I was to be at his house at 8.30 p.m. He didn't live far from my home, but I still had to take two buses to get there, and of course, I got lost. This was before the mobile era, and it had never occurred to us to exchange phone numbers. By the time I got to his house, it was near 10 p.m., and he seemed seriously relieved upon opening the door to see that I’d arrived okay.
I was hyped-up, but did not know what to expect. My coming to his place was an absolute roll of the dice. His behaviour during the previous week had been perplexing, to say the least. But the way my body had responded—brashly and mainly cunt-prompted—to him and his bold manoeuvre had done a number on me. I'd been in a hot-to-trot mood ever since the day I had brewed, pumped up and swallowed my teacher's bonk-juice. Had my hyper-responsiveness been a one-off thing? More importantly, what had triggered it? In any case, I definitely wanted me some more of that.
He let me in and helped me out of my jacket, snuggling up to me and rubbing my back to ease my shivers. That winter, I recall, was particularly cold. I don't like chilly weather; it means you have to wear several layers of clothing, which I find rather uncomfortable. I was wearing dark jeans, a purple cashmere jumper, and knee-high boots. He kissed me, you may even say tenderly; his nose traced the outline from my neck to my shoulder, inhaling me. "You look so pretty that it's almost a shame to get you undressed." Damn, he’d got me, and he knew it.
He had his crotch hitched to mine and both hands behind my back, coiling strands of hair around his fingers past my waist and down to my butt while he leered at me. In the thick of face-and-neck-pecking, he mumbled something about his mother and sister visiting some relatives in the countryside. As soon as he'd learnt he would be alone for the weekend, he reckoned it might be an excellent opportunity to give me proper feedback on my performance in class.
Then it hit me. He had said all that in English!
"Are we going to sustain the teacher-student play?" I asked.
"Oh, you bet. No more Spanish allowed, or I'll have to flunk you," he replied with a playful wink. I laughed, but I was worried stiff because even if I could understand him, I was simply not fluent enough, especially around sexy talk.
We were standing in the living room, next to a huge couch. But even as I was making every effort to simmer down and take in the words, his hips flat-out crossed that thin line when push becomes shove, leaving me quasi-seated on the armrest. Sneaky hands slipped under my jumper, crawling up my torso to take it off. He shook his head with that randy curve on his lips when he found nothing but a black lace basque underneath.
He continued nibbling my neck without haste, working down my cleavage, fondling my tits with firmness and fixity of purpose. "I've been thirsting after these since you showed up at the institute," he rasped. Then he wrapped my hair around his fist and yanked with a will. "This is for coming at me like that in my classroom, thinking you could get away with it."
He covered my mouth with his other hand and added, "Actions have consequences, you know," biting hard through the lace on each nipple after stressing the respective function words. This man was ever the educator.
He exploited my still lace-clad tits (funbags he called them), somewhat amazed and more than a little encouraged by my welcoming reactions. My eyes locked on him, absorbing every move, squealing with delight and jutting out my hips, with my hands grappling on the leather for support. He read my body cues like an open book in his own academic field, correctly guessing that if he pressed on with his assiduous flicking, lapping, sucking, and biting, I would cum. And fuck me, did I cum! Second time with no kind of pussy contact. First time while deepthroating him, and now just from… funbagging?
Clearly, this night was going to be like no other.
He unbuttoned my jeans and flung them off along with my boots; I was caught like a bunny in the headlights under his piercing eyes. This time, he made me sit on the armrest while spacing out my legs. He opened his mouth wide to fit my mound and embedded his teeth through the lace into the flesh. "And THIS is for kissing my mum with jizz-flavoured lips."
At last, he side-lined the fabric, uncovering my dripping cunt. "Mouth-watering," he sighed, still with that grin on his face, and sucked my clit into his mouth, attacking it with his flapping tongue. I daresay he didn't even halt to breathe until I came again in his lip-trap.
By that point in my life, I had already had several years of practice with a considerable number of casual partners, but never had I experienced anything like this. So far, sex had been with people around my age, and it was mostly about sticking something into somewhere, cumming, cleaning up, and moving on. I used to enjoy that. God, had I been clueless!
This man here was nothing like that. He kissed me long and zealously, inviting me to savour myself on his tongue and lips, which I found beyond arousing. By all appearances, he was anticipating my demur. It thrilled me that I could surprise him with the cheeky expression on my blushing face.
"Smile while you can; I'll be wiping that smirk off soon enough."
He helped me to my feet and asked me if I'd like something to drink, offering me his glass of whiskey. He was joking, but I chugged that Irish blessing like they were going to reinstate prohibition on the morrow. His hand rushed down my back and smacked my ass with might and main. "Don't push it."
"Why don't you push it?" I asked with my signature sauciness.
He clutched my wrist and dragged me to his bedroom. "Now, let's see some more skin." He unclipped the bodysuit and took a step back. "Take it off, slowly," he murmured partway between asking and commanding.
There was no urgency in his tone, nor one iota of doubt about my gameness. His stance was casual, but he exuded self-confidence; that alone made me tingle in all the right places. I peeled off my last piece of clothing with a halting rhythm, while he stripped quick as a wink, but not before I espied that he wasn't wearing anything under his jeans. The idea that the rough fabric had been brushing against his bare sex was hotter than hot.
He hustled me onto the bed, took my right hand, and licked my index and middle fingers. The nerve endings in my fingertips rewired to those on my clit; that raspy silkiness might as well have lapped up my egotist nub of flesh. "Touch yourself," he said.
I’m not exactly a shrinking violet, yet the drumbeat of my heart threatened to crack my ribs. For a split second I froze, staring at him with wide eyes and eyebrows virtually merging with my hairline. I felt so embarrassed, so observed, like an animal in a zoo… but I was too fricking horny to care!