I was to be at his house at 8.30 p.m. He didn't live far from my home, but I still had to take two buses to get there, and of course, I got lost. This was before the mobile era, and it had never occurred to us to exchange phone numbers. By the time I got to his house, it was near 10 p.m., and he seemed seriously relieved upon opening the door to see that I’d arrived okay.

I was hyped-up, but did not know what to expect. My coming to his place was an absolute roll of the dice. His behaviour during the previous week had been perplexing, to say the least. But the way my body had responded—brashly and mainly cunt-prompted—to him and his bold manoeuvre had done a number on me. I'd been in a hot-to-trot mood ever since the day I had brewed, pumped up and swallowed my teacher's bonk-juice. Had my hyper-responsiveness been a one-off thing? More importantly, what had triggered it? In any case, I definitely wanted me some more of that.

He let me in and helped me out of my jacket, snuggling up to me and rubbing my back to ease my shivers. That winter, I recall, was particularly cold. I don't like chilly weather; it means you have to wear several layers of clothing, which I find rather uncomfortable. I was wearing dark jeans, a purple cashmere jumper, and knee-high boots. He kissed me, you may even say tenderly; his nose traced the outline from my neck to my shoulder, inhaling me. "You look so pretty that it's almost a shame to get you undressed." Damn, he’d got me, and he knew it.

He had his crotch hitched to mine and both hands behind my back, coiling strands of hair around his fingers past my waist and down to my butt while he leered at me. In the thick of face-and-neck-pecking, he mumbled something about his mother and sister visiting some relatives in the countryside. As soon as he'd learnt he would be alone for the weekend, he reckoned it might be an excellent opportunity to give me proper feedback on my performance in class.

Then it hit me. He had said all that in English!

"Are we going to sustain the teacher-student play?" I asked.

"Oh, you bet. No more Spanish allowed, or I'll have to flunk you," he replied with a playful wink. I laughed, but I was worried stiff because even if I could understand him, I was simply not fluent enough, especially around sexy talk.

We were standing in the living room, next to a huge couch. But even as I was making every effort to simmer down and take in the words, his hips flat-out crossed that thin line when push becomes shove, leaving me quasi-seated on the armrest. Sneaky hands slipped under my jumper, crawling up my torso to take it off. He shook his head with that randy curve on his lips when he found nothing but a black lace basque underneath. 

He continued nibbling my neck without haste, working down my cleavage, fondling my tits with firmness and fixity of purpose. "I've been thirsting after these since you showed up at the institute," he rasped. Then he wrapped my hair around his fist and yanked with a will. "This is for coming at me like that in my classroom, thinking you could get away with it."

He covered my mouth with his other hand and added, "Actions have consequences, you know," biting hard through the lace on each nipple after stressing the respective function words. This man was ever the educator.

He exploited my still lace-clad tits (funbags he called them), somewhat amazed and more than a little encouraged by my welcoming reactions. My eyes locked on him, absorbing every move, squealing with delight and jutting out my hips, with my hands grappling on the leather for support. He read my body cues like an open book in his own academic field, correctly guessing that if he pressed on with his assiduous flicking, lapping, sucking, and biting, I would cum. And fuck me, did I cum! Second time with no kind of pussy contact. First time while deepthroating him, and now just from… funbagging?

Clearly, this night was going to be like no other.

He unbuttoned my jeans and flung them off along with my boots; I was caught like a bunny in the headlights under his piercing eyes. This time, he made me sit on the armrest while spacing out my legs. He opened his mouth wide to fit my mound and embedded his teeth through the lace into the flesh. "And THIS is for kissing my mum with jizz-flavoured lips." 

At last, he side-lined the fabric, uncovering my dripping cunt. "Mouth-watering," he sighed, still with that grin on his face, and sucked my clit into his mouth, attacking it with his flapping tongue. I daresay he didn't even halt to breathe until I came again in his lip-trap.

