tagErotic CouplingsSeducing Teachers Ch. 02

Seducing Teachers Ch. 02

byCoxswain©

Chapter 02

The Mark of the Panties


Still a virgin at 19, I lost my first cherry to Los Angeles--it fucked with my mind. The rest went when my roommates introduced little Kansas me to the Bohemian college scene and the wonderland of sex (still quite hidden in the '50s). But I didn't have much trouble finding eager guys at UCLA.

My first teaching job at a small-town school, Thrushmore High, for a long time was a sexual desert. Life wasn't as "easy" in a small town in 1959. But finally I got laid by one of my students, and I'll be damned, the coach himself got me. Once I located those sexy guys (and they discovered me), I got hot action nearly every day.

Then I learned that Coach Cadze had mentored a student to become a stud. He'd noticed that the school nerd, Arnold Gilliam (of the pimples and thick glasses) had a surprisingly colossal cock, and since the coach was a sex addict, he tutored Arnold in what to do! He convinced the poor kid, an 18-year-old senior, that he was really a stud.

I can't imagine how he started the conversation, but he carefully told Arnold what to do, and then set him up with Melinda, one of the hornier cheerleaders. What he told her is a little easier to imagine--I heard that when she met Arnold, the conversation gradually developed into "Show me how big it is."

According to Cadze, the impressed cheerleader then bent down and sucked off the astonished geek. With such praise and more encouragement--and some horny talk (the cheerleader was quite a potty-mouth)--she got Arnold to mount her, and the lucky kid fucked her on the bench in the locker room. Coach Cadze (and Melinda) turned timid, wimpy, shy Arnold Gilliam into a self-confident stud!

As a matter of fact, I let Arnold lay me, too. Hey, I've got nothing against building up a guy's ego, especially if he sticks that ego into me and makes me pant for him. Arnold wasn't handsome, to my taste--big ears, goggly glasses, crooked teeth--but damn, for a boy he indeed had a manhood (never can tell who's going to get one), and he was a quick learner.

I let him think I was "under his power" late one afternoon. I called him into my classroom, then, "Oh, Arnold, I just can't resist you, you big stud." He gave me an astonished look, but it's amazing how quickly a male will catch on if it's about sex. He was a little clumsy--I mean, "Oh, baby, you're cute" sounds funny coming from a kid a head shorter (and I'm little!) with acne and a slide-rule in his pocket.

Not a good kisser, either. Tasted of licorice. Also an amateur at women's clothes. I helped him with the buttons and the apparently incomprehensible workings of the bra--the real mark of a skilled lover is that he can get it off without muttering to himself. I don't get it. I can take my bra on and off, reaching behind my back.

A tiresome majority of guys reach around me, fumbling, groping, fiddling with it, trying to figure out how it opens. I don't know, maybe his mind is so full of Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, she's letting me at her titties, there's not enough intelligence left over to manage hand dexterity.

Biting my lip, I reached back and de-bra'd myself for him. Sheesh. Arnold was okay at panties. I mean, the last article of clothing before the articles of surrender is the simplest one of all. But then I had to give him his due: Arnold was very good at foreplay. Finger twirls around the nipples. Sucking little kisses on them. My nipples now smell of licorice?

Good between my legs, too. Magic fingers. I wonder if he plays folk guitar. Great with the strums. The individual pluckings. He hit all the right buttons. One in particular.

Taking over, he laid me back on my desk--and then had trouble climbing up on it himself. Jeez, kid! But finally on the desktop with me, he grabbed my ankles and raised them--I helped by pulling back my thighs--and Oomph! he was in!

Damn, all of a sudden, he was good! Knew all the rules: waited to let me adjust, started off slow, long-stroked me; the kid had me panting for him in the first 60 seconds! He was so good, in fact, I wondered where he got all that skill. He often hit my G-spot, changing angles and thrust-pace, sometimes bringing his weight down on me, crushing my knees to my boobs, penetrating deeper, then releasing me. I gasped. God, he works that big tool like a master mechanic. Whoosh, what a fucking!

And something else: he reached down and diddled my clit when he saw me cumming, and--Damn!--what a feeling! He made my orgasm last so long, I thought I would pass out. How did he do that? I can't do that, and it's my clit!

As he lay on me, both of us spent, I slowly lowered my legs. Doesn't anybody around here screw on a bed? My back is killing me from these desktops and locker-room benches! I looked up at him, still breathing hard. "Damn--Arnold--you--damn good!--where--you learn that?"

