History

Story Info
He rediscovers his teenage fantasy.
8.7k words
4.62
40.5k
12
2

Part 1 of the 2 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 12/08/2011
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

*** The Present ***

I am in ecstasy as her full lips plunge slowly down over the length of my hard cock, the sensations of her warm tongue tickling the shaft as she rhythmically increases and then decreases the intensity and speed of her suction. Her mouth is so dripping wet, I feel my sensitive balls soaked in her drool as she takes them in one palm and tickles them with her long fingernails.

Her eyes light up the darkness of the bedroom on this early summer's night, brilliantly bright in contrast to the darker shade of her ebony skin, though she shines with a vitality that defies her age, her body curved and reflective of the setting sun behind the curtains like rolling mountains capturing the last rays of twilight on the verge of full dark night.

I cannot control my breathing, letting out sharp gasps of excitement with every pleasurable sensation I feel; every nerve ending standing to attention as the unseen tension rises between us. With one painfully deliberate and most delicious slurp, as she withdraws me from her insatiably lustful mouth, she smiles at me with her eyes and purrs that she is so fucking turned on.

'I love to feel you swell up in my mouth, I'd love you to spunk down my throat sometime,' she says.

'I nearly just did,' I told her, panting and dripping sweat, 'but right now I know where I'd love to shoot my spunk...'

*** History ***

Fifteen years ago, Patricia Williams was my history teacher in High School. The first black woman I'd ever had the pleasure of getting to know when black people in my part of England were as rare as snow in summer, I found a special place in my heart for her almost instantly. Little did I ever expect we would much later in life share a brief and solely sex-based relationship upon being reintroduced after those fifteen years had passed.

Miss Williams was first introduced to the pupils of our High School when I was sixteen and studying for my final exams. Back then she must have been in her late twenties. Near the beginning I found I could not deny the cutest of cherub faces with the most entrancing, big kissable lips and lovely warm brown eyes. I say near the beginning because at the beginning she was so strict, it scared me, but after a few weeks she warmed to her pupils and we warmed to her, me especially.

She was a voluptuous woman of short height that always hid the majority of her curves beneath long flowing dresses but those dresses had always been very low-cut at the neck and since she was never so shy as to deny her favourite pupils a hug for good behaviour, it was plain for all to see the red-faced joy the other kids got from those special hugs whenever they were helplessly drawn into those massive rounded tits and commenced to have the life squashed out of them in front of the whole class.

What we also loved about her, those of us that had so little time to really get to know her, was her hilariously frank attitude. Miss Williams was never above anybody and liked to remind us that neither were we, though she liked to make fun of us nonetheless, though no one was safe and god help anyone that tried to be funny right back in her face.

She was also a woman of common sense and clearly very finely tuned to the social politics of a time that naively claimed to be one of unconditional equality and fairness. Her colour had clearly taught her otherwise during her own childhood and she had hinted this on many occasions whenever issues of discrimination were raised in the classroom.

Admittedly, I was a "late bloomer" and not only did I only start to pay females any sort of attention that didn't involve calling them silly childish names, I only started to have crushes on older women, our new history teacher here being a perfect model for my fantasies at the time. She was young enough to be in her prime and old enough to be experienced, she had a body that made it very hard for me to stand up straight in class – unless that involved standing to attention while sitting hidden beneath the desk – and thanks to my hyperactive imagination and her knowing too well about shy teenagers and their imaginations, she sometimes preyed on me because of it.

The day she told us how well we did with our pre-exam coursework, I came out on top of the class by a mile. Unbelievably, as the object of my affections told me this, watching the grin spread across my red face, she slyly remained straight-faced before asking me if I wanted to go home with her...

What the fuck? I screamed silently somewhere deep within, and I felt myself blush so hard that I almost broke a sweat. At that very moment the class turned to face me and I didn't know the answer. Hell. I didn't know the meaning of the question, but my pubescent nuts took a shot at guessing for me and nearly puked up in my pants there and then.

'Maybe another time, Mrs Williams,' I said with what was probably the most ridiculous smile ever displayed spread right across my spotty face, 'I already have a lot of homework...'

