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Mrs. B. was a great teacher for 10th grade English. Funny, engaging, personable—and a bit flirty. She was in her late-20s, just a couple years out of The University of Michigan, cute, nice body and flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She knew the boys all lusted after her and she did nothing to discourage our interest. Students even gave her a nickname, “Bubbles.” The administration was not pleased, but Mrs. B. didn’t seem to mind. She liked the attention. Oh, and I think that we actually learned a lot of English Lit between the horsing around.

This was many years ago, back when teachers could lay an encouraging hand on a student’s shoulder without being labeled a sex offender. Teachers could sit close by a student to help them with a hard concept, and no one thought anything of it. The boys flirted back with Mrs. B. and the girls got valuable lessons in how to attract boys’ attention and drive them crazy. It was fun. And, Mrs. B was married with a couple of young kids, not that it mattered. It was all just innocent fun.

“Okay, good,” I sighed with relief. I knew Mom would understand, but it was still good to have her word that she'd keep my secret until I was ready. “But, uhhh... in the meantime, whenever you go over to his place, if you wanted to make sure he fills your pussy with a nice big load just before you come back home... that would be okay, too.”“Is that so?” she chuckled, squeezing me tight under her arm and kissing my hair again. “I'll see what I can do.”