Her Buring Desire - Sex Stories

Her Buring Desire

Every art classroom I've ever been in smells the same: the pungent, intoxicating aroma of tempera and acrylic paints; the dry, woody perfume of construction paper; the acrid bite of paint thinner combined with old-building staples like dust and black mold. Mr. Thompson's room is no different, though I can recognize the distinct scent of coffee wafting out from his office where he reclines in his creaky, ragged desk chair, scribbling grades into a tattered binder. I long to be back there with him. I want to saunter inside, nonchalantly, closing the door behind me, peel off all my clothes and tell him that he can do whatever he wants to me. I want him to take my virginity. Yes, he's f******n years my senior and if anyone found out he'd most definitely be fired and probably arrested, but my eighteen year-old heart wants what it wants. It wants him. It wants his wide palms and long fingers moving over my skin, his mouth upon mine, his groin pressed against my backside, his cock – well, this is where it all gets a bit hazy. Of course, I know what is supposed to happen when people have sex but since I've only ever gone as far as French kissing, I have nothing to relate it to, nothing to flesh out that void in my fantasies. Today I have chosen to remain after school to work on my final project for the big art show next Friday that the department puts on every year. I am painting a life-sized portrait of a woman, naked against a stark, black background. She is beautiful and imperfect ...

... and stylized to the point of surreal, but still identifiable as woman. Mr. Thompson says I am very talented and that he would be happy to write me a recommendation to any art school of my choosing should I wish to pursue this work professionally. I told him I would think about it. As far as I'm concerned, anything that allows me more time alone with him is worth pursuing. I hear the sound of papers shuffling and the creak of his old office chair from the back room, followed by footsteps and the uneven spray of water sputtering out of the old faucet where we clean off our palettes and brushes. He is in the classroom now, maybe twenty feet behind me. I am standing by a long table where I have laid out an assortment of paints and other art tools, as well as my work-in-progress. I bend over the table and roll onto the balls of my feet so that my ass is slightly raised and my back arched; I hope I'm not being too obvious. I've chosen to wear a short, black skirt over gray stockings with pretty rose detailing, and a black tank top. Technically, we're not supposed to wear tank tops to school, but since it is after hours and I'm growing bored with subtlety, I've removed my sweatshirt so that Mr. Thompson might get a better look at my sizeable chest and petite figure. I'm no supermodel, but puberty has been surprisingly kind to me, so although I may only stand a little over 5'3" I am well-proportioned. More than anything, I hope he notices this, too. I've pulled the skirt up a bit so ...