people. It was the early nineteen eighties and I guess young girls were not as open with their sexuality as they are now. I had gotten blowjobs from other girls, but they never let me fuck them. One was a white girl at school, but she would not let me fuck her. The reason they just sucked my cock was the second reason I had only had sex with two people by the age of seventeen.

It was something girls I had sex with or gave me blowjobs didn’t know until they saw it. I had a large penis. Again, not to brag, but just the way it is. At seventeen, when fully erect, it’s a little over nine and a half inches long and the circumference is a little over six and a half inches. Now, as a fully developed man, it’s a little over ten inches with a slightly larger girth. Yes, I have the cliché big black cock.

The girls who just gave me blowjobs were too afraid of it to let me fuck them. They were girls my age and didn’t understand that their pussy would stretch to accommodate the size. I was only a teenager and didn’t know that myself.

All of that combined made me an extremely confident, arrogant, and cocky bastard and gave me a sizable ego at age seventeen. I would remain so until I was in my mid-twenties. I could also be rather an asshole to women I was intimate with because of my arrogance. Well, I was just an asshole when I was younger, period.

My affair with my teacher started one Saturday afternoon when I gave my history teacher a ride home because her car would not start.

Sally Sinclair had been my history teacher since I was a freshman and I found her to be a unique woman, a quirky woman, and found her sexy. But she was not a slut in the least. I found out she had strict Puritan values when it came to sex, at least at first.

I would not call her naïve, even though a lot of the time she was naïve about sex. It was not being naïve from lack of not knowing about the sexual acts we did, but from doing as well as what Mrs. Sinclair felt was immoral to do. She was a very religious woman and went to church and taught Sunday school and she knew the Bible well, both as her religious text and as a historical book. The Bible is full of a variety of sex. Prostitutes, forced sex, adultery, and Abraham had his wife Sara pose as his sister and “pimping” her for his safety. The Book of Solomon is just one long series of love poems and some of them are erotic for the time they were written.

Mrs. Sinclair was extremely knowledgeable about history and an expert on history and historical figures. History is full of sexual and sexually perverse historical figures.

No, she was not naïve, but she would never consider doing anything she thought was disgusting and perverted because of her Puritan values about sex. I found out there were a lot of things she felt were perverse and disgusting that even a seventeen-year-old boy like me thought were normal.

She had other quirks that amused me and were sometimes frustrating with intimacy. She got embarrassed very easily, and that turned me on and I enjoyed embarrassing her. When she quickly became infatuated with me, I discovered she would do almost anything I asked of her; both sexually and non-sexually. I took advantage of both, but the sexual more than the non-sexual.

Mrs. Sinclair was a small woman and stood only about five feet, two inches tall, or maybe even five feet, three inches. She had a petite body in some aspects and others not. As I mentioned, Mrs. Sinclair had a plain-looking face and wore little makeup. She wore mascara on her eyelashes and lipstick on her lips that surrounded a small mouth. She always wore red lipstick and I would sit in her class imagining those red lips around my cock.

She wore just lightly applied concealer around her eyes to cover her slight crow’s feet, but that was all the makeup she wore. Mrs. Sinclair was not a vain woman at all and was very modest about her looks. It was as if she didn’t care what people thought of her looks. Just another thing I liked that made me desire her.

I discovered later, after we began our affair, that she could improve her looks by applying a different style of makeup than she normally wore. “Whoring herself up” she would call it, although she did not whore herself up. She just used a little more makeup or used makeup in a unique style than she normally did.

She wore her hair in an outdated fashion. She had black hair with no grey in it that she wore in a hairstyle from the sixties. Her dark hair came just to her neckline, and she wore it in the style of the pictures of Jackie Kennedy I had seen in our history books. The famous pictures of Jackie Kennedy in her pink outfit the day her husband was assassinated in Dallas.

Girls at school would make fun of Mrs. Sinclair’s outdated hairstyle behind her back but I liked it. It showed off her long neck.

Mrs. Sinclair’s body was almost flat, with no curves. She had small breasts that made her chest look flat, slightly wide hips, but a flat ass. When she would turn to her side in class, her backside looked as straight as a ruler from her neck to her thighs.

Besides her hips, the only other curve she had on her body was a slight but noticeable pooch in her lower belly at her pelvis area. Sometimes, depending on the type of dress or skirt she wore, the waistband would be tight enough to make her pooch more prominent, and with her blouse tucked in, it made her stomach appear to be sunken in. She did not have a belly on her at all, just that small pooch below her stomach. With her petite height and body, Mrs. Sinclair could not have weighed any more than a hundred and ten pounds at best.

