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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.

“I love that part so much!” I purred. “The way his knot pulls against my entrance as he's thrusting! Holding him inside so he can't pull away!” I shuddered with arousal, imagining just how I knew it felt as I watched it happening to my own mother instead. “You should play with your clitty, Mom,” I told her. “Brucie's way faster to cum than Daddy is—you probably won't be able to get off on the fucking alone, not unless you help yourself out. In fact...” I thought about it, then moved to act, resting my palm on her mound and using the tips of my fingers to tickle her clit. “Actually, never mind; I'll do it for you this time. You just concentrate on how good it all feels, and try to let yourself cum!”

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.