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Helen --------, known to me only as Mrs. --------, was a welcome arrival.
I had just turned 18 years old and was nearing the end of my time at a Catholic all-boys school in San Francisco. It had been an entirely female-free school during its entire history. Run by Catholic brothers and male lay teachers not even nuns taught there let alone women of the freer sort. And then, one day, Mrs. -------- arrived to teach English. I didn't know why, and I didn't ask. Perhaps there was a teacher shortage. Perhaps the times were a-changing and excluding women from positions open to men was becoming an increasingly risky proposition. Whatever the reason, there she was.
Mrs. -------- was something over 30, which answered an inclination that had already begun and remains to this day to fantasize about women some 15 years older than me. She was attractive in that neighbor-lady way, quite like many of the neighborhood moms walking in the street whom I constantly ogled from my bedroom window. She was about 5-feet-4, I guess about 125 pounds, a green-eyed blonde who was fashionable enough to wear the short skirts ubiquitous back then. Her specialty was 19th century literature, the whole canon. Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Elliot, Trollope, Thackeray, Dickens and several others whose names have not stayed with me. I was, I repeat, 18, and the hormonal rush that dominates that age probably caused me to overestimate the elegance of Mrs. --------------'s mini-skirted legs. But they seemed awfully pretty to me, especially when, slightly parted beneath the teacher's table, they flashed a pair of black panties.
I was so taken with Mrs. -------- that I began tracking her class schedule, figuring out which room she was assigned every hour of every day. My plan was to descend a staircase as she ascended it, and with a quick glance upward, peek up her skirt. Looking up women's skirts, whenever the opportunity presented itself, had become a preoccupation. These were the days when housewives still hung out clothes to dry, pegging them to the clotheslines in their backyards. Two of these women were directly visible from my bathroom window as they bent down to lift items from their laundry baskets. Their short skirts guaranteed a view of their panties when they bent over. I once had a summer job packing boxes, where I stood next to a woman who must surely have been in her sixties. As the boxes trundled by on the conveyor belt, I feigned dropping something on the floor so that I could look up her skirt as I retrieved the item. Once, an aunt, my mother's sister, fell asleep on the couch during a visit, happily revealing her nylon-clad panties. I made several reconnaissance trips past that couch, absorbing a great deal of masturbatory ammunition.
Well, my Mrs. -------- ploy worked perfectly. I stole many a glance, and learned that she invariably wore black panties. This went on for some weeks, and I began to worry that she might notice how frequently I passed her on the staircase. My worries seemed unfounded until one day, as I glanced up, she glanced down. Her eyes met mine. It was just a moment, but a lot can be said in a moment, and this one said she knew exactly what I was doing.
A brasher lad might have been thrilled to have been discovered. I was deeply embarrassed. I was afraid she might report me. But she did not. In fact, shortly after that incident, she left the school. No one knew why, and no one asked. Teachers tended to come and go, and so had she. And so, Mrs. -------- passed from my life, a horny adolescent memory that kept my bedtime fingers busy.
One year later, after wandering Europe (the stories I could tell, and might), I came back home and enrolled in a Catholic university to study history with a minor in English.
And -- I'm sure the discerning reader has already guessed -- there she was in the university prospectus. "Helen --------, PhD," it said, teaching 19th century American and European literature. It might have got by me. I was wholly unaware of her first name, but there was a photograph, a few years older certainly, but obviously her. Clearly, she had left my high school to focus on her doctorate. With some expectation that she would not remember me, I signed up for her course. She took a roll call first day of class and called my name, Keith --------, as nonchalantly as all the others.
A month later I got back my first graded paper -- "The Social Etiquette of Jane Austen." A note written at the top of the paper asked me to see her in her office the next day at 2 p.m. Of course, this made me uneasy, but I showed up at the appointed hour.
"You asked to see me, Dr. --------," I said, as casually as I could manage.
"Yes," she answered. "How are you, Keith?"
I asked if she remembered me from high school, and she answered quite plainly that she remembered me as a talented young man with a propensity for looking up her skirt.
I chuckled awkwardly and begged forgiveness on grounds of adolescent horniness.
"You know," she said. "That kind of invasion of privacy follows a man. It can cause considerable professional and academic embarrassment if it were ever made public. I think, perhaps, an apology rather more profound than a nervous chuckle is called for."
I acknowledged the truth of her words and made a manly apology, getting hornier by the minute as I talked about upskirts with this attractive college professor.
"Thank you," she said, apparently satisfied with my humiliation. "Your paper was excellent. I see you are making the most of your considerable talent."
I thanked her and left, feeling a mix of profound embarrassment and extreme horniness.
Three weeks later, she returned another paper, this one titled, "Propriety and Formality in the Works of Anthony Trollope." It had been, as with so many of the papers she would assign during her course, an exploration of Victorian decency, this time in Trollope's Palliser books. I got an "A" and, again, a notation asking me to come see her.
And so I did.
"You wanted to see me, again," I said, peaking around the door of her office at the appointed hour.
"Ah, yes, Keith," she said, gesturing for me to sit down. She leaned back and fixed those green eyes on me.
"I've been thinking about our last conversation, and I think something more than an apology is necessary. Words are cheap. Actions count. With that in mind, I have a few things I would like you to do for me. I will need you to be at my apartment tomorrow evening at 6 p.m. Here is the address. It will be just you and me. I divorced a year ago, so we will not be disturbed."
I spent the next 24 hours wondering what this could be about. The fact that we would be alone and that she had made sure that I knew we would be alone made me wonder if something memorable lie ahead or whether I was in for an evening of drudgery, perhaps spell-checking a manuscript of some kind.
At 6 p.m. sharp the next day I knocked on her apartment door.
She waved me in, wordlessly, and closed the door.