She had thin legs as far as I could tell, based just on her legs below her knees. Mrs. Sinclair never wore a dress or skirt that came above her knees and, most of the time, she wore long dresses or skirts that came to her ankles.

Mrs. Sinclair had alabaster skin, as white as ivory. From what little of her body that was ever exposed, it was free of any blemishes. When she blushed, her face and neck would become flush and turn a dark shade of pink. I would imagine her entire pale-skinned body turned that shade as well when she blushed, but one could never tell if it did because of the clothes she wore.

She wore very conservative clothes. I had never seen her wear anything but dresses and skirts, and none were even remotely tight against her body. Mrs. Sinclair never wore heels, and I had seen her only wear two pairs of shoes, a pair of brown flats and a pair of black flats. They looked old but were well-maintained and polished.

Mrs. Sinclair never wore anything remotely low cut below her neckline. She always wore one of her three cardigan sweaters even during the hot and humid months in Georgia. She had a red, blue, and green one.

She dressed like a stereotyped librarian you see on TV, in movies, or in cartoons. She didn’t dress for style or wear expensive clothes. They were nice, but you could tell she bought them at a store like K-Mart or Roses. K-Mart was the go-to bargain store at the time and Wal-Mart had yet to become as popular as it is today and drive stores like K-Mart and Roses out of business.

She was not one of these older women who looked much younger than their age. She looked her age, but besides the slight crow’s feet around her eyes, her face was not wrinkled and she had smooth skin.

She was a timid woman, at least outside her classroom. In her classroom, she could be strict but fair and didn’t put up with nonsense. She never raised her voice when chastising a student, but would speak calmly and give them a motherly look that her students always respected.

Outside the classroom, I would notice she was a timid woman. Since I had a huge crush on her, I paid close attention to Mrs. Sinclair all the time when I saw her in and out of the classroom. I began to notice her more submissive behavior when around male teachers, her husband, and the fathers of students. But in discussing her students' education, how they were performing in her class, and their classroom behavior with their fathers and other teachers, she was no-nonsense and not to be pushed around.

Mrs. Sinclair's mannerisms I found sexy as well. She was a lady. The way she spoke in her high-pitched voice, she would never curse, not even hell or damn, the way she carried herself, and even the way she sat. Always with her legs together, crossed at the ankles, and her hands folded in her lap when she was not using them to animate her conversations.

She did have a good sense of humor even in her class and would tell silly jokes about history or historical figures when she lectured. No one laughed at her jokes because they were silly or people didn’t get them, but she didn’t care. She still told them.

Students respected her and a lot of us thought she was the best teacher in our school. She had a love for teaching and a love of her subject of history. She would lecture and teach us things not in our history school book or point out when the book got it wrong. I enjoyed her lectures because I was and still am a big history buff.

When I was in college, majoring in history, I would listen to the professors’ lectures and think back on Mrs. Sinclair’s classes. I thought this was where she belonged, as a college professor and not waste her time as a high school teacher lecturing to kids who didn’t care about the subject she was teaching. But she would never leave her job as a high school teacher; she loved it too much and loved teaching high school-age students.

Mrs. Sinclair was one of those once-in-a-lifetime high school teachers you get if you are lucky. One who cared about her students, treated everyone equally, and was always willing to use her free time to help her students. She cared!

It was my love of history, her teaching skills, and caring about her students that led us to become friendlier with each other. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but a professional teacher/student relationship. I was in my sophomore year of high school and I visited her class during lunch break.

Mrs. Sinclair almost always ate lunch in her classroom unless she would meet her husband for lunch in the cafeteria. She had a policy that any student could come to her class to discuss their grade, ask for help, or even discuss personal issues they didn’t want others to know about. I took advantage of that one day.

I wanted to ask her some questions about some of the local historical sites and for her to separate myth from fact. I also had a crush on her since I was a freshman and wanted to be close to her on a one-on-one basis.

I asked my questions as we ate lunch. She answered them, and we started talking and even debating about history. That one day led to me eating lunch with her in her classroom about three times a week; sometimes even more. No one thought anything of it because Mrs. Sinclair was beyond reproach. Our eating lunch together continued the rest of my sophomore year and into my junior year when we started our affair and even after that.

I did listen to her as we talked about history, debated, and had discussions. I also kept fantasying about bending her over the desk and fucking her. I liked being that close to her and being alone in her classroom and the faint smell of her perfume I found intoxicating.

