Loading...Every one knows that high students often have crushes on their teachers, especially if the teacher is not bad looking and is sympathetic to their adolescent problems. And the crushes can go both ways, even all three ways. Female students may have a crush on their male teachers. Male students may have a crush on their female teachers. Or even a student of one sex may have a crush on a teacher of the same sex.
What is less commonly known is that often teachers also have crushes on their students, especially the more appealing and likeable ones. Naturally, the teaching code expects that you do not express this crush in any way, but it still can be there. I doubt that there is a male or female teacher anywhere in America who has not fantasized at one time or another about the idea of having sex with one of their more attractive and appealing students. As an English teacher in a New England high school, I had fantasized about that idea from time to time, but naturally I never acted upon it.
My best fantasy was about Katherine Comby. She came from a well-to-do family and was a striking beauty as well as highly intelligent. She was about five-eight with long blonde hair that hung to the middle of her back, the traditional blue eyes, and a lovely figure that filled out only 110 pounds. She also had the most engaging sweet smile. Her breasts appeared to be on the smallish size, but they fit her frame.
There was no question my fondness for Kathy was returned. While she was one of the smartest students in the senior class, she used to come to my room nearly every day after school to get my input on essays she had written for other classes. She hardly needed advice, so I assumed that was just an excuse to get together and talk.
One of the things we liked to talk about was travel. Travel was my passion, and since I was a widower, during the summer break, I would travel to some exotic spot, such as Paris, London, Rome, Vienna, etc. for a couple of weeks. Despite Kathy’s tender age, she also had been to London, Rome, and Vienna, thanks to her grandfather, also a widower, who took her on one distant summer vacation every year as long as she got good grades in school. I also suspected he got a thrill at the idea of having a beautiful young woman on his arm. Let people think what they would; he probably enjoyed it.
But the one place she said she had always wanted to go to was Paris, which I had been to a number of times. She said she envied me—and definitely wanted to go there someday.
I was saddened when Kathy graduated and prepared to go off to a university in Boston to study for Broadcast Journalism. She graduated at the age of 17, but would turn 18 during the summer. Her high school boyfriend Ryan was going to the same school for pre-Law, and it was my understanding that they would be living together. Sigh. What a lucky man.
But I was also to run into her during the summer before she left. Some friends were visiting me from out of state, so I took them to dinner at one of the area’s finer restaurants. I was surprised to find that Kathy was our waitress. I stood up to greet her, and we exchanged hugs, which I guess was allowed now since she was no longer my student.
“So you’re working here during the summer?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“And how is Ryan?”
She frowned. “We’re not going together anymore,” she replied, “He wanted to get married right away and start to have a big family instead of going to school. But I’m not ready for that yet—so we’ve split up.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I guess it’s for the best if that’s the way you feel. Where is your grandfather going to take you this year? Paris?”
Her face darkened. “My grandpa died about a month ago.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear about that as well.”
“So I guess I won’t be going anywhere for awhile. I can’t afford it while I’m going to school.”
“Well, you’ll get there someday. In the meantime, good luck in school.”
“Thanks.”
We embraced again, and I returned to my table of friends. “That was a former student of mine,” I explained.
“She looked more like a former girlfriend from that hug,” friend Don said.
“Don’t be silly. Not having an affair with the students is the number one rule of teaching.”
But after the dinner, when I was sitting at home having a glass of wine, I began to think about it.
While I was not planning another trip to Paris right away, there was no reason why I could NOT take one. And Paris in the month of December was one of my favorite times to go there. Airfare was cheap, hotel rooms were easy and inexpensive to get, and restaurants were always uncrowded.
I knew that Kathy would be off school for a couple of weeks during the Christmas period. What if I asked her if she would like to go with me to Paris for a week? I would simply be her escort. She would be expected to pay for her own portion of the airfare, but not right away; it could be done in installments. And the hotel room would cost the same if it was one or two persons, so I could take care of that. I could get one room but ask for double beds (Yeah, right.) And as far as meals went, I would be happy to pay for her meal just for the pleasure of her companionship and conversation.
Naturally, I would tell her that it would be strictly a platonic arrangement, in case she wanted to tell her parents about the trip, and nothing unseemly would be expected of her. (Yeah, right.)
I found out what time she started to work at the restaurant, so I visited there at the beginning of her shift, when I knew she would not be too busy.
“Hi!” she greeted.
“I have something to ask you. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
“Sure.” She sat down at a table, and I sat opposite her.
“I’m planning a trip to Paris in the middle of December, and I wondered if you would like to come along. I could be your guide.”
Here eyes grew wide. “Are you kidding me?!”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
I explained the details to her and how it would work. She would be expected to pay me back for the airfare, which I could take care of initially, but she could do it over a period of time.
