Sext Messaging Ch. 01

After I retired as a professor of English at a small New England college where I had worked for many years, I occasionally made some extra money by working as a substitute teacher at the local high school. But basically, I hated it. About 20% of the students were actually eager to learn and worth teaching, 50% didn't care one way or the other, and 30% would go out of their way to make your life as unpleasant as possible.

One year, I accepted a long-term sub position as an English teacher because the former teacher had given birth to her first child and wanted to take 6-9 months off to be with the baby. It turned out to be nine months, so I taught several classes for virtually the whole school year.

Interestingly enough, among the 20% it was a pleasure to teach, nearly 75% of them were girls. That shows you how much the world has changed in recent years. Girls are taking over.

The student who it was the greatest pleasure to teach had the odd name of Christmas Cross, since she had been born on Christmas. She hated her first name and instead called herself "Crissy." She was very bright and an eager student, but two of the reasons I liked her so well were that she obviously liked me as a teacher—and she was strikingly beautiful: about five-foot-seven with long straight blonde hair, a beautiful and delicate figure, and a face and smile that would melt an iceberg. And pale blue eyes.

It probably was for that reason that as we neared the end of her senior year, and I knew she was going away to Boston U, I told her she could seek my help at any time with essays that she might have to do there, and I gave her my personal home e-mail address. Little did I know how she was going to use it.

She entered Boston U in September of that year, and by the first of October I had an e-mail from her. What follows is an account of the e-mail exchanges we had over the next 2-3 months.

"Hi! Remember me?" she wrote. "I hope you meant what you said about taking a look at some of my essays and offering your suggestions, because I would like to take advantage of that if you have the time. Here's the first one. It was for English Composition, and the assignment was "The Most Embarrassing Thing I Ever Did." I thought you would get a kick out of it since it involves you. Crissy"

I wondered how it could involve me? I found out when I read it. In her ten-page essay, she confessed to having had a crush on her English teacher all of her senior year. The teacher obviously was me. She even admitted to having sex dreams about him and actually confessed to thinking about him when she masturbated at night in her bed! I certainly hoped this English prof at Boston U was a woman and not a man. I hate to think what might develop if it was a man. Finally, she confessed that in an effort to get that teacher to think about her sexually, she had gone to class wearing a relatively short yellow-and-brown tartan wool skirt with no panties underneath. Since she was sitting in one of those chairs with a wrap-around platform to write on but otherwise nothing in front—and since she was sitting in the first row—halfway through the class, when the teacher was sitting at his desk in front of her, and all of the other students were busy taking a test, she slowly slid the skirt up on her thighs and parted her legs. She knew that the teacher but no one else could get a clear view up her skirt. She even admitted to having brushed her pubic hair the night before with hydrogen peroxide to make it even more blonde. But the teacher never even noticed! She felt humiliated.

And that was her "most embarrassing experience."

It took me awhile to calm down, but finally I made some suggestions about her essay and tried to pen some detached and objective comment back to her.

"I'm really surprised that you would show me this," I wrote. "I had no idea you felt that way about me, and yes—I never noticed, and that's just as well. But I certainly admire your ingenuity—and your nerve."

She sent a reply back the following day.

"I was a virgin at that time—which I am not now, thanks to my boyfriend, Larry—but I used to masturbate every night and imagine you doing the most outrageous things to me."

"And the most illegal things if they had been real," I responded. "You were not eighteen at that time."

"But I am now. Listen, I'm going to set up a chat line just between us, so we don't have to keep mailing back and forth, and no one else will see it. Is that okay?"

"Sure. What do you need from me?"

"Nothing. I know how to do it."

So the rest of what follows was in back-and-forth chat.

"How often have you done it—with this Larry?" I asked her.

"Three times, and I hated it the first time, it really hurt. But it got better the next two times, and I began to enjoy it. But I dropped him after he started calling me his 'little fuck bunny'—and I think he told other people about it."

"That was a wise move on your part. You're too good for him."

"I know. I agree. So I'm back to thinking about you when I masturbate every night."

"Are you crazy? I'm old enough to be your grandfather."

"So what? I like older men."

"Have you ever had any?"

"No, but the idea sounds appealing."

"You shouldn't tell me that."

"Why? There's nothing wrong with it. It's not illegal. Haven't you ever had any sex fantasies about your students?"

"No comment."

"Tell me."

"All right, probably every teacher, male and female, has had at some point or another."

"Did you ever have one about me?"

"No comment."

"Tell me!"

"Is anyone but you able to see this?"

"No, I'm the only one."

"You guarantee that?"

"Yes, of course."

"All right, I'll tell you then. You're so pretty that I've had more than one sex fantasy about you. I've had a number in fact. My favorite one is when you come to my classroom after school, and even though you were an 'A' student, in my fantasy you tell me you will do ANYTHING if I will just raise your grade. I ask you what you mean by 'anything'—and you proceed to show me."

"What do I do?"

"First of all, you take off all your clothes, and then you get down on your knees and provide me with oral sex. Then you shove everything off my desk, lie back on it, and we proceed to have sex."

"After I give you a blowjob, we fuck—in other words."

Yes...we fuck."

"I'll write you again tomorrow."

"Where are you going?"

"I have to masturbate. Bye."

And she was gone. But that night I did the same thing.

"Did you masturbate last night, thinking of me?" she asked the next night.

"Yes."

"Will you do it again if I talk dirty to you? I will too, at the same time. I'm sitting here completely naked. You can imagine it—or I'll send you an actual picture from my digital camera if you want. I can print it right in my room, on my printer."

My God, what was I getting into? "Send me a picture," I said. "Send me several."

"All right. I have your address. Are you naked?"

"No."

"Can you at least take it out?"

"All right—it's out."

"Good. I'll bet it's very pretty."

I laughed. "You're the first woman who has ever said that."

"I wish I could see it. Do you have a digital camera?

"No, sorry."

"Rats. Know what I would like to do to you?"

"No. What?"

"I would like to suck your cock so hard it would squirt out my ears."

Oh God. I didn't think I could stand anymore of this. But I had to match her. "Know what I would like to do to you?"

"No. What?"

"I would like to fuck you so hard that you couldn't sit down for a week."

"I would like that."

"Okay," she wrote in a scholarly dignified voice. "Now it's time for us to get serious. School is closed for Thanksgiving from November 27th until the 31st. Naturally, my parents want me to come home, but I don't want to go there. The whole family gathers then, and since they all hate each other, it turns into one big drunken verbal brawl. So I've told them I'm going to stay in Boston to work on my term paper. But you're off then too, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you come down to Boston and join me?"

"Why?"

"Guess."

"In your dorm?"

"No, silly, I would be the only one there, but even still I wouldn't trust it for privacy. But if you would spring for a nice hotel room for a couple of nights, we could spend a little time together. I'm sure I could make it worth your while—even though I might not be able to sit down for a week."

I thought about it. I was never going to get a chance like this again. An 18-year-old girl offering herself to a 62-year-old man. "All right, I'll do it. I e-mail you back when I have the hotel."

"Good. Are you going to think about me tonight?"

"Of course."

"Good, because since I'm already naked, I wouldn't want to waste it. So I will be thinking of you...while I masturbate."

And she was gone.

Be Continued...