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The events and characters in this fictional story are not based on real persons and its sexual acts are consensual and between adults. The plot revolves around a chance encounter between a retired private school professor and a former student.
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Retirement was expected to be a blessing for Emma and me. A modest one on a teacher’s retirement scale, but still moderately tolerable if I continued to do some tutoring on the side for wayward students. For most of my teaching life I had done after school and summer tutoring at the behest of distraught parents. I seemed to be a magnet for failing miscreants and some occasional knuckleheads that parents felt could become doctors or lawyers. Eighty-nine percent of the time the parents were dead wrong. The kids just wanted out from under adult control and to do whatever the hell they wanted in the moment of living without responsibilities. It’s too bad for them they didn’t have a place in America like A.S. Neil’s Summerhill, a private place of learning in England, operating on the basis that students would learn best when they had a desire to do so; not made to do so. The closest choice they had, at least here, was Barrington’s Center for Advanced Knowledge, my old stomping grounds.
Once my students eventually ‘matured’ the percentages became more like fifty/fifty as to becoming responsible adults, though still not doctors or lawyers. That’s how life works in case you haven’t already figured that out. It is like a mathematical equation: it must balance on both sides of the equals sign. Emma and I were like an equation also. We were both supposed to live in harmony, grow old together, and pass away at the same age; in our sleep, balancing out one another.
But Emma — well, she broke the equation and left in her sleep the year after I retired. It has been five years, now, and I still miss Emma as though it were yesterday. In my daily walk to the mailbox to check for junk mail, I always looked back toward the screen door and I still hope to see her standing there, today. Expectantly, she would be waiting for me to bring her daily reward of return address stickers to which she contributed her charity donations so faithfully. Out of guilt, partially, I still send the donations with her name as though she still stood at the door waiting for those damned stickers. God only knows what I’m going to do with ten thousand return address stickers, in boxes, stuffed in the corner of the garage.
Standing by the mailbox, shuffling through another stack, I heard a melodious angel-like voice speak my name, “Doctor Von Goethe?” It wasn’t Clara’s voice, the elderly lady from next door. Her voice was more cracked with age than mine. It was a vibrant, youthful voice and apparently someone who knew me. It was quite an unexpected pleasure in this neighborhood of old-timers.
Turning toward the voice, I saw a young, summer bronzed thing standing there staring at me, trying to decide if she had guessed right. She looked like Daisy Duke having just escaped from the Dukes of Hazard television show; mostly undressed in a skimpy, barely legal, halter top and tattered jean-shorts with the pockets hanging down below the crotch — right where the pant legs had been ‘professionally’ worn. The length of the shorts couldn’t even begin to cover the curves of her ass and must certainly be cutting off the circulation to her waist and legs. If she’d been a car, she wouldn’t even begin to look street legal — but perhaps she might, if she were standing on a dark, seedy street corner, downtown at 2:00 AM.
“That would be me, miss,” I acknowledged with a nod and polite grin. It was the sort of response you would give anyone whom you found wondering your neighborhood that seemed to be lost and dragging a leash behind her. If I’d been about twenty, I’d certainly be bending down to grab hold of that mop top and give her a friendly pat on the …
Her voice, which had faltered, picked up in the silence, “It’s me! Holley. Holley Picket. Ninth grade?”
“Miss Picket?” I mused aloud. Like a rolodex my mind rolled back five years to ninth grade algebra.
“The girl I taught named Miss Picket was short, wore pigtails, and had braces — so no, you’re not Miss Picket — must be some imposter.” I grinned as the images of those days cleared in my mind, “So, did you ever figure out where those two trains coming from opposite directions would pass if train A was traveling at 50 mph and train B was going 75 mph, Miss Holley Picket?”
Her face, bright as the smile on the sun, lit up with the same savviness of five years ago. “No. But I remember you making a mistake on grading my paper, Dr. Von Goethe.”
“Yes,” she replied, “That question was worth fifteen points. You took off fifteen points, but gave me twenty-five points for the answer I wrote instead, ‘I don’t think it perabet matters to the people in the trains where they pass each other, just as long as they are on different tracks — that’s all they would be concerned about!’ So, you actually gave me more points that the question was worth. That helped me stay on the A-B honor roll that semester. I just needed those extra points to make it. But I think you knew that already.”