“I would love to go to Paris!” she cried.
“You’re sure your parents would not object?”
“Of course not. They know you were my teacher, and even if they did, I would go anyway. I’m eighteen, you know.”
Yes, I did know that, and it was an important factor. I was 52 and in good physical shape and surely not too old for an 18-year-old? I assumed since she had been dating Ryan for more than two years that she was no longer a virgin. You know kids today.
“It’s a deal then,” I replied, “I’ll like to get the tickets for leaving from Logan Airport on the December sixteenth and then back on the twenty-third. Would that be okay?”
“It would be very okay. I could pay you for about half of my airfare right away and the rest over a couple of months, if that would be okay.”
“Of course. Then your only expense would be if you wanted to buy anything there.”
“Which I would,” she replied with a big smile.
I was able to get the tickets from American Airlines for $450 RT for each of us and was able to make a reservation at a little French hotel I had always liked on the Rue Ste. Honore, not far from the Arc du Triomph. I made sure that it was a front room with a view of the Eiffel Tower—and that it had a double bed.
I don’t know whether Kathy ever actually did tell her parents or not, but I picked her up at her dorm in Boston on the last day before Christmas recess and drove her out to Logan International. At my suggestion, she was carrying only one small suitcase. We were able to have dinner at a restaurant at Logan while waiting for the 7 p.m. flight. I ordered a carafe of white wine to go with it. I don’t know what the drinking age was in Mass., but I assumed I could get away with it.
“I guess since you’re eighteen and no longer a student of mine, I can offer you a glass of wine,” I said.
“Of course.”
I poured for her. “Good way to start the trip,” I said.
She raised her glass. “To Paris.”
“Yes, to Paris.” I joined the toast.
“I’m so excited!” she said.
“So am I.” I could only hope. “The windows of our hotel room overlook the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Wait until you see it at night all lighted up.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“It’s a shame you’re not seeing Paris for the first time with a husband or a lover. Then you could make love in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, so to speak.”
“This will be better,” she replied.
Hmmm, that was an interesting reply.
While the trip was only seven hours long, it was across a number of time zones, so I knew that we would arrive with the normal jetlag, 6 a.m. their time, 2 a.m. our time. Kathy tried to sleep by resting her head on my shoulder. But since our row was three across and no one was in the third seat, I suggested that she stretch out and put her pillow in my lap, which she did. The proximity of her head and mouth to my “teacher’s pointer” so to speak was giving me a bit of an erection, but luckily the pillow covered it. Still, I enjoyed caressing her hair, and I think she enjoyed it as well.
We arrived bleary-eyed at Charles DeGaulle Airport at 6 a.m. and got a taxi to the hotel. Normally, I would have gone in by the less expensive train, but this trip was something special so I was willing to spring for the money.
Because of the off-season, we were able to check into our hotel room right away, but I had warned Kathy that the worst thing you can do when traveling like this would be to go to bed because you felt tired. Instead, you should try to get on European time right away, stay up all day, and then go to bed a little earlier than normal.
We discovered that while the room had a fabulous view of the Eiffel Tower out the front window, it did not have separate beds but only one double bed. I went down (supposedly) to the front desk to talk about it but then returned to tell Kathy that the only room left with separate beds did not have a view of the tower.
“Then I want this room,” she said, spinning around. “I love the Tower view! The bed is fine,” she said looking at it.
“Okay, and in return, I promise not to molest you while you’re sleeping.”
“Unless I ask you to,” she said with a smile.
Well, that was interesting.
We spent the rest of the day walking around. Up and down the Champs Elysees. Over across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower but not up in it (we would save that for later), and finally back to the hotel to freshen up for dinner. Kathy took a shower and put on a lovely yet simple black dress. How I would have loved to join her in the shower. But I guessed that was a dream which would not come true. As it turned out, I was wrong.
Paris is a wonderful place to be during the Christmas season. At night, all the chestnut trees along the Champs Elysees are decorated with white lights, the windows of the major department stores, such as Galeries Lafayette, feature animated Christmas displays, and below the Sacre Coeur church there is a big Christmas merry go round. I planned to visit all of them with her.
That night, I took her to a favorite little restaurant of mine, the Café Beaubourg, near the Arc, where I treated her to her first Plateau de Fruit de Mer, a seafood platter, and we split a bottle of white Bordeaux.
“To us,” she said, raising her glass.
“To us.”
I could tell by the end of the dinner that she was feeling the effects of the alcohol, but luckily the hotel was not far. We walked back.
When we got back to the room, the Eiffel Tower in the distance was brightly lighted from top to bottom, with a lighted greeting of “Joyeux Noel” on it.
