It was the autumn of 1997.

I had just turned thirty-seven. I had long since divorced my first husband and, by now, I was no longer struggling to support myself, my daughter and son. I had gone back to school and earned my BA while also working full-time. My BA enabled me to land much better jobs than I had been getting with only a high-school diploma.

By this time, I had met and married my second husband, and we'd had two daughters together. He was more supportive of them than he was of my two older children. That was the first crack in our marriage: that he didn’t love all of my children equally, and that he favored those who were biologically his.

The second crack had been growing for two years. I had gone back to school again, earning my Masters in Education. He couldn’t see the value in that, but I knew that the advanced degree would get me better jobs, and better salaries, too. To say he was unsupportive of my higher education goals would be an understatement - and that put a further strain on our marriage.

Soon after I earned my MA, I got an offer for a really good job, teaching English Literature, a favorite subject of mine. The trouble was, it was at a junior college in Missouri, a couple of thousand miles from our home in California. My husband didn’t want to relocate to Missouri but, after unsuccessfully trying to find a good teaching position in California, I decided to accept the offer, and I moved east without him. Crack number three in our marriage.

I had been teaching Junior College for about a month, when I came to realize that one young man in my class was far brighter than the other students. And more ambitious, too. Kevin and I began to meet after class, in my classroom, to discuss his thoughts about the books and authors we were reading in class. And those talks sometimes moved into his ambitions in life, making me part teacher and part guidance counselor to him.

Did I mention that Kevin was 22 years old and hot as hell?

Big beautiful brown eyes, handsome face, charming and sincere smile, slender build, with nice arm and chest muscles. I couldn’t help but notice his build, which I really liked... at least what I saw of it through his tight, form-fitting clothing. Definitely some nice eye-candy there. So, English Literature was not always the topic uppermost in my mind when we would talk.

One day, we were talking after class about symbolism in literature. Kevin told me that he had written a few stories, and he didn’t think any author consciously sits down to work symbolism into their story; and if they did, the story would really “suck.” He felt that symbolism is accidental, coincidental, unconsciously worked into the story. And symbolism varies by the cultural and religious traditions in which the author was raised.

I replied that I, too, had written a few stories, and most of the symbolism did come from my own life experiences. I agreed that much of the symbolism was not planned out, but that at some conscious level, the author is aware of the symbolism.

My smart, hunky student let his hand rest atop mine, which sent a shiver of a thrill all through me. “The more aware an author is of the symbolism,” Kevin commented, “and the more the author deliberately tries to work symbolism in, the more the story is going to suck.”

I smiled at him. “That’s the second time you used the word ‘suck’ in a negative way.” I gazed deeply into his gorgeous big brown eyes. “Suck really isn’t a negative thing at all.”

Kevin looked at me, a little shocked. “What would you know about it?”

“I’ve been married twice, and had a few boyfriends before that. You don’t think I learned a thing or two about sucking?” I paused, then changed my tune. “This isn’t an appropriate conversation between student and teacher.”

Kevin kissed my mouth very softly, so softly that I scarce was sure my dreamy hunk had really kissed me at all. But I knew he had kissed me when he whispered sweetly, “Why not? I’m here to learn everything that you care to teach me.” He paused, and then he added, “Besides, they say a writer has to have life experiences to write about.”

I told him that I was very flattered that he thought about experiencing such a special part of life with me. And I admitted that I'd had some deliciously naughty thoughts about him, all alone in my apartment every night, over two-thousand miles away from my husband. “But what we’re thinking about is very dangerous. For us both.”

“We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” Kevin offered. “How about we just break the ice over a cup of coffee? Off campus. Not student and teacher, but friend to friend.”

I told him I liked that idea. Remove the teacher-student dynamic, talk friend to friend, and see how we get along when the subject isn’t English Literature.

We made a date to share coffee before class the next morning. Kevin gave me one more kiss, a little less soft this time, less timid, more confident. And I kissed him back, sweetly, fighting-off the urge to strip him right then and there, to see what the rest of his muscular body looked like.

That night, in my apartment, I spoke to my husband on the phone. “Your two brats are driving me crazy,” he began.

“We have four brats,” I reminded him.

“We have two brats,” he scolded. “The other two are yours.”

“Can’t you open your heart to love them just a little? Don’t you love me enough to love my kids a little, too?”

“You make it so hard for me to love you, every day that you defy my wishes and continue to work so far from home.”

“So, you can’t love me if I have an independent mind and spirit, and don’t behave as your personal property?”

We really got into then, lots of yelling and screaming on both sides. I finally got fed up and just hung up on him. I stripped down to just my panties and went to bed, trying to sleep. But I was so upset with my husband, that sleep did not come easily.

