Story Time with Miss Z

As it so happens, the District Carnival was always staffed by teachers. In two-hour shifts, teachers helped set up, operated the games, ran the raffles, took tickets for the inflatables, and helped clean up. One of the unspoken traditions of the Carnival I learned about from my Dad was that some teachers always set up a "refreshment tent," and there was alcohol in there to help staff celebrate the end of the school year.

The Carnival after my graduation went off beautifully. We only had two minor injuries on the inflatables--a sprained ankle and a bloody nose. Sunshine and kids everywhere, it would be a banner fund-raising year for the Foundation. When it ended at 9:00pm, there was plenty of work for me to do. Putting away the inflatables was the last one of them.

I did it, alone, quietly moaning and cursing. Even running the air compressors in reverse to suck out all the air didn't work very well. There was always air getting back in them, and these things had to be folded with precision--not just to fit them in their cases, but to prevent wear and tear on the seams.

I had finished four of the six inflatables, leaving the last two--the climbing wall and the obstacle course--for last because they sucked the most cock to put away. While beginning to fold up the climbing wall, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Ben?"

I turned, and there she was. "Hey, Miss Z," I said enthusiastically. She smiled and held out her arms. I rose and we hugged.

"I thought that was you, dear."

"Yeah, working this year," I muttered.

"Me, too," she said. "I got stuck with clean-up. Need some help?"

Understand that I'd never seen Miss Z in what my dad would call "civilian clothes." She always wore school-type clothes to games and meets. Not this time. She was in mid-thigh and very tight jean shorts, and she had on a red tank top under a flimsy white, unbuttoned, short-sleeved blouse. Her long blonde hair was in a ponytail, curled at the end.

She looked beautiful. Her face seemed a bit flushed, maybe from the clean-up work. There was some hint of perspiration there, too, giving her skin a pleasant glow in the night. Her boobs surged out from the bust of her tank top, creating three horizontal lines of stretched fabric between them. And her eyes made me look twice. They seemed a touch glassy, but not from sadness.

I gestured to the last two inflatables. "It's a real pain, Miss Z."

"More the reason why I can help," she replied, smiling.

"Okay," I said, shrugging. "Thanks."

She figured it out quickly, helping me fold along the stitched seams. And she wasn't squeamish about getting down on her knees and forcing out the pockets of trapped air. We worked and chatted. Told each other about our summer plans. She took joy in the labor, smiling and laughing. She was more free, it seemed. The teacher's mask had been taken off.

As we finished the climbing wall, I showed her how I sit on the folded-up material to force the last of the air out. At this point, the inflatable was shaped almost like the rectangular duffel it eventually went into--about three-feet wide, three-feet high, and four feet long. I was sitting at one end, letting my weight squeeze the remaining air out. As it compressed, I bounced on my ass to encourage more air out.

Miss Z, without my even asking, jumped on in front of me. "Be faster with me helping, won't it, Ben?"

"Uh--sure," I said, as she scooted her butt into my crotch.

Feeling a touch of alarm, I scanned around us. The grassy soccer field where we erected all of the inflatables was empty of people. Everyone seemed to be in the gymnasium or the parking lot.

"Then we bounce?" she asked, rocking up and down.

"Yeah," I said, joining her.

We scooted forward, and we did it again. As the air vacated, our bodies sank and squashed together, and with a new feeling of alarm, I realized I was growing hard against Miss Z's ass.

Then, to my surprise, she turned and took my hands, one at a time, and placed them on her hips. "Got to time it right, Ben. Together, we'll push more air out, won't we?"

"Yeah."

So, holding her hips, we rocked our bodies down against the inflatable. Words fail to describe how good it felt being against her, how womanly and exciting she smelled, and how thrilling it was to hear her joyful voice take such enthusiastic pleasure in this work.

Finishing, we climbed off. I was careful to bury my hard-on under my tee shirt. Miss Z slipped out of her blouse, tossing it on the ground beside a red cup. I leered at her heavy tits for as long as I could. Then, she helped me get the climbing wall back into its case.

"One to go?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Let me quench my thirst," she said, grabbing the red cup and gulping lustily at its contents. She sighed and put the cup down, empty. "Much better," she gasped, rising a tad unsteadily and grinning. Was she drunk?

