Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20
After a dozen years, a retired teacher gives his student the spanking she deserves.
Barely 18-years-old and in the way of so many women my age, for as long as I can remember, I had a crush on my teacher, Mr. Martin. Actually, it was more than a normal crush. It was a sexual fantasy, even an anal fetish of sort. It all started when he spanked my ass with his bare hand through my clothes. Just as his spanking my ass enflamed my ass, his spanking aroused my sexual desire for him. His spanking my ass made me want to do dirty things to his body while he did dirty things to my body.
Fortunately, the spanking happened after school and, with no one else around, we were alone. No one saw him spank me. Thank God no one saw me get spanked. If anyone had seen me get a spanking, I would have been so embarrassed. Being so angry that he humiliated me, I probably would have reported him. Yet, with no one else witnessing the spanking, little did my teacher know that I enjoyed him spanking my ass, a gross understatement. I loved being spanked, punished, and disciplined.
What should have been just a spanking was so very much more than that. What should have been just punishment and discipline me was so much more than that too. I didn’t realize what the spanking triggered in me then until now that I have this unrequited sexual desire for my teacher to spank me again. Twelve years later, married with children and poised at the precipice to find him and to contact him, I needed him to spank me again.
“Oh, yeah, slap my naked ass teacher because I’ve been bad, very bad and I need to be disciplined. I need to be punished. I need to be spanked hard. I need to me your sexy slut.”
I was 18-years-old, a high school senior and chomping at the bit to graduate that part of my life to go on to college. Having lost my virginity, even having already given my first blowjob after my senior prom, I thought I was so mature. I thought I was an adult. Tall, blonde, beautiful, blue-eyed, and busty, I thought I was hot stuff.
I never thought my high school homeroom teacher would dare spank me for something that I did so long ago but, long story short, I forced his spanking hand to spank my ass again. Being that I wanted him to spank me again and with him having no choice in the matter, I made him spank me again. I had been bad, very bad and I needed to be disciplined. I deserved to be punished. Now married with children, I needed to be spanked. Even though I was no longer an 18-year-old slut but a thirty-year-old, bore, lonely, and horny housewife, I needed my teacher to spank my naked ass. For once and for all, I finally needed to experience my sexual fantasy.
* * * * *
“You wanted to see me Mr. Martin?”
I looked at him sitting behind his desk probably for the last time. Not a bad looking man, he was so anal, so precise, and so exacting. Saying what he meant and meaning what he said, he was articulately educated. Even his enunciation of words told me that he had a private school education and, just as I was jealous of his large vocabulary, I envied his command of the English language.
With his hair always parted just so, he always wore a colorful bowtie. His herringbone and tweed jackets resplendent with elbow patches were always marked with white chalk. He looked a bit like a younger version of Bill Nye the science guy. For the life of me, I really didn’t know why I had a crush on him but I did. Jealous that she was married to such a splendid man, I couldn’t help but wonder what his wife looked like. I couldn’t help but wonder what he did for fun after school. Maybe he disciplined and punished his wife by spanking her. I imagined his wife wearing an apron while standing at the kitchen sink to wash dishes and purposing breaking glasses while washing them for him to spank her.
“You were the one who put the tack on my chair last class Susan,” he stared me down with a look that told him that he knew I did. Someone had ratted me out no doubt.
When he wasn’t staring at my pretty face, he was staring at the huge impressions my big tits made in my blouse. When he wasn’t staring at my tits, he was staring at my panties. Sitting in the first row, I was always flashing him my panties.
“Pardon?” Not knowing what else to say, I looked at him as if he was crazy. Deny, deny, and deny was my only defense.
“I have it here written in my book. Tuesday, November 14th, 2000. I sat on yet another tack. Note to self,” he said while looking up at me. “I need to check my chair before sitting.”
Duh, I wanted to say but didn’t. Forget about mere thumbtacks, after the invention and with the popularity of Super Glue, who doesn’t check their check before sitting?
“That wasn’t me. I didn’t do it,” I said denying that I had put the tack on his chair when I did and, obviously, he knew I did. “I’d never do something so childish as putting a thumbtack on the teacher’s chair. Nope. That wasn’t me,” I said knowing that I was denying a bit too much but I couldn’t stop talking. I güvenilir bahis couldn’t just shut up about the stupid thumbtack.