Mrs. Sinclair would ask me about my life goals, and I told her how I wanted to go to the Citadel for college on a scholarship and join the Marine Corps after I graduated. She told me while I did very well in her class, I needed to bring my grades up in some of my other classes and score well on my SATs. She offered to help if I wanted it.

She would ask about my personal life, and tell me she respected my single mother and how my mother worked two jobs to support me and my younger sister. I liked that she never asked about my father, who was not a nice person and I had not seen him since I was ten. Mrs. Sinclair could somehow sense I did not like the man.

It was during my sophomore year that I was introduced to Mrs. Sinclair’s husband. I had seen him before but never met him. It was after our homecoming football game and was my first start as a player. Our senior starting linebacker was out because of an injury and I started in his place.

I had a great game. I made an interception and ran it back for a touchdown and led the team in tackles that night. I was feeling on top of the world. We beat our in-town rivals by thirty-two points. As I was walking to the locker room, Mrs. Sinclair came up to me and congratulated me on the game. She enjoyed football and always came to the games to support the school. She never missed one unless something came up where she could not attend. She then introduced me to her husband.

What I knew of Mr. Sinclair from the lunchtime conversations with his wife was that he was a Pentecostal preacher at one of the Assembly of God churches. Mrs. Sinclair was also Pentecostal, naturally, which explained her clothing choice, her morals, her Puritan views on sex, and other things about her.

He was a fat man. I disliked calling people fat, but he was fat. No, he was obese. He was ten years older than her, balding, obese, and rather rude when I met him. He seemed like a grumpy man. I also noticed how Mrs. Sinclair seemed submissive to him. After she introduced us, she backed away and let her husband take control of the conversation. After he briefly talked to me and told me it was nice to meet me, Mrs. Sinclair started to say something to me, but her husband cut her off and told her it was time to leave. She didn’t seem upset about being cut off and meekly followed him as they walked away.

I am not and never was a religious person. If people ask me what my religion is, I would tell them Southern Baptist because when I was eight, I was baptized as a Southern Baptist in the church my mother grew up in. I went to vacation bible schools there during the summer when I was younger, occasionally went to Sunday school and church as a kid, and was still going there at Christmas and Easter. But I am not an overly religious person.

I didn’t know much about the Pentecostal religion, but I knew they were stricter in their beliefs, preached the old Fire and Brimstone sermons, and believed in the literal interpretation of the King James Bible.

Knowing what little I did about the Pentecostal religion and that Mr. Sinclair was a Pentecostal preacher, I began to understand Mrs. Sinclair more. The way she dressed and why she dressed that way, her lack of wearing a lot of makeup, her morals, and her meek timid, and submissive personality towards her husband and, to a lesser degree, other men as well.

After our affair started, it helped me understand her Puritan attitude about sex. I do admit that either right or wrong of me; I did use her submissiveness towards men to my advantage when we started fucking. There was just something about Mrs. Sinclair that brought out perversions in me and made me desire to do perverted things to her. Things I had never thought about doing to someone I was fucking.

I was in the school's weight room working out after I had just completed a five-mile run. I had weights at home and a weight bench, but the weights were cheap ones made of plastic and filled with sand. They did the job, but I preferred to work out at the school’s weight room because of the better equipment.

“Hello, anyone in here?” I heard Mrs. Sinclair’s soft feminine voice shout.

I was doing leg presses on the leg machine.

“Yes, just me,” I shouted back.

“Thomas, is that you?” She called out again.

My given name was Thomas, but everyone called me TJ. My middle name was James, except for Mrs. Sinclair. Well, my mother also when she was angry at me and invoked the dreaded full first name, middle name, and last name. I like that she called me Thomas. It made me feel like there was something special just between us.

“Yes. Ma’am,” I shouted back

“Are you alone?” she called out again.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied.

“Are you decent?” once more she called out.

I chuckled at that. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“I am coming in,” she called out once more.

The boys’ weight room was in the boy’s locker room. You had to walk through the locker room to get to the weight room.

Mrs. Sinclair walked into the weight room and stopped when she stood before me. She had her head down and was blushing. I did notice how she looked at me before she put her head down. Her eyes stared at my face and ran down to my stomach. It was quick, and no one would have noticed if they were not paying close attention. I always paid close attention to everything Mrs. Sinclair did.

“You said you were decent,” she said in an embarrassed but accusing tone.

