The Devil and Mr. Johnsonbyjake501©
Isabelle loved her job. She loved working with kids. It was stressful, yes, but satisfying. It was hard teaching young kids, in general, but add disabilities, and it was a new level of worry. Still, she collected the smiles she received from her pupils, and cashed in on the days when she made an honest break through. It was rewarding. She felt good.
It also made it easier to be bad when she got home. After work, she shed the good teacher role and let her sexual side loose. She loved her body. Loved the way it felt to be touched or to touch herself. She had a whole life online. A secret she led in view of anyone who knew her web address. Just as she loved the way her job made her feel good, she loved the way strangers' eyes made her feel bad.
There were some days she didn't know who the "real" her was. And maybe she didn't care. Or maybe she felt the real her was both sides. The light and dark. Safe and dangerous. The saint and the sinner.
Of course, it was hard to keep them separate. Hard to hold back one for the other.
At work, she'd find herself talking to the dads after school. They loved her. Loved her youthful looks. Loved the way her blouse hung to her curves. Loved the way her skirt fit around her tiny waist. Loved the way her sandy blonde hair always swayed when she walked. Fathers are notorious for avoiding school, but for some reason, when they were fathers to kids in her class, they always found an excuse to be there. Always had one question.
Isabelle didn't mind. She liked the eyes. She loved men, even the dads with the bellies and the cheap suits. She loved knowing they wanted her. She had fantasies about their lives, married to women who were older and less sexual. Women who had kids and settled into the "mom" role. Isabelle was not the mother. She was the youth. The spark. The fantasy. The thing the men thought about when they locked themselves in the bathroom and jerked off before family dinner.
It started innocently enough. She'd smile and talk to them. Sometimes, if they said something funny, she'd reach her hand out and pat them on the arm. She'd always run to the restroom before the final bell, just to touch up her makeup. Check her hair. Straighten her skirt or pants. She'd take her time leaning over to pick up a toy or a piece of paper or her pesky keys, which always seem to fall right when the men showed up. Their eyes bore into her. She relished the stolen glances, the nudges from one man to the other.
Mr. Johnson was different, though. He was a little older than her average dad. In his early 40s, probably. But he still was in good shape and carried himself with that youthful gait of an athlete. She had seen him at her gym and sometimes in her yoga class. She admired him, thought he was handsome.
She'd try to flirt, of course, but he never seemed interested. He'd always nod hello, but he rarely talked to her. And when he picked up his daughter, he'd never linger. Never stare.
The school year ended, but Isabelle still had a week of work before she had the summer off. Some teachers used this time to get ahead or catchup, but most just goofed off. Isabelle brought her laptop and, with a closed classroom door, she let her bad girl visit the school, with the occasional posting or photo on her blog.
She was sitting at her desk around noon when someone knocked on her door. She shut the laptop closed. Stood up. Adjusted her jeans and tank top -- her favorite; it was red and hugged her body just right.
Come in, she said. It was Mr. Johnson. He must have come from the office, because he was wearing a nice suit. Most of the dads wore clothes bought off the rack, but Mr. Johnson always had a tailored suit, cut just right to show off his athletic build. Today he was wearing a dark blue one, with a white dress shirt and red tie. The dark color highlighted his salt and pepper hair. Isabelle found him very sexy.
"Hi Mr. Johnson. What are you doing here? Is Lisa OK?"
"She's fine. May I come in?" She said of course, and sat behind her desk. He leaned against one of the small desks.
"I wanted to see you, actually."
"Yes." He stared at her in a way that she found exhilirating. He had light blue eyes that penetrated her. This was the most she had talked to him the entire year.
"I am a fan of your work."
"Thank you. Lisa is great to work with. She came a long way this year."
"Yes. You are a great teacher. ... But I meant your other work."
"I'm not really sure what you mean."
"Your website. I've visited it. You are quite lovely."
Isabelle's mind raced. If anyone found out about her site, she'd lose her job, certainly. It was just a place to unwind and share some thoughts, but she'd post pictures. Write out fantasies. She was always careful to cover her face, not share too much. She thought.
"I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you're, I mean, maybe you have me confused."
"No. No. It's you. I didn't realize it until I saw you at the gym two weeks ago. In the yoga class, you stretched and I saw the small tattoo at the base of your back. I recognized it."
Isabelle blushed, not sure how to proceed. He wasn't saying this in a threatening way, more like how someone would explain the plot of a movie. He was proud of his discovery, of his understanding. Still, she was afraid of what it might mean. But that other part -- the bad girl part she kept locked away at work -- was thrilled to be exposed.
"You can't tell anyone ..."
"I wouldn't ..."
"... because I'd be fired."
"You're safe. I am a fan. I look at your photos often. My wife and I, we are together for my daughter, but we sleep in seperate rooms. We barely speak. Our marriage is a facade. YOU are my sexual outlet."
Isabelle swallowed hard, a slight moan escaping her lips. This man, who she thought never watched her, never noticed, had been, in the privacy of his room. She was his ritual. She was his fantasy. The good girl side, that loved to help, and the bad girl side, that loved to be the center of attention, were both satisfied with his confession.
"Well, I am happy you are a fan. But I'm not really sure why you are telling me this."
"Because I need to fuck you."