We marched over to the obstacle course. Her hand slid down my back as we walked over. She surveyed the inflatable, saying, "Now this one looks to be more of a challenge."

I nodded and explained how to start. The individual obstacles that had been stitched into the base had to be completely free of air before they folded up, and then we could do about the same thing as we did with the climbing wall.

"Show me," she said.

I started at the pylons, getting on my hands and knees, pulling them out, and rolling them up tightly. She joined me, and it thrilled me to see her beside me on all fours--butt in the air and tits hanging. Next came the tunnels--there were two because the course was designed to be a kind of race.

I had never done them with a helper, so we invented a way to do them together. The chief problem with the tunnels was pushing any remaining air out of one tunnel dumped it in the other one. Miss Z's idea was to get all the extra air into one tunnel and then pinch off the empty one. The other person could then force the air out completely.

It worked. At one point, however, Miss Z was on her back, using her body weight to keep the empty tunnel closed off by laying across it. I was fighting with a remaining pocket of air in the other when Miss Z suggested, "Fold it this way--to me, Ben."

I dragged it over.

"Now, lay it on me, and we'll squeeze the rest out."

I hesitated because my cock, though deflating, still pushed against the front of my shorts. When Miss Z opened her arms and legs to welcome me, I no longer cared. A brought the air pocket against my chest and eased myself down upon her body. The air slowly pushed out, and before long, I was snugly on top of her, my hips between her legs. I was in a position to fuck Miss Z.

My heart went wild. I swallowed in a dry throat. The night air was sweet, and no one else was near. Our faces were so close, and she was beautiful. It was utter madness, but I kissed her. On the lips. Tenderly. Quickly. In--and then out.

I drew back, and she blinked up at me. "Ben!" she huffed.

"I--I'm sorry--. I--."

"Kiss me like that again."

I did, holding for just a fraction longer. When I looked for her reaction the second time, I saw a woman with a smile that sent my heart soaring with joy. She looked so--so young! That smile on her face was different and yet still her.

Before I could even process the millions of ideas rushing through my mind, she said, "Let's finish," and she slid from underneath me.

I hated the next fifteen minutes because none of the tasks brought our bodies together. What hurt even more was seeing her beautiful body near me, or catching her eye and receiving that astonishingly wonderful smile.

When we got to the last part, when the inflatable was in its storage shape but too much air remained, Miss Z sat in front of me, and we bounced while I held her waist. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed her back had arched a bit more. Her butt pushed into my crotch more firmly.

Cripplingly hard in my shorts, Miss Z said, "Let's finish facing each other." We rose and walked to our final air removal spot. She spun to me. Her eyes found the distortion in the front of my shorts but didn't linger. She took my hands in hers, and we sat, facing one another. She spread her knees wide; I scooted closer. She took my shoulders and I took her hips.

"Ready?" she asked, grinning like a teenager.

I nodded.

We bounced. She laughed.

I wanted to swear at what I saw--the heavy jogging of her big fucking tits in that tank top. Embarrassed by my ogling, I found her eyes. They were locked onto mine, and they shined like stars above her smile.

We finished and put away the last inflatable. Miss Z suddenly took my hand, and whispered, "Come on, Ben!" She ran like a kid. We ran. She took me behind the school. Backing into the shadows against the brick wall, her dark blue eyes blazed when she pulled me close, and we kissed.

I didn't think to touch her until I felt her hands under my shirt, exploring my stomach and chest. Instantly, my hands went to her tits. I groaned into her mouth when they filled my hands.

With a gasp, Miss Z drew back. "Ben," she breathlessly whispered, "do you remember what you told me in your apology speech--about what happened to your penis during my class?"

Oh, fuck, I liked hearing her say the word "penis." "Yeah," I said, releasing her tits.

She snatched my hands and returned them to her chest, saying, "Tell me. Did you ever please yourself, thinking about me?"

"You mean--masturbate?"

She nodded.

"Yeah."

"At night in bed?" she asked with mounting excitement.

I squeezed those fucking tits, nodding.

"And your imaginary me, she made you ejaculate?" Miss Z's breathing was quiet, deep, and rapid. Her eyes searched mine, waiting for an answer.

"Yeah."

"Oh, Ben!" she moaned, immediately kissing me. Our tongues caressed.

Willing to give up her tits for a brief moment, I slid my hands behind her and gripped her ass. Full, curvy, and soft, her butt was designed for hands. I groaned like I'd just taken a bite of warm cherry pie topped with cool vanilla ice cream.