“Maybe, maybe not Miss Picket.”
I answered, thinking back to the day of the last exam for the year and watching her fidget, frown, and chew the eraser head off of her pencil as she struggled with the test. By the end of it, she was a white-knuckle case and on the verge of tears. Miss Picket was a sweet kid, always helpful, and kind to others, but so very immature. People, I felt at the time, should be judged by their deeds, not their grades on a picayune test. So, yes I did fudge the grade for her — no one died over it and certainly it made her parents happy that she was an A-B student for the year.
“Are you lost?” I asked, as we seemed to be standing, looking at one another with no particular sense of purpose. I was trying not to seem as interested as I was in the voluptuous eighteen-year-old fidgeting as her fingers tried to tug the abbreviated postage stamp-sized cloth down to cover an errant nipple.
“No, sir. Just helping Miss Clara out,” she answered, as she reached into Clara’s mailbox.
Retrieving her mail, Holley held it close to her bosom, perhaps as a means of shielding that wayward nipple. And then added, “I’m a nursing student this year at Adkins Junior College and visiting Miss Clara! We got our first assignments for home study! I’m supposed to meet three times a week with older folks and learn how to do blood pressure checks and stuff like that, you know, temperature, mental acuity test — whatever that is.”
“I’m sure you will do well, Miss Picket,” I nodded as she smiled and pirouetted toward Clara’s driveway.
Each delicate cheek of her rear-end seemed to be waving back at me alternately, as one long shapely leg stretched out and passed the other, flexing her glutes. Then, unexpectedly her head swiveled. The spin flared out that long wavey sun-bleached hair; just like in a television commercial. The strands seemed to swirl in slow motion. Our eyes meet as she halted. Caught, I knew that she knew my gaze had followed her up the sidewalk rather than directing itself to my own walkway. Did she realize my focus was on those round-ass orbs of hers? Her lips pursed and then spread again into that bright sunshine smile once more as she spoke.
“I could come over to your house and check your vitals too, Doctor Von Goethe. Maybe, my instructor would give me extra credit. Would that be okay?” Her smile, her lilt, and her posture seemed to have a sense of coyness about it, just short of — was that a come-on line?
“Sure. That sounds good. See you in about twenty minutes?” The dryness in my mouth did not feel like cotton; it felt like the cotton boll itself! I scurried inside, feeling my heart beat increasing and some anxiety on the rise as well.
Dropping the mail on the kitchen table, I cleaned off some crumbs from lunch that still lingered around and wiped up a spot of mustard by the napkin holder. All in all it is fairly presentable. After five years I still managed a semblance of Emma’s neatness syndrome although, at present, it appears in keeping with a widower’s abode. Nothing has changed from the way she kept it since — well since the funeral. Looking up at her portrait on the mantel, I muttered, “I hope you’re not reading my mind now, sugar, it would probably be turning your cheeks red as you listen in to my thoughts.”
The wall clock had stopped, or so it seemed. I checked the time on the stove against it, but they read the same; perhaps the stove clock stopped also? Then, again, it was probably just my imagination that time was suspended. There — it moved a minute ahead. Damned clock! Twenty minutes now seemed to be taking an hour’s worth of speed to move. If it moved at all – quantum mechanics at work in the universe, no doubt.
The light knock at the door sent me to my feet in an instant and I was there by the time the echo had floated down the sidewalk. “Welcome Miss Holley. Come in,” I said as I pushed the screen door open for her to pass. You know, there isn’t much room between two people standing in a doorway as one slides past the other. Especially when one of those two has a backpack on and is projecting a couple of ample sized melons hanging out front. She didn’t seem to mind that both of them raked across my chest as she slid by me into the foyer. They certainly felt soft, yet firm at the same time.
I motioned to the kitchen as I closed the screen door behind her. Setting down her backpack on the table, she asked, “Do you want me to just take your BP or give you the full treatment, Doctor Von Goethe?”
“Let’s go for the works, perabet giriş Miss Holley!” I chucked thinking about what she might be calling the ‘full treatment.’