By that point in my life, I had already had several years of practice with a considerable number of casual partners, but never had I experienced anything like this. So far, sex had been with people around my age, and it was mostly about sticking something into somewhere, cumming, cleaning up, and moving on. I used to enjoy that. God, had I been clueless!

This man here was nothing like that. He kissed me long and zealously, inviting me to savour myself on his tongue and lips, which I found beyond arousing. By all appearances, he was anticipating my demur. It thrilled me that I could surprise him with the cheeky expression on my blushing face.

"Smile while you can; I'll be wiping that smirk off soon enough."

He helped me to my feet and asked me if I'd like something to drink, offering me his glass of whiskey. He was joking, but I chugged that Irish blessing like they were going to reinstate prohibition on the morrow. His hand rushed down my back and smacked my ass with might and main. "Don't push it." 

"Why don't you push it?" I asked with my signature sauciness. 

He clutched my wrist and dragged me to his bedroom. "Now, let's see some more skin." He unclipped the bodysuit and took a step back. "Take it off, slowly," he murmured partway between asking and commanding.

There was no urgency in his tone, nor one iota of doubt about my gameness. His stance was casual, but he exuded self-confidence; that alone made me tingle in all the right places. I peeled off my last piece of clothing with a halting rhythm, while he stripped quick as a wink, but not before I espied that he wasn't wearing anything under his jeans. The idea that the rough fabric had been brushing against his bare sex was hotter than hot. 

He hustled me onto the bed, took my right hand, and licked my index and middle fingers. The nerve endings in my fingertips rewired to those on my clit; that raspy silkiness might as well have lapped up my egotist nub of flesh. "Touch yourself," he said.

I’m not exactly a shrinking violet, yet the drumbeat of my heart threatened to crack my ribs. For a split second I froze, staring at him with wide eyes and eyebrows virtually merging with my hairline. I felt so embarrassed, so observed, like an animal in a zoo… but I was too fricking horny to care!

Stubborn as a mule, I was determined not to wimp out. I leant far back, with my head resting on the wall and my ass on the edge of the bed, hauled my legs up one at a time onto the mattress, and drew my feet together, aspiring to conceal my immodesty. His hands parted my legs like a white shark swimming through a herring shoal. "No, no, no; I want to see you," he muttered, making my knees fall out to the sides.

The growl in the back of his throat told me he wasn't pleased by the hand blocking his view. I fanned out my fingers and ran the middle one over my slit, the index and ring ones raking along the outer lips, pressing down on the labia. I did several passes, rubbing up and down each side and across my clit, varying between light and firm, getting closer, but only so much. Micro-circling with the fingertips, decreasing then increasing the pressure, I grazed the inner folds and lightly tapped on the plumped-up knob.

Tongue-sawing his lips from side to side and jacking off, he knelt so that his face was a hair's breadth off my showcased, soaking twat. I carried on alternating fast and slower scrubs, switching directions and lengths of strokes–from soft rubs with one finger to using all four–entranced by wave after wave of pungent stimulation.

Slippery and flooding with all that pent-up aching lust, I was heaving like a fish out of water. He knew I was about to cum again. "Don't stop!" he bellowed. Like I was going to. This was new to me. I was fired up by my touch, but more so by being watched as I did it.

Drawn with magnetic force, my tensed thighs captured my hand. The other was busy mishandling my left tit viciously, kneading my nipple with tugging interludes, flanked by the first knuckles. Such body-juddering rapture made me tow my knees up and splay my legs again, right at the gates of seventh heaven.

Suddenly, he dipped two digits into my cranny, just as my climax hit like the fist of an angry god. My pussy was gripping tight and bathing his stock-still fingers. He had thrust them there purely to feel my orgasm!

I tried to sit up, straining for his cock. With every fibre of my being, I craved to suck it.

"Is this what you want?"

I nodded with my tongue out, like a Chinese dragon slithering through the air. "Open your mouth," he teased me a few times, barely caressing the tip of my tongue with its head, only to draw back. 

