Hillary: The Summer of '92 Ch. 01

Author’s Note: This is a continuation of the story told in “Hillary”, my first submission to Literotica. This part of the story begins the day after Hillary and Mr. Dornier get together and is told from Mr. Dornier’s point of view. It covers the period from when their affair starts until Hillary leaves for school. Additional segments will appear as soon as they’re done. And…once Hillary -- The Summer of ‘92” is completed, “Hillary – The Summer of 2002” will finish the story, told again from Hillary’s perspective. DCR

Introduction:

In the summer of 1992 I was hired by the local school district to teach make-up classes in several subjects. I never dreamed that a fairly easy summer job would lead to my violating the ethics of the teaching profession and my marriage vows. At the time I was happily married and had been for almost fifteen years.

I was a weekday bachelor that summer. My wife and daughter were at her family’s beach house on the coast of Maine, a tradition in her family but one for which I have no fondness whatever. My wife’s great-grandfather built the beach house and every summer the entire family gathers there for at least a month. Our daughter loves the place, so she and my wife spent both July and August there that summer. Wasting precious summer time in a small house filled with people who, even though related, don’t really like each other is definitely not something I ever wanted to do, so I was more than happy for the offer to teach summer school. I did have to go to Maine on the weekends, but I could force myself to tolerate my in-laws for a couple of days.

Hillary Watson was a student in my English class, there because she hadn’t earned enough credits for her diploma, something she needed to go on to college. An eighteen year-old, she has shoulder-length brown hair worn straight, and “All-American Girl” looks. She probably weighs a hundred thirty pounds, the weight is well distributed, and she dresses in ways that make sure male members of society notice her. That summer she was dating the captain of the football team.

She arrived at my house unannounced one afternoon, hoping to use feminine wiles to accomplish what she hadn’t been able to do with half-hearted attempts at schoolwork, namely get a passing grade in my class and her diploma. She did get both her passing grade and diploma, and she honestly earned both. I don’t think either of us had any idea what impact her visit would have on both of our lives.

If you’ve read the story “Hillary,” you know exactly what happened the day of Hillary’s visit. Without either of us intending it to happen, that visit led to a sexual relationship that lasted for the rest of the summer of 1992.

I thought people who read “Hillary” might want to know what happened for the remainder of the summer because Hillary’s story ended when she left my house the morning following her surprise – and surprising – arrival.

After Hillary left, I stood in my kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, pondering what I’d done. Now, literally considering my behavior in the light of day, I realized that if what happened at my house the previous afternoon and night became public knowledge, I was in a huge amount of trouble. First of all, I’d lose my job with the school district. I loved working in the field of education. I have both a teaching and an administrative certification, and had been offered the job of assistant principal at the middle school for the fall term. Of course, what had happened between Hillary and me came out, I wouldn’t be getting that job. I wouldn’t even be able to get a custodial job in a school setting.

Even more disturbing was the fact that I’d violated my marriage vows for the first time and had done so without a whole lot of thought. The consequences of my wife’s learning of what I’d done with Hillary were, to me, a far bigger threat than losing my ability to work in a school setting.

I was also worried about the impact on Hillary. She was bright, but not nearly as mature as she thought she was, and she appeared to have far less experience in the world of relationships than I thought she did. If I’d done something to damage her emotionally, that would be horrible.

I will not try to make any excuses for what I did with Hillary. There aren’t any excuses to make. My wife is a beautiful, active, loving, sensual woman. After fifteen years of marriage we enjoy a surprisingly active and creative sex life. I can honestly say there has never been a time in the twenty years I’ve been with my wife – we dated for five years before we married – that our sexual relationship hasn’t been satisfying. I can’t argue that Hillary is more attractive than my wife, either. I happen to think my wife is extremely attractive. My wife also keeps herself in excellent shape and her body is, in my opinion, every bit as fabulous and arousing as it was the first time we made love.

What I did was a complete lapse in judgement, although one that provided me with one of the most exciting days in my life and one of the wildest erotic experiences I ever had. Thinking back on it, I can see it was more than just a grown man taking advantage of a young woman. I honestly can say I believe I gave Hillary at least as much as I received from her. And in doing so I learned that she is a far more remarkable young woman than I first thought.

