First Day at Night School

First Day at Night School

Peter was a shy student — but Ms. Joan didn’t pick up on that right away. He was too handsome to be shy. She figured he was a trouble maker, the type to sit in class quietly until the moment the teacher let her guard down, until she fumbled with the chalk or tried to teach a particularly difficult lesson which he didn’t understand… and rather than acknowledging his struggles, he would cause trouble. Talk back, throw something. Actually, no one had ever thrown anything, but she’d had back-talkers before, the under-the-breath mutterings, complaints.

Joan was 34 years old, though it seemed like only yesterday she had been the same age as her students eighteen, nineteen. She remembered turning twenty-one like it was yesterday. Her college boyfriend had brought her out for her first legal cocktail at the Benny’s near their small, liberal arts college and she’d ordered a Strawberry Daiquiri, a drink they couldn’t make in the dorms. She’d worn pantyhose; her boyfriend had a fetish for her in tights.

The night of her 21st birthday, she tortured him with her toe under the table for the entire meal. By dessert, she’d had enough of that and kicked her shoe out from under the table — “oops!” — and then stood up, putting it back on, her hand supporting her weight against the table, looking down at him squirming in his seat.

He never touched her while she was wearing pantyhose until he had her permission. He kept his hands to himself. When she wore pantyhose, she was always, entirely, in control.

That was years ago, but catching eyes with this student in the second row, Ms. Joan found herself falling through a black hole in time. Yes, she was still Ms. Joan, English teacher, but she was also a twenty-year-old college girl just beginning to discover her power.

Because thinking back to that moment with her college sweetie looking up at her in black pantyhose, she realized, it was the exact same look Peter was giving her right now.

“There is a list of adjectives on page three,” Ms. Joan’s told her students. “Please take a look at it. Are there any words you don’t understand?”

The students diligently read over the list, except Peter, who was leaning back in his chair in the I-don’t-give-a-shit posture she typically took to mean just that — the student didn’t care. But the look Peter was giving her was definitely not saying that.

She walked over to his desk. “Peter?” she asked, getting his attention.

He looked up at her quickly, trying not to let his eyes run over the length of her body. She was close enough so that he could see the texture of the nylons that had been driving him crazy, causing his 20-year-old cock to shift into attention in his faded blue jeans, pressing bit by bit against the fabric of his boxer-briefs.

“Yes,” he said, quickly, barely a syllable escaping his lips.

Why don’t you look over this with Amanda today?

“Mm-hm,” he replied, his cock stiffening even more as he caught Ms. Joan’s scent, something flowery and gentle.

Peter shifted abruptly forward in his seat as Amanda, a beautiful girl about his age with thick, dark hair worn straight down her back and large, innocent eyes, offered him a view of her book. He peered at it, oblivious to Amanda’s beauty, leaning on her presence like a comfort blanket.

He understood girls his age. They were simple, shy, innocent. They left the seducing up to him, expecting him to do everything, to plan the date, charm them, bring them out of their shell and then later in the evening to walk them to the door where they lived with their parents and siblings. When they looked up at him with open, expectant faces, they wanted him to kiss them, gently and respectfully. When they kept their faces averted, saying something about their father waiting up, they wanted to be left alone — either forever, or just for that night. They wanted more dates, more gestures of chivalry, more work from him. Never would they seduce him, make gestures of seduction on their own, read his body language looking for willingness or unwillingness.

Ms. Joan, however, had come close to his desk. She stood over him. She’d spoken to him in a voice that said more than “share a book.” It said, “I know you. I know exactly what you want. And I am entirely capable of giving it to you.”

After class, the students filed out, but Peter remained stuck to his seat. Ms. Joan cleaned up around the classroom, gathering her books and papers which the students deposited on her desk as they left. She erased the black board and pretended she didn’t notice the young man sitting in his desk.

“Do you have a question?” Ms Joan asked, using her professional, teacher voice.
Peter sat up straight. “Oh, um, yes. I was wondering if you might know of some other place I could get the book,” he said, the most he’d said all class. His Spanish accent was strong, and he spoke quickly, filling in thinking time with “um’s” and “uh’s,” but other than that, his English seemed pretty good.

You can go to the bookstore? she replied, sitting on the edge of a student desk opposite him. She was tired. It had been a long day and this night class always pushed her over the edge. The bun at the top of her head was falling lower and strands of her hair were escaping over her lovely porcelain face.

Her feet were killing her and without really thinking about it, she allowed the heel of her shoe to drop, moving her toes in the space that created. She found herself thinking of her college lover, how much he’d have loved her shoe moving on and off of her stocking foot, how he’d watch it mesmerized, as if intoxicated.

Looking back at Peter, she could tell he wanted more than to know about how to buy books. He was staring at her now, her elegantly-folded body at the edge of the desk, her shoe almost falling off her foot.