I chuckled again. “I am decent,”

“Will you please put your shirt on,” she told me and turned around.

I could not help but be amused by her. I was working out shirtless. I picked up my tee shirt off the floor, used it to wipe the sweat from my face, and put the shirt on.

“Ok, all decent now,” I teased her.

She turned back around to face me and gave me the famous look she gave students who misbehaved in her classroom. She was still blushing.

“I saw your truck in the parking lot and hoped you would be in here,” she said. “Do you know anything about cars? Mine won’t start.” She looked around and inhaled deeply. “Does it always smell like this in here?”

I laughed. She was very amusing to me sometimes. “Well, it is a boys’ locker and weight room, so yes.” She blushed even deeper. “I know how to change the oil, change a flat tire, and use jumper cables, but that’s about it,” I told her. I was not a car nut like some kids at school.

I did think it was a little odd that if she didn’t like the smell of the room, why did she inhale deeply through her nose several times?

“Oh, shoot,” she said and again I chuckled. That was as close to her cursing as I had ever heard.

“Did you ask, Mr. Pinkston?” I asked. “I thought I saw his car in the lot today when I got here.”

“No, he left,” she told me as I stood up.

Mr. Pinkston taught AP chemistry and biology, and he knew cars. He restored them, gave advice, and helped the kids at school who were into cars.

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry,” I told her sincerely as I walked to her.

Mrs. Sinclair started backing up and kept backing until her back was pressed into the full-length mirror on the wall. I put my arm above her head and smiled down at her. I don’t know why I was feeling much cockier that day, but I was. Maybe because I was working out so hard and was sweating profusely from the earlier run and the weight lifting. The exercise always got my adrenaline and testosterone worked up.

Fucking a girl after I worked out was great. I could fuck her for a long time after a good, hard workout before I orgasmed. One Saturday, I spent the entire day with Carla, hanging out, going out to lunch, and showing her some of the interesting sites of the city I lived in and she was visiting. I had worked out extra strenuously with a run before the weight lifting before I went to pick her up. When I got to her room, I was extremely horny. Before we went out for that day, I fucked her continuously hard and vigorously for about forty-five minutes. I started with her pussy and then fucked her in her ass.

I was rather impressed with myself for lasting that long, especially since I was fucking her so hard. Carla was equally impressed and told me I wore her pussy and asshole out. I was up for fucking her again since my young cock was still hard, but she said she needed a break, so we went out for the day.

I had flirted with Mrs. Sinclair during our lunches together, but nothing bad or no sexual innuendos. Just polite and mild flirting. I don’t know if she knew I was doing it or not because she always ignored my flirtations.

Mrs. Sinclair was blushing as deeply as I had ever seen her blush. My six-foot-two-inch muscular frame towered over her small five-foot-two-inch body.

Mrs. Sinclair didn’t immediately move away. She looked up at me and bit her lower lip, a habit she had when nervous. She inhaled deeply again through her nose and made a faint whimpering, squealing noise. Her body gave a slight shiver and she then quickly moved under my arm that was above her head and moved away from me.

“Do…do,” she started to say, but her voice was high-pitched and scared sounding. She cleared her throat. “Do…do you think you could take a look? Maybe it’s just the battery. Henry is in Maryland for a preacher’s conference until Monday.” Henry was her husband.

“Sure,” I told her.

She didn’t sound mad about what I had done, and I was glad. I thought I had gone overboard with my flirting and I didn’t want to make her mad with me. It was fun seeing her reaction, though.

“I’ll wait outside for you to get dressed,” she told me and hurried out of the weight and locker room.

I was dressed as far as I was concerned. I hadn’t brought any other clothes with me and I was wearing my workout clothes. A pair of blue shorts with the school mascot image on the lower right leg, and a grey tee shirt with my football number across the front and under it the name of our sports team, the Chargers.

The shorts were short and tight, but that was how men’s shorts were in the early 1980s. Today we call them Magnum PI shorts. Under my shorts, I was wearing a jockstrap since I was working out and running. I had driven to the school dressed the way I was dressed.

I wiped the sweat off my face with a towel, threw the towel at the white cotton laundry hamper several feet away, missed, walked to pick it up, and tossed it in the laundry hamper.

I found Mrs. Sinclair waiting for me outside the locker room. She was sitting on the floor and reading a book. Her purse and a soft leather briefcase containing her work stuff were lying on the floor next to her. She was wearing her reading glasses. Plain black-framed glasses, the kind nerds wore, and I later found out when I joined the Marine Corps, the type the military issued. I thought she looked sexy in her glasses, but then I thought everything she did and all her looks were sexy.