As fatigue began to overcome me, Kevin’s face came into my mind. I remembered that we had a date to share coffee and conversation in the morning. I remembered our discussion about the negative and positive meanings of the words “suck.” I began to wonder if I might enjoy sucking on my handsome twenty-two-year-old student. But would he, could he, enjoy a woman nearly as old as his mother, sucking him?

These thoughts soon drove my hand down into my panties. I closed my eyes and began to wonder how Kevin’s fingers would feel there. And here! And, oh yeah, to have him touch me here, right... here! Mmmm!

I was two-thousand miles from my husband, lonely, and horny as hell. And my thoughts were turning to bedding, not the man I was married to, but this hot, hunky, and very smart student of mine. Under my panties, my wandering fingers played in my pussy. I played with my clit. I played with my g-spot. All the while daydreaming of Kevin. And, after two wonderfully powerful orgasms, I feel into a very deep, peaceful, contented sleep.

I woke the next morning feeling so refreshed from releasing so much pent-up sexual energy the previous night. I tossed my cum-soaked panties into the washing hamper, showered, and dressed - with Kevin very much on my mind the whole time.

When I arrived at the off-campus coffee shop the next morning, Kevin was walking up. His tight shirt nicely showed off his well-toned abs. His soft grey trousers weren’t tight enough to show off his bulge, but his legs looked slender and well-muscled. Looking him up and down, down and up, I struggled not to let him hear my very approving “Mmmm.”

I was in a short skirt, the hem halfway between my thighs and my knees. A crisp white blouse, And zip-up knee high boots, with one-inch heels. Kevin looked me up and down several times, very approvingly, as he held the door for me and we entered the coffee shop together.

As we sipped coffee and munched bagels, we talked. About literature. About politics and religion. About movies and music. He mentioned a very sexy movie he had seen recently, sweet and romantic but sexually charged energy.

“Kind of like the energy between us right now?” I joked.

“So you feel it, too?”

“Yes, Kevin. I am a human being with sexual needs and urges, just like anyone else. And my husband is two-thousand miles away.”

“Do you have phone sex with him?”

“That’s very personal, Kevin.” I paused. “But, to answer your question, no. We fought on the phone last night.”

“You seem in a very good mood for one who just fought with her husband.”

“That’s because,” I admitted, “after we hung up, I masturbated myself to sleep. It felt good.”

“You thought of sex with him, after you and he just fought.”

“It wasn’t my husband I was thinking about.”

“Some hot Hollywood hunk, no doubt.”

“Oh Kevin, you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? Yes, Kevin, it was you. I came twice last night, picturing your face.”

Kevin smiled, leaned over the table, and kissed me. Gently and sweetly. I told him to sit, lest anyone we know might see us.

We got back to talking about movies, and I slowly worked the foot of my boot under the table and up onto his crotch. The one-inch heel began to massage his zipper, and Kevin smiled.

I didn’t notice that he had a hand under the table, until I felt it under my skirt, quickly working its way up to my thigh. I drew in my breath, and I softly let out a kittenish purr of contentment, as my boot heel rubbed even harder against his crotch.

His hand was now on my tiny black silk panties. Kevin rubbed, and then he whispered, “You have a bush?”

“Yes, Kevin.”

“Mmmm, I hope someday I may have the great honor to see it. To touch it. To kiss it.”

“Mmm,” I agreed. “I’d like that very much. But we have to go now. I have a class to teach. And you need to attend and listen and take notes. So you can pass the first written test on the materials next week.”

“It will be hard for me to focus,” Kevin smiled. “Thinking about that soft, thick bush of yours.”

“Teaching today won’t be easy for me either, Kevin. The whole time, I’ll be wondering what your cock looks like, anticipating getting to strip you, to see it, to touch it. To show you, first hand, the more positive meanings of the word ‘suck.’”

A few days went by before we could get together as daters again, and not just as student-teacher. We finally went out to dinner, and there was a lot of hand-holding, kissing, and under-the-table mischief involving hands, feet, and crotches. I had worn flats this time, which were easily slipped off, so my bare toes could wriggle against his zipper.

After dinner, as Kevin walked me back to my car, I kissed him again, and asked him “Are you as horny as I am?”

He clasped my wrist and let my hand feel his huge bulge in his trousers. It throbbed powerfully against my fingers.

“Mmm,” I purred, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

We both feared going to my place or his place.

What if we got caught? Although we are both consenting adults, the dean might not approve of a teacher bedding one of her students. And so we played it cool for a few days, somehow resisting our growing horniness, both in class and in our after-class discussions about literature.

