{F18/M30+} I was a horny high school virgin, clumsily attempting to seduce my art teacher. | 2016

I was a bit of an outcast in high school. I had a very small group of close friends, almost all male, I smoked way too much weed, and I barely went to class. I preferred sitting in the woods behind the football field, getting high with the native guys on the reserve, trying to awkwardly flirt with the older ones who sold me dope. Weed has always made me extremely horny, and they were dark skinned and glossy eyed and strong. I would have given anything for one of them – any of them or all at once – to lay me down in the pine needles, lift my skirt, and fuck me hard into the dirt. I was just too shy to say so. At the time I was sure they saw me as a little sister, but looking back, I’m sure I could have had any of them I wanted. I was eighteen years old with pale, clear skin and auburn hair. I was surprisingly curvy for my slim frame. My D cup breasts had appeared so suddenly that year, I had no idea how to dress them with any kind of subtly. I was young, beautiful, and radiating with raw, unfulfilled sexuality.

Despite the fact that I wouldn’t lose my virginity until a few months after graduation, I’ll always cherish a scene in twelfth grade art class as one of the most erotic moments of my life. Mr. Wolf, our young art teacher, was the complete opposite of the native boys in the woods. He was shy, not particularly handsome – a tiny bit overweight with a bit of premature grey hair - but he had these thick veiny forearms that I obsessed over. When he’d roll up his sleeves, I barely heard a word of his lecture. I would cross and uncross my legs over and over under the desk, an unfamiliar aching discomfort between my thighs. He was composed, always reserved. I never skipped art class.

On the occasions where he would show us his personal art, I remember being struck by how raw and passionate it was. Mostly mixed media pieces with earthy tones and jagged textures, it revealed something in him that seemed completely at odds with the quiet, clean shaven man in argyle sweaters and brown loafers nervously flicking through slides at the front of the room. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Soon I started going to his classroom during lunch breaks – just to sit and write, work on my art, or listen to music with him. When he’d come up behind me to look over my shoulder at my work, his arms were so close I thought I might explode. I wondered if he could see down my top, and I frequently wore low tank tops just in case he wanted to steal a glance. Occasionally his hands would sort of brush mine or he’d grasp my shoulder while showing me something in an art book. I would obsess over this innocent contact and touch myself almost every night thinking about it. I came so easily back then – I’d only need to think about his hands on my body. I wished I could have told him what those slight touches did to me.

One afternoon, during the last few weeks of school, I went into his classroom to grab keys to the kiln room so I could pick up a sculpture I’d done. It was June, humid and sticky, and I wore a corduroy skirt so short a more rule abiding teacher might have sent me home to change. Mr. Wolf didn’t. He offered to take me to the kiln room himself. He opened the door and I walked in first – a small, windowless room, searingly hot even though the kiln hadn’t been used in days. I’m pretty sure I jumped a bit when I heard him shut the door behind us. I was too nervous to turn around. I reached into the open kiln to grab my sculpture, and of course, it was at the very bottom. I had to bend over and reach for it.

I felt the slightest touch of a hand on my waist - I’m sure at first he convinced himself he was steadying me while I reached inside the kiln – but as I grabbed my project and slowly straightened up, his hand traced down the side of my thigh. I’m pretty sure I nearly fainted from the swooning sensation I felt – like all the hot blood in my body rushed between my legs. My knees felt useless and I leaned forward again, against the side of the kiln. He pressed his front up against me and I felt him getting hard as he traced his fingers on my thigh along the hem of my skirt in the back, until he reached the joint of my legs. He very gently let his fingers reach under to feel my ass; with a touch so light he raised goose bumps all along the hottest parts of me.

He felt the lacy trim on my panties between my legs, rubbing back and forth, so close to where I wanted him. I couldn’t take it anymore and tried to reposition myself on his hand. I needed him inside me. I moved my hips back against him and heard him gasp. The sound of him losing control was almost enough to make me cum. His breathing quickened as I repeated the movement and he suddenly brought both his hands to my waist and pressed his hardness against me in two or three desperate, jerking thrusts. He moaned, and my legs almost gave out from pure desire.

And as quickly as it happened, it was over. He pulled away and I heard the door open and shut. I was left there, in the dark, shaking and unfulfilled. I graduated soon after, and I never saw him alone again.

To this day, at twenty four years old, I’ll recall this memory when I’m having trouble reaching orgasm, and it never fails to make me cum. I often try to daydream a better ending or a second meeting between us – but the reality of what happened is always the sexiest part for me. I never got my fuck in the forest, or a cum in the kiln room, but the wanting of something is sometimes satisfying in itself.

Thanks for reading,

Nina