She closed her book that I noticed from the cover was about Julius Caesar. Mrs. Sinclair’s favorite historical figure was Julius Caesar. That was no secret and everyone at school knew it because she talked a great deal about him in her classes.

She looked me up and down. “I thought you were going to shower and change, so I expected to be waiting,” she told me as if she felt the need to explain why she was sitting on the floor reading a book.

I shrugged, “No, I wore this here and I’ll take a shower when I get home and before I go to work today.”

“Ok,” the woman said. “I hope I am not keeping you from anything or making you late for work.”

She knew where I worked since I told her before. “No, I don’t have to be in until five.”

She looked at her watch and smiled. “Oh good, it’s only eleven. I didn’t realize it was that early.”

She put her book in her briefcase, took off her glasses, placed them in her purse, and started to get off the floor. I held out my hand to help her. Mrs. Sinclair looked at me as if she was shocked I would help her to her feet and took it in her small, delicate hand. I helped her to her feet. She had small hands with slender fingers.

“Why, such a gentleman,” she teased.

I offered to carry her briefcase, but she said she was fine. See, I can be a gentleman. We then walked to the parking lot to her car. I let her walk a step in front of me at first. I wanted to look at her from behind. Not that there was much to look at with a wide, flat ass that was hidden under her ankle-length flared-out skirt. I did notice she was wearing athletic shoes and not the standard flats she always wore. She had on a plain white tee shirt with a high neckline and over that she wore her green cardigan sweaters even though it was warm outside. The sweater was unbuttoned.

I assumed that was how Mrs. Sinclair dressed when she was dressing casually. I wondered if she even owned a pair of blue jeans or a pair of pants.

As we walked to the parking lot, she told me since her husband was out of town; she decided to come to the school to do some work and reminded me we had a history test on Monday. We stopped by my truck to get my jumper cables, just in case it was her car battery.

My grandfather gave my truck to me when he decided to buy a new/used truck for himself. It was a fourteen-year-old red and white Ford F150. It had some dings and dents and the truck bed was heavily scratched. The interior had some rips in the seat, but the engine was perfect. My grandfather bought his trucks to be used not for show. It was a manual transmission which I liked because I learned how to drive a stick shift.

We got into my truck; I chuckled when music from the cassette I had in the tape player blasted through the speakers. Mrs. Sinclair immediately turned it off and looked at me, and frowned. Unlike the kids who live in my neighborhood who listened to hip hop, R&B, and rap music; I listened to heavy metal, and in the cassette in the player was a Black Sabbath tape, and the song playing was War Pigs.

Mrs. Sinclair told me such music was sinful, and I chuckled again. She always found ways to amuse me when she was not meaning to. I drove the short distance to the teacher's parking area. I parked with my front facing hers in case we need to use the jumper cables.

She drove an old station wagon that looked to be an older model than my truck. It was an ugly yellow color with wood paneling. Unlike my truck, however, Mrs. Sinclair’s car was clean and didn’t have any dings or scratches on it. You could tell it was well taken care of.

Mrs. Sinclair got in her car and tried to start it, but nothing happened. Not even the clicking sound of a low battery trying to turn over an engine. I popped the hood and hooked up the cables; she tried to start her car again, but nothing. We let my engine run for a while to charge her battery and once again, nothing.

“It could be the starter or the alternator,” I gave my inexperienced opinion.

“Oh,” she replied and started wringing her hands together from worry. Mrs. Sinclair looked as if she was going to start crying. I felt bad for her.

“How…how much do you think that will cost?” she asked and her eyes were now watery.

“I don’t know,” I told her.

I knew about money being tight. I grew up on the borderline between poor and poverty. I felt very bad for Mrs. Sinclair and walked to her to comfort her. The arrogance and confidence I had shown to her in the weight room were replaced with empathy.

She backed away when I got close to her and I stopped. I had just wanted to hug her and comfort her, but I also knew it was not a time for me to be a jerk and if she didn’t want me to hug her, I was not going to.

“What you could do is leave your car here. I’ll give you a ride home, and you can call Mr. Gooseman and have him look at your car tomorrow or Monday,” I suggested.

Mr. Gooseman taught automotive class as well as shop class. Yes, back in the early 1980s, high schools had automotive classes and shop classes.