“I write everything in my book,” he said holding his stupid book up to my face. “And this is the errant thumbtack,” he said opening his desk drawer and pulling out the tack that was confined in a plastic bag as if he was a forensic detective preserving fingerprints.
Errant thumbtack, meaning naughty, badly behaved, sinful, wayward, and delinquent. Who refers to a stupid thumbtack as errant? I had to go home and look that word up in my Funk & Wagnall’s dictionary. Gees, making a federal case out of it, enough about one lousy thumbtack already.
“I’m sorry,” I said unable to continue a lie and owning up to what I did. “My friends forced me to do that. They thought it would be funny.”
“It wasn’t funny that I had to go to the emergency room for an infection that I received from that rusty tack. They gave me a tetanus shot,” he said grimacing from the memory of the pain I put him through. “The emergency room isn’t covered on my medical. I had to pay a hundred dollar co-pay.”
“I’m sorry,” I said embarrassed and feeling worse than I would have felt because I had a crush on him.
As if wanting to make the memory of his thumbtack pain on his ass go away by kissing his lips, I remember having this urge to lean down and kiss him. So very long ago, I really don’t remember what the Hell I was thinking to put a thumbtack on his chair and to even have a school girl crush on him in the first place. In hindsight, he was such an anal asshole.
“Your friends forced you to put a tack on my chair?”
“Yes,” I said feeling so much like a foolish child instead of a mature woman who was no longer a virgin and who had already given her first blowjob. Back then, with sex my definition of maturity and being that I was so popular with the boys, I was having plenty of sex. Counterintuitive to my emergence from a school girl to a sexual woman of the world, how dare I do something so stupid.
“So…if your friends told you to jump off of a bridge…”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t leap off of a bridge because my friends told me to jump off a bridge,” I said making a sour face. “I’m not stupid,” I said.
Yet I was stupid compared to him, an educated, enlightened, well read, and well traveled man of the world. An unappreciative, bothersome, spoiled brat of a nuisance, I was a nothing and a no one in his shadow. Little did I know then, he was to be my master and I was to be his mistress.
“Then what’s the difference with you putting a tack on my chair because your friends told you to do that and you jumping off a bridge.”
“At the time, I thought it funny to see your reaction. I’m sorry. I didn’t actually believe you’d sit on it without even feeling it pinch you and walk around the room for the rest of the day with the thumbtack stuck to your ass,” I said with a little laugh and a smirk that obviously angered him.
I should have known, he wouldn’t notice that tack until later with his thick corduroy pants. He always wore corduroy pants. Evidentially, he knew that I wasn’t sorry, just as he knew I’d do it again if I could.
“You need to be disciplined,” he said pointing his finger at me as if I was late for class and he found me wandering the hall. “You need to be punished young lady,” he said raising his voice.
Suddenly, as if I was a little girl, I was afraid. He frightened me when he took that tone with me. I couldn’t believe it when he reached around me to slap my ass through my short skirt.
“Ow,” I said rubbing my behind.
Remembering it now as if it happened yesterday, I was embarrassed. I was mortified. I was humiliated. I was shocked. Yet, even more than all of that, never having been spanked before, not even by my parents, in the way of having bittersweet chocolate or something that’s so sweet and yet so sour, I liked the feel of his hand on my ass spanking me. Never would I have known that I’d be the type of women who enjoyed being spanked until my teacher spanked me.
Unable to protest, I just stood there and stared at him while rubbing my ass through my short skirt. Then, when he pulled me by the wrist and put me across his knee and started slapping my ass really hard, I felt like that actress, Maggie Gyllenhaal playing Lee Holloway in The Secretary when Mr. Grey, played by James Spader, spanked her naked ass for making a typographical error. Fuck me and I wished he would have taken me right then and there. I would have allowed him to bend me over the desk and fuck me not in my pussy but in my ass. Never having had anal sex before, after having my ass walloped, I wanted to experience it now. Already so very sexually excited, I only wished he had pulled up my short skirt and slapped my ass through my panty.
