Fucking 21-year-old with my old teacher on my mind
Continuation from my previous post: Unexpected match with my old HS teacher
It had been over two weeks since that night with my old teacher. We still texted sometimes, but I was hesitant to see him again. I kept replaying it, unsure whether it was bold or just reckless. Thankfully, he hadn’t pushed. Nothing that made me feel cornered.
I talked to my friend about it. She didn’t judge, just told me to let go and enjoy. Then she shared her own Tinder habits: “20-year-olds who think they’ve got it all figured out.” I got it. We all have our thing.
I lowered my Tinder age limit—maybe to see what would happen, maybe to stop myself from texting my old teacher. Within minutes, a 21-year-old match caught my eye: fresh out of college, chubby cheeks, a tattoo, and an easy smile.
“Love your skin tone,” he texts. Of course, he does.
Most white guys do. I’ve heard it a hundred times. And I know I shouldn’t like it—being noticed, made a little exotic, turned into a curiosity because of my brown skin. And yet… I do.
I gave him my number. He got eager fast and asked to meet. So I called my friend again, and she was like, “Go for it. Who cares? Besides, there are no true strangers anymore. Six degrees of separation, remember? It’s a small world and an even shorter life. You should enjoy it.”
Goaded by my friend, I flirt back with him and ask him to send a pic of his most recent check-up. He did, he was clean. So I gave him my address and asked him to come over.
He came over soon, and he teases that I was shorter than he thought. I roll my eyes at the comment, calling it original. He smiles and says that he actually likes it
My phone buzzed—it was a text from the teacher asking if we could meet up. I ignore it and put my phone in my pocket.
“Follow me,” I tell the college guy, leading him toward my bedroom.
“Don’t be shy,” I add, glancing back. “Don’t you wanna kiss me?”
“Oh, I’m not shy at all,” he says, and before I can say anything more, he swoops in for a kiss.
The kiss surprises me—his lips are soft and he’s good with them, but he’s a little too eager. Before I can second-guess it, he’s kissing me again—firmer this time—his hands sliding to my hips. His grip tightens around me as the kiss deepens. His hands slide down to my butt, grab my cheeks. Too eager. Typical.
“You’re pretty,” he says.
“Thanks.” Not my best look, but it’ll do. My hand goes to his cheek as I move in to kiss him gently. He reciprocates. Then, out of nowhere, like the tide has turned, he presses me against the wall, still kissing me—and nipping at my neck. And back to hasty again—you are not learning. It’s clumsy and bold at once, and damn it, it’s working. Neck kisses are a weakness of mine. Just as he has distracted me, the phone in my pocket buzzes, jolting me. Was that the teacher?
He takes my arm and guides my hand over his pants, forcing me to feel his hardness. Oh. He's big. I can feel it. I start rubbing his bulge slowly, testing the space between us. I like being pinned like this—caught between the wall and the big white guy—and being kissed like this, messy and urgent. He starts grinding into my hand while returning his lips back to my neck. He’s getting too eager. Slowly, he unbuttons his pants. I get down on my knees. I know exactly what he wants.
I pull his pants down, looking up at him, and help him out of them. He’s wearing tight black underwear. I almost ogle at his buff thighs and the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. I tug the underwear down as well, freeing him. Oh, my God. Fuck.
He grins at me, cocky and proud of his size. It’s a big, beautiful, white cock that curves down right into my face. His bush could have used a little more upkeep, though. I lean in, letting my lips brush the head first, taking him into my mouth slowly. His skin is warm, and the taste is sharp, slightly musky. My hand slides along the base, exploring carefully, teasing him as I test the rhythm.
He doesn’t wait long, though. His fingers thread into my hair, nudging me closer, urging me to take him deeper. I glance up at him, catching the flash of impatience in his eyes. I adjust, letting him set the pace, feeling the heat of his body respond. I cup his balls as I suck him. I’m both amused and turned on.
