"Can't wait, huh?" I teased her.
Her hands slid down my chest until they reached my shorts and my thickening cock. "I need this," she whispered huskily. "Can I have it?"
"I don't know," I teased her again. "Have you been a good girl?"
She fumbled with my belt and zipper until she could pull my cock from my shorts. She wrapped her soft warm hand around it and looked up to me. "I'm never a good girl." She then took my cock deep into her mouth. No teasing tongue. No kisses. She took it deep.
"Damnnnn," I mumbled as I stumbled a bit. I caught my balance and enjoyed the sensations of Kacey sucking my cock. She knew exactly what she was doing. As I watched my cock going in and out of her soft pink lips, she would occasionally look up to me. I can think of few things more erotic than that.
I could have stood there forever. I could have cared less about the football game. I was in bliss.
Kacey, needed more however. She slid my cock from her mouth, and milked it a few times with her hands, then she stood up.
"Fuck me." She said in a demanding voice. "I need that big thing inside of me." She looked around quickly and her eyes settled on the small sofa. "There." She pointed.
She took the few steps to the side of the sofa. She slid her shorts and panties down in one swift move. She stepped out of one leg of her clothes and bent over the sofa arm. I was staring at her delicious bare ass as she looked over her shoulder at me.
"Come on," she urged. " We don't have a lot of time."
I walked up behind her and she wiggled her backside to me. She assumed the position. She was staring forward and her butt was arched up to allow me better access to her pussy.
Whack! She wasn't expecting that. My hand stung and her ass cheeks rippled with the force of the spanking I had just delivered.
"Hey!" She said in a stage whisper. "We don't have time for..."
Whack! Her ass jiggled again as I pulled my hand back.
"Mmph!" she moaned. "Seriously, we don't have time for that. Just fuck...."
Whack!
"Ohhhhhh!"
Whack!
"Mmmmmmnnnn!"
Whack! One last spanking and I quickly stepped behind her and slid my throbbing cock deep inside of her hot wet pussy. I mean I really slammed it home deep.
"Unhhhh!" she moaned as the breath rushed out of her.
I didn't move. I stood there on my toes, pressed against her bare ass, my cock deep inside of her. Hot. Throbbing. I tensed my muscles, making my cock swell inside her.
"Oh, yesssss!" she whimpered. "That's what I need. Do it. Slam into me."
I slid back, nearly out of her, and then slammed it in hard again. The breath rushed out of her as my cock pushed in deep. I leaned against her body, pressing her hard against the sofa.
"You need this?" I asked as I thrust into her. "You want this?"
"You know I do," she whimpered. "Please do it more. Fuck me."
I leaned over her back and whispered, "I was going to be mean to you and make you wait, but now I can't. Hold on."
I began rapidly humping into her, sliding my cock in and out, slamming it deep with each thrust. I didn't know it at the time, but her position against the sofa was pressing hard against her abdomen. Each thrust I slammed into her only served to press the arm of the sofa against her clit.
I don't know how I held out as long as I did, but as soon as I felt her pussy clench on me and knew she was coming, I stopped. I held my cock deep inside her as her orgasm took her. She shook and trembled and pushed back against me. She tensed up hard and then relaxed. That was my clue.
I quickly thrust in and out of her a few more times and then slid out and pushed hard against the cheeks of her ass as I came. I grabbed her bare hips and pulled her to me as I slammed against her. My cock spurted my cum onto her lower back. Luckily her shirt had risen upward or it would have been covered with my cum.
I actually stumbled back a few steps as I stood up. It was an awesome sight before me. She was helpless, bare assed with her shorts and panties still around one ankle. She was bent over the sofa with my hot cum cooling on her lower back and ass.
"A little help?" she said softly, wiggling her butt.
I looked around for something to clean her up with. Finding nothing, I pulled her shorts and panties from her foot and used the panties to wipe up my cum from her back. She finally stood and turned to me.