The kid was huffing, too. "Thought you--of all people--know about--reading books."

Wow. Never underestimate a horny nerd! No man ever fuck & clitted me before. He read that in a book? What library is he going to?


I staggered out of my classroom like I'd just played a rough chukker of polo. Saddle-sore. And who should I meet but Coach Terry Hawthorn!

I met him at the new-faculty orientation. First thing that hit me was his face--like a model in the Sears Catalog Men's Underwear section. Square jaw, sharp nose, curl of black hair over his forehead--like Superman, the TV character! And he had a big build, too. I figured him to be about my age--thirty-something.

When he shook my hand, the strength of his grip made me wonder if I'd ever play the piano again. He was certainly the enthusiastic type. "Hey, isn't this exciting? Our first teaching jobs!"

Bright and eager, he was like a chipmunk in a gorilla's body. We appeared to be the only newbies, so although he was just a little too chipper for me, we got to know each other better. Turned out he was a Mormon, spent two years in the Army as a draftee, graduated from BYU. Built up his physique with Uncle Sam, he said, and decided he wanted to get into physical education.

He was exactly the sort of All-American, perfect-smile, guy-on-the-Wheaties-box type who rubbed me the wrong way. As he went on and on about how he couldn't wait to share what he'd learned about health and sports with "the kids," I had a terrible urge to ask him how often he jerked off.

When he mentioned he was married with two kids, I wrote him off as hopelessly straight, and when he ranted about his "beautiful little sweetheart," I fought down the urge to ask him if she swallowed his cum or spit it out.

I don't know what it is about me--some evil streak. He was just so icky-sticky goody-goody, I just had to put a rock in his shoe.

Every woman has a "checklist" inside: How to Seduce Him. I'd been working on Terry Hawthorn for a number of weeks.

Item #1: Develop His Horny Attitude. This means causing little sexy thoughts. Real simple stuff at first, double-entendres: "Wow, you have a pretty big coffee cup." Pause. "But I guess it's not the size, it's what you do with it."

"I always think a book is easiest to read if you spread it open. Wide open. It always feels better that way."

"The stock market is easiest if you have foresight. But on really hot occasions you have to pull that foresight back, and out pops your bulging stock opportunity."

That sort of thing.

Later on we moved to Item #2: Nonverbal Communication. Much more of what we communicate comes across in things besides spoken words. This means showing some skin. This, though, requires a little skill. I mean, if I came to school wearing my pink tank top, the principal would give me a matching pink slip.

Every woman has "working clothes." Tops with buttons, zippers, etc. Whenever I saw Hawthorn about to pass me in the hall, I quickly pulled open four or five buttons--till the sweater was open almost to my stomach--and the poor man got a deluxe view of décolletage not for public consumption.

I'm proud of my rack. 28C. I'm little--the Gidget type--but I have knockers like a '58 Cadillac.

Once I was past the gawking Hawthorn, I held a big clipboard in front while I rebuttoned myself into schoolmarmhood.

Item #3 is more advanced. Fixation. Get him to attach motivations and desires on icons, on everyday objects. For most men, a good icon is women's underwear.

To get him to focus on my underwear took a little setting up. I started off by picking out an unmistakable pair of panties. Not white, not black, not pink, not even red. Everybody's got those.

For "special occasions," I got some bikini panties with little cock-&-ball motifs embroidered into them. Got them in Tijuana. Nobody around Thrushmore would have them.

First I had to get him to associate that design with me, like it was my signature. I wore the panties to school one day with a tight skirt with a zipper in the back. I waited till he came out of his office (and luckily at that moment the halls were empty). With a loud "Oops!" I dropped some books, and I bent over to pick them up.

I'd unzipped the skirt, so naturally as I bent away from him, it slid down a little, and he got a Grade-A shot at my ass and an erotic pair of panties. I looked back quickly, and he was blushing! Yes!

"M-Miss Canfield, your skirt is un-unzipped."

I straightened up and turned to face him. "Oh, thanks. Gee, how'd that happen?" I smiled as if trying to laugh it off: "I guess when a big, handsome guy comes walking by, I open up for him."

He blushed even redder!

"Oops. That isn't what I wanted to say." Oh, but it was.

By then he'd waved and walked nervously on his way. Stage 1 finished! My cock & balls panties were imprinted on his brain.

Stage 2 was a little more overt. I left a pair of those panties outside the door of his office, after the kids were gone for the day, in a spot where he couldn't miss them. Then I hid to watch.