It starts getting sloppy, exactly the way he must like. I pull back for air, he reaches down, tugging at my T-shirt. I help him peel it off, shrugging out of it, exposing my breasts. He pins my hands above me, still trapped in my shirt, pressing me firmly against the wall. Without a word, he slides himself into my mouth. He’s in charge—completely, like a natural dom. And honestly? I don’t mind it. Not one bit.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, as he fucks my throat. I’m part impressed, part turned on, and entirely caught off guard by how easily he’s taken control.
My eyes start to sting as I look at him, and for a moment I struggle to keep control. My hands break free of his grip, and I push him back a little, letting out a cough as I catch my breath. He asks if I’m alright. Spit still dribbles down my chest as I tell him I’m fine. I want to get back to it.
But he doesn’t give me the chance. He pulls me closer and whispers, “I love seeing girls like you all messy.”
Girls like me? I wonder, a flicker of doubt creeping in. Does he mean Indian girls? Or brown girls… like I’m something exotic? My skin tone, my curves, the way my body is different? Part of me can’t help liking it, and part of me hates that it turns me on.
He kisses me before I can think too much about it. I’m too turned on to stop, so I give in and kiss back. We tumble onto my bed, bodies pressing together. He feels heavy on me, solid, insistent. It feels… familiar—it reminds me of the teacher.
As he pulls my sweatpants off, my phone falls onto the bed. He proceeds to strip me completely by taking my panties off, and then pulls his shirt off. He moves to the floor by the edge of the bed, settling between my legs. His hands find my thighs, firm and dominant.
He looks at me like he’s discovering something new, eyes dark with curiosity and need. I lift my head slightly, and it hits me—exactly where his gaze has settled. Fuck. Yes. I’m soaked.
Still staring, he breathes, “Wow… your pussy is glistening. So beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, low and unsure. And it clicks. Does he know? Does he even realize the effect white men have on me?
“I love how flustered girls like you get,” he says, voice low, almost a growl.
There it is again. Girls like me. The thought curls in my chest. He’s been awkwardly open about it—liking my skin tone, liking me for it. And there’s something about the way he says it with his voice low, eyes fixed on me—it sounds like a confession. Maybe that’s why there's no need for me to hide from him.
I push his head down toward my pussy. He dives in, tongue first. Whoa... too fast. Understandable—after the moments we just had—but still, impatient. I guide him with a hand on his head. “Slower.”
He listens, his movements easing into something more deliberate, more in tune with me. The rush of his tongue softens into a rhythm that makes my body melt, little by little. My head falls back against the bed, a soft moan escaping my lips. You’re learning.
Then my phone buzzes again. Fuck. The timing couldn’t be worse but I reach for it without thinking. Two messages from the teacher—saying that he can't stop thinking about me.
Even with the college guy’s body pressed against mine, warm and eager and real—part of me is somewhere else, caught in the echo of another man. And somehow that makes every touch sharper, every breath heavier. The guilt hums under my skin, tangled with the heat between us — wrong and thrilling all at once.
I kiss him. Hard. Maybe to distract myself. Maybe to drown out the thought buzzing in the back of my mind. He kisses me back just as fiercely. I can taste myself on his lips, faint and warm, and it sends a pulse of heat straight through me. My hands slide from his face to his shoulders, his back, pressing him closer until his weight tips forward. He stumbles and collapses onto me, heavy, solid, crushing me pleasantly.
My arms loop around his neck; his hands grip my sides, my lower back, moving like he’s trying to learn me by touch. Our tongues tangle, hungry and messy, as we make out. He grips my hips hard, breaks the kiss, and in one quick motion flips us, breaking the kiss.
The position—his back hitting the bed, me straddling him—jolts something in me. It’s all too familiar. I’ve been here before—same angle, same heat—except last time, it was with the teacher. His body had been softer, rounder, older. The college guy’s skin is smoother, his chest firmer. The contrast hits me like static—two white bodies, two versions of the same want. Guilt curls somewhere under the pleasure, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
While I’m distracted, the college guy slides his cock from beneath me, tracing it slowly over my soaking pussy. Fuck. My breath catches, my body tightens. He taps my clit with it—soft, deliberate knocks—as if asking permission in that teasing, almost cocky way of his. Each touch sends a jolt through me, sharp and sweet all at once. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I hold his big cock and slowly sit down on it, pushing it into my pussy. Mmmm. I like the way it fills me up. Soft moans leave my lips, as I ride him gently while he cups my boobs with his hands and plays with hardened nipples.
