His Teachings (Pt. 1)

There is always that one teacher that captivates you in school.
The one that you day dream of in class.
The one that you pay extra attention to.
That teacher that embodies everything you would want in a man or woman.
For me, that teacher was Mr. Jones. Brian Jones was my 29 year old anatomy teacher when I was in high school. I was in love with him. Everything about this man was perfect in my eyes. Well dressed. Articulate. Handsome. Funny. Charming. Sexy. Intelligent.
He was what I wanted my dream husband to model. Mr. Jones was tall with smooth brown skin and a smile that would make you melt. He was well build thanks to the fact that he was a black belt. He was always put together and seeing him sent shockwaves through my body. I had to sit in class with my legs crossed because of my pulsating pussy. That’s how sexy he was. However, he did have one fault, he was married. I didn’t know who she was, but I loathed her existence. It made me cringe to think that he was going home to her night after night. And I knew for a fact that she did not give it to him like he deserved. A strong black man cannot be satisfied by a little white lady. That is when I made it my mission to show him all that he was missing.
I’m a smart girl, so I knew that having sex with my teacher was out of the picture. We could both land in serious trouble. But some things are meant to happen; this was one of those things.
One chilly fall afternoon is when my dreams and I believe his, came true. The leaves had just changed to somber colors of orange, yellow, and red. The air became crisper making people long for companionship and someone to keep them warm. It was nearing five and I had just finished cheerleading practice. I headed to his room to do a lab I had missed a few days prior.
This wasn’t planned. I did not deviously concoct a plan to seduce my science teacher. You could tell judging from my clothes. I had on sweat pants and a tank top with my curly hair in a ponytail. My clothes fit snug. Like most women, I have curves. A backside that would rival the Kim Kardashian’s and Beyonce’s. I have a thin waist, a flat stomach due to hundreds of crunches. And I have big breast and tan skin, typical Brazilian girl.
When I entered his room, he was setting up a microscope, expecting me to come any time soon.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. I had to coach the JV squad today,” I said sweetly
He turned around and stared at me. Sometimes you can’t help who you’re attracted to. And he was attracted to me. He was just in denial. He looked me over and smiled at me.
“It’s ok. But we have to do this quickly. We have to leave by eight.”
"That's fine," I said as i put down my gum bag. I took off my shoes for comfort and got ready to work. I walked over to him, his sense filling my nostrils. The scent of Ralph Lauren Polo. The scent of a man who worked hard and spent his money on things that satisfied him. I couldn’t take it. Just the smell of him was making the lips of my yoni flutter and moisten. I backed up and sat on a desk near him.
“I’m not going to bite you,” he said with a seductive smile, he was testing me. He was trying to see just how far I would go with our constant flirting.
I smiled back, “I like to be bitten.”
He was shocked by my response. But, I knew it turned him on.
He smiled back, “well, then I might just bite you.”
“Don’t start anything you can’t finish, I don’t think an old man like yourself can handle an 18 year old girl.”
“That’s funny. I’m not that much older than you, but i am wiser, and MUCH more experienced.”
He was testing me, and I liked it.
“You may be wiser, but experience doesn’t necessarily come with age.”
“True. But the more experienced you are at your craft, the better you perform it.”
“True. But that also depends on your craft.”
“What’s your craft?”
“Cheerleading, and yours?”
Before he answered, he stepped closer to me. Close enough to stand between my legs which were dangling from the desk. Close enough for his pulsating member to graze my thigh. Close enough to possibly feel the heat coming from my aching yoni. In a soft whisper he said,
“My craft… my craft, is the art of making a woman scream, shout, moan and wine. The art of making a woman call to god and his son to rescue. Rescue her from pleasure that makes her shake and tremble, curl her toes, and roll back her eyes. Pleasure that makes her say obscene things and makes her lose any conscious control of her body. Pleasure that will make her pussy sing a beautiful melody. All of which without ever even seeing my dick.”
My jaw dropped and a soft uncontrollable moan slipped from my mouth.
His words, so blatant and rigid. His voice, so deep, baritone, and manly. It sent shock waves down my spine straight to my clitoris. I could feel my pearl becoming more sensitive as I began to sense my own juices. His words penetrated me. I felt more from his words than I did having sex with these limp-dick teenage boys
I was speechless.
“Would you like to see my craft?”
ll I could do was nod. Nothing could escape my mouth.

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