Roy's Conquests: Hot For Teacher

*** Disclaimer ***

The following story is a work of fiction. It contains themes of cheating, cuckoldry, voyeurism, and NTR. If this isn't the fetish for you, don't waste your time flooding my inbox with hate mail-- it'll only make me want to write and post MORE cuck stuff (unless, of course, that's your goal...).

Otherwise, I love hearing from fans, and welcome any suggestions, thoughts, criticisms, or fantasy ideas. Enjoy!

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are at least 18 years of age. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ROY'S CONQUESTS: HOT FOR TEACHER

***

Welcome back to another installment of my sexual exploits, young readers! A lot of you have written in, asking if I'd be willing to share some of my wisdom so that you too could become seducers like me. The fact is that I'm not a good teacher. But I am a hell of a good wingman, at times. And speaking of teachers...

Today, I'm going to tell you a story about philanthropy, where I helped out a wishful thinker fulfill his dreams of fucking the shit out of (you guessed it) a teacher.

She lived behind me for about a year now. Tracy Parker. A young teacher with strawberry blonde hair that had a natural curl about it. Like one of those free-spirit hippies from the 70's-- light and airy from all the time spent in the summer air. She even spoke like one-- with a soft silky voice that could soothe anyone. You couldn't imagine a girl like this getting angry. Her manner was as though she'd just come from a massage-- in a sleepy relaxed voice that I found calming. Her eyes-- big and bright blue with naturally long lashes-- were always half lidded to match her 'everything is going to be okay' demeanor. She had a big smile and very full pink lips. 'DSL's (as you younger pups might call 'em).

I personally found her features strong, yet forgettable. Her face could be a perfect double for a young Brenda Strong, but with the wild curly hair of Dina Meyer. If you don't know who those two actresses are, look 'em up on the google! Everyone has a cell phone now, so there's no excuse!

As far as body, oooh boy. I hope you readers are leg men, today. She had a nice fit little body that she took care of. She never failed to go for her regular runs around the neighborhood in her little gym shorts and tanktops. She once told me that she played soccer all throughout high school and college. I believed it. She had, what I call, the "soccer legs". I'm talking smooth tanned thighs, thick with muscle. Solid, but certainly not chubby. They looked like they could squeeze the air right out of your lungs.

Naturally those legs came with a round ass that you just wanted to grab, or bounce a quarter off of, I'm not sure which. Her tits were misleading. C-cups have a way about them, where they don't always look as big as they sound, but they have this perfect shape. If you're a fan of porn star Lexi Belle, then you know what I'm talking about. That's what we're dealing with here. Uninspiring in a tee-shirt, but when a dress demands cleavage, WHAM! Where did those come from? And with nothing at all... delicious.

She and her husband were both about thirty, and their backyard butted up against mine. They'd moved into this school district, chasing her dream of getting tenured. Unfortunately, those opportunities are rare, it seems. The older generation of teachers simply refuse to retire. You know who I'm talking about-- the cranky old bats who force-feed students antiquated bullshit like Dickens and Twain, and beat the desire to learn out of these kids by making it a chore. I'll be the first one to say that my generation is the worst for this! You want to motivate this new generation? Then get with the times, and step aside so they can discover the joys of reading from a sexy thirty year old broad with great legs!

Regardless, poor Tracy fell into a trap that happens to many young teachers who are waiting for the 80 year olds to finally croak-- she got stuck in a never ending cycle of getting hired by a district, working tirelessly for a few years, right up until she'd be due for tenor, only to be let go and have to start the cycle again.

Thankfully, her husband Greg was patient and paid most of the bills-- some job in software development.

To be honest, the couple never really jumped out at me much. They were nice enough, but lay-low. And for as attractive as Tracy was, she was one of those girls you could easily overlook. You just needed to take those extra few seconds to appreciate her, to realize what a sexy young lady she was. And in today's world of distractions, revealing clothing, loose women, and big fake hooters, that's hard to do.

I wouldn't say Mrs. Tracy Parker was a knock out, but she was definitely the object of desire for someone close to me...

