Readers who have made it this far may wonder why none of my encounters with my fellow students had led to any of them becoming my girlfriend.
Courtney had come the closest (perhaps she was unofficially my girlfriend for a few short weeks), and the heartbreak I experienced when she moved, having loved her for so long, simply made it difficult for me to consider anyone else (though Rhiannon and Elsa would normally have been contenders).
Taking advantage of my unattached status proved fruitful, as I was able to continue sowing my proverbial wild oats.
On that note, it is time to tell the story of Ms Mannall.
Despite leaving primary school six years earlier, I had kept in touch with my former teachers throughout my secondary schooling. Because the terms at my secondary school finished a few days earlier than the primary school, I was able to visit my former teachers on the last day of their terms.
Most teachers used the last day of the term to prepare their classrooms for the start of the following term, ensuring that everything was neat and packed away, ready to begin again after the holidays. The specialist staff — the art teacher, the music teacher and the librarian — all did the same, but, unlike regular teachers, they didn’t have children to supervise.
Ms Mannall was the primary school’s art teacher. Her classroom was in a wooden building at the far end of the school that had been the only building when the school was founded. The brick buildings that formed the modern part of the school were set a short distance from the original building, separated from it by an asphalt quadrangle.
I liked Ms Mannall — she was a nice teacher, and I had fond memories of her classes. Beyond being nice, she was also quite attractive, something I noticed even when I was still in primary school.
Although she was a teacher and now in her late-forties or early fifties, her face was that of a sophisticated, mature woman, rather than a weary, ageing teacher. Her wavy blonde hair hung around her shoulders, framing her pale skin. She kept a slim figure, and her long fingers were slender and bony. Like many art teachers, her “uniform” primarily consisted of loose-fitting slacks and sleeveless blouses, and sometimes summer dresses.
I had fantasised about those slender, experienced fingers for a very long time.
At the end of the second term I made my customary pilgrimage to the primary school. After seeing a few of my former teachers, I made my way to Ms Mannall’s classroom, the furthest from the school’s entrance. The blinds were down and I thought she might have already left, but I knocked on the off chance.
“Come in,” a voice said.
I opened the door and entered the classroom. Ms Mannall came into focus. She was manipulating a chunk of clay on a pottery wheel near the centre of the large classroom. The lights were off, except for a lamp dangling above her like a spotlight.
“Hi!” she said, looking up.
“Hi, Ms Mannall!” I replied. “Not got any cleaning up to do?”
“Already done! There wasn’t much to tidy up this term, so I thought I’d use the rest of the time to work some clay — it’s soothing,” she explained. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks. Finished school for the term. bahis firmaları Only two more terms to go and I’ll be finished forever.”
“Off to university next year?”
“That’s the plan!”
I perched myself on the edge of a nearby desk and watched her fingers shape the clay as we made small talk about my future plans, my younger siblings leaving and starting primary school, and how my parents were. After about twenty minutes our conversation petered out.
“Well, I should go,” I said. “I’m hoping to catch Ms Rutgers at the library before I leave.”
“I’d give you a hug,” she said, “but my fingers …”
She held up her hands and smiled. I laughed.
“Of course.” I stood up and stepped into the light. “Well, goodbye, Ms Mannall. It was great seeing you again.”
Her smile dropped and she stared straight ahead.
“Uh, you, er, probably shouldn’t go out there like that.”
She gestured and I followed her gaze.
I hadn’t noticed, but watching her play with the clay had caused a prominent bulge in the front of my trousers.
I turned my back to her, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed about, but you should probably get rid of that before you leave. This is a primary school, after all.”
“What do you suggest? Waiting for it to go down could take a while, and I’m not sure being here with you is going to help the cause.”
“What do you mean?”
I wasn’t sure if she was being deliberately coy or she was truly that naïve. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought; she can already see I’m hard.
“You’re an attractive woman,” I confessed. “Working that clay is a bit … seductive.”
Ms Mannall’s face became serious. Naïvety it was.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised needlessly. “I keep the art supplies and equipment through that door.”
I turned my head and looked in the direction she was pointing.
“You’ll have privacy, and there are some rags you can use to clean up,” she continued.
“If it’s nothing to be ashamed about, why do I need privacy?” I asked, then bit my tongue, worried I’d gone too far.
“Touché, but I’m not really sure it’s appropriate for you to do that in front of a teacher —”
“A former teacher,” I interjected.
“Former teacher,” she conceded. “But I’m old enough to be your mother!”
I was relieved that she hadn’t taken my joke badly, and I decided to push the envelope a little further.
“You’re not that old,” I said, though it was true that she was at least thirty years older than me. “Besides, it might help things along a bit if I had someone to look at.”
“And you want to look at me?”
“Who better than an alluring older woman?”
I thought I saw her pale cheeks blush a little.
“You make a convincing argument,” she said.
That seemed to settle the matter. I undid my trousers and sat back down on the desk, with my underwear bunched around my knees. I was finding myself increasingly relaxed around the opposite sex, and this wasn’t even the first time I’d been exposed in front of a teacher.
I took my member in my hand and slowly began to stroke, watching Ms Mannall as she resumed working the clay. My gaze alternated between Ms Mannall’s face kaçak iddaa and her hands, imagining what it would be like to have her hands on me — or her lips.
The clay started changing shape, turning long and thin in her hands. It looked almost phallic. I looked at Ms Mannall’s face. She was staring at me. At my groin.