I would have liked him to have seen my round, white, bikini panty clad ass. I would have given anything for him to pull down my panties and slap my naked ass. I would have liked for him to türkçe bahis have seen my naked ass. I would have liked for him to see how red he made my naked ass after spanking me. He spanked me half a dozen times and every time his palm hit my firm ass, I thought I’d cum. By the time he was done spanking me, if he asked me to, I would have sucked his cock.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Martin,” I said crying after he finished spanking me and allowed me to stand.
I could have had him arrested. I could have had him fired. I could have sued him civilly for spanking me. Instead I wanted to have sex with him while he spanked me again and again.
“Get out,” he said.
The fact that he was so abrupt with me, as if he was angry with me, by dismissing me in such a hostile way, made me want to offer up my ass again for him to spank me again. I so wanted to tell him that he could pull up my short skirt and pull down my panty to spank my naked ass but I feared he’d think there was something wrong with me for telling him that. What he did was a disciplinary action, physical punishment, and something that had nothing to do with sex, or did it? I always wondered if he was as sexually aroused as I was. I always wondered if he thought about spanking my ass in the way that I always thought about him spanking my ass. Maybe his thing is spanking too. Maybe he’s been lusting over spanking my round, firm, tight, little ass the entire school year in the way that I’m wanting him to spank my ass again now.
“That really hurt,” I said, rubbing my ass through my clothes. “I’m all red,” I said turning my ass to him and lifting my skirt up enough for him to see the bottom of my panty. I so wanted him to see my panty, touch my panty, and sooth my red hot ass through my panty with his meaty hand. I so wanted to lift my skirt to my waist. I so wanted to pull down my panty to show him my red ass but I was afraid to do that.
“Get out,” he said again.
More angry over how he talked to me than I was over how he disciplined me and punished me by spanking me, when he stood and turned to erase the board, I don’t know why I did it but I stole his Parker pen.
Replaying the incident over and again in my head, I masturbated to Mr. Martin spanking me for years. It didn’t matter that I allowed my husband to spank my naked ass after that. It wasn’t the same as when Mr. Martin spanked my ass through my short skirt. It didn’t matter that I participated in the swinging lifestyle with my husband before he was my ex-husband and had numerous men spank my fully clothed ass and naked ass. None of those men spanking me made me as sexually aroused as having my teacher spank me. The one who I really wanted to spank my naked ass, was the one who didn’t spank my naked ass. I needed Mr. Martin, my old teacher, to spank my naked ass.
I wanted him to spank me again. I wished he had raised my skirt and at least spanked me through my panty. I wished he had lowered my panty to spank my naked ass. I wished he had unzipped himself and pulled out his cock for me to suck him while he spanked me. I swear to God that I would have sucked him. Allowing him to cum in my mouth while he felt my big tits and fingered my nipples, I would have swallowed every drop of his cum so long as he promised to spank me again.
After waiting twelve, long, sexually frustrating years, now married with two children, I went to see Mr. Martin when I read a blurb about him retiring. He was 65-years-old and I was 30-years-old. Not knowing what I’d say when I saw him, I just wanted to see him again. Hoping beyond hope that he’d spank me again, really wanting to kiss the hand that spanked me, I wanted to shake the hand that spank me.
Wearing my preferred outfit of choice, a skirt that was too short with bright, white bikini panties underneath, a button blouse like the one I wore in school, and my D cup bra, I wasn’t wearing very many clothes but for my bobby socks. If I was playing strip poker, no doubt, depending who I was playing poker with, I’d lose. He opened his door as soon as I pressed his doorbell.
“Susan! How nice to see you,” he said recognizing me immediately. I saw him stare down at my big breasts before looking back up at my eyes. I thought that maybe my big tits were my dead giveaway to who I was after not seeing me for twelve years. “Come in, come in,” he said.
“Hi Mr. Martin.”
“Please call me Paul,” he said with a smile while staring at my tits again.
“I just made some fresh coffee,” he said talking to my tits before talking to me. “Would you care for a cup?”
“Sure,” I said wanting to delay my stay so that I could summon the courage of saying what I needed to say before leaving. “Even after having rehearsed it, I really didn’t know what the Hell I was going to say.”
“Come in, come in,” he said. Make yourself comfortable on the sofa,” he said, “while I get our coffees.”