“Would have to be Monday since tomorrow is the Sabbath, and it’s a sin to work on the Sabbath,” Mrs. Sinclair said aloud but was talking to herself, not me. “I guess I could use Henry’s car for church and to get around until then.” She looked up at me and smiled. “You don’t mind taking me home?”

“Of course not,” I answered.

“You are such a sweet boy, Thomas,” she said. Her spirits seemed to have been lifted.

I drove to her house and followed her instructions to get there. On the way to her house, Mrs. Sinclair was in her teacher mode. We talked about school with her doing most of the talking and mostly about my grades.

“Are you still interested in going to the Citadel?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Are you aware of what is needed academically to get in and what your SAT scores need to be?”

“I haven’t looked at that yet,” I told her.

I knew I should have known, but I didn’t check into it yet. It was not like we had the internet readily available where we could go online and search it.

“Have you talked to Mr. Tripp about it yet?” she asked. Mr. Tripp was the school’s guidance counselor.

“We discussed it at the beginning of the year and he said he would let me know, but I have not heard anything from him yet. I asked a couple of months ago in our meeting and he said he will get back with me on it.” I told her.

Mrs. Sinclair sighed. “He should have known by now. I wished he cared more for the students.”

“He does if you’re a girl with big tits,” I said and laughed.

“Thomas! Language please. You shouldn’t say such things and you shouldn’t talk about him that way,” she chastised me. “Gossip and spreading rumors is a sin.”

“I didn’t spread any rumors,” I told her and was smiling. “I am just repeating to you what everyone knows. Just ask some of the girls and they will tell you how he leers at them.”

“Well, I did some checking and called the college and I got the information for you,” she told me as she ignored my comment about our guidance counselor.

“That was very nice of you,” I told her. I was surprised she did that, and it was nice she did.

She told me I needed to get my grades up in math and what I needed to score on my SATs.

As I drove, she got quiet and stared out the passenger side window. I kept glancing at her and noticed that it appeared to me that she was inhaling deeply through her nose. I looked at her again and this time at her chest, and I could see her nipples poking out under her white shirt. glanced several more times.

“Are you cold?” I asked. I assumed she was because her nipples were erect and I did have the truck's AC on.

Mrs. Sinclair didn’t answer, and I asked again. She seemed lost in thought as she stared out the window. She was most likely thinking about her car and worried about it and the cost. I asked a third time.

She gave her head a little shake, looked at me, and smiled. “No, I am quite comfortable,” she told me.

When she turned to look at me, Mrs. Sinclair caught me looking at her nipples. She looked down at her chest, bit her lower lip as she blushed, pulled her sweater over her chest, and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t say anything to me, but she was embarrassed.

Mrs. Sinclair didn’t talk to me after that except to give me instructions to her house. She and her husband lived in the county, but not in a rural area. They lived in a middle-class neighborhood and the homes were on nice-sized lots and not built close together like neighborhoods in the city.

Their home was a nice home that Mrs. Sinclair later told me was owned by the church her husband was a preacher at. I found out later it was a three-bedroom and two-bath house. It had a two-car garage. I pulled into the driveway up to the closed garage and turned off the truck’s motor.

“Thank you for all your help today, Thomas,” Mrs. Sinclair told me and started to get out of my truck.

“Let me walk you to your door,” I told her.

She turned her head and smiled. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“My mother always told me to escort my date to the door,” I teased.

That was true and my offer to walk Mrs. Sinclair to her door was a sincere one and I had no other motive but to be a gentleman, as my mother taught me.

Mrs. Sinclair giggled, “So we are on a date are we?” See, I mentioned to readers she had a sense of humor. “In that case, I will allow it, but just keep our date between us. Can’t let my husband or people at school know,” she said and giggled again like she just said something scandalous.

I escorted her to the door and Mrs. Sinclair got her keys out of her purse, unlocked the door, opened it, and told me thank you once more time. I started walking back to my truck.

“Are you thirsty?” I heard her call out.

I stopped and turned around and she was looking at me and once again biting her lower lip. “I am sure you are since you seemed to have perspired a great deal.”

I looked at myself and the front of my shirt was damp from sweat and my hair was still slightly damp as well. I had been sweating a lot because of my strenuous run and working out with weights. I was thirsty also, and I had left my Gatorade in the locker room at school.

“I could use some water, thanks,” I told my teacher and walked back to the front door.