I’m a big fan of the “Longarm” series of adult western novels. They feature relatively graphic sex, and in one of them the protagonist, Custis Long, who seems to have had sex with at least sixty percent of the female population of the old west, comments that every woman is different. Hillary taught me that Longarm’s observation is right. Believe it or not, my wife is the only woman I ever had sex with until Hillary’s visit. And as I said, our sex life is excellent. But making love with Hillary was different in so many ways. She feels different, she smells different, the sounds she makes are different, the way she acts when she’s aroused is different, and the way she looks when she has an orgasm is different, too. Not better, just different. I admit that the “wrongness” of what Hillary and I did added to the thrill, as did the fact that she is so much younger than I am, and there is the additional element of newness. I knew I should have stopped my relationship with Hillary, that the risk if I didn’t was huge. But…

The Summer of ’92 – Part 1

From Benjamin Dornier’s Journal

Tuesday, July 14, 1992

Hillary’s class met on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which gave me a bit of a break. I wasn’t sure how I was going to face her or what it would be like for her to come back to class. I kept thinking about her most of the morning, while I tried to make sure my students did the things they needed to do for successful completion of their summer classes.

As the end of the day drew near, I found myself struggling with conflicting emotions. Hillary had indicated she might make another visit and I’d given her permission to do just that. Part of me was hoping she would come back and was looking forward to her next visit. Another part of me hoped almost as fervently that she didn’t come and didn’t force me to face the challenge of having to decide what to do if she did show up.

When the last of my classes were finished, I got in my car and headed home. The closer I got to my home, the tighter my chest got and the more my heart pounded. I can talk about the debate going on inside me – the debate between my “inner angel” and “inner devil” – as if there was a chance the “inner angel” could have won, but the reality is, there was no chance my “inner angel” would prevail. If Hillary showed up at my house, she and would make love again if she was willing and I had little doubt she would be willing. By the time I turned into the long driveway that leads to my house, my heart was thumping so hard I was starting to wonder if I was going to have a heart attack.

When I reached the end of my driveway and saw Hillary’s car sitting there, I could feel myself getting an erection. I drove in beside her little sporty coupe and she looked over at me and smiled. She does have a lovely smile. Her brown eyes were bright and her face looked a little flushed. It looked as if she was as happy to see me as I was to see her.

I could feel myself shaking as I got out of my car. At the same time, Hillary got out of hers. She waved a sheaf of papers at me. “I worked on the assignment you gave me,” she said. “This is the rough draft. I thought maybe you could look at it for me.”

I grabbed my briefcase, shut the car door, and started walking around the back of my car, heading for my back door. Hillary moved toward the back of her car, too, and we met. We stood there, looking at each other, not saying anything, for what seemed like hours but was probably seconds. Her face was flushed, as was mine. She was breathing hard and her lips – so soft and wonderful to kiss – were slightly parted. I know I was breathing hard, too.

“Ah…why…why don’t we go inside,” I stammered.

“Um, OK,” Hillary agreed, nodding. She turned and started for the house.

She had on a bright yellow cotton tank top with spaghetti straps and a pair of dark brown pants, or leggings, or something made of a stretchy fabric that clung to her wonderfully formed bottom and left nothing to the imagination. The top was short and a band of her silky smooth skin was displayed between it and her pants. The fact that I couldn’t see either panty lines or the outline of a bra made my erection lurch. I stood stock still for a few seconds, watching the wonderful movements her bottom made as she walked. After a few steps she must have realized I wasn’t following because she stopped, turned and looked at me.

I took a stiff step toward her, she took a step toward me. I heard a thud as my briefcase fell from my hands and I think I saw the papers she was holding flutter to the ground. Then we were in each other’s arms, our lips were pressed together and our tongues were lashing. My body immediately began filling with delectable feelings and, of course, I had a powerful physical reaction which Hillary, with her body pressed against mine, could not possibly have ignored. Feelings more wild and uncontrollable than I’d felt in ages roared through me as we continued to cling to each other and kiss there on the lawn behind my house. I clutched her marvelous bottom, encased in surprisingly soft fabric, against me while she grabbed my head and her body strained against mine.

