Her Buring Desire - Sex Stories

Her Buring Desire

... more attention to that sadly neglected area. It's not that I do not masturbate, because I do – often – but I've never had another person besides my pediatrician touch me there. It's one thing to do it yourself, to have complete control over which areas get stimulated and in what way, but I can only imagine how exciting and scary it would be to have someone else's hands, fingers, and – oh gosh – mouth down there, manipulating me in ways I can't even conceptualize. The shriek of a telephone in Mr. Thompson's back office jolts me out of my fantasy and I realize that I've just accidentally over-shaded the painted woman's right breast. "Shit," I hiss, dipping my brush into a bit of yellow paint in the hopes of compensating for the damage. Mr. Thompson answers the phone at a normal volume but then begins to speak in hushed whispers. I hear footsteps and then the sound of a heavy door being pushed shut. I turn and see that he has closed the door to his office but notice a quarter-sized hole beneath the knob. The door must have once featured a lock but, for whatever reason, it has been removed. I debate the ethics of grasping this opportunity to spy on him but my curiosity is far more powerful than any sense of morality and thus, before long, I've removed my shoes and tiptoed over to the door. I hover just above the floor, crouching, with my eye to the peephole. I can barely make out his side of the conversation and am both affronted and intrigued by what I hear. "Of course I've ...

... thought about you since last August. How could I not? That was some of the best damn head I've ever gotten." He is talking to a woman. I know this because the tinny, intelligible voice coming out the other end of the phone sounds high-pitched, feminine. His own voice is low and guttural, deeper than I'm used to hearing it in class. I'm both insanely jealous and eager to hear more. He is reclining in his creaky desk chair with his legs spread wide apart and his other hand stuffed inside the pocket of his paint-stained blue jeans. There is some squeaky dialogue from the other end of the line. I wish I could hear what she is saying, as he's obviously enjoying the conversation. The thought of perhaps one day being the inspiration for that broad, lascivious smile on his face is enough to make my cunt throb. "I'm glad I was able to do that for you." He pauses, listening, then continues: "If I could, I'd drive up there this weekend and finish you off properly." More muffled dialogue, then, "Nah, I have this art show thing to get ready for so I'll be pretty busy till next weekend. Believe me, I'd much rather spend the next three days with my face between your legs." A sly smile spreads across his face. "Oh, really? Well, you're welcome to try." Mr. Thompson stands up and begins to walk towards the door. I scramble over to the opposite side of the heavy demonstration table behind me, my stocking-clad feet aiding in my haste. He opens the door and peers out into the classroom. My things ...