Mrs. Sinclair led me straight to the kitchen, where she laid her purse and briefcase on the dinette table, took off her sweater, placed it over one of the chairs, and told me to sit down. I noticed her nipples were still erect, but she didn’t seem to notice because she did nothing to cover them as she did in the truck. Or she didn’t care. I don’t know how she could not have noticed. From what I could tell and how they were poking out, Mrs. Sinclair must have had long nipples that tipped her small breasts.

She got a glass from the cabinet and poured me a glass of water from a plastic pitcher she got out of the refrigerator. I gulped the first glass, and she poured me another. As I was drinking the second glass, Mrs. Sinclair took a small, brown address book from her purse, found the name she was looking for, and made a phone call using a phone on the kitchen wall.

She had called Mr. Gooseman. I heard her explain her car issues and then say a couple of “yeses” and then a series of “thank you” before she hung up the phone.

She told me that Mr. Gooseman told her he would be happy to look at her car on Monday and if it was the alternator or starter, he would fix it for no cost and use it as a teaching tool in his automotive class. Mrs. Sinclair was in much better spirits and smiling as she told me the conversation.

She sat at the table and watched me drink the second glass of water and asked if I wanted another glass. I didn’t want another glass, but I told her yes because I didn’t want to leave her house. She picked up my empty glass, got up, and walked to the refrigerator. I got up and followed her. She didn’t notice me get up.

She placed the glass on the counter, filled it with water, turned around, let out a small gasp from being startled, and dropped the glass. The glass didn’t break as it landed on the linoleum floor. I was standing behind her. Mrs. Sinclair didn’t pick up the glass. She didn’t move at all and just stood there looking up at me. I reached out and hand on the cabinet above her head.

Now that she was in a much-improved mood, I decided to tease her again. Yes, I was arrogant and a jerk, I know. It was fun to tease her and see her flustered as she was in the weight room. The worst she could do was to tell me to leave. She didn’t tell me to leave or even push me away. What she did surprised me.

Mrs. Sinclair placed her hands on my chest and I thought she was going to push me away, but instead started running her hands over my chest. She held them pressed tight to my chest as she felt the muscles under my sweat-damped tee shirt.

I was taken aback by surprise for about a second or two and then grinned as I looked down at her face. She was again biting her lower lip; her breathing had become faster and heavier, and she kept staring at my face as she ran her hands over my chest.

I didn’t say anything. I was afraid if I spoke, it would break the spell she seemed to be under. Instead, I reached down and pulled off my tee shirt and let it fall to the floor. Mrs. Sinclair gave a gasp and her hands ran over my chest hairs and down my stomach to feel my abs. Once I took off my shirt, she was no longer looking at my face. Her eyes were focused on my now naked upper torso.

Again, I remained silent as Mrs. Sinclair moved her head closer to my chest and inhaled deeply several times through her nose. That was when it finally dawned on me that she enjoyed the smell of my musky, sweaty body. She enjoyed the musky, pungent smell of a man's sweat.

That was why she was inhaling deeply in the locker room, to take in the scent of the stale, masculine odor from boys who had exerted themselves. That was why she kept inhaling my scent when I was close to her and in the confines of the truck. That was why her nipples were hard in the truck. She was not cold. My sweaty, masculine odor turned her on.

As she ran her hands over my now bare chest and stomach, she was no longer biting her lower lip. Her thin lips were now parted in an O shape and she was breathing audibly through her open, small mouth; almost as if she was panting.

I let her enjoy my body for a few more seconds and then brought my hand up to her chin, lifted her head to look at me with my fingers, smiled at her, and then leaned down to kiss her. Mrs. Sinclair rose on her tiptoes and moved her head to mine, and we kissed.

It didn’t start as a slow, timid kiss as one might see in a romantic movie or TV show. It was an immediate kiss of passion and lust. She kissed me hard, and I kissed her back just as hard. Mrs. Sinclair grabbed my chest hairs and pulled me closer to her by them. I ignored the sting of them being pulled and ran my hands down her back and cupped her flat butt cheeks, and she let out a moan into my mouth. Her small ass cheeks were soft, but since Mrs. Sinclair had a flat ass, when I squeezed them, my thumb on my right hand pressed into her tailbone. Her ass was skinny, flat, and boney. I squeezed them slightly harder and caressed them.

When my tongue entered her mouth, I felt her stiffen momentarily, and she gave a whimpering sound, but she quickly relaxed and started running her tongue over mine. I gathered her long skirt in my hands to lift it above her waist, and she didn’t stop me. She started kissing me back with more passion. Mrs. Sinclair may have had Puritan values, but she damn sure was a great kisser.