I tell him to stick his tongue out a little. He does, leaning into it. I bend over, suck on it, mimicking the rhythm I remember with the teacher. His hands find my hips, my ass, gripping me firmly, as we kiss passionately. He takes control impatiently, and starts thrusting his cock into me vehemently. It hurts in a way that makes my body tingle all over. I can’t help but moan directly into his mouth, matching the reckless rhythm he’s setting.
It feels so good but just as quickly, my mind betrays me, and for a split second, it’s not him. It’s the teacher. The memory slides in uninvited, twisting around the present, warm and wrong and impossible to shake. He didn’t fuck me like this but I can’t stop imagining how he would have. The way his hands would’ve gripped me—slower, more deliberate. God, that’s wrong… and yet I can’t help it.
He flips us again, and suddenly I’m on my back, him on top of me. My legs fall open under his weight as he settles between them, his chest pressing against mine, his arms bracing on either side, while he is still inside me. I let out a slight chuckle. He’s good at flipping.
And for a flicker, it’s not him. It’s the teacher, pressing down—same weight, same rhythm, same heat. My body keeps moving, even as my mind drifts. I stare at the college guy’s tattoo, moaning softly, like it’s happening in the background while I’m somewhere else entirely. I can almost feel the teacher’s hands holding mine, him kissing me in this very position. His musk drove me wild.
Just like that, the college guy slows down to a stop. I feel him slide out, but before I can even think, a flicker of frustration crosses my face, and a muffled moan slips from my shut lips—saying everything I can’t: I want him back inside me, now. And that’s when it hits me: he stopped because he had to. He’s close. I can see it in the way his eyes flicker, the tension in his jaw. Consequence of his over-eagerness, his impatience.
He regains himself quickly, his breath steadying, with the flicker of control returning to his eyes.
“Turn around,” he murmurs. “Can we do it that way?”
I shift forward on the bed, getting on all fours, my hair falling over my face as I hear him stand behind me. He doesn’t enter me right away. Instead, he taps his cock against my cheek, runs it underneath my damp pussy, teasing me. I turn my head, groaning in protest. He smiles—naughty, a little sorry, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. His hands settle firmly on my hips as his cock finally pushes in, filling the ache he left behind.
He starts thrusting, and a warming relief spreads through me—but the tempo feels off. Not bad, just… not enough. Not quite matching the intensity that has been built up inside me. His hands travel up to my shoulders, then to my neck, tilting my chin back until I’m forced to arch for him. It’s like he knows—like he’s compensating for the lack of rhythm with dominance.
And me? I let him. There’s something about surrendering to him—to someone like him—that feels charged, electric. I turn back and moan louder—more in surrender to his control than to his thrusts. The difference between us hums under my skin, something I can’t ignore. It’s a pull I both resent and crave.
He slides a finger into my mouth, and I take it without thinking, my lips closing around it, sucking it slow and teasing. His gaze roams over me, and I can feel the weight of the contrast between us. He likes it, and I know he knows I do too. His intensity builds, almost matching the pace my body’s been begging for.
“Spank me,” I say between breaths. It sounded like a dare, but really it’s the guilt twisted with the need to drown out thoughts of the teacher. The college guy grins like he’s been waiting.
His hand smacks my ass deliciously hard, and I let out a raw, screaming moan. Another smack, another scream—half in pleasure, half in surrender. Every slap, every press of his white hand across my brown flesh makes me shiver, electric and almost obscene. It’s a reminder: he wants me not just for me, but for the way I’m different. The thrill of being desired for the color of my skin curls under my skin. Part guilt, part surrender—I’m completely undone.
