Dog Star’s

 

TEACHER

All I ever wanted to do was teach.  While growing up, school wasn’t a place of dread, it was a place of wonder.  Why other kids couldn’t see that was beyond me.  I didn’t just study my subjects, I studied teachers too.  I collected the idiosyncrasies and nuances that made my favorite teachers good at their job.  I went off to college, studied to become a teacher, and upon graduation, was in front of a junior high Social Studies class—and in heaven.

That age is an awkward one to teach; moving from ’tweens to teens can be traumatic, just ask me.  My mom always said I was a “late bloomer,” which in her language meant I was skinny, had no breasts, and a complexion of volcanic proportions.  Needless to say my teenage years were spent in introverted solitude.  Books were my friends, and they substituted nicely for the flesh-and-blood kind who could not be so assuredly counted on.  Nobody asked me to my prom, which was probably a good thing, since I would’ve been a basket case anyway.

When I went off to college I had dreams of meeting Mr. Right, but those dreams always took a back seat to my teaching aspirations.  In four years I never came close to the guy anyway.

The late bloomer finally bloomed.  Now in my thirties, my complexion cleared up and I liked what I saw in the mirror.  I wasn’t going to be in Hollywood soon, but I thought of myself as pretty.  I was still too skinny according to my mom, though she had no concept of working out and trying to remain fit.  My breasts no longer were nonexistent.  They were small but firm and upright, and my nipples could get very stiff when touched.  Of course I was the only one doing the touching.  When the movie “The 40 Year Old Virgin” was released, I wasn’t laughing.

Now with Facebook and Twitter and other social networking tools I’ve been able to remain in touch with former students.  I’ve always felt gratified by how many refer to me as their favorite teacher.  They keep me updated on how well they’re doing.  However, I don’t have much to tell them in return.  I teach.  I’m still single.  What I can’t tell them is that I sleep alone.

I know my fellow teachers have gossiped that I’m in the closet.  One tried to fix me up with her sister.  Naively, I went out to dinner with her, but felt embarrassed when I had to deflect her advances.  I felt so stupid afterwards, compounded by the fact a woman made a pass at me when no man had ever done so.  I really cried that night.  I never gave much thought to my ‘orientation,’ but I’d always dreamed of men so what could I say?  I settled into my life, accepting that I’d live my life alone; the virgin spinster.

When I read the posting on my FB wall, I smiled.  One of my current students, Helen Jinks, who other kids naturally yet ironically called “Hijinks,” wrote on my wall “I can never say to your face how much I appreciate you as a teacher.  You’re the best (and the prettiest) I just wanted you to know.”  Calling her Hijinks was ironic because she was far from living up to that moniker.  She was a quiet girl, small for her age both in stature and sexual development.  It was disconcerting to me how girls today seemed to reach puberty by ten, sprouting breasts at eleven that I would have been happy with at nineteen.  Helen looked more like she was an eight-year-old.  I liked her.

I answered her with a “Like” and posted that she was one of my favorite students.

Our Facebook exchange must have emboldened her somehow, for she approached me the following day after school, asking me if we could talk.  We walked outside to a bench as hordes of students headed home or to their assigned bus.

“You won’t miss your bus, will you?” I asked her.

“No, Miss Kyle.  My mom is going to pick me up after work.  I usually wait here.”

“Okay, what is it you’d like to talk about?”

“Did you get picked on when you were a girl?”

The question took me aback.  “Maybe a little bit.  Why?”

“The girls all make fun of me because I’m small and I have no boobs like they do.  Did that happen to you?  I mean, you’re so pretty and you have a nice shape so I doubt it, but, like, I have to ask.”

 “First off, thank you for saying that about me.  I appreciate it.  As for being picked on, I didn’t have breasts—and please don’t say boobs, that’s demeaning to a woman’s body—until I was maybe fifteen, I think.”

“Fifteen?  Wow, but you have big ones now,” she said so matter-of-factly, though it made me blush.

I wanted so much to build up this girl’s self-esteem, remembering so painfully my growing pains.  “It’s wrong to say you don’t have breasts.  I bet you have nice ones.  Would you rather have cow breasts like Gina Walker?  Oh, please don’t tell her I said that!”

We both laughed hysterically.  “Cow breasts” she said, and laughed some more. 

I put my arm around her and hugged her to me.  “Don’t let the other girls get to you, Helen.  You’re the cutest girl in class, and when they’re all old and fat you’ll be thin and have a great shape, and then you can pick on them.”

“I hope I look like you when I grow up.”

That was the nicest compliment of all.

We stayed on the bench until her mom picked her up.  We talked about many things but boys wasn’t one of them, which was a good thing because I couldn’t give her much advice on that subject, could I?