I gathered she was pleased with my response by the way her face lit up. As I pulled out a chair and sat down next to her, she stepped beside me and leaned over my lap to retrieve her backpack. Again those breasts just happened to brush past my nose, but I was a bit too slow in drawing back and wasn’t able to avoid the tips of those barely covered nipples brushing across my lips. She felt the contact and, looking down, she gave me a demure smile.
“Sorry,” she excused herself, but that still didn’t deter her from leaning just a bit more to grab the bag. The touch of her body felt nice as did the scent of lavender seeping into my nostrils.
Quickly, she began taking the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope out of her bag. Wrapping the scope around her neck put one end dangerously close to her left nipple and the ear pieces managed to wrap themselves around her almost bare, right breast; as though they were close friends on a third date.
Making small talk, she began, “I remember seeing your name on your classroom door the first day I came to Barrington’s Center for Advanced Knowledge. I passed by it every day and read it every time I would pass your room. I liked the magical sound of your name, ‘Doctor Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe’ and I hoped that one day I would be in your class, but that took a year.”
“Once I went to the nurse’s office at school,” she spoke as she rummaged in the bag for a pad and pencil, “when I didn’t feel well. After the nurse checked me and said I had a slight fever, I remember asking her when the doctor was coming in to see me. She just looked at me like I was a bit crazy, then told me we didn’t have a doctor in school.
“‘What about Doctor Von Goethe?’ I remember blurting out, thinking that you were the doctor that would come if someone was sick. That’s when she got the giggles. When she finally stopped, she told me that you were not a real doctor, but a doctor of letters. That’s when I found out that not all doctors were the same. Really dumb, huh?” she asked as she paused waiting for me to respond.
“Not dumb at all Miss Holley. Most school children only know of one kind of doctor and have no experience with the others. So it wasn’t dumb, just a lack of knowledge that’s all. Did it make you feel dumb?”
“Then, it did. I was kind of crushing on you then, so yeah I felt a bit foolish. Is that how you saw us in ninth grade — as children, Doctor?” she asked through pursed lips.
“We all thought of you as children — until you were not. The exact time that occurs is different for everyone. Some mature earlier, and I don’t mean just physically, I mean in an adultlike way of thinking. Others can still be twenty and remain childlike for — ever it seems!”
“I think I got to adult level thinking by tenth grade, then, but I still kept reading your name, when I passed your room and looked in to see you at your desk,” she seemed to be talking to herself at that point as she placed the cuff around my arm, then slipped the stethoscope from around her neck placing it into her ears.
She focused on procedures, carefully adjusting the cuff pressure and listening through the scope, while I focused on the round orbs inches from my lips, my very dry lips. “Your BP is 165 over 90 and your pulse is 93,” she announced. “Does that seem right to you Doctor Von Goethe?” she queried.
“Probably so,” I responded, “My usual readings are about 135 over 70 so your readings are a little high. Could be I was — not — sitting down long enough before you took the reading.”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe it could be that you are just crushing on me, too, though, right?” Her wry grin seemed to be saying she could read minds as well as body language as she leaned across me to put her things into the bag. The orbs seemed to spend longer pressing against my lips as I felt her nipples harden beneath the tiny scrap of fabric barely managing to restrain them at this point.
“Maybe, Miss Holley, maybe.” I whispered into her cleft.
Still leaning over to put her things away, she whispered in response, as her nipple pressed tighter against my lips, “I’m not a child now, Doctor Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe. And there is an awful lot of medical stuff I need to learn before I get a medical degree. So would you like to be my tutor, Doc?” She was definitely leaning closer on purpose now. So naturally my tongue reached out to circle the turgid nipple pressing out against the postage-sized bit of cloth preventing it from getting direct contact.
“Maybe, I could do some tutoring Miss Holley Picket, but first we will have to do an oral exam to see how much you already know. We don’t want to a leave a gap in your education, now do we?”
“No, doctor, we don’t want that to happen,” Miss Picket answered sweetly while she was busy loosening perabet güvenilir mi the knot that bound her halter. She let it slip from between my lips and her now bare, eraser tipped nipples. It was there that I began my exam. It was there that her first moan of, “Oh, professor!” slipped from between her lips as her slender bronzed body twitched while I tweaked her other nipple. I couldn’t help but notice that the summer tan encompassed all of her torso; not a bikini strap line appeared anywhere on her upper torso. A nudist?
