Unexpected match with my old HS teacher

A few weeks ago, I bumped up the age limit on Tinder. Older men are one of my occasional turnons, so I figured, why not? Older white guys always seemed extra curious about me on Tinder—something about the brown skin, the dark hair, the “exotic” thing. I pretended I wasn’t aware of it, but of course I was. I was swiping absentmindedly when his face stopped me. Something about him tugged at my memory. Could it really be my old HS teacher? Curiosity got the better of me, and I swiped right. It was a match.

“Didn’t expect to see you here. All grown up,” he texted. Yep, definitely him. Ten years ago he was my science teacher; now he was older, balding, with a neat beard. The way he phrased it made my chest flutter. He remembered me—not vaguely, he knew exactly who I was.

We started texting. At first it was surface-level: how life had been, where we were now. But it quickly felt surreal. I kept telling myself it was just another match, no big deal, yet every time he typed something witty or a little too knowing, my brain screamed: this is my teacher. When he suggested drinks, I said yes way too fast. We met last weekend, and seeing him in person was a trip. He didn’t look like I remembered—definitely bigger, with a rounder belly, older, almost double my age. And yet he carried himself like he knew exactly who he was.

We sat down, ordered drinks, and went through the usual “so what have you been up to” chatter, but there was this undercurrent, a tension neither of us named. He kept glancing at me like he was trying to match this woman with the girl he remembered in his classroom—the brown skin, the big eyes. It made me blush for reasons I couldn’t name. Every time he laughed, every time his eyes lingered a little too long, I felt this weird mix of thrill and cringe. Like, why is this working on me? And yet it was. The way he looked at me made me wonder if he’d ever imagined me like this before. Was he a little perverted?

At one point, he asked, “Did you recognize me right away?” I admitted not immediately. He smirked. “I knew it was you—the same pretty Indian girl with those big eyes. You did always stand out.”

I decided to give in to the thrill and agreed when he asked if I wanted to go to his place. The car ride was a mess, mostly me, all nerves and overthinking. This is my old teacher. What am I doing? This is inappropriate. But also… hot. But also… wrong?

Once we got inside, he poured us wine, and dropped some daddy charm on me as we made ourselves comfortable on the couch. “You’ve grown up,” he said, and I rolled my eyes, but there was something in the way he said it that made my cheeks heat.

“Though I have to say, some things never change.” He grabbed his laptop from the table and grinned.

“Remember this?” On the screen was a photo from the class experiment that went completely off the rails. I laughed so hard I almost spilled my wine. “I warned you not to aim it like that,” he said, smirking. “But nope, you were the mastermind of the chaos.”

I took the laptop into my lap to see the pictures better. As I leaned closer, he casually put his arm around me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. My shoulder brushed against his armpit, warm and faintly musky, and I could smell him: a mix of sweat and cologne that made my stomach twist in a deliciously awkward way. Every now and then, I caught him glancing at my cleavage, quick and subtle, as if he didn’t want me to notice. My heart raced with every look, part shock, part thrill. I scooted a little closer, and he caught it with a knowing smile. My heart was hammering, partly from the memory, partly from just sitting this close. Every glance, every laugh, every casual touch made me wonder why this was hitting me so hard, and I couldn’t stop leaning in.

The way he leaned closer, the subtle glances, the little touches—it all built up in a way I couldn’t fight anymore. I let my impulses take over, turned toward him, and kissed him. Then, almost on instinct, I leaned back swiftly. For a second, he froze, a blank expression on his face. Oh god, is he mad? Did I mess this up?

Then he kissed me again, with a little force, and his hand that had been resting casually on my shoulder slid to the side, cupping me. My chest tightened in shock—this was nothing I could have ever imagined, especially from him. And then, audaciously, he kissed my cleavage. My breath caught. “I wanted to do that all night,” he murmured.

I sat there, heart hammering, part mortified, part thrilled, realizing just how far this had gone. My chest was still racing, my mind scrambling to process what had just happened. I should probably pull away, tell myself this is insane—but I couldn’t. Every nerve in my body was humming, all warning signs drowned out by this dizzy heat. He kissed my cleavage again, his face pressed into my chest, the faint dampness of his forehead brushing against my collar. Oh my god, I can’t believe this is happening. Fuck, fuck, fuck—that just happened. No one’s ever kissed me there like that. Is he breathing me in?

I hadn’t said a word. Not in response to his line about wanting to do that all night. Not in response to him squeezing my breast. Nothing—except for that faint, involuntary moan that had slipped out when his lips first touched my skin. He lifted his head slightly, but we stayed close. His grip on my breast tightened, his finger brushing lightly across my pokie. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and unblinking, almost like he was undressing me without moving a muscle. Say something. Anything. Tell him you want this. Oh god, his face—he’s smirking. I want to sit on that stupid grey beard. Why hasn’t he said anything else? Is he waiting for me? Most guys my age would’ve rushed past this already.

And yet here he was: still, deliberate, almost possessive, his arm heavy around me.

“Can I use your bathroom?” I finally blurted out. He showed me toward the door.

In the mirror, I stared at myself. What a stupid thing to say. I just needed to step away, to be sure. And I was. I wanted this. I wanted him.

When I came back, he’d leaned slightly to the other side of the couch, putting a sliver of distance between us. I sipped my wine, trying not to overthink it.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, his expression softer now, less certain. Was he disappointed?