She just looked at me as if to say, 'yeah, whatever,' as did the rest of the class, most of whom hated me anyway and the class went on, the other kids getting shot down with their poor grades.

How I cringed at remembering that moment every time it came back to me, and yet I never understood what she meant. I also remembered quite fondly, though cringing equally as much, the amount of masturbating material that one question had fuelled. Being invited back to the home of the one older woman I'd fuck over any other girl in my teenage wet dream collection, even Pamela Anderson from Baywatch; it was impossible for me to get out of the bathroom that evening.

So sixteen years later, after having grown up some, not just physically (a lot) but even mentally (I know, scary), after having battled my way through countless meaningless jobs, relationships and personal identity crises, I found myself surfing the chat and date sites, looking for women to share my sense of humour with and hopefully even meet for drinks, dates, no strings fun... whatever...

I had a few specific types I'd hunt for and it really should have come across as obvious that after all this time, my history teacher Miss Williams had made a lasting impression on me. In between the women my own age, the girls with shallow personalities and low senses of self esteem, I was trawling the chat rooms for both mature women and busty black women, though not often daring to mix the two as the area I lived in, it was rare to find such a type, especially one that captivated me like Miss Williams.

Call it fate, call it chance, luck or whatever the hell you want to call it. Did I ever expect I'd come across her in a million years? Did I ever expect her to look anything like she did back in the day?

You tell me!

She had changed some, of course. Her hair, platted into cornrows as it always had been, was slightly salted now with the odd grey patch, she had cultured a few laughter lines and by the look of some photos showing a bit more body than the typical head and shoulder pics, she had lost a little of her curvaceous frame, if I recalled well enough. But essentially it was her, I was sure of it. I had read her profile just to be sure.

It read:

I'm Patricia, a 47 year old teacher from the North of England. I'm just here to look and chat, not looking for a relationship and not looking for a pervert either. Only come and say hi if you can think of a better way of saying hello than 'what are you wearing?'

I don't know what I was thinking but I dared to send her a message that said more than, 'hi, do you remember me? I was one of your students in 1996. By the way what are you doing here?'

Instead, I told her my name, asked if she taught history at a certain High School from 1996 onwards and then confessed, if so then she was the object of the biggest teenage crush ever.

I didn't expect a reply, in fact, cringing like never before, I expected she'd probably delete her account without hesitation. I was shocked rigid the day I got back onto the chat and date site to find quite the suggestive reply.

It read:

Oh my God, I'm sorry if I upset you when I say I can't remember just yet but yes I did teach history in that school from 1996 to 2001. And you say I taught you? Shame you're not a teenager anymore, I do miss those teenage crushes, though you do look quite the hunk if you don't mind me saying so xxxx

To that I excitedly replied:

That's okay, I have changed a lot since then. And what school are you teaching now where you're not the object of every young boy's desires? A school for the blind? You still look fantastic Mrs Williams!

The next day I returned to find one more message from her that simply read, 'that's MISS Williams,' and right alongside it was her phone number.

*** The Phone Call ***

'Hi, oh my God, I can't believe it,' she chuckled as though she had been caught getting up to no good.

'I know, I could barely believe my eyes, but I knew I had to be you,' I responded nervously. 'So how are you?'

'I'm great, yeah, and no I'm not teaching blind kids these days,' she replied in reference to my recent observation.

'Are you sure?' I asked and she laughed heartily, though I could sense something that signalled she knew this was maybe something of a taboo we were approaching; teacher and pupil having become reacquainted through a date site and now engaging in small talk over the phone.

'So you had a crush on me,' she reminded me, 'I'm still at a loss. You know me but I still don't know you. Who were you in my classes?'

I began to remind her the best I possibly could, describing what I looked like, what kind of a kid I was, telling her I left school at the head of her class and that seemed to have some effect but still she didn't seem one hundred percent certain that she remembered me.

'Short, fat, I wore glasses and had big red cheeks,' I said.

'Nope,' she replied.