He returned with the coffee and a plate of cookies. He sat across from me in his comfortable looking, overstuff recliner. Unable güvenilir bahis siteleri to control myself, using this personal, in home visit as my wicked opportunity to expose myself, every time I leaned forward for a sip of coffee, I parted my knees enough to give him a view up my short skirt of my panties. When I wasn’t sitting there with my knees open, I was slowly and deliberately crossing and uncrossing my legs.
Maybe because he was looking, he was always looking when I was sitting in front of him in class, I wanted to flash myself to him in the way that I always did when sitting in the front row of his class with my legs parted and my skirt raised. I wanted him to see what I wanted him to see twelve, long years ago. I wanted him to see my panties up close. I watched his eyes dart down from my eyes to my crotch and back again before darting down again and before settling on my big tits. Based upon his stare, he was getting a good look of me between my legs. Based upon his leer, he caused my nipples to make their appearance known through my bra and blouse.
“Is Mrs. Martin home?” I couldn’t help but wonder what his wife looked like.
“Mrs. Martin? There is no Mrs. Martin, other than my mother,” he said with a little laugh. “I never married. I never felt the need for a wife and children. I was always too busy assigning assignments and correcting homework. After father died when I was just a boy, I was content enough living with mother, until she passed a few years ago,” he said.
I couldn’t help but wonder how content he really was living alone with his mother all these years. I wondered if they had a sexual relationship. I wondered if she was the one who got him into spanking. I could only imagine her ordering him to strip bottomless and bend over her knees while she paddled his naked ass before sucking his erect cock. Gees, what’s wrong with me to think these terrible things about my teacher and his elderly mother? Only, no one knows what goes on behind closed bedroom doors.
“I see,” I said suddenly feeling sexually invigorated that he was unmarried and we were alone.
“So, what’s the purpose of your visit?” He smiled an endearing smile. “Did you stop by to wish me a happy retirement?”
When he wasn’t staring at the mountainous impressions my tits and nickel sized shapes my nipples made through my bra and in my blouse, he was staring in between my legs at my panties. His obvious sexual lust for me was making me wet. I wondered if he’s been thinking of me as much as I’ve been thinking of him. I wondered if he’s masturbated over spanking me in the way that I’ve masturbated over him spanking me.
“No actually, Paul. I wanted to apologize again for putting a thumbtack on your chair,” I said.
“Oh, that,” he said waving a hand. “Don’t be silly. That was so long ago Susan,” he said. “Water under the bridge, it’s all water under the bridge.”
Not wanting this little exchange to end before it even got started, as if my words were an undertow, I needed to stir up that water that lay dormant for so long under the bridge.
“I also have a confession to make,” I said feeling myself getting sexually aroused merely by the thoughts of what I was about to disclose to him.
“You do? And what might that confession be,” he said with a knowing little laugh in the way that he laughed at us in class as if he knew everything.
Only, without a doubt, he didn’t know what I was about to confess. Hoping that what I was about to say would put him over the edge and anger him enough to spank me, I parted my knees just a little more. In the same way he stared at my panty, he stared at my tits. In the way that he stared at my tits, I knew he could see part of my bra and cleavage through my buttons that never closed all the way. I purposely wore a blouse that was a size too small and as if my breasts were his eyeballs in the way that he strained to see more of me, my breasts threatened to pop a few buttons.
“I’m the one who stole your Parker pen,” I said watching for his reaction.
He stopped staring at my breasts and at my panties to stare up at me.
“My Parker pen? You stole my Parker pen? Extruding just the right amount of ink, not too little and not too much, I loved that pen,” he said looking at me as if I just stabbed him in the heart with that damn Parker pen. “That was my father’s pen,” he said getting noticeably annoyed, an understatement, before raising his voice in the way he raised his voice when he told me to get out of his classroom.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Sorry?” He looked at me as if he hated me. “Do you know that my Dad was a prisoner of war in Viet Nam?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I said suddenly knowing I had done a terrible thing by stealing that Parker pen. I wondered if they still made them. I wondered if I could run out to Staples and buy one to replace the pen I had stolen so long ago.
“My father hid that pen up his ass for two, long, miserable years so that the Viet Cong wouldn’t confiscate his pen as a weapon? He hid that pen so that when he returned home and I was old enough to care for and cherish that pen and possibly pass it on to the son I never had, he’d present it to me and he did, on his deathbed, the day that he died.”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20