Anxious, I clawed at his ass and pulled him to me, making sure there was no escape. He complimented my greedy tongue as I took my fill of his appreciation for my hedonistic display. I gobbled up his meat-slab, and, while he had both hands on my head the entire time, he let me do as I pleased.

And so I did, hoovering in turbo mode with my cheeks, humming while keeping him deep in my throat. I was not simply bobbing my head up and down, but rocking my whole body onto him, committing a fellatious assault on his cock. He was panting hard by the time he extricated himself from my ever-ravenous mouth, flipping me and guiding me to my knees on the bed. I had not even settled firmly when he burrowed his chunky dipstick inside my pussy.

"You wanted it, didn't you?" he taunted me, his booming voice cutting through my grunts. "Now take it. Take it all, little minx!" 

No one had ever shagged me that fiercely, and by Lust, I could not have loved it more. Thrusting with all his weight against me, like a charging bull, he increased his pace and nailed me down onto the mattress. He was flexing with mighty strength inside of me, on top of me, against me—balls deep and riding my every surge of pleasure, each one getting a reply from his dick as it jerked and bumped into the innermost reaches of my pussy. Those sultry ball-slapping noises kept me grounded. With no little effort, I turned my head to ask what 'minx' meant, for I didn't know the word.

Hands fasten onto my shoulders and, ramming even harder and deeper with each stressed syllable, he explained: "IT's – exACTly – WHAT – YOU – ARE – a SHAMEless – PREtty – LITtle – SLUT." The build-up of pressure dissipated throughout my body, a maelstrom of sensations inside and out. I came so hard, hands and teeth clamped onto the duvet. The pulsing of my cunt replaced–or rather became–my heartbeat. He couldn't resist it any longer, so he wrenched out and sprayed across my back and ass—every sizzling drop landing on my skin, branding me as though for good.

Amidst ragged breaths and involuntary jolts, I told him I was on the pill, so he could cum inside me if he wished. He whacked my ass and grimaced, "Well, you could have mentioned that before!" 

He cleaned me up with his T-shirt and asked me if I fancied having a shower while he put a pizza in the oven, and so I did. 

I had quite the head trip absorbing all that had happened as the tepid water soothed the soreness. I was shaken, and not just from the hard banging. He had stirred something within me, but I couldn't yet fully grasp what it was.

~.~

Back in his room, I found him playing the guitar on his bed, still naked. I leant on the door frame, watching him lost in his groove, mesmerised by the way he moved his fingers. 

After a few minutes, he saw me and patted the chair in front of him. I sat where instructed, and he whisked me closer to him by the ankles, asserting himself between my open legs. He resumed playing, his knuckles rubbing my clit. Needless to say, I was enraptured.

"How sore are you?" he asked me, noticing my swollen lips. 

"Sore," I answered, "but longing for more."

"Okay, here's the deal. If you manage to hold off, so by the time I finish the song you haven't cum, I'll go easy on you. But if you do, I'll wreck that pretty slit of yours."

A gasp was all I could articulate. 

He played his bloody song, taking breaks now and then to sip me from his hand. His chair got swamped with my juices, but I did not cum. It was merely out of numbness, not because I was a master of self-control—but he didn't know that.

When he was over, I looked at him, grinning, visibly satisfied with myself. Big mistake.

He drove me to the floor, knelt astride me, and rabidly hit throat-bottom. I was temporarily taken aback by the suddenness and ferocity of his cock breaching my mouth and throat in one go. "I told you I was going to wipe that smart-ass smile from your face," he snarled. "Suck, little minx."

He was all hopped-up, growing harder and, to my amazement, even bigger and meaner in his blow-by-blow exposition. Skull-fucking, I'd soon learn, makes it extremely difficult for the recipient to breathe. It also causes pervasive overflowing—teary eyes, excessive drooling, and a flushed trench. Mind you, as a deterrent to naughty behaviour, it failed miserably.

He eased off, readjusting his balance and thus allowing me to catch some air. And that's when we smelled the smoke…

"Fuck!" He extracted himself from my mouth. "The pizza!"