I slump forward, my face pressed into the bed, my cheek brushing the soft sheets. My back arches down as I throw out my ass high, completely exposed. He plants his leg on the bed to steady himself. Everything he’s doing—his cock pushing in and out, his hands pressing my hips—is only almost working. It hits my body, not my mind. The teacher keeps slipping back in, like a touch I can almost feel. Fuck it. I stop trying to fight it, letting the past and present blur together, heat coursing through me.
I’m lost in it—the memory of the teacher, the way it started, the way he drew me in easily, that night with him. His words echo in my head: “Didn’t expect to see you here.” “I knew it was you.” “I wanted to do that all night.” “Dirty girl.”
The college guy edges closer, his moans distant, pushed to the background, almost irrelevant. But in my head, it isn’t him. It’s the teacher. It’s the teacher fucking me. It’s the teacher gripping me. It’s the teacher moaning. Whatever this is, it tastes sweet, feels damn good.
“I’m gonna… cum,” the college guy grunts, voice ragged and close to breaking.
“Cum in me,” I breathe back to the teacher. Half-lost in the haze where memory and skin blur together, the words slipped out before I even realized.
He shudders, pushes in deeper, and spills inside me as a raw groan tears from his throat. I lie there, caught between guilt and the fading warmth of it all, as the college guy collapses beside me—heavy, trembling, still lost in the afterglow I can’t quite reach.
Out of the haze, the realization hits me, sharp and sudden. “Fuck,” I mutter out.
“Yeah,” he pants, still catching his breath. “That was... amazing. Did you cum?”
I smile, masking the frustration beneath my breath, and whisper, “Yes,” knowing it’s a lie.
“Was it… safe?” he asks, turning toward me, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I murmur, letting his gaze linger on me. “Not that time of the month.”
He tells me he’d love to see me again as I walk him to the door, and send him off with a soft smile.
The night was confusing, exhilarating, messy—but thrilling in ways I can’t untangle. And through it all, one thing becomes clear: I want to see the teacher again.
It had been over two weeks since that night with my old teacher. We still texted sometimes, but I was hesitant to see him again. I kept replaying it, unsure whether it was bold or just reckless. Thankfully, he hadn’t pushed. Nothing that made me feel cornered.
I talked to my friend about it. She didn’t judge, just told me to let go and enjoy. Then she shared her own Tinder habits: “20-year-olds who think they’ve got it all figured out.” I got it. We all have our thing.
I lowered my Tinder age limit—maybe to see what would happen, maybe to stop myself from texting my old teacher. Within minutes, a 21-year-old match caught my eye: fresh out of college, chubby cheeks, a tattoo, and an easy smile.
“Love your skin tone,” he texts. Of course, he does.
Most white guys do. I’ve heard it a hundred times. And I know I shouldn’t like it—being noticed, made a little exotic, turned into a curiosity because of my brown skin. And yet… I do.
I gave him my number. He got eager fast and asked to meet. So I called my friend again, and she was like, “Go for it. Who cares? Besides, there are no true strangers anymore. Six degrees of separation, remember? It’s a small world and an even shorter life. You should enjoy it.”
Goaded by my friend, I flirt back with him and ask him to send a pic of his most recent check-up. He did, he was clean. So I gave him my address and asked him to come over.
He came over soon, and he teases that I was shorter than he thought. I roll my eyes at the comment, calling it original. He smiles and says that he actually likes it
My phone buzzed—it was a text from the teacher asking if we could meet up. I ignore it and put my phone in my pocket.
“Follow me,” I tell the college guy, leading him toward my bedroom.
“Don’t be shy,” I add, glancing back. “Don’t you wanna kiss me?”
“Oh, I’m not shy at all,” he says, and before I can say anything more, he swoops in for a kiss.
The kiss surprises me—his lips are soft and he’s good with them, but he’s a little too eager. Before I can second-guess it, he’s kissing me again—firmer this time—his hands sliding to my hips. His grip tightens around me as the kiss deepens. His hands slide down to my butt, grab my cheeks. Too eager. Typical.