Our after school bench talks became a ritual after that day.  Whenever she felt troubled or one of the girls picked on her she’d tell me all about it and I would try to offer advice.  One day she asked me if I was married.

“No, Helen.  I’ve never met the right man, I guess.”

“That’s kinda sad, Miss Kyle.  You’re so pretty and nice.  Men must be stupid not to ask you out.”

I brought up boys with her, and her only comment was “I don’t look at boys.”  Maybe to her, boys were as stupid as the men who ignored me.

One day she had a gigantic paperboard construction with her, declaring it her History class project.  “Is that going to fit in your mom’s Honda?” I asked.

“I didn’t think of that.  Maybe it won’t,” she said, sizing up her creation.

“Why don’t we call your mom and tell her I’ll take you home?  It’ll fit in my car, I think.”

“I don’t have a cell phone, Miss Kyle,” she said, but by then I already had mine out and she gave me her mother’s number to punch in.  Her mom seemed surprised but happy I would bring Helen and her project home.

Her mother seemed nice, though the apartment was a bit unkempt for my taste.  She voiced her appreciation as I helped Helen carry the construct to her bedroom.  “You have a nice room,” I told Helen, though it was small and cramped.  I wasn’t going to comment since I could see how she tried to keep it neat and orderly.  The other thing I noticed was the lack of posters on her walls.  When I was her age I had all the requisite teen heartthrobs up on mine.  “Is this where you do your homework?” I asked.

“Not often,” she answered solemnly.  “Our computer is in the living room, so that’s usually where I do my homework.”

I’d noticed the old HP on the way in.  “With the television on?”

“Yeah, it’s like, my mom’s gotta watch her shows.”  It’s a wonder she did so well in school.  I saw my own way out of the apartment.

The following day after school, we were once more on our favorite bench.  “Do you like to swim?” I asked Helen.  “I belong to the Y and they have a nice pool.”

“I don’t swim that good,” she said.

“That’s ‘I don’t swim very well’.”

“Yes, Miss Kyle.”

“Do you have a swim suit?”

“I got one last year, but I think it’ll still fit.”

“Excellent,” I said, “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning and we’ll go swimming.”

When I picked her up on Saturday, she was both excited and apprehensive, her apprehension probably because I was a teacher, and thus an authoritarian figure.  We both had our bathing suits on under our clothes.  As we undressed in the ladies’ locker room, I saw that her one-piece suit was as modest as mine; ‘modest’ being a synonym for plain and unflattering.  That said more about me than the young girl.

She swam better than she’d claimed.  We horsed around, and I felt rejuvenated being with her.  When we were tired and waterlogged, I led her to the showers that were adjacent to the locker room.  She was reluctant to remove her suit in front of me, but I assured her it was a natural thing to do and she shouldn’t be nervous about it.  Under the shower’s mostly tepid spray, I glanced over to see her staring at me.

“Oh, Miss Kyle, you are so pretty.  I wish I looked like you.”  Her flattery was tempered by the fact she was looking at me below the waist, not my face.

I’m probably the most naïve thirty-something woman around, but I knew she was looking at me sexually.  What was most troubling to me was how I was reacting to it.  I was flushed, hot—and I was looking back at her.  The curve of her buttocks.  The small nubs that were her budding breasts.  Her pudgy pubis with its soft, thin down of just-sprouting hair.  Her moist lips, her mouth slightly open.  God, I felt it, the stirring within me that I hadn’t felt in so long.  Shit this was wrong!  But I sank to me knees in the shower and let her come to me.  I kissed her, using my tongue unlike anything she’d experienced so far in her young life.  She cupped a breast and I moaned with long-dormant yearning.

“We should get dressed before someone comes in,” I whispered.

She continued her star-struck stare as we toweled dry and re-dressed.  It wasn’t until we were in my car that she said, “You…you like me…like that…”

“You mean the same way you like girls?”

She nodded.

“Then, I guess I do.  Would you like to see where I live?”

She nodded more vigorously.

On the way to my apartment, she tried to put into words her same-sex desire.  Since she didn’t know much about sex, words mostly failed her.  Once there, we went to my bedroom where I quickly undressed and let her explore my body.  Helen was totally captivated.  She touched every part of me.  When she caressed my breasts, I moaned.  When she ran her fingertips between my swollen and wet labia and brushed against my clitoris, I creamed.

Her clothes came off rapidly after that.  She asked me what I was doing when I slid my tongue into her delicious, pudgy folds.  “You’ll see,” was my answer.  I didn’t remember anything sexual from when I was her age.  Could she orgasm?  I was determined to find out.