At some point I slid my hands up, under her top, onto her bare back and she groaned into my mouth. She kind of arched her back then and, while still keeping her mouth locked to mine, started fumbling at the buttons on my shirt. If it occurred to either of us that we were outside, under the sun, that didn’t affect our behavior. All I can remember is a jumbled image of clothes coming off, my hands on her warm, silken skin, and her hands and fingers tearing at my clothing and having it disappear from my body.

The next thing I’m sure of is an image of Hillary, gloriously nude, lying on the grass next to the sidewalk in my front yard, her arms lifted toward me, a wild look on her face. I lowered myself down onto her and as I did, I felt her reach between us, grab my erection, and guide it toward the opening both of us wanted it to enter. She emitted a soft, passionate, moan as my erection began sliding into her snug, warm opening, a sound I think I echoed. I was more aroused, and overwhelmed by desire, than I’d ever been in my life.

“Oh, yeahhh!” I heard Hillary cry as I sank into her. Her hands clutched my bottom and I could feel her fingers digging in, pulling me against her. Waves of wonderful feelings coursed up through me, filling my body. I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a woman more, before or since.

“Oh, God!” I cried in response when I felt my pubic bone hit hers. The fact that we were copulating wildly on my lawn, in broad daylight, never occurred to me or, apparently, to Hillary.

“Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!” Hillary chanted when I started thrusting into her. My movements were a lot more frantic than I’m used to, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve spoken about making love with Hillary, and we did that, but what happened on my lawn that afternoon was nothing more than lust, pure, unfettered lust. We were two animals in heat, desperate for satisfaction.

I felt my insides coiling tighter and tighter, and the intensity of my feelings increased. I knew I couldn’t hold back much longer. “I…Oh, God, Hillary…I…I can’t wait!” I groaned. My body lunged against hers, making her shake, causing her to gasp. It was as if I was trying to drive her into the ground in my search for satisfaction.

“Don’t wait! God, please, don’t wait!” she cried back, locking her legs behind mine, rocking her hips up against mine, twisting them, turning them in a movement I can’t possibly describe. “Take me! Oh, God, please! Take me!”

I can only wonder what the animals thought of the sounds we made when, at last, we sated the intense need both of us were feeling. I felt the fluids pumping from my body, felt her body clasping mine in reply, and we strained against each other, as if each of us was trying to get inside the other’s skin, to become one. And, in the midst of the overwhelming feelings that flashed through me, I somehow knew there was no way I could stop seeing Hillary if she wanted to continue seeing me.

Finally, after a wonderful eternity, we began to calm down. I was holding as much of my weight off Hillary as I could. At last I rolled onto my side, pulled my lovely young companion into my arms, and cuddled her as we both returned to earth from the rocket ride of passion we had just shared.

“That…that was so awesome!” Hillary exclaimed, sounding more than a little breathless.

“Awesome is a wonderful word for it,” I replied, and kissed her gently.

“Oh, God,” she sighed and buried her face in my chest. I ran my fingers up and down her back, keeping my touch as light as I could. I knew she loved that. She shuddered a little and tried to burrow even tighter into my embrace.

I had calmed enough to be very aware that we were lying naked in my yard in the late afternoon. It wasn’t likely that someone would show up, and even if someone did drive up, we’d hear them soon enough to get inside, but…well, getting indoors just seemed like a good idea.

“Hey,” I said softly, my fingers still trailing up and down over her skin, raising goose bumps.

“What?” she asked, her voice muffled against my chest.

“Would you like to go inside?” I responded.

“Oh, God!” Hillary exclaimed. “I…I forgot.” She sat up suddenly, causing some of her body parts to exhibit extremely enjoyable movements. “Jeezum! We…” she turned bright red and began grabbing at her clothes.

“Whoa,” I said, pulling her into my arms and kissing her. “Let’s go in. I’ll get my bathrobe on and come out and get our stuff.”

“Ah…OK,” she said.

We got up and went indoors. I got my bathrobe and another for Hillary and we went back out and picked up our clothes and other stuff. While we were doing that, we didn’t say much. When we were again in the house, Hillary settled herself on the sofa with her legs folded under her. I sat down near her. She gazed at me, her eyes wide, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “That was the most intense sex I ever had,” she said softly, in a voice filled with awe.