"Mr. Johnson. I can't. We can't."
"Yes, we can. I read your blog. I know what you think about when you are here, in class, after school. I know how you love for the men to watch you. I know your fantasies about being dominated. I know you are a bad girl."
Isabelle's panties were wet. She crossed her legs and felt her cream drip down her thighs. Mr. Johnson stood up, taking off his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He walked around to her side of the desk. Isabelle was unable to move. He stood beside her, turning her swivel chair toward him. "We can't," she said, the doubt in her voice obvious.
He took off his jacket, unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt. He leaned in to her, really close, she could smell his cologne. She felt his hands on her arms, pulling her back. Her breathing was heavy as his face grazed hers, inhaling. He kissed her lightly on the neck, pulling her hands behind her back -- around the chair -- tying them together with his neck tie.
"Please," she said, a slight moan escaping her mouth as he nibbled on her ear. He stood back up. She could see the bulge in hit suit pants -- cut just right to show off his impressive package -- it throbbed as he stood before her. He reached down, unfastening her jeans. She didn't struggle, lifting slightly as he pulled her jeans and panties off, throwing them aside.
Good teacher? Bad girl? Who was she now? What was she doing, stuck between her two roles.
Mr. Johnson dropped to his knees, lifting her legs around his shoulders, scooting her ass closer to the edge of the seat. Isabelle had waxed the day before, her bare pussy dripping with her own cum. She could smell her sex. Knew how hot she was.
She felt his tongue on her lips, licking her, sliding into her. She moaned and tossed her head back as he fucked her with his mouth, lapping up her sweetness.
Mr. Johnson knew how to give head. He was eager but gentle, and when his mouth moved up to lick and suck her clit, his fingers eagerly fucked her. He curved an index finger, teasing her g spot as he sucked her clit. It was too much. But just enough.
She came, hard. Her thighs clamped around his head as he sucked eagerly. "UUUNNNGGGHHH" she said, stifling her need to scream -- she was normally loud in bed -- feeling herself gush all over him and enjoying that sensation.
He continued to lap after she came, enjoying the taste of her. Finally his tongue stopped, and she was slightly dissapointed.
Her hands still tied behind her back, he stood up, his legs on either side of hers. Slowly, he unfastened his belt, unzipping his pants, pushing them down. He was wearing black boxers, and the outline of his thick, hard cock was obvious underneath.
He pulled his shorts down, his cock popping out, bobbing before her. She licked her lips, instinctively. She loved sucking cock.
He grabbed his dick with one hand, her head with the other. He teased her lips, pulling back when she tried to open for him. Instead, waiting for her to calm down and tracing his tip around her lips, letting the precum drip off.
When she proved she could be good, he let her have what she wanted, saying "Open." She obeyed.
He slid his warm cock in her mouth. He was so thick, she had to adjust to his size. Both of his hands were in her hair, brushing it back so he could see her face. "Look at me," he ordered. She looked up as her head bobbed back and forth on his dick.
He pulled her hair slightly, causing her scalp to burn. His hips thrust, fucking her face faster, harder. She relished feeling so used, so completely filled. She lapped at him, trying to keep up, taking swipes underneath his shaft and at his balls when she could. All the while, she kept his gaze, thrilled to be watched.
"Fuck," he said, breaking away. "Stand up."
She did, her hands still tied behind her back. He pulled her tank top up, over her head so her breasts were exposed. She was almost completely naked. His mouth licked and sucked her tits, taking in each of her sensitive nipples. Her breasts were not huge, but they were perfect -- perky and pointed up. She thought about his wife.
He kissed her for the first time, his mouth eager. She tasted her cunt on his lips, his tongue. He was a great kisser. She melted at his forcefullness, his determination.
"I have to cum," he said, breaking away. He leaned her over her desk, face down, her nipples hard against the cool wood. She felt his hands on her ass, squeezing, spreading her legs apart. She felt his hand reaching for her pussy, fucking her gently to make sure she was still wet. She always was.
His cock was thick and his head spread her apart. Then she felt the full length of him inside, fucking her gently at first, then harder.
His weight was on her, and it was a little uncomfortable, with her arms behind her back. Sensing this, he loosened the tie, letting her push her hands forward, bracing herself. Now she was able to meet his thrusts, pushing her cunt back.
She heard him grunting, his hands on her hips, pulling her back and forth. She felt his balls slapping against her clit, his stomach pressing against her ass and back. Fuck, he felt so good. His dick was hitting her just right. She knew she was going to cum again.
"Oh shit," she whimpered, clamping his cock tight. "Uuuunnnfff."
She was too much. He was close. "Where do you want me to cum?" he asked. "My stomach or back," she said.
He pulled out, flipping her over, sliding back into her. Her legs circled his hips, pulling him into her pussy. She ground against his cock, loving the feeling of him thrusting in and out, teasing her clit.
"SHIT!" he said, a little too loud, his face turning red. He pulled out, his dick glistening with her cum. He stroked it as she watched, his fingers milking his shaft as rope after rope of cum shot out, all over her flat stomach and perky tits, covering her in his spunk. It was warm. She felt both good and bad.
"Good girl," he said.
She was spent, her hands tracing his cum over her stomach, her tits. She was a mess. "Wow," she said.