Jackpot! He picked up them. Put them in his pocket. Yes!

Item #4 is known as the Kodak Kome-on. I set my camera on a tripod, aimed it into my bathroom, then set it on auto-click. When it started with the flash-pause-flash-pause-flash, I began to pull off my clothing. I made sure my tits got good closeups, and at the very end I "dropped something" and had to bend over to retrieve it, giving a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer beavershot to the camera.

I sent the film away to be developed and printed, and when I got the shots back--Jeez, this is lascivious!--I packed them into a manila envelope with a note:

Mr. Hawthorn, You seem to be a cool kat, so I'm thunk you wanna see thes pix I took through Miss Canfield's bathroom windo.

Nedloh Fieldcaul


I got to school early the next day and slipped the envelope under his office door. Of course there was no Nedloh Fieldcaul at Thrushmore High. If Hawthorn turned it over to the administration/cops, I was prepared with an Academy Award performance of "Oh, my God! I'm so humiliated! Who could do such a thing?"

And I watched Perry Mason every week. I knew about fingerprints.

But he didn't turn it in. Jackpot! Days went by! He kept the pictures!

Talented women usually score long before Item #4, but Hawthorn was a special case. I figured he was ready for plucking, though, so I laid (so to speak) my cards on the table.

That day, as I was recovering from the tryst with Arnold, seeing Coach Hawthorn in the hallway made me decide to go for him. Yes! I'm hot and up for it! I knew he would be working late on upcoming budgets. When I knew the school was empty, I poured a whole bottle of honey over me and went to his office.

"Terry, Terry, please! You gotta help me! A student's whole biology project spilled over me! I've gotta get this mess off me!" I tugged at the sleeve of his sweatshirt, a panicked, dizzed-out woman, right? "The water in the girls' showers doesn't work! Can I take a shower in here?"

Okay, the water mains to the school supplied both the boys' and the girls' showers, so if one wasn't working, the other wouldn't either, but I could see male logic working in Hawthorn (hey, she'll have to take off her clothes), and that canceled out competing facts: "Sure, uh, yeah, if it's not working in there, yeah, you can use ours."

I went into the locker room and s-l-o-w-l-y took off my clothes (I was counting on his peeking from somewhere). I even moved about a little as if I were having trouble with buttons, zippers, etc. but in graceful dance moves. Then I walked naked--no towel--toward the showers.

I glanced back. Yes! Coach Hawthorn watched me from behind a locker.

In the shower room, I turned on a spray, then proceeded to rub myself sensually all over. Now the ball's in his court.

But what happened next was actually a surprise.

Terry Hawthorn, naked with a towel around his hips, walked into the showers with me. "Nancy, I think I'll clean up, too."

I turned to face him, giving him a full frontal. I was wearing cock & balls panties!

Hawthorn stopped, frozen, staring, The towel fell from his hand. As it fell, I got my own shock. His prick was rock-hard, and a stalwart organ it was, indeed. Yes!

I could see the question in his eyes: Where'd the panties come from? I saw her take them off!

Poor male. I palmed them and put them on again in the shower. Anything to mess with his mind.

Hawthorn was blushing. Fighting to gain control of the situation. Very nervous. It was incredible.

"C'mon in , Terry. I was thinking about you."

He gulped. "You--wearing--panties--" Talked like a zombie.

"Oh, is that bothering you?" I pulled them down. "See how wet you've got me, Terry?" Of course I was in a shower, but it's not about where the wet came from, it's where you say it came from. "I've been waiting for you. C'mon over closer." I paused. "You know you want to."

There's the deal-breaker. Now he leaves the room--probably to report me--or...

He moved closer and touched my thigh. I purred. "S'matter, Coachie, don't dare touch me further?" I turned my snatch toward him.

Mesmerized, he rubbed his hand against my mound. His male nature took over, and once he let his fingers do some walking, he was on the slippery slope to pleasure--mine, anyway.

Finally I began to sink to my knees. "N-no!" he gasped.

But I kept sinking down, and poor Terry was in the power of forces he couldn't control. The big man was breathing hard . "No! No, I won't!"

When my knees hit the floor,--Wow, there it is!--I reached out and seized Superman's rod.

"N-n-no! D-don't!"

"Yes, you want me, Terry, you really do! You've been dying to see me naked! You've been staring at me for weeks. I'm all you can think about!"

He was silent.

"Isn't that true?"

"Yeah." His voice was so soft I barely heard him. "I should've known. You're the one who sent me the pictures, left the panties outside my office!"