“It was the most intense sex I ever had, too,” I admitted.

She looked surprised. “Really?”

I nodded. “Really.”

“It was…it was…I felt like I was going crazy,” she said.

“Me, too,” I admitted. “It’s a little scary, isn’t it? Being that out of control.”

“It sure is,” she agreed. Then she smiled and giggled. “It sure was awesome sex, though, wasn’t it?”

“It certainly was.”

“You ever do anything like that before?” she asked. “Have sex outdoors, I mean.”

I nodded. “I’ve had sex outdoors,” I told her, “but it wasn’t even remotely like that.”

She shook her head a little, hugged herself, then she looked at me again with a much more serious look on her face. “I…I couldn’t stop thinking about you…and us…all day,” she told me.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, either,” I said.

That seemed to surprise her. “You…you couldn’t?”

I shook my head.

“You…you were thinking about…about having sex with me?” she said softly.

I shook my head. She looked puzzled and a little hurt. “I wasn’t thinking about having sex with you,” I told her. “I was thinking about making love with you.”

Her face lit up with that pretty smile. “Oh,” she said.

“You said you wanted me to read your first draft?” I said. I was interested in seeing what her paper was like.

“Ah…yeah, I…I did,” she said. “I’ll get it.” She got up, walked over to where I’d set my briefcase, her papers, and our clothes, picked up the papers she’d brought with her, brought them back, and handed them to me.

“Hey!” she said when I pulled her down onto my lap. She caught on pretty quick, though, and turned her head for a kiss.

“I needed that before I started reading,” I told her.

“You are weird,” she giggled. She slid off my lap and took a position on the sofa next to me, watching me intently while I read.

The paper wasn’t bad, but she’d tried too hard to make it sound scholarly. Every once in a while, bits of Hillary peeked through, but mostly the language was stiff, reflecting how uncomfortable she was using it.

“Well…” she said when I finished. “Is…is it what you wanted?”

“Yes and no,” I told her.

She looked hurt. “What’s wrong with it?”

“There isn’t enough Hillary in it,” I said.

Her face kind of scrunched up in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Here,” I said, “This is an example of Hillary.” I pointed to a particular passage and read it, “I could feel my heart start to pound and my chest tightened a little. What was he doing? I knew I shouldn’t be letting him touch me, but all he’d done was touch my hair. What harm was there in that, right? And he did say I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. I mean, he was a teacher in our school, he was married and he had a daughter. He wasn’t some creep who’d hurt me. And as weird as this probably sounds, having him play with my hair felt good.”

I looked at her and could see she didn’t understand. “What did that sound like to you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I dunno, I don’t get what you mean.”

“It sounds just like you were telling me the story, not writing it,” I explained. “It sounds real. You are explaining what you were thinking and someone reading that can almost feel you thoughts.”

“But my grammar isn’t right,” she said.

“Most English teachers hate to admit it, but sometimes a piece sounds better if the grammar isn’t perfect,” I explained.

“Oh,” she said. “I think I get it. You want me to write just like I talk, is that it?”

I smiled, nodded, and said, “Exactly.”

“But how do I do that?” she asked. “I mean, when I start to write, it doesn’t come out the same way as when I talk.”

“Well,” I said, “you could tell the story out loud, then write down what you said.”

She giggled. “Yeah, sure, I’m going to sit there in my room, at my computer, talking to myself, then writing down what I say. That’s weird.”

“Who’s going to see you?” I asked. “Your folks aren’t home, right?”

“Ah…yeah, I guess,” she said.

I had a thought. “Just a minute, I think I know a way you can do it that might not seem so weird to you.” I got up, went into my office, and found a little voice actuated recorder I’d bought years ago, but never used any more. Fortunately I had some new batteries, so I put those in, then I dug out a half-dozen or so tapes. I took the tape recorder out, sat back down on the sofa. I showed the recorder to Hillary. “Here,” I said. “You can tell your story into the recorder, then play it back and write it down.” I laid the recorder and tapes on the coffee table that sat in front of the sofa.