***

His name was Kyle Curran, and he lived several doors down in the same neighborhood. He had a reputation for being something of a dimwit. I'm not up to speed on the politically correct terminology. The boy wasn't "special", but I guess you could say that he was... slow? Awkward? He reminded me a bit of Lenny from Of Mice and Men (speaking of high school literature), or Forrest Gump. Definitely functional and competent, but not the brightest bulb.

He was gawky, built thick and solid, with a blank stare and a bullet shaped head. He had a chubby face, a big shy smile, and some solid muscle hidden somewhere beneath all that baby fat.

He was known throughout the neighborhood as the "Lawn Mower Boy". Every spring, he'd make his way door to door, offering services like lawn-mowing, hedge trimming, gardening, and heavy lifting. That's how I came to meet Kyle several years back. Most folks in my neighborhood opted for professional lawn services instead of going with Kyle-- they could afford it.

And while I always took a special joy in maintaining my own yard and garden, Kyle was a sincere young man with a big heart, so it was hard to turn him down. In the end, each spring I'd hire him, and find something for him to do. His rates were dirt cheap, so it didn't set me back at all to help out the young entrepreneur. In fact, too cheap. The poor guy was underselling himself.

I once asked him what he wanted to do with the money he saved. He just sort of smiled blankly and said he'd like to buy a bigger lawnmower, and now that he was old enough to drive, maybe a truck with his name on it, to haul it all. That melted my heart, the little sonofabitch. I made sure I always overpaid him. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, but he became my weekly slow-talking outdoor buddy.

***

Like clockwork, Kyle rang my bell on the second to last week in April.

It was hard to keep the amusement from my smile when I greeted him. "You know, you arrive on my doorstep on the exact same date, each year."

He blinked at me for a moment, and I could see the gears turning behind his eyes as he thought about this. "Do I? I- I never gave it much thought."

I believed him. "Then you are a machine, my young friend."

He smiled sheepishly at that. "Like the Terminator?"

"Sure, we'll go with that. So what brings you here?"

"Do you want me to cut your grass today?" He always asked the exact same question in the exact same way every single day he came. I could have said it with him, like repeating a line from a movie you've seen a million times.

"Damn right I do. Actually I'm planning on redoing the stones in my garden, so I may have some heavy lifting that might be too much for an old man." That was a lie. I was in great physical shape, even at my age. I hate to be one of those guys who repeats the same stories, but for the benefit of you readers who haven't met me yet, I keep very fit. I always draw inspiration from Jack Lalanne. My greatest passions are home-care, seducing women, and fitness. My biceps are as large as my head, my chest is broad and hairless, my abs are washboard, and my thighs are thick, with a pair of upside V's in the right places, and what's swinging between them could certainly count as a muscle. My dick could have its own area code. I don't know what genes I inherited from my folks, but I assume my dad was part horse.

In my 60's, I'm more fit than the average twenty year old, so is it any wonder that I have such success with women? My hard body and unassuming demeanor versus the doughy bodies and youthful insecurities of their husbands and boyfriends. No contest. And I keep all of this hidden behind a clean-shaven smile, and the neatly combed blonde hair of an all-American suburbanite.

"Then I'm your guy," Kyle declared at the mention of the garden stones. I slapped him on the back." He beamed, looking like he wanted to say more, but then just stood there. Sometimes, it was difficult with him. He didn't always pick up on the social cues that come naturally to guys like me. But I guess not everyone is me. Hell, most people would be uncomfortable with just the way he stood there, lost and waiting for me to direct the conversation.

"So where's your truck?" I asked him, glancing at the empty driveway. He'd arrived with his push-mower, an extra container of gas, and little else. "I've been expecting to one day see a big red work truck with yellow letters reading 'Kyle Curran Garden Man.'" I made sure to rhyme it.

The young man lit up for a moment, pleased by that image. I told you, he was a little bit 'tend them rabbits, George.' But then he deflated. "My parents don't want me to pay in cash for it. They want me to finance it," He scratched his head and looked blank. "I don't really know what that means. But because of my age, they have to sign something with me. Some papers." He shrugged. It was painful listening to him try to comprehend a simple loan transaction, but I didn't want to fill in the words for him. "And they don't want to sign it this year because I'm being held back again. They said if I get too distracted with toys, then I'll never graduate high school. I don't get it. A truck isn't a toy."