'You used to make Joanne Heffer, the loudest, most annoying girl in school, sit next to me at the back of the class, so she wouldn't talk so much,' I said.

'Nnnnn-nope,' she replied.

'In summer 1996 you invited me back to your house, to embarrass me in front of the other kids,' I stressed, 'when I came out on top of the class for my coursework.'

As I dredged that memory up for what must have been near the hundredth time in my life, I felt heat rising in my cheeks again and then wilfully let the air fall silent. I didn't know what the reaction would be and worrying that at the worst she would just hang up on me without another word spoken, I left the ball in her court. At the least she would know exactly what kind of impression she had left me with all those years ago.

'That's you?' she asked in disbelief. 'I can't believe it. Look at you now, all grown up...'

'I pretty much had to, hormones do that to a man,' I joked.

' Speaking of which, what are you doing on a dating site? A gorgeous, strapping young man like you should be able to pick any woman he chooses,' she carried on until I suddenly knew exactly what I wanted to say to catch her off guard.

'How do you think I found you?' I asked frankly.

There was a silence and then slowly came a gasp, or more a belated breath, and again I cringed. Did I just come across as the biggest creep on the planet when that's what she wanted the least.

'Daniel, you're a young man,' she said, relieving my sudden fears with a dose of humour in her voice, 'you're not telling me you're hunting old women when you could be pulling them ten years younger than yourself, are you?'

'No,' I laughed, almost ridiculing her, 'I just clearly told you I used to have a crush on you. But what are you talking about, you're not an old woman, you're a knockout. You could be pulling men twenty years younger if you wanted to. And after you just admitted to missing those schoolboy crushes...'

'Or men your age,' she joked back, to which I agreed. 'That's very flattering of you to say so, thank you, Daniel,' she then continued to decline, 'though you don't half talk rubbish. So why are you really on that website?'

I took another chance hoping it wouldn't be my last. After all, what else would I say or do when all of a sudden that old teenage excitement was making a comeback, making me feel dizzy and nervous in my gut. 'Why are you? It's not because you believe you'll find a meaning relationship there of all places,' I said with a nervous chuckle.

'A question doesn't answer a question, young man,' she reminded me politely. 'Are you looking to get up to no good?' she asked and I found myself without the courage to answer the question.

'Naughty boy!' she added.

'I like the anonymity,' I confessed. 'I won't hide the fact I crave the odd encounter. It's not a crime seeing if it led to one.'

'Not at all,' she agreed, 'but you've gone testing your old school teacher to see what she'll lead to, am I right? I'm not so naive. After all, I am the teacher and you the pupil.'

'But if you blamed me for trying you'd be denying yourself the power you have over boys like me,' I said tactfully. 'That's hardly taking advantage, or is it?'

'You tell me,' Patricia said.

The conversation had taken on a more serious tone. One from which I felt a tangible force at work, a chemistry between myself and the object of my teenage desires. But there was no doubt right then than she had set the tone and was using it to her advantage, snaring me from a distance and yet giving me the chance to get away. Only I kept walking into her traps on purpose, waiting for the chance to catch her off guard. I realised then that she had done this before; the sultry, suggestive phone conversations with her potential male candidates, to see if they had what she needed.

'I don't think either of us would lose in that situation,' I guessed.

'And what situation would that be?' she raised the stakes further.

'Me, you and an encounter,' I dared.

Another pause...

'I can't believe you're saying this,' she finally said but something in my mind told me that wherever she was, on the other side of the line, she was smiling but not only smiling. She was aching, almost sickening for something and I had put my finger on what that something was. I imagined if I'd been finger fucking her by now, she'd already willingly be my glove puppet. But of course I knew she wasn't like that.

'Five minutes of talking on the phone after a decade and a half and you're already trying to get into my knickers,' she laughed. 'And what makes you think I'd let you?'

'I didn't think you would, I don't take you for some cheap tart, Miss,' I explained quickly, afraid that I had fallen at such a late hurdle as my heart thumped along the track of my longest, deepest fantasy. 'I just can't explain it, I'm not normally like this...'

'So what did you take me for?' she asked, sounding quite alarmed.