There had been a few times, I admit, that I had felt the warmth of another woman’s body in my arms after Emma, but none as young or eager as the one pressing itself into my face at the moment. Not one that wanted to be tutored. Not one with a sensual openness and brimming with desire.
Miss Holley Picket squeezed me tighter and I could feel her heart beating through my lips as her breathing deepened. The feel of her turgid nibbles pressing against me was so warm and soft as my lips latched onto the firm buds and rolled each one around with my tongue. The surge of electricity through her nerve endings coursed to her fingers and she pulled my head tighter against her breasts as I enjoyed them. Then at some point in the maelstrom, we paused, clinging to one another without another word spoken. The firm tugs with my teeth on her nipples gave way to gentle kisses. The hurried escape of air from her lungs slowed down a bit. We entered the quiet eye of a hurricane, so to speak, as we rode the first wave of lust that had enveloped us for a few moments.
“Are you sure, Miss Holley?” I whispered from between her breasts while letting my tongue lap slowly around the perimeter of one succulent breast.
“Do bears fuck in the woods, professor?” she managed to reply in a gruff, winded tone as she pushed my head toward the other breast.
“Yes, Holley, I’m sure they do!” I laughed aloud as I struggled to loosen those damned ass-tight jean-shorts, until she began laughing as well. Help came finally as, inhaling and holding her breath, I could just get the button unfastened. The zipper came more easily then, and several sharp tugs later, she was free of them. Naturally tanned all over, I observed and it seemed laser treatments had left a smooth and delicious looking peach to explore. Definitely a nudist, I concluded!
We spent that afternoon bathed in perspiration as we continuously edged one another to greater sexual heights. My lips traced the contours of her sex until she couldn’t bear the exquisite thrusting of my tongue reaching as deeply as it could into her pussy. Unable to hold back, Holley drew me upward from her cunt until my cock slid into her swollen slit.
With commingled groans, we fucked one another until we collapsed onto the bed in the guest’s bedroom. I lay exhausted next to her unable to move an arm or leg and drifted off to sleep.
It was nearly an hour before I became aware of her body resting between my spread apart legs. Her lips and tongue were attempting to coax my limp dick back to life. Each lick and swirl caused my eyelids to flutter until they sprang wide open as she laved her way down below my scrotum and hit a spot no woman had gone down to before. With my dick rekindled, she rose to her knees and crawled over me until we were aligned. I watched the intensity on her face straining as she pushed herself toward another sexual release. The signs were there: the closed eyes to better enjoy the feelings, the huffing gasps for air, and the final springing open of her mouth as her thighs clinched against mine. She came with an intense series of spasmodic movements as her head jerked backward as though looking to the skies. She had ridden my cock like a cowgirl until it was lifeless once more. I was at the point of exhaustion and ready to cry Uncle.
It’s a damned shame an aging body just doesn’t allow one to keep up with an eighteen-year-old woman’s body; no matter how willing the mind is. The body just cannot keep up the pace. Miss Picket’s young body though, well, it still was ready for more. So she made a third attempt to revive my poor prick again, but no matter how much she stroked it, massaged it, worshiped it with her tongue, and coaxed it with her erotic vocabulary, it just didn’t respond. But she wasn’t to be denied.
“Seems like your soldier needs more rest, doc, but I still need at least one more orgasm. And since I’m expected to be home pretty soon, guess I’ll settle for sitting on your face and riding your tongue to finish. My mom calls it as a ‘poor man’s substitute for a cock’ but I like it just fine.”
“Holley, I like it just fine, too!”
With that, she crawled like a puppy over my body and spun around scooting her knees up against my shoulders and invited my tongue to come out and play with her. She rocked and rolled, her body undulating like waves carrying a small boat at sea. My fingers reached up and tweaked her nipples and found ways to pet her clit in the process enhancing her pleasure. Her nectar flowed down both sides of my face, spilling down my chin, until it flowed onto the sheets, resembling morning slobber. She was finally placated — exhausted to the point of collapse herself.
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