It was no secret that Kyle had been held back before. But while most students in his shoes had to repeat grades because they were screwing around and skipping, Kyle was actually trying. He was just a remedial student who wasn't getting most of it.

I felt bad for him. "How old are you, son?"

He paused and thought about it. "Ummm, 18 last September."

"You're 18 then. Why don't you just buy it yourself, regardless of what your parents say?"

"They said they have to pay my insurance, so it's their decision." He took a deep breath and let it out in an animated 'awe-shucks' sigh.

"That is quite a cache twenty-two," I admitted.

Kyle just blinked at me with the dull uncomprehending eyes of a cow.

"C'mon, I'll show you where the stones are," I led him around back.

***

Mulch bags filled with garden stones were stacked by the shed. Kyle set to work spreading them around by the fence, grunting with the effort. His face a dark shade of crimson, as beads of sweat bloomed across his forehead.

Normally, I weed, or prune the flowers while the lawn guy does his thing. But on this particular day, I had some indoor cleanup to busy myself with. I left Kyle to his devices, trusting him to handle the simple menial jobs that he seemed to relish in.

It was an especially warm day for this time of year. Spring had come early to my little part of the world, and trees and flowers were blooming left and right. The breeze that it brought was fragrant, so I opened the windows to air things out.

I was halfway through cleaning the guest bathroom-- the one that overlooks my back yard-- when I noticed it.

Kyle was hunkered down in the bushes by the fence, peering through the slats into the neighbor's yard. From my vantage point, I could see over the fence to the sight that held his interest.

Tracy Parker was out and about, enjoying the beautiful spring afternoon in her fitness attire. In this case, a pair of skin tight yoga pants, and old tee-shirt that had been cutely altered-- the neck hole widened, so that it hung playfully off one shoulder, to reveal the strap of her sports bra. She'd laid a yoga mat in the grass, and was stretched out into an upward dog pose. Her eyes shut and her mouth smiling pleasantly at the way the sun kissed her face. She was in her perfect little bubble, completely unaware that the dull yard boy was peeking at her.

I watched for a bit longer. Tracy shifted into a downward dog, with her butt in the air. I must say, I never took enough time to admire the young teacher until now. But seeing her ass in the air, I could understand Kyle's interest. The stretchy material of her yoga pants wasn't of high quality, because there, making itself know through the semi-transparent material, was her thong.

Kyle noticed it too, because he was at the fence like an excited dog. He shifted carefully from slat to slat, trying to find an ideal view that afforded him a better glimpse. I snickered. That little peeping tom.

Sure enough, as Kyle moved, I caught sight of the bulge the guy was sporting in his pants. He had a hard-on as he watched the young teacher going about her workout. Can't say I blame him. If he wasn't here, I would have stopped to watch for a bit, myself. But Kyle didn't have the awareness to know the right time or place, because as he watched, the young man began to rub his boner over his pants.

I decided to shut things down there. I returned to the yard, pretending I hadn't seen a thing, a Kyle clumsily returned to the task at hand. I didn't bring it up. But I noted it...

***

Over the course of the next few weeks, Kyle came regularly. I wasn't embellishing. The guy was a machine. Small talk was minimal, and I noticed the way his eyes always went toward the fence that butted up against the Parkers' house.

I knew what he was thinking. He was hoping to get another glimpse of Tracy Parker. More and more, I left him to his privacy, and observed.

When it was the weekend, Tracy logged a lot of time in the sun, much to Kyle's secret delight. He watched her as she gardened, or hung laundry. One time a breeze had kicked up, and lifted her summer dress high, revealing her butt. She'd been wearing panties, but it had been enough to give him a thrill. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.

She hummed to herself often, and it seemed to lull the boy into a dreamy state. He'd smile blankly as he watched her with hungry lusty eyes in secret. I was fine to lend the boy my garden as his personal observation post. I was young once too.

But that came to an end the day I caught him sneaking into her yard, and stealing clothes right off of her line...

***

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" I asked him.

He slouched across from me at the kitchen table, his eyes unable to meet mine, and his cheeks burning red from embarrassment.