I held up the panties. They were covered with my cum. There was no way she could wear them tonight.
"You'll just have to go without," I told her with a smirk. I folded them tight into a ball and put them in the cargo pocket of my shorts.
"I'll want those back, ya know." She told me as she held the door open for me and the folding table I was dragging.
There was no denying the "freshly fucked" look on our faces as we came back into the cheer room. The girls all smiled at each other, but Kacey left them no time for questions.
"Let's go! Load up! We've got a game in two hours!" she yelled at them and they rushed to gather up their gear.
She called Kyla to her and whispered in her ear. Kyla smiled and went to get her cheer bag, letting the other girls go on ahead of her.
I shuffled out to the trailer with the folding table. It wouldn't fit. I tried several different angles, but it just wasn't going to work.
"Doesn't fit? Oh well," I heard Kacey say as she and Kyla came out the door. "We didn't really need it anyway."
Kyla held the door for me as I pulled the table out of the trailer and carried it back into the cheer room. Kyla closed the door as I stepped out. Kacey was already across the parking lot, heading for the cheer bus.
"Drive me to the bus?" Kyla asked.
"Hop in," I told her as I unlocked the truck. She opened the door and threw her cheer back inside and then climbed into my truck.
As I started the truck, Kyla looked over at me and said, "I told you she needed you." She had put a lot of emphasis on "needed."
"Kyla..." I began until she cut me off.
"No worries, Mr Davis." She said with a cute smirk. "What happens in the cheer storage room also stays in the cheer storage room."
Then she said quickly, "Drive slow!" I put my foot on the brakes and turned to her to ask why.
Kyla had braced her feet on the floor, raised her hips up and slid her spanks and panties down.
"Hey!" I whispered even though no one could hear. "What are you doing?"
She pulled them off from her ankles and separated the panties from the spankies, then slid the spankies back on.
Damn it was a sight to see! That sweet bare pussy just a foot or two away from me. She did the hip arch thing again and tugged the spankies back on just as I was pulling up to the bus.
"Here!" she said as she tossed me her panties. They were warm and moist in my hand.
I gave her a quizzing look, "What am I supposed to do with these?" I asked her.
She opened the truck door and slid down. She turned to me as she grabbed her cheer bag and said, "Well, you're a naughty man, so I can only imagine what you'd do with them. Kacey told me what you did with hers. I had to give her my extra spankies to wear tonight underneath her shorts."
"You, "she said with a smile, "need my panties to wrap around Kacey's that are in your shorts pocket. Your cum is starting to leak through."
She gave me a wink and smile as she closed the door. I looked down, and sure enough, as my shorts had tightened against my thigh, there was a slight damp spot.
Damnnnnn.
The End.
Extra Attention
My lust-addled brain swiftly reached a conclusion; his jeans needed to come off.
Immediately.
The top button was undone, his happy trail running from his bellybutton and disappearing down, like an arrow pointing to the Holy Grail. The prize in question was straining against its confines, and the idea that it was I who did this to him made me writhe underneath him.
"Please..." I begged, because that was what he h
ad reduced me to.
My hands were captive above my head by one of his; every inch of his body was strategically plastered to my naked form, pinning me to his desk and creating a delicious friction when he shifted. He turned me into a needy, frustrated mess underneath him with the skill of an artist.
"Please what?" He spat down at me.
The cords in his neck were strained, his blonde hair was damp, his lips were swollen and his eyes were black as pitch. His face would have been frightening if he hadn't spent the last forty minutes kissing, sucking, biting and licking every inch of my naked body. As it was, I knew he was simply trying incredibly hard not to unzip a little bit more and plunge himself into me.
Which was actually perfect, considering that was exactly what I wanted.
"Please...please..." my arguments, which seemed so coherent in my head, came out in garbled whimpers. "I'm ready now..."
He raised himself slightly, making sure my eyes were on his hand as he lowered it to his jeans.