'I...' I stuttered. I couldn't believe I stuttered. 'I don't know. I'm sorry, I should leave you alone,' I concluded, feeling ashamed of myself and then hung up.

No need to explain how I felt that night and the day after. I can't say I felt jilted since the way the conversation had gone was my own fault. And since I hung up, I couldn't say that she had jilted me for sure. But it seemed obvious that whereas she had been clearly up for a flirt, I had gone too far too soon and no doubt would have scared her off had I stayed on the phone one minute longer.

I could not believe my eyes the next evening, as you would agree, when I returned to where I had first found her. When my inbox informed me of a new message, I guessed half-heartedly that it would either be some cheap, dirty skank looking for yet another sperm donor to add to her extensive social circle, or it would be her and she would have had some majorly hurtful things to say to me and about me.

Instead I found an address under her name and a time for the following evening!

*** Interlude ***

She lies cradled between me and the stack of soft white pillows at the head of the bed, her thick, warm thighs pinned down beneath my broad shoulders and her feet resting on my upper back. Her legs are spread wide, her toes playfully digging into the flesh of my shoulder blades and her fingernails lightly scratch along the length of my forearms.

I cup the heavy swell of each breast with the palms of my hands, massaging and squeezing with her nipples caught between my fingers. Despite her age, she is a dark bronze goddess and no less statuesque in her surrender as my tongue trails wet circles around her clitoris, runs deep along the track down between her labia and sinks deep inside her where I can taste the excitement within.

Her chest heaves to meet my groping hands in their restless passion, her breathing uneven and changing from shallow to deep unexpectedly and her hips rise to meet the rhythmic licking of my tongue as I delve deeper with every slick return.

'Now who's teaching who?' I ask before going back to work on her.

Where her strength comes from I have no idea but suddenly her grip on my arms becomes tight and she pulls me up to meet her face to face, her legs splitting widely to set me free from beneath her feet.

'I'm not done putting you through your paces,' she tells me and see that she is the one in control.

*** The Encounter ***

Should I go? Was this an invitation to the encounter I'd half-suggested or was it an opportunity for Miss Williams to bait me about the gutter my mind had been sitting in when I suggested we basically get together and fuck?

I hadn't outright suggested that, let alone used the word 'fuck' or anything along those lines. Not that I could easily deny what I was getting at. It didn't matter, I was as hard as a rock and wanted one thing only since I got her address.

An hour before I practically dove into the car and raced to her address, I showered and spent way too long grooming myself as close to perfection as I would ever be, leaving out the aftershave so I didn't come across as a try-hard.

Just the scent of being fresh from the shower might give her the impression that I wasn't as filthy as our previous conversation had suggested.

I had a handful of condoms in my coat pocket – who wouldn't have, even if it could have been seen as an innocent invitation – and a bottle of white wine I'd chilled all that afternoon. All else I needed was a little charm and a little willingness on her part.

Miss Williams lived alone in a one bedroom bungalow on the quieter outskirts of town. The ride there led me through a long road shaded by tall green trees where every garden was a paradise from some other part of the world and where hardly another human being stood in sight. The sun hadn't yet set, but painted a thick orange glow across everything it kissed through a late summer haze.

Here the house numbers were panelled onto the gates at the head of the houses' driveways, which was the only way I'd have found her had I not the patience to crawl at a snail's pace so I could see the houses' front doors through the thick summer foliage.

I came to a white pebble-dashed bungalow sporting a garden full of palm trees and this was it. The gates were open and the driveway was empty but still I parked at the side of the road.

I got out and took a brief glimpse at the house, its garden and the surrounding area, fetched the frosted bottle of wine from the front passenger seat and swung the door shut behind me, turning to face the house again. There I realised she was standing, without having even heard her exit her home and for all I knew she had been there all along.

Miss Williams stood with her arms crossed and feet close together in a pair of sandals. She wore a long-flowing flowery orange summer dress that ended just above the calves of a pair of dark but glowing legs, her hips perfectly curved and robust, equalling the large outer curve of her bust and completing what was even now a lust inspiring hourglass figure.