He wondered what it would be like to have her lovely foot trace the length of his naked body. He caught his teacher’s eyes just as he was imagining this, just as his cock, which he’d finally gotten to settle down by focusing all of his attention on learning adjectives, stiffened again, this time harder than before, this time pulsing and throbbing with desire. She was so close to him, they were the only two in the room.

Peter found himself removing his hat, wanting to show her respect. He was still thinking of her foot on his body and it was almost as if Ms. Joan could read his mind. She knew that was what he wanted. She knew it and she wanted it too. She wanted him helpless.

Peter’s eyes were bloodshot. She realized she wasn’t the only one who was tired. For a moment, they simply looked into each other’s eyes, having an entire conversation with no words at all, no English, no Spanish, just eyes.

She let her shoe drop to the floor.

“Oops,” she said, watching Peter’s eyes drop right along with her shoe down to her stocking covered foot. He looked back up at her quickly. His body was tight, reserved, pulled as far away from her as he could in his hard, red chair. She hadn’t looked away.
It took him a second before he realized what he had to do and dropped to his knee, picking up her shoe. He was just inches from her foot and, holding her shoe in one hand, he gently took her foot in the other and slipped the shoe on. He dared look up at her. She was staring down at him and he caught a look of desire in her eyes, a look she was unable to hide by turning to the black board or another student, or covering with a question about grammar, or vocabulary.

“Thank you,” she spoke softly, her normally strong teaching voice dropping into a low, gentle tone.

Peter stayed on the floor, his knee holding his weight, his hands holding her foot for another moment, staring into her eyes. It felt right being here, on the floor, by her feet. And then Ms. Joan did something that was almost imperceptible… she opened her legs, just slightly. She didn’t break her gaze.

Peter felt his heart skip a beat and then begin to pound a mile a minute, like a caged bird. He wasn’t thinking as his hand moved from her foot, slowly up her calf, to her knee. He moved slowly, the sensation of nylons a new one for him. He loved legs and feet, but he’d never actually touched a woman’s legs in hose. They formed around her leg so closely it was like a second layer of skin. They gave Ms. Joan’s a second layer of power.

At the hollow of her knee, they pulled away slightly. He pressed his finger in, pulling the stretchy fabric so that he could reach her skin with his own skin. He heard her inhale. Her knee opened more so that now, the darkness between her legs was filling in with light. He could see her inner thighs and he moved his hand slowly in the direction of where the darkness was.

Ms. Joan was lost in Peter’s touch. Her mind had emptied of thoughts and all she knew was the touch of his fingertips and his dark, bloodshot eyes, and the warmth of his body. His hands are moving closer and closer to her inner thigh, one of the most sensitive parts of her body and her legs opened more and more with every millimeter of space he covered. She was wet, soaking the fabric of her nylons. Her hands, resting behind her on the desk, began to hold more of her weight as she leaned back on them.

She tried to open her legs more, but the skirt she had on was tight against her thighs, holding them closed, urging her to keep them closed. She pushed harder against the fabric as Peter’s hand found the spot of fabric that didn’t quite form to her body, the part of her body that was dripping and spilling the liquid of her desire. He pressed the fabric close with his fingertips and reached her swollen lips and clitoris.

Feeling how wet Ms Joan was as he pressed the fabric close to her body, he began massaging her gently. He never hurried, still so aware of whom she was the teacher that had him squirming and hiding beneath his baseball cap just moments earlier.

Ms. Joan leaned heavily upon her hands on the desk, and pushed her hips forward, her legs straining against the unyielding fabric of her skirt. He massaged her, the wetness lubricating even through the nylons, the roughness of the nylons adding an extra sensation that she hadn’t experienced since she and her college sweetheart had messed around while she was still wearing them. She remembered the feeling of dirtiness — I’m getting my nylons dirty, she would tell him as her wetness soaked into them. He would press his cock into the fabric, adding his own pre cum to the mix.

Flashing back to the present moment, Ms. Joan began feeling an orgasm building inside her body, even as she strained against the constant reminder from her skirt that her legs should be closed, that she shouldn’t be sitting on a desk while a student over a decade younger than her massaging her clitoris. And yet she pressed her weight back on her hands, her hips forward into his touch and allowed the sensation to explode, filling her body with an intense pleasure, a cry escaping her lips as she came and came for what seemed like an eternity.

After it passed, she slowly looked down at Peter. His eyes held a mixture of shock and desire. His hands where still pressing against her thighs, staying there, exactly where she needed it as the last waves of pleasure washed through her body. She was trying to think of what to say, what to do, just as she heard the sound of the custodian’s cart coming down the hallway.

“Get up,” she said.

Peter stood quickly, adjusting his pants to try and hide his throbbing erection. He grabbed his bag, shoving the papers from his desk inside, and zipped it up even as he was rushing towards the door.

He turned to look at her, his hand on the handle. She was straightening her skirt and standing up. The two looked at each other for a moment before he rushed through the classroom door.

Ms Joan surveyed the empty room for a moment as the custodian reached the doorway.

Professor, are you about finished up in here? he asked.

Yes, she said. I am finished.

By nutbuster