Your erotic stories

I celebrated my eighteenth birthday during the middle of my senior year in high school in 1988. Soon after this, I had an experience I will never forget. Miss Pikes was my English Composition teacher. She had just recently turned 40, but she was hot. There was a rumor that at one point in her life she had posed for Playboy. I hadn't seen any of the glossy photos of her in print as proof positive, so I couldn't attest to the truth of the rumor. But I certainly saw how it could be possible.

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Moving and having to transfer during your senior year of high school is quite difficult to do. I had to leave all of my friends behind and start in a new school which would be difficult for anyone but when you are pretty much just an average guy ( not an athlete or anything like that ) you pretty much just blend into the surroundings. I did have one advantage, I was a good student in a private school which made me an excellent public school student. I was getting straight A's without much effort but unfortunately in high school this makes you more popular with the teachers than with other students. Did I say unfortunately?

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It was the day before Thanksgiving. Denise was happy that the four-day school break was finally here. It had been a rough last few weeks trying to get her high school students to comprehend the World History material. She looked forward to dinner with the family the next day, and then lots of holiday shopping!

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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.

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I can see her watching me. Pretending not to, casting her eyes down to the novel in front of her every time I catch her eye from across the patio of this open-air café. Well, I've been watching her, too—long enough to know that she's been "reading" the same page for the last 45 minutes.

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Average, that's pretty much how I saw myself. Brown hair, brown eyes, busty for sure, but could stand to either lose 20 pounds or grow 4 inches. Nothing particularly remarkable about me but what I lack in the supermodel, standard cutesy looks department, I probably make up for in personality. Great. Just how every woman wants to be described: "she's not really pretty, but she's got a great personality!" Whatever.

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Yet another academic year. Yet another dean's speech. The main hall was crowded with all the staff stuffed in there to hear the good word. To be honest, everyone was there for the subsequent traditional free drink. So everyone was polite enough to pretend to listen to the speech, glancing left and right, waving hellos to colleagues but giving little attention to the sacred word.

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"You'll have to take Sex Education today for 4C, Miss Martin." Just the words I'd been longing to hear, I don't think. "Why me? Doesn't Mrs Annot take that?" "Normally," said the Principal with a grin, "but she just called in sick and you're the only one with free time for that period. Don't worry. The kids are only around fifteen. You can handle then with no problems."

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Lisa was nervous. Her last test had come back with a multitude of red marks all over it and a big fat F in the corner. If she failed her algebra class, she would have to go on academic probation, and her GPA might even lower enough that she would lose her scholarship and have to drop out - she couldn't afford the college's exorbitant fees without help, and her parents didn't have any money to pay toward her tuition. She shuffled from foot to foot, dancing nervously on the spot outside her professor's office, waiting for him to invite her inside.

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I think it must have been some kind of temporary insanity. What other way is there to explain where I found myself that day? Driving in my car, naked from the waist down, not knowing exactly what was going to happen when I reached the address that was written on the paper lying on the seat between my bare legs.

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