"You're ready now?" He questioned darkly, and I nodded in response, eyes still fixed on his hand. When he started roughly rubbing himself through his jeans I heard myself moan, without any conscious knowledge of making the sound.
"I'm not sure I believe you. I've spent a great deal of time convincing you – rather eloquently, I feel - how much I want you. You remember my arguments? The ones where I used my teeth, and my tongue, and my fingers?" He was hissing at me, barely managing to get the words out as his hand continued to rub up and down his length.
I nodded more emphatically this time, looking up to meet his intense stare with a desperate one of my own. He ignored my frustration and finished, "and all you can say in response is 'I'm ready now'? Try a little harder."
"I want you to fuck me," I rasped shamelessly – because if this was what I needed to say to get to the Holy Grail – then say it I would. And just in case that didn't work, I pulled out the big guns; the words I know would get him every time. "I want you to make me your little slut, to own me."
His eyes, if possible, became darker, but instead of the harsh glare I expected to see, an amused smirk rose to his face while he shook his head at me.
"Baby," he snarled "I do own you." His tongue ran over my lips in an animalistic gesture of possession.
"But seeing as you don't seem to realize it yet, I think I can spend a couple more hours drilling the message in..."
"Miss Gavin?"
I was abruptly jolted from my day dreaming by the sound of my name being called.
"Sir?" I weakly responded, hoping I hadn't zoned out for too long.
When I looked up, I was met with a harsh, but all too familiar stare. "Personal narratives, first drafts due tomorrow."
I sighed with relief. Oh, just that. "Oh, can we turn them in early? I already have mine done."
As I pulled out the printed copy of my work and held it out for him to accept, Mr. Christiansen looked at me and his expression softened. When he took the assignment, our eyes made contact for a brief moment, causing me to shiver. There's no way he could know that I was just fantasizing about him. Right?
As he continued going over the requirements for the other students, I gathered my composure. I tried not to make a habit of letting thoughts of my English teacher run too wild when I was at school. I knew I wasn't the only one; in fact, some of the other girls would go as far as to hike up their skirts right before walking in to his class. If he noticed, he certainly didn't let on that he did. But of course it's not like he would just openly gawk at them, even if he did notice. I mean, they sort of frowned on that sort of thing; ogling the students.
While everyone wore uniforms at Chilton, it certainly wasn't hard to distinguish the group of girls who spread their legs for any and everything. While I also chose to hem my skirt as high as regulation would allow, I certainly didn't make a habit of going commando underneath, like a few others desperately vying for the attention of our extremely sexy, extremely unattainable teacher. Those girls were naive, though. Like he would risk his entire career, that he's obviously passionate about, for a slut in a skirt.
At 28, he was still relatable while managing to get his point across, so it was no surprise that he was overwhelmingly voted the students' favorite teacher every year. Because I was on an accelerated path, I was placed in AP English for my senior year. It took a paper almost 10 pages long to be accepted to the course, but I knew it would be well worth it. As far as college recommendations go, Mr. Christiansen only wrote them for the most dedicated students; and I planned on being one of them. My priorities always stayed on academics and sports, hoping maybe one of the two would pay off with a scholarship. As the school year drew to a close, I was already in pre-season for field hockey, and expected to be named All-State in the fall, as it would be my senior year.
The next day as we left class, Mr. Christiansen stopped me as I passed his desk.
"Miss Gavin, a moment?"
God, I loved hearing him say that.
"Yes, sir?"
"I'd like to discuss your paper with you if you have the time." He said taking a seat at his desk, bringing my paper to the top of the pile.
"Of course, is something wrong?" I nervously asked, running my hand through my hair. I couldn't really believe that since I double and triple checked that I met all the requirements.
"Not wrong, per se, I just wanted to discuss your topic with you."