"I don't know," he answered. Such a cop-out answer. When a kid says "I don't know" they really do know, they just don't want to chase that thought. They want to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

The panties that he'd pilfered from Tracy were laid out between us. A pair of black lace. I had to hand it to him, he had good taste.

I decided to press him a bit. "I think you do know, Kyle. I've noticed you watching my neighbor for days. I wasn't going to say anything. But now this. Stealing?"

"I love Mrs. Parker!" he suddenly blurted out. "She's my teacher, and I love her!" There it was. He had a crush on his teacher, that he was mistaking for love.

"Now it all makes sense," I smiled knowingly. "Is she the class that you're failing?"

"Yes! Ughhhhh!" He growled in frustration. "She's just so pretty, I can't think around her. And I feel so bad because she tries so hard. She's so nice. But I just can't think. I don't know what to do! I'm going crazy!"

"Okay, okay, calm down," I waved my hand dismissively, but Kyle was hardly listening.

"Oh my god, you're not going to tell her about this are you? Oh my god, she'll freak out. She'll freak out! I'll just die."

This time I had to raise my voice to stop his yammerings. "Relax. I'm not going to say anything. I'll even let you keep her underwear for all I care."

He sagged with relief by this.

"But don't ever do that shit again. I don't care if you spy on her, but don't steal her stuff. I have to share a property line with her. And if she notices them missing, guess who she's going to think stole them." I pointed to my own chest.

He held up a hand, ready to deliver a promise like a boy scout giving an oath.

I interrupted him again. "Regardless, I think I'm going to help you."

Now he cocked his head, not understanding.

"You like your teacher?"

He nodded his head quickly. Comically quickly.

"You want to have sex with her?"

His cheeks reddened, but he nodded his head very quickly again. "Yeah... like really bad. But I know she's married, and she's so pretty, and I'm so big and dumb and stupid and ug--"

"Women don't care about that... any of that... if the situation is right. Trust me."

He cocked his head again, his mouth hanging open and the corners of his lips turned down in a thoughtful frown as he processed this.

"Even if she's married?"

"Especially if she's married," I grinned broadly. "Kyle, it's no secret that I've had my fair share of sex with all sorts of women. Married, single, religious, lesbians, and so on. If I showed you some from my personal collection, you'd hardly believe it. They're all gorgeous, far better looking than I am. I mean, sure, I'm fit, clean, and in shape. But who am I?" I put my hand to my chest like a founding father delivering a humble speech. "I'm just an old guy, with a goofy haircut, and a lopsided smile. But I know how to give women something that they truly crave-- *especially* the married ones."

Kyle sighed and glanced down at his lap. "Well mine is big enough, I guess, but it's still pretty average."

I took his meaning and erupted in laughter. "You thought I was talking about my dick? Goodness no. Not that the lord didn't gift me with something extraordinary in that department. No. A big dick is actually secondary to what women want."

"What's that?"

"To be a slut without *being* a slut."

"Huh?"

"Women live in constant fear of judgment. Being seen as or called a slut by those around them is a nightmare. You think married women are happy all the time with the same man? Hell no. But most don't cheat because, even if they get away with it, they think of themselves as a slut. They had a choice to stay a good girl, but they went the slut route. That idea scares them. It's not that they don't want to cheat if the conditions are right. The majority of us *are* potential cheaters. What most of them want and need is an excuse. They want seduction. They want a scenario where when they say yes, it's not completely their fault. Hubby isn't cutting the mustard, he's pissing her off, not making her happy. This new guy fed her drinks, charmed her, excited her. How could she possibly say no to him? Yes, she cheated, but it wasn't her fault, because it was the circumstances-- the husband, the new guy, the situation. Why do you think when a man gets caught cheating, his wife instantly finds a new guy to fuck? Typically in that same day, she's off with someone new."

"Revenge?" Kyle shrugged.

"Wrong," I declared. "It's because she now has a guilt-free, judgment-free, justified pass to fuck that hot guy that she's always wanted to, but couldn't because then *she'd* be the bad guy."

Kyle nodded his head, understanding without really understanding. "Y-you think Mrs. Parker will want to... to have sex with me?" He asked.