Mrs W Meets a Deadline

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I’m sitting in my classroom. In front of my computer, at my desk as usual. It’s late, and I’ve missed deadline on writing grade cards, reports, which is most unlike me, but I’ve been a bit distracted lately.

I’ve got me several interests, but today, as I stay late to check through the grades I’ve completed, I’m primarily thinking about Mr_dark-smiley whose name I’ve never quite sussed, but who gives me just the brightest of smiles when we pass, me with my double cappuccinos, as he polishes stair-rails, vacuums the floors, empties my bin. Tall, thin, not as cute as Mr_dreadlocks, also a french-speaking african, which seems to be the current flavour of hard-worker employed to work at my school, but, I dunno… call me arrogant, but given half a chance, this is the guy I know would fuck me in a heartbeat, in a cupboard, and I value this a lot above a pretty smile and a cute way with a mop.

So, I’m thinking about this guy, and fuck, you, but I’m just wanting him so bad, that I kind of forget what’s what. And surely if I pull down the blinds in my room, hey, where’s the harm…? And so I do.

I’m sitting in my room, and my hands, mmm, well they just stray on up to my breasts and I casually flick those damn nipples, afraid to admit to myself that what I really want is to just knead those tits like dough. Hell, but do I need to knead, but, blinds and all, still shy… Still shy…

And I’m alone in my room, blinds down, and I just start more and more, just thinking and my hands wandering, kind of heading down, you, and I’ve all-but got my hands down my knickers when you walk it.

So, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. What is it? Ten years? And you’ve grown, mate. Fuck, man, you’ve grown. But I recognise that face, though I’m normally useless with such things. And I’m kind of composed straight off. Hell, you must know what I’m like, if you remember…

You tell me, yes, 19. And I’m just all, wow, and you talk, about college, about your course and how you need to do a placement, few weeks, at a school, and would it be okay if…? And I fill in the dots and sure.

And then I notice my shirt. I’m in work kit, cords, boots, mersin escort and a black shirt, but, you, the shirt is positively gaping, and you’ve not said a word, and hey, you such a baby, never occurs to me that you might notice, I just fasten me up, and carry on talking.

Fuck, but you are just cute as a goddamn button. Really. I can’t take my eyes off you as you talk about college, all excited, and I’m jealous for what life has ahead of you. So damn pretty, you, and I tell you I’d be glad to help out, of course. And you can shadow me for a week. When suits? And we talk dates, and I lend you a pen to write down dates. And I watch those damn long-fingered big hands of yours write in your notebook what we’ve discussed, and we talk some more.

Fuck, those hands you. What could a woman do with those hands…? Or what could a man.

So, you end the meeting, stand up, come over, all polite, to shake my hand, like grown-ups who’ve just done a business transaction, and I think about where my hands were not ten minutes ago, but I can hardly pull back. I kind of giggle, and put my head down with that secret smile on my face.

What? What is it Mrs W, you say, What you smiling at? And I just get worse, and the coyer I get the more you start to giggle and ask again.

Tell me? Is it me, did I do something? Jeez, Mrs W… You haven’t changed a bit… Not one bit.

Ain’t that the truth.

No. No mate, it’s not you, it’s me, I say. Just thinking of how you’ve grown and all. And I kind of lean to punch your arm, like I always used to, playful-like, but I miss, or you move and I end up kind of hitting your hand, and it’s almost like we’re holding hands briefly and, me, I look down and regroup. Not a chance you’ve noticed, I think. It’s my mood, not yours. But something kind of flits over your face and it occurs to me I’m maybe wrong.

You lift your hand, the hand I just brushed, and stroke it down the side of my cheek. Stop at my chin. Lift my face up to look up at you. Fuck, you, really, just wow. And I remind myself you’re 19, baby-boy. Baby. Fucking damn beautiful, fresh-fucking faced, wide-eyed, every damn thing ahead escort mersin of you-boy. Mate, melt? I fall a-fucking-part, and every smart-ass comment previously on my lips, gets swallowed as you rub that thumb over my chin.