There was almost too much for my mind to adequately process--the kissing, her body, her excitement at knowing I jerked off about her, the danger of being barely hidden behind the school. It didn't seem real--or it was so real as to be doubtful. That sense of disbelief peaked when Miss Z's fingers began rubbing my cock over my shorts. Up and down twice, it happened.

Then with a plaintive moan, she broke the kiss and vanished.

She was on her knees, dragging her fingers along the protrusion in my shorts. She looked up at me and begged me to tell her about a time when I made myself ejaculate, thinking about her.

I tried, but it was difficult because telling a story while a woman is pulling your cock out of your shorts presents focus challenges. "I--I would think about staying after school to finish something for you or to ask you about an assignment," I began.

"Yes," she said, wrapping her long fingers around my girth. "What happened next?"

I cursed because she was stroking me. "You had me sit at a desk, and you were behind me--like, over my shoulder, answering my questions and--oh, shit, Miss Z."

She was kissing my cock. "Go on, Ben."

"I could feel your tit--your breasts--on my back and they were big and soft and--."

"And you grew erect?" she asked. Her tongue dragged up the underside.

I nodded, gasping.

"What did I do?"

Swallowing, I huffed, "You saw it, but you weren't mad. You took off your--holy shit--your glasses."

"Did I suck on your penis, Ben?"

Almost panting, I told her she gave me a blowjob. Then, I swore because Miss Z began giving me my very first one--a moaning, slurping first blowjob.

I wish I could tell you it was a ten or fifteen-minute affair with all kinds of techniques deployed. That would be a lie. I lasted less than a minute. Gasping, I began stammering out words of warning when she pulled off.

"Where did you ejaculate when you imagined me, Ben? On my breasts? My face? In my mouth?"

"In your mouth," I uttered, panting.

"Oh, my," Miss Z whispered. "Did I swallow your semen?"

I nodded; she smiled at me, opened wide, and dove deep.

And holy fucking shit, she did. I watched her from above. The base of my cock--what little I could see beyond her lips--twitched. Miss Z hummed, and then I felt her throat gyrate on the fat tip. It happened again. It kept happening. My mind was white fire.

My knees shuddered, and I needed to lay down before I fell. She didn't let me. As the thrumming abated, she pulled her lips back to the tip and sucked with a force that made me curse again. After a final gulp, she pulled off and sat back on her heels, wiping her lips and gasping.

I went to my knees before her, and though it may seem strange, I wrapped her in a hug.

Miss Z started laughing. "Oh, Ben," she cooed. "My sweet, dear boy!" My body was almost limp in her arms. She caressed my back and told me exciting things--things a young man wants to hear from a woman who had just done what she had done.

When she broke the hug, she took my face in her hands and kissed me firmly on the lips. Still holding my face, she said, "Not a word, dear--to anyone. Not to Trayvon. Not Kacey. No one, promise me?"

"I won't tell. I swear."

She kissed me again and, rising to her feet, said, "I hate to say goodbye, but I must before people begin wondering. So, good night for now, my sweet, and do stay in touch." She kissed the top of my head and left, skipping once and then striding out of sight with her ponytail bobbing.

I remained there for several minutes, recovering my strength. All the time I wondered if what happened had really happened. Then, I rose and returned to help load Dad's truck. The sticky feel of my limp cock in my boxer briefs buried any doubt as to the reality of my encounter with Miss Z.

I didn't say much to Dad as we loaded and tidied up; I wondered at Miss Z's motivations. What we'd done had been an enormous risk for her, hadn't it? Was she simply drunk and horny? Maybe. Did she have her eye on me, and once I graduated, she felt free to pursue? Not quite, I thought. This had something to do with my betrayal and redemption. She had, after all, brought up the words of my speech when we made out.

Made out! I thought with astonishment. Gotten a fucking blowjob from Miss Z! I could not stop the smile that unfurled as I carried two fold-out tables toward Dad's truck. I decided I didn't give a shit why she liked me. That she did was all that mattered because I wanted to see her again. And again.

***

I started an email to Miss Z at her school address that evening, but I quickly stopped, remembering that her school email was not exactly private. Starting over, I wrote, "Amazing seeing you at the Carnival, Miss Z! Thank you so much for your help! If I had some questions about college English papers, how can I best reach you?"