“You’re pretty,” he says.
“Thanks.” Not my best look, but it’ll do. My hand goes to his cheek as I move in to kiss him gently. He reciprocates. Then, out of nowhere, like the tide has turned, he presses me against the wall, still kissing me—and nipping at my neck. And back to hasty again—you are not learning. It’s clumsy and bold at once, and damn it, it’s working. Neck kisses are a weakness of mine. Just as he has distracted me, the phone in my pocket buzzes, jolting me. Was that the teacher?
He takes my arm and guides my hand over his pants, forcing me to feel his hardness. Oh. He's big. I can feel it. I start rubbing his bulge slowly, testing the space between us. I like being pinned like this—caught between the wall and the big white guy—and being kissed like this, messy and urgent. He starts grinding into my hand while returning his lips back to my neck. He’s getting too eager. Slowly, he unbuttons his pants. I get down on my knees. I know exactly what he wants.
I pull his pants down, looking up at him, and help him out of them. He’s wearing tight black underwear. I almost ogle at his buff thighs and the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. I tug the underwear down as well, freeing him. Oh, my God. Fuck.
He grins at me, cocky and proud of his size. It’s a big, beautiful, white cock that curves down right into my face. His bush could have used a little more upkeep, though. I lean in, letting my lips brush the head first, taking him into my mouth slowly. His skin is warm, and the taste is sharp, slightly musky. My hand slides along the base, exploring carefully, teasing him as I test the rhythm.
He doesn’t wait long, though. His fingers thread into my hair, nudging me closer, urging me to take him deeper. I glance up at him, catching the flash of impatience in his eyes. I adjust, letting him set the pace, feeling the heat of his body respond. I cup his balls as I suck him. I’m both amused and turned on.
It starts getting sloppy, exactly the way he must like. I pull back for air, he reaches down, tugging at my T-shirt. I help him peel it off, shrugging out of it, exposing my breasts. He pins my hands above me, still trapped in my shirt, pressing me firmly against the wall. Without a word, he slides himself into my mouth. He’s in charge—completely, like a natural dom. And honestly? I don’t mind it. Not one bit.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, as he fucks my throat. I’m part impressed, part turned on, and entirely caught off guard by how easily he’s taken control.
My eyes start to sting as I look at him, and for a moment I struggle to keep control. My hands break free of his grip, and I push him back a little, letting out a cough as I catch my breath. He asks if I’m alright. Spit still dribbles down my chest as I tell him I’m fine. I want to get back to it.
But he doesn’t give me the chance. He pulls me closer and whispers, “I love seeing girls like you all messy.”
Girls like me? I wonder, a flicker of doubt creeping in. Does he mean Indian girls? Or brown girls… like I’m something exotic? My skin tone, my curves, the way my body is different? Part of me can’t help liking it, and part of me hates that it turns me on.
He kisses me before I can think too much about it. I’m too turned on to stop, so I give in and kiss back. We tumble onto my bed, bodies pressing together. He feels heavy on me, solid, insistent. It feels… familiar—it reminds me of the teacher.
As he pulls my sweatpants off, my phone falls onto the bed. He proceeds to strip me completely by taking my panties off, and then pulls his shirt off. He moves to the floor by the edge of the bed, settling between my legs. His hands find my thighs, firm and dominant.
He looks at me like he’s discovering something new, eyes dark with curiosity and need. I lift my head slightly, and it hits me—exactly where his gaze has settled. Fuck. Yes. I’m soaked.
Still staring, he breathes, “Wow… your pussy is glistening. So beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, low and unsure. And it clicks. Does he know? Does he even realize the effect white men have on me?
“I love how flustered girls like you get,” he says, voice low, almost a growl.
There it is again. Girls like me. The thought curls in my chest. He’s been awkwardly open about it—liking my skin tone, liking me for it. And there’s something about the way he says it with his voice low, eyes fixed on me—it sounds like a confession. Maybe that’s why there's no need for me to hide from him.