I took a seat in the chair in front of his desk, automatically on edge. The personal narrative was supposed to be about something we were passionate about, and I chose field hockey. I'd been playing since grade 7, and dedicated a good amount of time to it year round, so it seemed like a no-brainer to write about.
"Your paper is well structured and well written, and it's of tamer subject matter, which I thoroughly appreciate; trust me," he joked, which led me to assume those pantyless sluts decided to write exactly what they were 'passionate' about. "But the assignment was to write about something that you are passionate about, and I didn't see a lot of passion in your paper."
"Is there something I can do to fix it?" I immediately ask, hoping I hadn't completely botched the assignment.
"No need to panic, Miss Gavin. You're an excellent student, and a very talented writer, but your paper lacks the conviction that needs to be present when writing about something you're passionate about. So, that said, I'd like you to choose a different topic," he explained calmly.
I think my face visibly fell. Start all over?
Fuck my life.
"I'm just not sure what else to write about," I admitted, biting my lip in frustration.
Start from scratch? Really?
"Is there an organization that you feel strongly about? Are you pro-life? Pro-healthcare?"
I shake my head and shrug in response. "I'm not very big on politics, and I'm not a member of PETA," I joke softly.
"What else do you like to do besides sports? Dig deeper," he probes with an encouraging stare.
I felt put on the spot. Did Mr. Christiansen really care if I was passionate about anything? I was passionate about fantasizing about him on a daily basis, but of course I couldn't write about that. Or ever admit that aloud.
"I like to dance."
He smiled and motioned for me to continue. "Tell me about that."
"I've been taking ballet classes since I was four years old, and I still do three days a week. I also spent half my summer in dance intensives." I shrug. This probably bored him to death.
"That's a lot of time to dedicate to one thing, why do you like it so much?"
I chewed my lip looking for the right words. I could feel his electric blue eyes imploring me for an answer.
"It's not fun, exactly, and it's never easy, but nothing makes me happier."
His eyebrows raised with intrigue, "interesting, why is that?"
"It's hard to explain, really. It's all about discipline and precision. The rules of classical ballet are very cut and dry; there's something comforting about
the structure while always striving for perfection. But you have to feel it and enjoy it, because if it's forced it will read that way in your movement. It's 50% of holding everything in, from your posture and center and controlling every move your body makes, but then it's 50% of just letting go, of feeling the music and using your whole body to convey emotion. But it's like, that sense of control that helps me let go and just feel it. It's euphoric."
I was completely sure that none of it came out coherently; there was no way he could understand any of that. I hesitantly looked up, knowing he was about to steer me in a different direction. His expression was completely was unreadable, and I already felt stupid enough for that overly descriptive explanation.
"I'm sorry, is that stupid?" I frowned.
Of course it was stupid, how could that make sense to anyone?
"Not at all," he assured, "it's very mature to be so aware of all those emotions. This is definitely what you should write about."
It was comforting for him to validate the way I felt, fulfilling even. I smiled in appreciation at his kind words and slowly lifted my gaze to his, feeling more comfortable in his usually nerve wrecking presence.
"Thank you for the feedback, sir. I really appreciate you taking the time to help me, especially if I can improve."
"You're a dedicated student, Ashton. I'm always happy to help; it's what I'm here for, you know." His lips turned up into a smirk, and I practically melted in front of him. His smile was about the sexiest thing ever.
"Well, I better go. I have rehearsal for Cotillion and they stone you on the spot if you're late." I joked hesitantly, not wanting this time to end.
"Cotillion?" he inquired.
"Yeah, you know, white dresses, large staircases, demure curtseys while the president of the Daughters of the American Revolution declares we are officially open for business."
Mr. Christiansen gave a hearty chuckle at my sarcasm.
"My sister's daughter is taking part in that, I think. It's at the end of the month, yes?"
"Yeah, right after finals are over with." I nodded.
"Well then good luck on walking down a staircase." He grinned as I stood up to leave the classroom.
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