She gave another loud gasp as I picked her up by her butt and placed her on the kitchen counter. I spread her legs and pressed my body to hers. She placed her arms under my armpits and dug her fingers into my back. I then started kissing her neck and licking and sucking her ears.

“Ohhh, God,” Mrs. Sinclair moaned out loudly and her fingers dug into my back as I kissed and licked her ear. She seemed to enjoy that immensely. The tips of her fingers dug so hard into my naked back, that she might have scratched me, but she kept her fingernails trimmed short.

I moved my right hand under her skirt and up her thigh. She was not wearing pantyhose, which I had noticed at school she always wore. I ran my hand under the loose leg of her baggy panties and felt her soft pubic hair.

My cock was rock hard, and I was extremely horny. Fuck the foreplay, I thought. I am going to fuck her right here on the kitchen counter. If not for the jockstrap I was wearing, my cock would have been protruding out the front of my shorts. The tight cup of the jock strap prevented me from having a noticeable bulge.

I ran my middle finger over what felt like a small but spongy and prominent puffy vulva surrounded by soft, fine, short hairs. I then ran my finger up the short slit of her pussy and over what felt like thin pussy lips. I could feel how wet she was without putting my finger in her pussy. Just when my finger ran up her short pussy slit and brushed her clit hood, Mrs. Sinclair’s body once again went stiff.

“No, no, Thomas,” she pleaded as she was panting for air. “Please stop. Please don’t do that.”

One of her hands grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand away from her pussy and placed her other hand on my chest and pushed me away from her.

I looked down at her and she was panting heavily and her face was flushed. “Don’t do that, please,” she said again between her pants.

I may have been arrogant, and had a sizable ego; but I knew and respected that when a woman said no, she meant no. Yes, I have tried and been successful at times when encouraging a girl to do something sexual she was not comfortable with, but if she kept saying no and meant it; I stopped, or if she told me after she never wanted to do that again; I didn’t try to do it again.

Well, I thought, guess that was that. At least I know she is attracted to me and I have a memory to use when I got home and jerked off. I went to back away from her and she got off the counter.

“Thanks for the water,” I told her in a harsh tone and bent over to pick up my shirt. I was a little angry with her because in my mind she had been teasing me.

“Thomas, wait, please,” Mrs. Sinclair told me as I turned to walk out of the kitchen. I stopped and turned to face her, and she was biting her lips and wringing her hands. “Can…can you please sit down a moment? I owe you an apology and an explanation.”

I nodded and sat back down at the small table. Mrs. Sinclair stared at me for a moment, at my bare chest, to be more exact. She then gave a loud sigh.

“Can you please put your shirt back on?” she asked. I did.

Once I had my shirt on, the older woman sat down, placed her hands on the table, and folded them together.

“I am sorry for what I did,” she started to explain. “Please don’t be mad at me. I was wrong to do what I did and take advantage of you. You are just a boy and I…I am sorry. I should never have used my position as your teacher and being an adult to do that. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

It then hit me. Mrs. Sinclair was not mad at me. She was upset with herself because she thought she was taking advantage of me. I laughed.

“Please don’t laugh at me, Thomas,” she said with a hurt tone in her voice. I stopped laughing.

“You didn’t take advantage of me, Mrs. Sinclair,” I assure her. “I have had a crush on you since I was a freshman. I think you are pretty and even sexy and I have wanted to kiss you…even do more since you became my teacher.”

She blushed when I told her about my lustful desire for her. “Is that true?” she asked, as if I was lying to her.

“Yes, it is. I want to fuck you, Mrs. Sinclair,” I told her bluntly. After the way she kissed me and ran her hands over my chest and almost got a finger inside her wet pussy, I thought I could tell her what I wanted without her getting offended.

“Thomas, watch your language, please. That’s a vulgar word to use,” she seriously chastised me as she blushed a deeper shade of red.

I could tell even though I was being vulgar, and she took offense to the word fuck; she enjoyed hearing it. I just chuckled.

“Thomas, I need to tell you something, and I am going to be honest with you. Something I need to explain and hopefully you will understand why I did what I did to you and forgive me,” Mrs. Sinclair told me in a serious tone.

I nodded again.

What my forty-two-year-old history teacher told me was honest, revealing, interesting, and must have been extremely difficult for her to talk about. It made me understand her more. It helped me understand her marriage, her Puritan sexual beliefs, and other things about her. It also led to me fucking her for the first time.