“This is incredible!” she exclaimed looking at it. She turned, ran over, and hugged me. “I love you so much for bringing me here!” Then she stood up on tiptoe and kissed me. Wow! I assumed it was the wine speaking, but even still it was very nice.
After looking at the tower for a long time, she went into the bathroom, took another shower, and came out wearing a pair of light blue silk pajamas that looked quite thin. And I could tell from the points of her chest that she was no longer wearing a bra. But when she bent over to fluff up her pillow, I also saw that she was apparently not wearing any underpants either.
I took my shower and came out wearing dark blue flannel pajamas.
She was already in bed with the covers pulled up. “That’s what I should have brought,” she said looking at my pajamas. “I forgot this is winter.”
“I’ll try and keep you warm, but you look lovely as you are.” I slid in beside her and pulled the covers up. “The trick for both of us will be trying to sleep with a ‘stranger’ in the bed.”
“The wine will help,” she replied.
“Yes, I suppose. I picked a bottle of cognac at the duty-free store as well.”
“Perfect for Paris.”
“Yes.”
We fell silent. “Do you want me to turn off the light?” I asked. It was on her nightstand.
“I guess.” She sounded a little disappointed. I leaned over her and turned off the light. But there was still light in the room from the streetlamp outside. I laid back, but I knew it would be hard sleeping with a beautiful lightly-clad girl lying beside me.
“My grandpa always used to give me a goodnight kiss,” she said.
“Would you like me to do that?”
“Yes,”
I sat up and leaned over her. I put my hand on her shoulder, bent down and lightly kissed her on the lips. But I soon discovered that a light kiss was apparently not what she wanted. She opened her mouth, and her little tongue snaked out into mine. What was I to do? I returned her kiss with more passion until our tongues were entwined. Finally, I let my hand slip off her shoulder and down to her breast, lightly covered by the silk pajama. I caressed her breast.
Finally, I came up for air. “Is that how you kissed your grandfather?” I asked.
“Of course not, but can I confess something to you?”
“Of course.”
“I had a crush on you all through high school, so this is a dream come true for me in more ways than one.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Guess.”
“Then let me confess something to you. In your senior year, I had a crush on you as well—which you probably knew. So when I invited you on this trip, I had a fantasy in the back of my mine that maybe I would be able to make love to you.”
“That was my fantasy too.”
“I’m glad we got that out in the open. It saves either one of us from being embarrassed.”
“Right. I was going to ask, but I didn’t know what you would say.”
“I would say this.” I leaned over her and turned the light back on.
“What are you doing?”
“If I’m going to get a gift this valuable, I want to see what I’m getting.”
She looked toward the window. The blind was up. “Can anyone see us?”
“Probably. Do you care?”
“No, I don’t know anyone in Paris.”
“Okay.” I pushed the covers back and unbuttoned her pajama top all the way down. Then I pushed both sides apart. Her pink nipples were about the size of quarters. “You have beautiful breasts,” I said.
“Small,” she replied with a smile.
“But beautiful—and just right for your size.”
“Ryan thought they were too small.”
“Fuck Ryan.”
She laughed. “Why Mr. Baxter, I never heard you use an obscenity before.” She paused, then with a whisper, she said: “Wouldn’t you rather fuck me?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Good.”
I leaned over and sucked on one of her nipples—and felt it grow erect. Then I did the same thing with the other one. She began to breathe more deeply.
Finally, I kneeled up. I bent over, slipped my fingers under the elastic of her pajama bottoms and slowly pulled them down until they were gathered around one ankle. Then I looked at her. My God, she was a vision of incredible beauty: long, slender legs, flawless skin, and a skimpy but silky-looking bush that almost matched the color of her hair, just a little darker. “That looks good enough to eat,” I said, “And that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Good. Ryan wasn’t into that.”
“He didn’t know what he was missing.” I took her ankles and spread her legs apart. Then I bent down and began licking her bush. Finally, I pushed my tongue inside her.
“Oh Godddd,” she moaned.
I kept at it for another ten minutes, spelling out my name on her clitoris with my tongue.
“Oh God…Oh God…Oh God,” she kept muttering. Finally, she came with a shuttering climax, her legs trembling. I’ve had many a gourmet dinner in my travels, but I can’t remember one that tasted as good as her. Despite my age—old enough to be her father and more—my penis was as big and hard as an 18-year-old’s.
“You don’t mind, do you, that I came in your mouth?” she muttered.
“Of course not. That’s what I was trying to get you to do. You tasted delicious.”
She sat up. “Good, because now it’s your turn. Lie down.”