The next morning, I discovered that she had responded first thing in the morning. "Ben, it was wonderful seeing you again last night. I loved every minute of our time together. Delighted to help you with your questions, but I don't often check this email address during the summer." Then, she gave me her personal email.

I sent a note to her personal email before leaving for work. It was Saturday, and Dad's company had another fundraising event.

I began, "Hey, Miss Z. Got your note and--." I stopped writing. What do you say in these situations? Miss Z wasn't some girl; she was a grown woman. Do you ask them out on a date? Would she even appear in public with a kid like me? Should I thank her for the blowjob? And she was an English teacher, too. Did she expect me to produce something flowery and beautiful?

Fuck that. Be simple. Be normal, I decided.

"--really hope to see you again sometime soon," I continued. "Working for my Dad again today at Barnesville Daze. More inflatables!" I signed and sent it. Her reply came to my phone later that morning while I was setting up our floating duck carnival game.

Ben,

Lovely to hear from you so soon. Though I won't be helping you with the inflatables in Barnesville tonight, I'll certainly be thinking of you. I hope you'll think of me, as well.

I hate to burden you with a request, but your message is timely for more than one reason. I may need your help. I'm having new carpet placed in my den on Monday, and the installers refuse to move the furniture for me. I only just learned my neighbor has a family situation and will be unable to assist me. I wonder if you might be willing to come to my home and move furniture tomorrow afternoon. Don't fret if you have a prior commitment, but do let me know as soon as you can.

Love,

A.Z.

I hit reply. "Yes. Would love to help. I don't have work on Sundays, and my afternoon is clear. Send me a time and your address, and I'll be there."

She did.

***

After mass on Sunday, I spent the remainder of the morning and some time after lunch doing what a fairly inexperienced eighteen-year-old boy does in such a situation: I readied my body to appeal to Miss Z.

I spent a long time cleaning my dick and balls. Then I realized I had to piss, so afterward I cleaned them again. Next, I realized that, if she wanted to suck my cock again, it would be best if there was absolutely no piss whatsoever in there, so I spent a long time standing over the john squeezing out little squirts and drops. Then, I cleaned everything a third time.

In the last few minutes before driving to her home, I debated whether deodorant or cologne ought to be applied to the region. I selected both. For the deodorant spray, I figured an extra spray couldn't hurt. Maybe two extra sprays. Oh, and one more for the backside. For the cologne, I put a touch on the pubes and one on each nut. Then, because she might kiss her way down there, I put another dab on my stomach and a final one on my chest.

Finally, I put on my best summer working clothes--ones that were tight enough to show my muscles--and I combed my hair.

Ready.

***

While our school was in the suburbs, Miss Z lived in the city. She had a small two-story townhome with a single-car garage on the south end. It was a nice little neighborhood, not far from the good restaurants and shops that drew visitors to the city's south side.

I parked in the driveway, went up the stairs, and she was waiting at the door for me with a smile in black yoga pants and a pink tank top.

So weird seeing her in civilian clothes again, but wow did I like what I saw.

She hugged me and kissed my cheek in the small foyer after she closed the door, asking if I needed anything to drink before we started.

Thanking her for the offer, I said, "I'm ready to go."

She showed me her den. A couch, two chairs, a circular coffee table, two end tables, and a few lamps would need to be moved. Not so bad, especially because she had already cleared off, emptied, and cleaned up everything.

"I like your home," I told her as she led me through the kitchen to her dining room at the back of the house. She thanked me, and with her arm around my waist, she pointed to the dining room saying we would move all of the furniture from the den in here.

"So," I surmised, "we'll move this table and these chairs and stuff into the corners to make space for the furniture from the den?"

"Exactly," she said.

"And that's all?"

She turned to me with a smile that seemed to wonder how I could ever doubt her. "No. That's not all. Afterward, I've got to feed my handsome worker," she said, "so I took the liberty of ordering us a pizza."

"Okay--thanks."

"Shall we begin?"

In twenty minutes, we were done. I liked how Miss Z didn't seem to mind the physical labor, seemed to thrive by it, actually. Her tan cheeks grew pink and glistened. She didn't need breaks; she threw herself into the next task. Her large butt carried her around with gusto. Her heavy chest jostled when she lifted and hauled.