"Yeah, Terry. I know the real you, don't I?"

"Yeah." Again, his voice was so faint, it was like a prayer. "How did you know?"

"A superman like you has sex oozing out of his pores. Any woman can tell."

He gasped.

"Down deep inside, you've always wanted a woman to suck your cock, haven't you?"

Again that feeble "Yeah." I bent my head to his crotch again. "No! No, don't!"

I picked up my panties and handed them to him. His hand trembled, and he stared at them for a moment--then sucked the wet things into his mouth. Yes! Then he was under the control of something much more powerful than his sense of decency.

I bent over his hardon. I love foreskins! I closed my lips over it, pulled it back, and my tongue touch the hot, moist glans.

I sucked him for all I was worth, stroking cockshaft. After a minute or two, I reached between his legs and stuck a finger up his ass. He lurched in surprise but didn't stop me.

I backed off. "Naw, Terry, you don't want to cum in my mouth. I've got a better place for it." I dropped onto my hands and knees.

He spit out my panties. "No, oh god, no! Not that!"

I was a good Boy Scout: I had a little plastic jar of Vaseline, and I dug out a gob, swiped it over my pussy, then slicked up his throbbing dong.

"No, no, please! I can't do this! Okay, I'm--I'm a pervert, but not a--not--Please, no--you-you can't"

But instead the big guy obeyed his testicles. He dropped to his knees behind me. I looked back then reached back and stroked his boner. "This is what you want, isn't it, Terry? A hot woman begging to satisfy you?"

"No! No, that's--that's not what--what I want!" Husky voice and his meat up like a flagpole contradicted him.

I took a deep breath. "Yeah, you big stud, once in my pussy, you'll be spoiled for any other female."

"No, no, please!" But he didn't resist when I pulled his organ toward me, aiming it, positioning it, settling it at my target.

He surrendered. He pressed against my puffy, eager labia and shoved. His cockhead slid inside. He was mounted.

He slowly pushed in and gripped my hip with one hand and began his thrusts. And after a dozen or so, it happened. With a gasp and a long, low moan, he started to enjoy. No more reticence. He surrendered and become a stud.

The guy's shaft had stretched me open and claimed as his property, which was damned okay with me, and I'll be damned if he didn't move closer to the Dark Side: "Yeah, I'll fuck you, bitch." He lost his husbandly cherry listening to the schluck-schluck-schluck of his own vanished "virginity."

He kept the pace for about 10 minutes then sank in to the bollocks, and I knew he was breeding me. I wasn't worried. I'm never without Wrigley's Spearmint gum and The Pill.

He released his vise-grip on my hips, bent over, and kissed the back of my neck. "God, Nancy--fucking--amazing!"

He sat back, pulling out his prick, and a white, cloudy stream dribbled from my gaping pussy. Damn! He's been saving that up for a long time. Must not be getting any at home.

He rolled over onto his back on the wet tile floor, and I reached over and rubbed his hairy, slippery chest. As he lay there in his afterglow, he moaned, "What have I done, what have I done?"

"You just took my cherry, Coach. My ass belongs to you."

He looked up. "You are not a virgin! You took advantage of me."

"Took advantage? You never reported the naked pictures you got of me."

Hawthorn's voice was strained. "Those tits--those panties--you--overpowered me."

"Hey, I'm an innocent woman. Did I knock you down onto this floor? Did I force you to make love to me?"

"Yes! You're the devil! You hypnotized me! You forced me! Against my will!"

I reached over and stroked him, bringing him back to erection, and he stared, horrified, but did nothing to stop me. "Get over here, Coachie, and fuck me again." I lay back and spread my legs.

"No!"

"What?"

"YES! Yes! I can't fight you! That body--those huge jugs! I'm possessed by you, demon!"

I looked up at him. "Yeah, Terry, I want you to fuck me! Jam that thing all the way in! Make me your bitch!!"

With such a polite invitation, what could he do? He took me again, that time face-to-face, my spread legs up in the air, soles of my feet at the ceiling--the posture of total submission. He sank into my trained and loosened pussy and gave me another good ride. Hit me with a couple of excellent orgasm. When he finished, I pointed to the stream of jizz flowing back out. "You're such a stallion, Terry, you could knock up the whole cheerleading team."

I got up, dried myself on his towel and tossed it back at him. "You want to get together again, stud?"

He sat up and held his head in his hands. "Yeah, Satan. You broke me. I'm hot for you."

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