It took a while for her to relax enough to let it happen, though eventually it did.  “Ohhhhh, Miss Kyle!  It feels so good!” she exclaimed.  I probed her immature vulva until her hips twitched and I felt the moist, pulsing contractions envelop my tongue.  She was very pleased with the outcome.  We lay together and played with each other’s nipples.

She admitted her attraction to girls and older women.  “I always thought I was weird or something, like I wanted to feel every girl’s breasts to see what they were like, and I wanted to touch them all…down there.”

I confessed to her that my attraction to her caught me by surprise.  “I never thought I’d like sex with a girl, so maybe I was just fooling myself.”

“What you just did to me was sex, Miss Kyle?”

“Please, Helen, while we’re not in school you can call me Emma.  Yes, that was sex.  It’s one of the ways a woman has sex with another woman.  I’m glad it made you feel good.  The ‘feeling good’ part is called an orgasm, and that’s what you had at the end.”

“Can I make you feel good…give you an…orgasm?”

“I’d like that,” I said, spreading my legs for her.  She was tentative at first, which was to be expected.  I urged her to lay on top of me in a 69 fashion, and guided her little tongue to my aching clit.  As she licked, I used my fingers on her cute vulva that was so beautifully open there before me.  Unlike anything before in my limited experience, I was mesmerized by the sight of her immature pussy with its sparse, pubescent down.  I explored the young girl’s mysteries, moist inch by moist inch.  My fingertip gently massaged her intact hymen, wondering if any male would ever shred this precious piece of tissue.

Helen’s clit and g-spot were obviously very sensitive, for she climaxed long before I did.

After I lovingly wiped my juices from the girl’s lips with my fingers, she asked me, “You only have a small patch of hair down there.  Do you shave it?”

“That and an occasional bikini wax.”  I had to explain that one to her.

“I don’t like hair…can you show me how to shave?”

I took her into my shower along with my shaving paraphernalia and proceeded to teach her, first by shaving off my landing strip along with surrounding stubble, and then shaving her sparse growth.  After we showered, we stood before the mirror and admired our new, bald look.  We couldn’t help ourselves.  Another luscious 69 ensued.

In the car on the way to her apartment, I reminded her that she couldn’t tell anyone about what we had done.

During the following week, we met on “our” bench after each school day.  One day I whispered to her, “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

She leaned close to me and whispered back that she’d had “funny” dreams, waking up “wet” and “itchy.”

“Your body has had a couple of orgasms, and now you crave more,” I said, making sure no one was within earshot.

“Can we?” she asked.

I grinned.  “Go swimming, you mean?”

“Oh, yes!” she said aloud, her butt squirming on the bench.  I bet she’d wet her panties thinking about last Saturday. 

I waved to her mother as she pulled up to the school.  “Ask your mom if you can go swimming with me again this Saturday.  We’ll make it a special day.”  The look in her young eyes said everything.

Come Saturday, after we swam and then hit the showers, Helen looked up at me under the adjacent shower head and whispered, “They shave too,” indicating two older teens who were showering, and giggling, across from us in the Y’s communal shower.  Both girls were blonds with large breasts, and indeed were both shaved smooth.

“Would you like to have sex with them?” I asked after seeing the way she was staring at them.

She looked back at me and said, “They’re pretty, but I’d rather have sex with you.”

And that’s what we did.  In my bedroom, I got out an old vibrator of mine, and after checking to find the batteries were still good, I taught my young student a new lesson.  She may be small for her age and have no breasts to speak of, but she was the quickest and loudest cummer in the world.  I never orgasmed anywhere close to how fast she did.  For about the next hour or so we were the mismatched, mutual masturbation duo.  I used the vibrator while she watched me, using her fingers on herself.  Boy, did we make noise!

I wanted nothing more than to have those lithe little legs wrapped around my head while my tongue was between her pink labia.  Giving for me was secondary to taking; as much as I loved her concentration on my needs, making her cum was my greatest pleasure.  Wasn’t that what makes a teacher special?

Alas, one day Helen found a girlfriend closer to her own age.  What should have been a sad time wasn’t really so bad, since I had other female students who were searching for their sexual identity while tweeting that I was their favorite teacher.  Like I said earlier, this middle school age was an awkward one.  Pubescent, with all the accompanying hormones raging through their systems, and yet not knowing what to do.  So I taught them.

All I ever wanted to do was teach.  I’m discovering how good I truly am.

“Ohhhhhhh, Miss Kyle…I’m gonna cummmmmmmmmmmm!”

Ah, sweet music to my ears!

 

© 2011   Dog Star         [email protected]

 

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