And then one night, as I was walking home from the college, I saw the dean knocking on the door of Miss Clark, another teacher. She greeted him naked at her door, pulled him in, and I could see through the semi-open curtain that she quickly stripped the dean, shoved him onto her couch, and began a very rapid up-and-down ride on him.

After class the next day, I put my finger to my lips and whispered for Kevin to be quiet. I grabbed his hand and led him to a gigantic oak tree in a far corner of the campus.

While hurriedly stripping Kevin under that tree, I told him about Miss Clark’s ride on the dean last night. “The dean can hardly say anything, if he finds out about you and me.”

And with that, I began my hungry sucking of his beautiful cock. It was everything I had dreamed of, and more. It was a lovely deep red, sort of a crimson-purple, with a nice curve about halfway up that I knew would feel wonderful against my g-spot. It was long, I guessed about eight inches. It had a long, thick vein running all the way up the shaft, and it was pulsating rhythmically, rapidly against my tongue. The smooth skin surrounding his cock was stretched very tight by his hardness. His cock flesh tasted very good, and felt even better, in my mouth.

“Bad writing may suck,” I grinned. “But the good kind of sucking is a lot of fun.”

“You’re a very wise teacher,” Kevin laughed, between his loud moans.

After his powerful explosion down my throat, I lay flat on my back, under the huge, remote tree. Kevin slowly stripped me, kissing each area as he exposed it. His soft kisses felt heavenly on my bare flesh.

He put a lot of skill into how he kissed my breasts, my areolae, my nipples. Mmm, how he kissed and licked and pinched and rolled and squeezed and sucked and nibbled my nipples, until they were very long and achingly hard.

His kisses on my toes felt so good. Then my heels and ankles. My legs and knees. And thighs. His fingers massaged my bush, and his mouth followed every place his fingers had just touched.

I just kept opening my thighs wider and wider and wider to him. He lay face down and began kissing my thighs. Then his kisses moved to my outer lips, which opened to him. His fingers gently held my pussy open, as he tasted my damp inner walls. He licked at my clit, until the hood rolled back and the button emerged and pulsated into hardness.

He abandoned my clit for a few moments, as his fingers massaged my g-spot. I was writhing all over the grass under our big tree, crazy with lust, when his tongue replaced his finger on my g-spot. I arched my back high, pushing hard against his handsome face.

A sensation I’d never known before washed over me from head to toe. This wasn’t like when my clit goes into orgasm. It was “coming” from much deeper inside of me. It came out slowly, oozing, and it just wouldn’t stop.

When I finally stopped coming, Kevin said what I had just experienced was called a g-spot orgasm.

“I’ve heard of those, but never had one before. That was amazing. You are amazing!”

I kissed him, and told him my clit was now trembling and throbbing even more than before.

“I can fix that!” he grinned, as he gave my clit a few long, slow licks.

“That’s just making me even hornier!” I moaned.

He sucked my clit up into his mouth. “I’m gonna cum,” I groaned.

When I said that, Kevin playfully, gently, sank his teeth into my impossibly horny clit, and he sucked even harder. I held his head in both hands, clamped my thighs tight against his ear. And, bucking wildly, I proceeded to ooze and ooze and ooze my girl-cum, straight into his mouth. Not a squirt so much as a slow, steady ooze.

“I think,” I moaned happily, “the student just taught the teacher a thing or two about sex. Where did you ever learn that? Men twice your age don’t have the sexual knowledge that you do.”

“How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” he winked.

“Practice, practice, practice,” was my instinctive answer. Then, “Wait, do I want to hear this? I mean, that you’ve had other women before me.”

“So? You’ve had other men before me. What matters is we are here now, sharing our bodies with each other.”

“Very true. And there’s one part of your body you have yet to share with me.”

Kevin looked at me quizzically, and I could tell he was about to ask me something.

I put my fingers to his lips. “Shhh, don’t talk. Just fuck me!”

He held my pussy lips open. I encircled his cock with both hands, and I guided him where I wanted him. He pried my hands off his very hard cock, and he began to slowly sink down into me. He adjusted his hips, so the head rubbed my g-spot as he thrusted deeper. My g-spot, having already come hard on his face, now trembled into orgasm again, soaking his cock, and making its descent even easier into my well-lubricated opening.

He wriggled again, and the shaft rubbed hard against my clit, as he pushed his way even deeper into me. He drew back as slowly as he had entered me, and he sank in again. Each time he pushed in, he sped it up ever so slightly. About his fifteenth thrust, he was moving in and out of me at a pretty fast pace, and I felt that I was in pure heaven. The head was really pushing hard against my g-spot, which was still coming, in one long orgasm.