“Ms Mannall?” I asked, my hand becoming still.
She shook her head, snapping out of her apparent trance.
“Sorry,” she muttered quietly.
“Don’t be,” I reassured her. “That’s quite the sculpture you’ve got there.”
Ms Mannall looked at the clay in her hands. This time she definitely blushed.
“Did you want something else to play with?” I joked. There was silence. Maybe I had finally gone too far — ironic given I was tugging myself off in front of a teacher.
“Let me just wash my hands,” she said, to my surprise.
I sat there, stunned, as Ms Mannall walked to the sink and washed the clay from her hands. She returned and sat on the desk next to me.
Slowly she placed her hand on my member. It pulsed as she gripped it with her slender fingers and began stroking. I couldn’t believe my luck. After many years of fantasising about those fingers, Ms Mannall was actually giving me a handjob.
We sat in silence, save for the quiet, rhythmic squelch of my foreskin moving back and forth. I put my arm around her and started groping her breasts. She didn’t seem to react to my touch.
“Can I see them?” I ventured.
“They’re nothing special.”
Almost mechanically, Ms Mannall dropped my member and removed her blouse. Beneath she was wearing a white lace bra, which she promptly removed, revealing her slightly sagging breasts. She returned to stroking me. I couldn’t tell if something was wrong, but I didn’t want to interrupt the moment.
“If you’re not going to talk, you might as well put that mouth to other use,” I said eventually.
She chuckled and slid to the floor. I realised that her demeanour was the manifestation of nervousness. She was presumably conflicted between her increasing desire and the fact that I was once her student.
Her lips pressed against the tip of my member, and opened to take me in her mouth. I felt my shaft slide over her tongue. Her mouth was soft, warm and moist. She sucked gently, keeping a hand on my member and stroking at the same time. Her eyes looked up at me as her head bobbed up and down, and her red lipstick smeared along my skin.
I saw that Ms Mannall had her other hand down the front of her slacks and was busy pleasuring herself. The hot air exhaling from her nose puffed onto my groin.
I realised that if I came in her mouth, it probably ruled out coming anywhere else. While coming in her mouth would be a treat, I wouldn’t mind a bit more exploring first.
“How about I return the favour?” I asked.
Ms Mannall stopped sucking and I popped out of her mouth with a smacking sound. She looked at me with uncertainty.
“You must be pretty wet down there, and we’ve gone this far,” I argued.
“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “It still feels wrong.”
I understood. She was horny, but hesitant. She had given in when I caught her staring, but the further kaçak bahis we progressed, the more weight it placed on her conscience. I tried to tilt the balance in my favour.
“I want to taste you.”
Ms Mannall whimpered. Her snatch must be aching, I thought.
“I want you to sit on my face.”
Whichever button I pushed, it wasn’t the wrong one.
“Such an eighteen-year-old thing to say,” she said and sighed. “I do want that, though.”
Without waiting for an objection, I stood up and cleared a space on the floor so I could lie down. In the meantime, Ms Mannall had given in and removed her slacks and panties. Her slim, mature figure was now completely bare.
I positioned myself on the floor, and she stood over my face so I could see up toward her narrow slit. A drop of fluid hit my face and rolled off. She managed to lower herself to a kneeling position, one knee either side of my head.
Lower and lower she went, until my lips met her labia. I sucked on her twat as she continued lowering herself. Eventually I extended my tongue and began licking and sucking, eating her out. She gyrated on my face and her fluid poured into my mouth.
She was moaning and gasping for breath. I lapped relentlessly at her snatch; it tasted faintly metallic. She pressed down on my face and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I stopped licking and she noticed something was wrong. She lifted herself off me.
“How about we try something where we can both breathe?” I asked, catching my breath.
She smiled sheepishly.
“Sorry, I got carried away.”
I lifted her left knee and slid out from under her, flipping her onto her back in the process. I pushed her legs apart and kissed her wet opening, moving up her pubic mound to her belly. I continued kissing, right up to her breasts, then her neck, then her lips. She arched her back in pleasure.
I was now on top of her, my throbbing member pressing against her pubic mound. Using my hand, I wordlessly guided my cock and thrust into her cunt.
Ms Mannall didn’t resist as I entered her. Our groins met and I began to fuck her. She moaned deeply as I pumped her. I looked down and saw her eyes were closed and she was biting her lip.
As I thrust, I felt her cunt clenching around my cock. With every thrust I could see her saggy breasts flap up and down, slapping against her body. Missionary was less adventurous than my recent experiences — I had only recently had my cock in Elsa’s arse — but fucking a much older woman was highly erotic. The taboo of the thirty-year age difference, her sophistication, and the fulfilment of my long-held fantasy made up for the tameness.
She squirmed underneath me and my attention returned to her.
“Enjoying yourself, Ms man-hole?” I quipped.
“Yes, oh, yes!” she gasped.
“You like my young cock inside your old cunt, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” she moaned.
I thrust harder and faster. Our groins thumped together. I knew I was going to cum soon.
“Do you want my cum inside you?”
My cock continued sliding in and out of her, faster and faster. My muscles clenched in anticipation.
Ms Mannall squealed as my semen spewed into her cunt. I felt her tighten around me. I left my cock inside her even as it went flaccid, looking down at the woman I had just fucked. Her eyes were still closed, but her face had a look of deep satisfaction.
I finally rolled off her and regained my breath.