I push his head down toward my pussy. He dives in, tongue first. Whoa... too fast. Understandable—after the moments we just had—but still, impatient. I guide him with a hand on his head. “Slower.”
He listens, his movements easing into something more deliberate, more in tune with me. The rush of his tongue softens into a rhythm that makes my body melt, little by little. My head falls back against the bed, a soft moan escaping my lips. You’re learning.
Then my phone buzzes again. Fuck. The timing couldn’t be worse but I reach for it without thinking. Two messages from the teacher—saying that he can't stop thinking about me.
Even with the college guy’s body pressed against mine, warm and eager and real—part of me is somewhere else, caught in the echo of another man. And somehow that makes every touch sharper, every breath heavier. The guilt hums under my skin, tangled with the heat between us — wrong and thrilling all at once.
I kiss him. Hard. Maybe to distract myself. Maybe to drown out the thought buzzing in the back of my mind. He kisses me back just as fiercely. I can taste myself on his lips, faint and warm, and it sends a pulse of heat straight through me. My hands slide from his face to his shoulders, his back, pressing him closer until his weight tips forward. He stumbles and collapses onto me, heavy, solid, crushing me pleasantly.
My arms loop around his neck; his hands grip my sides, my lower back, moving like he’s trying to learn me by touch. Our tongues tangle, hungry and messy, as we make out. He grips my hips hard, breaks the kiss, and in one quick motion flips us, breaking the kiss.
The position—his back hitting the bed, me straddling him—jolts something in me. It’s all too familiar. I’ve been here before—same angle, same heat—except last time, it was with the teacher. His body had been softer, rounder, older. The college guy’s skin is smoother, his chest firmer. The contrast hits me like static—two white bodies, two versions of the same want. Guilt curls somewhere under the pleasure, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
While I’m distracted, the college guy slides his cock from beneath me, tracing it slowly over my soaking pussy. Fuck. My breath catches, my body tightens. He taps my clit with it—soft, deliberate knocks—as if asking permission in that teasing, almost cocky way of his. Each touch sends a jolt through me, sharp and sweet all at once. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I hold his big cock and slowly sit down on it, pushing it into my pussy. Mmmm. I like the way it fills me up. Soft moans leave my lips, as I ride him gently while he cups my boobs with his hands and plays with hardened nipples.
I tell him to stick his tongue out a little. He does, leaning into it. I bend over, suck on it, mimicking the rhythm I remember with the teacher. His hands find my hips, my ass, gripping me firmly, as we kiss passionately. He takes control impatiently, and starts thrusting his cock into me vehemently. It hurts in a way that makes my body tingle all over. I can’t help but moan directly into his mouth, matching the reckless rhythm he’s setting.
It feels so good but just as quickly, my mind betrays me, and for a split second, it’s not him. It’s the teacher. The memory slides in uninvited, twisting around the present, warm and wrong and impossible to shake. He didn’t fuck me like this but I can’t stop imagining how he would have. The way his hands would’ve gripped me—slower, more deliberate. God, that’s wrong… and yet I can’t help it.
He flips us again, and suddenly I’m on my back, him on top of me. My legs fall open under his weight as he settles between them, his chest pressing against mine, his arms bracing on either side, while he is still inside me. I let out a slight chuckle. He’s good at flipping.
And for a flicker, it’s not him. It’s the teacher, pressing down—same weight, same rhythm, same heat. My body keeps moving, even as my mind drifts. I stare at the college guy’s tattoo, moaning softly, like it’s happening in the background while I’m somewhere else entirely. I can almost feel the teacher’s hands holding mine, him kissing me in this very position. His musk drove me wild.
Just like that, the college guy slows down to a stop. I feel him slide out, but before I can even think, a flicker of frustration crosses my face, and a muffled moan slips from my shut lips—saying everything I can’t: I want him back inside me, now. And that’s when it hits me: he stopped because he had to. He’s close. I can see it in the way his eyes flicker, the tension in his jaw. Consequence of his over-eagerness, his impatience.