I turned around and did so. She pulled down my pajama bottoms and knelt beside my hip “My God, you’re huge,” she said. “You’re bigger than Ryan.”
“Good, and it’s all your fault.”
“I’m flattered. Do you think it will fit?”
“I’m sure it will. Can you get on the other side though? In case there’s any Frenchies watching, that will give them a better view.”
She laughed. “Okay.” She climbed over to the other side, bent over, wrapped her hand around the base of my cock, and took it in her mouth. Then she swirled around it with her tongue.
“I need to warn you: I can’t take much more of this,” I moaned.
She sat up again. “Would you like to come in my mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Will you have enough left for later?”
“I think so. I haven’t been this aroused for twenty years. Plus, we’re here for five more nights. There still may be more to come.”
She gave me a wicked smile. “There definitely will be a lot more to come. And at least we don’t have to worry about what we going to do at night.” She leaned over and kissed me. “We’re going to fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“That’s right.”
She took me in her mouth again and really went to work on it this time. I would have liked to have kept it going for a half hour, but I couldn’t help it: in less than five minutes I came in her mouth, and she swallowed all of it, finally licking her lips with a big grin. “Now what?” she asked.
I looked down. I had been so aroused that even though I had an orgasm, I was still semi-hard. “I think I still can stick it in you. After all, you’re pretty wet.”
“Right.”
She laid down with her head on the pillow and spread her legs a little. I got up and straddled her. I placed my hands on the sides of her narrow hips and lifted her up about ten inches so I would have a better angle. “I forgot: Since I’m a teacher, you have to ask me to do it,” I said. “That’s the rules.”
She laughed. “Okay. Would you have sex with me, Mr.Baxter? I’m still on the pill, so you don’t have to use anything.”
“Great, but is there another word for it, beginning with F?”
She smiled. “Would you fuck me, Mr. Baxter?”
“Yes, I would, but you have to put it in. My hands are busy.”
She grasped my penis with both hands and gently eased it into her still very wet slit.
I was in heaven, and I was determined to make this one last as long as possible. I took my time and slowly moved it in and out of her. She closed her eyes and began to moan softly. I looked over at the window—and wished there were some Frenchies watching. What a treat for them: To watch a young and beautiful student get fucked by her teacher.
Finally, after a half hour, I shoved it in as deep as I could and filled her with my sperm. And I was pretty sure that she had come three times during that half hour, since I could feel her get wetter.
“Now will I get an A, Mr. Baxter?” she said in a little girl voice.
I laughed. “Now you will get an A. And since you have such a pretty ‘A’, we might want to put something there later.”
“Anytime. I’ve never done that.”
And that’s how it went for the next five days and nights. During the day, we visited the sights, such as the Louvre (briefly), the Left Bank and the Latin Quarter, Notre Dame, the Paris Opera House on a “Phantom of the Opera” tour, Montmartre, the Champs, of course, up the Eiffel Tower, and some of the open-air food markets. Our trip up to the top of the Arc du Triomph, overlooking the Champs Elysees, was interesting. Because of the season and the month, we were the only people up there at that time, and she took advantage of it.
“Can you take my picture with the Champs Elysees in the background?” she asked.
“Sure.” I got out my camera. She stood at the edge of the stone railing with the Champs behind her. She looked around and seeing no one, lifted up her gray wool skirt. She had no underwear beneath it, just a lovely little bush.
“Are you going to show this picture to your folks?” I asked.
“No, this one is for you.”
I took the picture, and she dropped her skirt.
We ate at little brasseries for lunch every day, went back to the hotel to take a shower (together) and to freshen up, then went out to a nice French restaurant every evening for a little light dinner and some wine.
As she had promised, we didn’t have to worry about what we were going to do at night. We had sex in every conceivable way, always with the blind open. Here are a few random highlights:
On the second night at the hotel, she asked me if she could wear something she got for her birthday. I said “Sure.” She went into the bathroom and came out completely naked. “This is my birthday suit, she said.
On another night, I bet her a dollar she could not make me come in her mouth in ten minutes or less. I lost the bet. Oh well, you can’t win them all.
On the next-to-last night, she surprised me by asking: “How would you like to get a little behind in your work?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Do you know the French word for ‘lubricant’?
“No.”
But if you go to a pharmacie, you probably can find out, right?
“Probably.”
“For tomorrow night?”
“All right.”
“After all, there’s an ‘end’ that shapes our means.”
“You know what you are? You’re a little pervert.”
“I know, and you made me one. And I have a feeling this won’t be over when we get home. After all, you’re not married.”
“Right.”
So I did get a little behind in my work on the last night.
After we got home, I often visited her in Boston on weekends for a little follow-up “tutoring”, so to speak.
The End