When my g-spot finally calmed down, he thrust down hard, rubbing powerfully against my clit, which very suddenly burst into another orgasm. And then he exploded his come deep into me. Warm and thick and gooey and wonderful. It felt like about a gallon of it, exploding powerfully out of him and deep into me.

From that day on, Kevin and I sought out all sorts of exotic locales to make love. In a brook. Between hedge rows. In the library book stacks. In a janitor’s closet.

Kevin and I also came up with an idea, a wonderful idea. I started to wear very skimpy bra and panty sets under my clothes, and then I would strip down to those. Kevin would take very beautiful and erotic photos of me in various seductive poses. We wouldn’t make love during those photo shoots, many of which occurred in motels, or in my classroom after hours. We would both let the photos build our mutual lust for a few days, and then climb all over each other in very public places. Like on the back stairway behind the Science Building.

I still have several of Kevin’s extremely artistic photos of me at thirty-seven, posing for him.

One day, I invited Kevin to meet me in my classroom late at night. We were the only people still there, on the whole campus. I leaned against my desk as he ate me. I lay down on my desk and pulled him on top of me, and he fucked me. I rolled us over and I rode him. He had me lie face down and gave it to me doggy-style. Mmm, he gave that to me real good!

I stood him up and I sat on my desk and sucked him. He stood against my desk as I sat on my desk, and he ate me again, then he gave me a standing fuck.

That was eighteen years ago, and over the years since then, I have often masturbated to the sweet memory of that day. What happened afterward has not marred that joyous memory in the least.

You see, one day, another student caught us walking out of a janitor’s closet, holding hands, giggling and smoothing down our clothes, which were (along with our hair) in complete disarray.

The next day, as I walked into my classroom, that other student led the whole class in a chant of “Cougar, Coo-ger! Coo-ger!” Emphasis on the second syllable.

The dean walked in on this turmoil and that student told the dean about Kevin and me.

In subsequent discussions with the dean, I reminded him that Kevin and I were both consenting adults, and I was basing his grades on his intelligence or lack thereof, on the sincerity of his efforts to complete his assignments, and not on his considerable prowess in bed. I also told the dean that I had seen Miss Clark riding him, so he was hardly one to talk.

I was fired. It seemed to me that the all-male junior college’s school board basically took the position that a male dean can cheat on his wife whenever he wants with whoever he wants. But a lonely, horny woman teacher in a broken marriage is an immoral slut. The administration refused to even hear anything I had to say.

Kevin and I had one long, last goodbye fuck, in my apartment this time. The first and only time we made love in a bed. We spent five wonderful hours doing every sexual thing that we both wanted to share. It was a joyous but bittersweet good-ye.

When I returned to California, and my husband realized I had been fired basically for cheating on him, he divorced me. He took away the two kids I had birthed by him, and he spent years poisoning their young minds about what a horrible evil woman I was. The court refused to listen about how my husband had been unsupportive of my degree and my job, and refused to love my two oldest kids. The male judge just knew that I had cheated, it was all my fault, and I owed my husband child support for our two youngest kids.

The whole ordeal was a huge financial drain on me. I packed up my two oldest kids and moved to another town in California. I took a job as a graphic artist, and we somehow made it through. In that new town, I met and married my third husband, a supermarket manager from whom I’m also now divorced; this time, entirely because of his own behavior. We had no kids together.

As adults, my two youngest kids came to realize that the behavior of both of their parents had led to the dissolution of our marriage. Not just me. They know I did nothing to harm them personally, and they understand and forgive how my loneliness and horniness, and their father’s meanness toward me and toward their two older half-siblings, had driven me into the arms of another man.

My two youngest and I still aren’t all that close, but I do see them from time to time, and they no longer hate me. Was it all worth it?

Every time I masturbate to the sweet memory of my hot twenty-two-year-old student banging my very wet thirty-seven-year-old pussy deep and hard – and repeatedly -- on top of my desk, my answer is always a resounding yes. Pretty much the same word I repeated over and over and over again in Kevin’s arms that day in 1997, “Yes... yes... oh, yes!”

And I still have several of Kevin’s wonderful, beautiful, and very erotic photos of me, which I like to look at and remember, to make me feel so sexy. I sometimes wonder if he still has any of those photos of me, and if he still sometimes masturbates to the memory of me, the way I sometimes still do to his memory.

In fact, my favorite photo Kevin took of me, where I am stretched out on a bed and also reflected in a mirror, adorns the title bar of this story. The photo has inspired many an orgasm from deep inside of me. And perhaps will likewise inspire some of my readers.

Oh yes, it was all very definitely worth it. Yes, yes, yes!