He regains himself quickly, his breath steadying, with the flicker of control returning to his eyes.
“Turn around,” he murmurs. “Can we do it that way?”
I shift forward on the bed, getting on all fours, my hair falling over my face as I hear him stand behind me. He doesn’t enter me right away. Instead, he taps his cock against my cheek, runs it underneath my damp pussy, teasing me. I turn my head, groaning in protest. He smiles—naughty, a little sorry, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. His hands settle firmly on my hips as his cock finally pushes in, filling the ache he left behind.
He starts thrusting, and a warming relief spreads through me—but the tempo feels off. Not bad, just… not enough. Not quite matching the intensity that has been built up inside me. His hands travel up to my shoulders, then to my neck, tilting my chin back until I’m forced to arch for him. It’s like he knows—like he’s compensating for the lack of rhythm with dominance.
And me? I let him. There’s something about surrendering to him—to someone like him—that feels charged, electric. I turn back and moan louder—more in surrender to his control than to his thrusts. The difference between us hums under my skin, something I can’t ignore. It’s a pull I both resent and crave.
He slides a finger into my mouth, and I take it without thinking, my lips closing around it, sucking it slow and teasing. His gaze roams over me, and I can feel the weight of the contrast between us. He likes it, and I know he knows I do too. His intensity builds, almost matching the pace my body’s been begging for.
“Spank me,” I say between breaths. It sounded like a dare, but really it’s the guilt twisted with the need to drown out thoughts of the teacher. The college guy grins like he’s been waiting.
His hand smacks my ass deliciously hard, and I let out a raw, screaming moan. Another smack, another scream—half in pleasure, half in surrender. Every slap, every press of his white hand across my brown flesh makes me shiver, electric and almost obscene. It’s a reminder: he wants me not just for me, but for the way I’m different. The thrill of being desired for the color of my skin curls under my skin. Part guilt, part surrender—I’m completely undone.
I slump forward, my face pressed into the bed, my cheek brushing the soft sheets. My back arches down as I throw out my ass high, completely exposed. He plants his leg on the bed to steady himself. Everything he’s doing—his cock pushing in and out, his hands pressing my hips—is only almost working. It hits my body, not my mind. The teacher keeps slipping back in, like a touch I can almost feel. Fuck it. I stop trying to fight it, letting the past and present blur together, heat coursing through me.
I’m lost in it—the memory of the teacher, the way it started, the way he drew me in easily, that night with him. His words echo in my head: “Didn’t expect to see you here.” “I knew it was you.” “I wanted to do that all night.” “Dirty girl.”
The college guy edges closer, his moans distant, pushed to the background, almost irrelevant. But in my head, it isn’t him. It’s the teacher. It’s the teacher fucking me. It’s the teacher gripping me. It’s the teacher moaning. Whatever this is, it tastes sweet, feels damn good.
“I’m gonna… cum,” the college guy grunts, voice ragged and close to breaking.
“Cum in me,” I breathe back to the teacher. Half-lost in the haze where memory and skin blur together, the words slipped out before I even realized.
He shudders, pushes in deeper, and spills inside me as a raw groan tears from his throat. I lie there, caught between guilt and the fading warmth of it all, as the college guy collapses beside me—heavy, trembling, still lost in the afterglow I can’t quite reach.
Out of the haze, the realization hits me, sharp and sudden. “Fuck,” I mutter out.
“Yeah,” he pants, still catching his breath. “That was... amazing. Did you cum?”
I smile, masking the frustration beneath my breath, and whisper, “Yes,” knowing it’s a lie.
“Was it… safe?” he asks, turning toward me, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I murmur, letting his gaze linger on me. “Not that time of the month.”
He tells me he’d love to see me again as I walk him to the door, and send him off with a soft smile.
The night was confusing, exhilarating, messy—but thrilling in ways I can’t untangle. And through it all, one thing becomes clear: I want to see the teacher again.
3ヶ月前