Immediately, I began to feel hopeful. She was wearing a very short black skirt. Her white blouse had a plunging neckline that showed off a pair of freckled tits. She was wearing heels, not too high, but quite in contrast to the sensible shoes she wore to class.
"Please sit down, Keith," she said. "I have something to say to you, and I'm afraid it might shock you. But do listen."
I was, of course, all ears.
She explained that my raunchy high school behavior entitled her to something similar. Then, she said, all would be even. She said that I should spend the evening doing whatever she asked of me. I quickly agreed.
"You know, Keith," she said. "I teach Victorian literature. Everything there is very proper, all the time. Babies, it seems, appear magically. The men are always bowing and retreating, the women always fainting and fearing for their virtue."
"This is true," I said.
"Well, I am tired of it. I want you to have sex with me this evening. Dirty sex. Slutty sex. I want sex far removed from the Victorian age. Do you understand me? I want to be called dirty names, as dirty as you can imagine. I want you to treat me like a whore. That's what I want. Now, will you do it?"
Stunned, I gazed into those emerald eyes, glanced at her straining tits and savored those crossed legs.
"Yes," I whispered, weakly. "God, yes."
"Good," she said. "And call me Helen."
"Sure, Mrs., uh, Helen."
"Well, then," she said, "lay down on the floor."
I got down in a hurry. She stood over me, giving me a direct view up her skirt.
"What do you see, Keith?"
"I see your usual black panties, Helen, just like always."
"Now, Keith, what would you like to do with what you see?"
"I'd like to pull those panties down and lick your pussy."
"Not good enough," she said. "I don't have a pussy. I have a fucking cunt. I have a fucking cunt because I am a fucking cunt. Are you getting the idea?"
I got the idea, and threw caution to the wind. I gave it a try.
"Helen, I've known you were a slut ever since high school when you cracked your legs open under the teacher's table and gave us horny guys a glimpse of your crotch. Well, you whore, get your cunt out of my face."
This was not normal behavior, to say the least, and I felt acutely embarrassed.
"Was that OK?" I asked. "Is that what you're talking about?"
"Go for it," she said, and that was the end of any discussion.
I pushed her up against a wall and thrust my tongue into her mouth. Our tongues met, my cock grew hard. I stared in her eyes as I thrust my hand up her skirt and rubbed her cunt, by now very wet. "Bitch," I said, to her face. "Whore. Slut. Cunt." I unzipped her skirt and pulled it to the floor. The black panties that I knew back in high school, were wet. I ripped those off, too. On my knees now, I sucked her cunt and drank her juice. I fingered fucked her until she began to moan. I grabbed her and led her into her bedroom, ripped off her shirt and bra and threw her on the bed.
I straddled her face and ordered her to open her mouth and take my cock in her mouth. She did, sucking and biting as I thrust it deep into her throat. It was astounding. I was not yet 20, yet here I was face fucking my 30-something former high school English teacher.
I was getting sooo close, but I didn't want to come just yet.
"Lift your legs, bitch," I said. She did. I propped her legs on my shoulders and penetrated her pussy with my concrete cock, coated with her spit. I thrust harder and harder.
She thrust right back, calling on me to fuck her even harder.
Then things took a delicious turn.
"My ass," she whispered. "My ass. I'm not a real whore until I take it in the ass."
"Helen," I squeaked. "You want me to fuck you in your ass?"
"That drawer over there," she said, pointing to her makeup table. "You'll find lubrication."
Sure enough there was a tube of K-Y jelly.
I slathered it over my cock, and then over and inside her asshole.
I pressed the head of my cock up against her ass, pushed a little just to open the hole, and then, with one quick, solid thrust, pushed all the way in.
She gasped. I withdrew half way and then thrust again. Another gasp, with a squeal.
Now I thrust hard, again and again.
"Fuck your ass, baby," I said. "Fuck your slut ass!"
I was right at the edge, now, and about to come, so I withdrew and squirted all over her face and hair.
I stood back and looked at her, naked, ass-fucked.
She was sobbing with joy, my cum covering her right eye and sliding down her cheek. I went into the bathroom to clean and soothe my sore cock.
When I entered the living room I found her sitting on a chair, her legs spread wide, displaying a well-fucked cunt. Considering the rough treatment she had requested, I felt some words were necessary. "Helen... " I began, but I got no further.
"You did well," she said. "And now you may leave."
"I said, get the fuck out of here. I have no further need of your services."
Her eyes were steel. I figured I'd better leave.
I dressed quickly, if awkwardly, and glanced over my shoulder as I left, only to be met again by that icy, steely glare.
I walked along the corridor, down the elevator and out of Mrs. --------'s sex life. Never again would she invite me to her office, much less to her apartment.
She treated me thereafter as any other student. She gave me straight As, which I deserved, but was otherwise indifferent to my existence. After graduation I never saw her again.
Fifty years later, after retiring from a long career as a high school history teacher, I was browsing through the latest copy of my alma mater's alumni magazine, and there she was. It was, once again, her photo that caught my attention. It was the same photo that had been featured in the prospectus five decades earlier.
This, however, was the obituary column. Helen --------, it said, known in her early days at the university as Helen --------, had passed away at the age of 83. A highly respected professor of English until her retirement 10 years earlier, she had been granted emerita status and was lovingly remembered by generations of students to whom she imparted her love of Victorian literature. She was preceded in death by her first husband and survived by her second.
So, she remarried.
She was a loving mother to two daughters and an adored grandmother of five.
I assume she took her secret to the grave, as will I.
It was one of those moments. I went for a stroll in the warming spring air. I found myself outside the local Catholic church, which I entered, put $10 into the box and lit a candle in her memory.
May the Lord keep her in His loving arms.