And I’m thinking, not such a baby, as the crackles in the air between us slow everything to something slower than a crawl, and I don’t want to play teacher because you aren’t my pupil, so I let you lean down and kiss me, there, by my desk.

And I have a second to make that decision. Fuck, babe, we know which way I’ll go, and, blinds already down, I get up and lock that door, lights out. Just the one chink of light creeps through the internal blind from the hallway outside. And I come back and stand by you, your hand slowly, lightly touching my arm and you kiss me again, but, you, there’s not much time and you need to move apace.

But I want to be sure.

I’m so tempted to just put my hand over the front of your jeans, you know, just feel the rise of you, but I’m not sure and you, you whisper, Mrs W, jesus, if only you had the faintest clue. how badly I just wanna sleep with you. And I mumble something about how maybe Jenny might work better right now. And am kind of cuted-out by this quaint turn of phrase, because sleeping isn’t going to be an option. But I don’t want to wake up, so I do, I do what I wanted to and kiss you, whille putting my hand firmly over that clothed, but, I see, quite ready, cock.

This is like your sign and you open my blouse, slowly, and just woah, how deftly those damn big man-fingers manage this; fuck, it’s one of the hottest moments of my life, watching you undo the front of my shirt. And I do, I just look down and watch as you release those damn breasts, and just, babe, stare. Just, fuck, the hottest thing in years, and you just lean down and lick, suck on one nipple, bite, stretch that nipple, holding the whole breast in your hand, and I stroke that tousled floppy damn hair, run my hand through that hair, while you, suck away.

I step back. Sit myself on my desk, which was cluttered as usual, but, in a sweep, isn’t. I open my legs up, pull you towards me, and undo that damn mersin escort bayan zip, buttons. Fuck, any doubts about your youth, age, whatever, fly out of my mind, as I just hold the girth of that cock.

You know exactly where you’re heading. Of course you do, mate. Knickers still on, crotch flipped to oneside, you plunge into my tear-dripping goddamn cunt, in floods at the moment. In front of me, me splayed on my desk. Arms right around of you, I settle one hand on each buttock and just put and move them with the thrust of you, jesus babe, truly. When that went in, I just, mmm, and I try, I so try to keep quiet, I do try so much, you. Oh, but I do, I try. But, oh, but I oh, I do.

And mate, at that moment, I love that. damn cock, those buttocks, those arms and legs and feet and that fucking hair and that beautiful damn young man face. The unscarredness of you. The unscaredness of you.

And you sink that cock back and forth, whispering my name, you do, you do, because it’s new to you, and you love it, like it loves every bit of you, right then.

I see the dark shadows around the room, familiar things made unfamiliar by the absence of light, just the chink through that crack, and I look and I look as you fuck, not sleep with, me. And the more my eyes become accustomed to the light, and, hell, but what with the situation, and the mood I was in to begin with, and you, you babe, that cock, I know I’m gonna. cum, there on the desk, but I take my time. And I look at that gap where the light shines through, as-we-fuck-and-my-breath-gets-all-stacatto, I see through that blind a pair of eyes I recog-nise. I do. And I could stop. Panic. But I stare straight at Mr_dark-smiley, as he watches through. that unclosed bit of the blind, as we fuck. I stare at him, over your shoulder as your thick damn cock, beats away, your whispers in my ear, and I stop looking only when I kind of give up and let myself cum. Which I guess is all the encouragement you need, and for one awful moment I think you’re gonna pull out and waste that damn cum, and I whisper to you to stay.

And though I couldn’t say for sure, I’m thinking that our African friend, got his own kicks out of the situation.

And erm, as you zip, button, up and kiss me bye and you’ll see me for that placement… Oooh, is it bad of me to consider going off to find my African friend? Is it, babe? Now, what would you do…

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