My high school English teacher taught me much more than literature.

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“Now I really have a mess,” she said, handing me the box of tissues she kept on her desk. “That was pretty impressive.”

“Uh, okay,” I said, dropping my flaccid into my underwear and fastening my pants. I was fucked pretty stupid, but I started mopping my cum from her back with the tissues.

“You do that again and I am going to make you lick it up.”

I managed a laugh. “I don't think so,” dabbing at my cum. Mrs. B. impatiently grabbed a handful of tissues and quickly mopped my mess.

“Not like you're the first guy to cum on me. In I had four guys cum on me at once.”

“I can arrange that if you like.”

“Yeah, you wish,” she said with a smirk. She pecked me on the cheek. “Just you. But next time I want to be naked.” There she goes again with the “next time” stuff, I thought. “Now get out of here so I can clean up and come back to earth before my next class. I zipped up her dress as we went to the door. She twisted the lock, peeked into the hall to make sure no one was there and pushed me out. “I'll see you next class.”

Mrs. B. was definitely given to buyer's remorse. Each time she had with me, she would act really distant and embarrassed for awhile, trying to pretend nothing had happened, and trying to avoid being around me. I managed once to be alone in the room with her and I came up behind her and lifted her dress and squeezed her . She looked at me with a sad smile (and checked out the bulge in my pants),

“Don't make me do this today. I really can't keep doing this.” She pecked me on the cheek, looked at my cock one more time and hurried away.

After that, I assumed that we were not going to have sex anymore, and I went back to masturbating several times a day to cure my teenage horniness. What she did for me was amazing, exciting and very educational and I was grateful for that. I went out with other girls from , but just making out wasn't doing it for me anymore.

The school year was coming to an end and I was busying myself with spring sports. I was doing track and field, distance events like the 1,500-meter run. I also tried my hand at pole vaulting, which did not go well. I had to quit vaulting before I really hurt myself. One particularly grueling Friday at practice, I noticed Mrs. B. in the bleachers watching. Faculty often wandered out to watch teams practice or play, but Mrs. B was rarely among them. She lingered when the practice was over, so I went over to say hi. She seemed genuinely happy to see me, even though she had been quite aloof in class or in the hallway.

“Hey Mrs. B., what's up? Don't think I've seen you here before.”

“Oh Jim, it's a beautiful day and I wanted to be outside. I wandered over to see what you did after school.”

“Just running like the wind, don't ya know? Keeps me off the streets.”

“I heard through the grapevine that you were pole vaulting. I guess I missed that.”

“Shit yeah. That was a broken arm waiting to happen. I think my chest is too small and my ass is too big for that.”

Mrs. B laughed. “Your ass is perfect, Jim. I ought to know.”

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