“Everything’s fine,” I said quickly. He looked like he was about to apologize, and I panicked at the thought. I cut him off by saying, “I really liked that.”

Before he could reply, I grabbed his hand and placed it back on my breast. With my other hand, I cupped his cheek and kissed him. This time it wasn’t tentative—we were making out, heavy, desperate, breath catching between us.

I pulled back just long enough to whisper, “Can we go to your bedroom?”

His answer was immediate. “Yes.” I downed the last of my wine in one gulp and followed him.

On the bed, we were kissing hard as he held me tight, his belly pressing softly against me. He was a good kisser—steady, not too eager, like he was letting it unfold. His grip tightened as our kiss deepened. His tongue slid into my mouth, mine followed, and then his lips wandered: my neck, my collar, my cleavage. Again and again, wet kisses, little licks. His hands trailed down my back, cupping my ass, pulling me closer until I was snug in his shape. He was sweaty now, damp at the edges, and I liked it. I liked his musk, the mix of sweat and cologne.

He came back up, kissed me once more, then pulled back just enough to smile. I couldn’t help but smile too. Was he in disbelief about all this as well?

“You smell so good,” he murmured.

“Thanks—you too,” I replied without thinking.

“Really?” His voice had a flicker of doubt, like he didn’t quite believe it.

I leaned closer, brushed my lips against his ear, and whispered, “Yes. Really. Don’t worry—it’s working on me. How you smell.” The way his face changed, like I’d just handed him a secret he didn’t expect, made my stomach flip.His face lights up and he kisses me again—wet, sloppy, almost urgent. His hands slide up to my boobs, cupping them hard, fingers teasing over my nipples. Then he starts kneading, almost like he’s testing the weight of them. Oh yeah. He’s definitely a boob guy.

We both end up laughing as he helps tug my dress off while I fumble with his shirt. Clothes pile to the side in this clumsy rush. I flop back onto the bed, and he moves on top of me, his face hovering just above mine. Our breaths mix, heavy, uneven. “Stick your tongue out a little,” he murmurs.

I do—and he takes it into his mouth, sucking on it like it’s something filthy, then pulls back just enough so a thin string of spit stretches between us. He’s grinning, clearly proud of himself, while I’m lying there thinking: Oh my god… he’s actually nasty—and I’m into it.

We’re kissing again—sloppy, messy, the kind that leaves both of us a little breathless. His hands roam down my body, his mouth following with scattered kisses. He glances up at me just as his fingers pause over my damp panties. That smirk of his makes me blush hard.

I help him get my bra off. He marvels at breasts and his kisses, licks, sucks on my breasts and nipples. Then he slides lower, and his hands take my panties off. He says my bush looks good, which makes me glad. He runs his finger over my wet slit. As his hands grip my thighs tight and he adjusts his face between them, I ask him, “Have you always wanted to do this?”

He doesn’t answer—just smirks and pulls my wet pussy onto his face. He is good with his mouth. Experienced. Fuck. I almost wanted to scream.

I grab his face, pull him up, and kiss him hard, tasting myself faintly on his lips. Then I surprise him by flipping him onto his back. I straddle him, sitting on his belly, leaving a damp spot below. God, he’s big. And kinda hairy. And sweaty. And Hot. And I want him.

“Tongue out,” I say. It’s my turn to suck his.

Then I shift to sit on his face as his tongue was still out, and then right on my pussy. Finally! I'm on his sexy beard. “I’ve wanted this all night,” I whisper. He gets the message, and starts eating me. This time, I moan loud, no holding back.

This impulsively turns into us 69’ing. He groans into me as I suck his thick white cock, which only makes me moan louder. It’s clumsy at first, figuring out the position, but then it clicks and we’re both lost in it. It doesn't take him long to make me cum like that.

I collapse next to him, panting, I blurt out: “I want to feel you inside me.”

He reaches for the drawer by the bed, fumbling for condoms, and I find myself shaking my head no. He pauses, smirks, and murmurs, “Dirty girl.” The way he says it makes my stomach flip.

But then he slows down, looks me dead in the eyes, and asks: “When was your last test?” It’s almost jarring, the switch. But it’s… responsible. My heart’s still racing, and for a split second I feel awkward—like, should I be turned on right now while we’re talking logistics? But I nod and tell him. He tells me his. Both recent. Both clean. The air shifts again. I feel my body relax with the knowledge, but my mind’s still whirring: Am I really about to do this raw with my old teacher?

And yet, the thrill floods back in as soon as he kisses me again. This time it’s heavier, hungrier, like we both know exactly what’s about to happen—and neither of us wants to hold back anymore.

I let out a deep gasp as he held my legs up with his arms and entered into me. His thick white cock was stretching my hole. We kissed sloppily, exchanging spit, as he thrusted deeper into my pussy. He felt heavy and sweaty on me, and I liked it. I wrapped my legs around his ass as he got into a rhythm. Even though he didn't last long, I loved the way his cock felt full in my pussy. He groaned loudly as he pulled out and came on my boobs.

He rolled off me and muttered, “Jesus, I didn’t think I had that in me.”

I laughed weakly, breathing in our musk and the smell of sex that hung heavy in the room, still in disbelief. That really just happened.