My filthy fantasies: Teacher/Student Roleplay story

When some people look back over their school things, they think of the great friends they made, or the high jinx that they got up to in the changing room (I went to an all girls’ private school, so I apologize if this is a bit stilted), the experimental lesbianism, if you could really get away with a leather jacket and Doc Martens, or how short you could roll your skirt up before the terrifying deputy head mistress would call you to one side and tell you off in front of everyone, and make you roll it down, to the embarrassing, nun-like-length of on the knee, or running away from her, when your Amy Winehouse inspired eyeliner threatened to swallow your face in blackness, the blackness like your soul.

I guess that might well just be me.

 

I was a bit of mess when I was at school. This went beyond the ‘typical teenage angst’ but I’m not here to give you a psychology 101 class on the ins and outs of my mind, that’s probably better saved for a psychiatrist’s safe space. I’m here to tell you about my history teacher.

He was the first man I’d ever felt attracted to, and he’s been the prototype, if you will, for all the other men I’ve found attractive. Are they tall? Yes, that’s from him. Are they slim? Yes, that’s from him. Are they kinda geeky? Yes, that’s from him. (Here we diverge – we can go down the suited and booted geeky but delicious good guy gone bad, the one you’d sneak out of a work do with, to smoke a cigarette, maybe do a line of coke, and perhaps suck his cock in the elevator, or you can go down the tattooed, shaggy, musician who’s just trying to make it in the real world, with nothing but his guitar and a gram of coke for company).

 

He was a ‘reet propah geoooordeeee, why aye man?’ and I was just … I was totally in lust with him. Two years, nursing a crush on this guy. I had dreams, that we’d get a log cabin in Austria together, we’d go for morning runs, he’d bring me breakfast in bed, and we’d snuggle… but in my mind, in those days at least, we’d never have sex.

 

I spent hours trying to pick apart how it would feel, but it’s like trying to think how it feels to be drunk, when you’ve never even had a beer. It was all experimental fumbling in the dark, humping my pillow, and hoping for the best – when you go to an all girls’ private school, in central London, they don’t really teach you to love your vagina – masturbation is a bad, bad thing, so there was all sorts of shame revolving around that, too.

 

But without knowing what it was, there was this intense heat inside me, like cold fingers were stroking my womb (which is a delightful image, but I’m sure you know the sensation)… the warmth and the cold combined would produce this stickiness in my knickers. I was so ashamed that the other girls would see it, I changed for PE in the toilets, rather than the locker room.

And where does this confusing, difficult, pretty fucked up time of my life leave me now? I fancy teachers. There’s something about them. It’s the whole age of innocence, corruption, exploitation, Lolita, knowledge, power, it all comes together in my mind now, and I wish I could’ve formulated these images back then, and maybe had the guts to pull them on my poor, poor history teacher.

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He’d call me back after class, to help me take the books back to the history store room, the room would be empty, I’d deposit the books and ask if he needed any more help – he did, his cock was waving in the air, hard, long, juicy, and throbbing. I’d drop to my knees, lick it up and down, gasping and panting over it. I’m in my school uniform, skirt rolled up, top button undone, and he can see right down my shirt, my pert (because, back then, they were pert) breasts heaving a little with the up and down motion – I’d swallow him whole whilst he moaned, and moaned, and frantically whispered he was coming, and I’d stick it all the way down, gag on it, and swallow all of his come. He’d thank me, and tell me I got an A on the last piece of work I did. Other variations of this fantasy include him, slightly more muscly, slightly more dominant, slightly more tattooed, where he comes on my face, after he’s bent me over the desk in the classroom after hours, having made me recite FDR’s alphabet agencies, one for each thrust, every time I got it wrong, he’d swat my ass with a ruler.

 

We’d talk about the prohibition, with him twitching inside me, me desperate to press myself back on to him, him holding me firmly in place, promising me another 30 seconds when I told him more about the reasons for prohibition, that what we were doing was prohibited, and something about the Wall Street Crash. He’d never undress me, rather he’d undo my shirt, hike up my skirt, and get the bits that he needed access to. I was a fuck doll for him, and I was blissfully happy with these images in my mind, our ‘relationship’.

Sometimes, for some reason, I’d be at school late, after the day had finished – think drama rehearsal, tech support for the Gym and Dance display, helping out on open evening…  and I was in a … hmm, I wouldn’t go as far as stripper garb, but it certainly didn’t leave much to the imagination. Sometimes we’d do it on the floor in the Gym, or the hall, or even just a quickie in the corridor. Once, when it was A level revision time, we did it in the library, on the huge oak table.

 

Other times, he’d go down on me, whilst I read Lolita out loud, to both of us.

 

We never did go back to that log cabin in Austria, we never did have sex, and the only thing I ever gave him was an incredibly witty Christmas card about Newcastle and Sunderland and football (I was assured it was funny by everyone who saw it, I had no idea) and a batch of Christmassy, delicious hash brownies, which I know he loved, because he told me.

*Disclaimer – I have not slept with this teacher, and all the things I depict here are things that I imagined happening to me; whilst my knickers were very wet every history lesson, that’s as far as it ever went. Whilst I resent him slightly for not banging me, I know that it was probably for the best – he still has his job, and now I’ve grown up a bit, I can see how horrible and exploitative it would be for a teacher, in a position of trust, to actually sleep with an underage, very screwed up at the time, student. You can read more from at Mimieux In Madrid!
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