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I’d like to thank my readers for their patience as I work on sequels to my chapter stories. Until then, here is a little something I hope you enjoy. I’m not usually a fan of switching perspectives, but I felt it worked well in this case. Thank you, and as always, feedback is appreciated.
I can’t believe it. My mother can be so infuriating… just so embarrassing. It’s like she lives her life just to torment me.
Here’s what happened: We were out having a cup of coffee after going shopping at the local mall. I was home from college on Christmas break, and everything was packed. But we were lucky enough that just as we got our lattes a table opened up and we quickly grabbed it. A four seat table and there were just the two of us and our bags, so we piled our coats and purchases into one of the chairs, happy to be able to sit down.
It’s not that I don’t like my mother, of course. I like her a lot actually. She’s always been supportive of me when I needed support. Also, I have her to thank for my good looks. We’re both medium height with a slightly curvy build. My C cup breasts and slimmer waist slide fairly well into a size 6 dress. Her breasts and ass are a bit larger than mine, but I’m only 19. When I’m 43 I hope to look as good as she does.
My dark curly hair and blue eyes are hers as well, but I wear my hair longer, usually pulled back into a loose pony. At a quick glance one might think we were sisters.
As we sat in the shop, I looked up and saw my former high school English teacher at the counter collecting his cup of coffee. Mr. Applegate. He didn’t notice me, and I wasn’t about to flag him down. I didn’t do particularly well in English. Reading books takes way too much time, and in high school I had much more important things to do, like go to parties and chase after boys.
Ok, I know, that sounds shallow, but I was 17. Isn’t everyone shallow at 17? I’m better now that I’m in college.
Anyway, Mr. Applegate collected his cup and turned toward the packed coffee shop looking for a table of his own and not finding one.
My mother looked up from her phone and saw me staring toward the counter.
“He’s a bit old for you, isn’t he?” she said seeing my former teacher standing there but not knowing who he was, “He is attractive though.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “God, mom, he was my English teacher my senior year, Mr. Applegate.”
Hearing his name he cast a glance in our direction. He was attractive, if a bit older, maybe my Dad’s age, mid forties. Dark hair speckled with a bit a grey, deep brown eyes behind dark rimmed glasses that just said “intelligence.”
I met those eyes and blushed in spite of myself. I felt like I had been caught doing something wrong, but of course I knew that wasn’t the case.
For his part, he looked a bit confused as he smiled back at me and gave me a little nod. Suddenly recognition dawned on him and his face relaxed a bit as he confidently made his way toward our table.
I had just enough time to whisper to my mom, “Don’t embarrass me,” before he stood next to our table saying hello.
“Miranda, right?” he asked motioning toward me, “Third period, two years ago. You sat on the far right of the class.”
“That’s right,” I said a bit shyly, “But I sat on the left.”
“Your left,” he chuckled, “my right. Everything looks different when you’re in front of the room,” he paused a moment before adding, “and things also look a bit different when you’re not in front of the room.”
He seemed to stare right through me, with a bit of a smirk on his face. The attention made me a bit uncomfortable, but also warm. He was clearly flirting with me, and what more of a sign of adulthood could I ask for than having a former teacher suddenly look at me in that way? Or was I imagining it? Had my mom put ideas in my head?
I glanced at my mom and that forced him to do the same. “This is my mom,” I said. She extended her hand and he took it, introducing himself.
“I’d like to say I’ve heard a lot about you,” my mom said, “but Miranda never talks much about school even now. You know how teens are.”
“Indeed I do,” he responded, “all too well. Don’t worry though, she’ll no doubt grow out of it as she matures.”
I suddenly felt so small as they talked about me as a child. Clearly his “flirtation” was all in my head. I’m mature enough to be on my own at college. I am 19, after all. I wanted to crawl under the table until he left. Instead, I heard mom say, “You’re welcome to take a seat at our table.”
“Normally I would never intrude,” he responded looking around at the crowded coffee shop, “but circumstances are that I have little choice. Thank you.”
He moved to the chair next to me, which contained some of our shopping bags, which I now had to move out of his way. On top of the pile was the iconic pink bag of Victoria’s secret, and as I reached for it, his eyes landed on it. He glanced up at me with that smirk that I’d come to dislike.
“Been doing some shopping, I see.” There it was again. canlı bahis şirketleri Was he teasing me? Was that an innocent comment about he sheer amount of bags we had, or was it specifically a knowing glance that said he wanted to know what I might have been buying at the lingerie store?
My mom spoke, oblivious to the possible implications, “Christmas is coming, you know? Can’t have Christmas without rampant consumerism.”
He laughed as he took a seat next to me. He motioned to the Victoria’s Secret bag confirming to me his interest as he said to my mom, “Is lingerie high on Santa’s list this year?”
She laughed and gave a bit of a blush herself, “Well, we girls did deserve to buy ourselves a little something after being so generous.” Oh my god, my mom was now flirting with him. What was she doing? She was married, after all. “Besides,” she continued, “Is lingerie ever for the woman who wears it?”
He shook his head and gave a non committal shrug, “I suppose you’re right about that.”
“After all, Miranda may still technically be a teen,” my Mom said matter of factly, “but I can’t very well expect her to dress like a child now that she’s in college, can I? If she wants sexy lingerie, I can at least make sure she has good taste.” I must have been bright red with embarrassment as I gave my mom the dirtiest look I can muster.
She looked at me and shook her head dismissively, “Relax, Miranda, Mr. Applegate knows that women wear lingerie. It’s not like you’re a kid anymore.”
I felt like dying.
For his part Mr. Applegate just sipped his coffee, letting the scene unfold in front of him. He glanced over at me, and offered a soft smile, obviously sensing my discomfort. “So Miranda,” he changed the subject, “How is college going? Enjoying your classes?”
I nodded silently, still too mortified to actually say anything. And then, without warning, I felt his hand pat my knee under the table and give it a little squeeze before removing it.
It was a comforting gesture, or it seemed like it; a kindness in the face of the mortifying comments my mom was making. On the heels of a conversation about my underwear choices, however, I wasn’t sure. Maybe he was taking liberties with me. But then, why not make a clearer move? Besides, what was he going to do? Feel me up under the table? In public? In front of my mom? The gesture drew me out of the hole of embarrassment I had fallen into even if I didn’t quite understand it.
“Have you chosen a major yet?” He continued his line of questioning, putting us back on a more teacher-student setting.
“Actually,” I answered, hoping to impress him, “I was thinking of creative writing.”
His eyes lit up. “Well, well, I didn’t know you were a writer.”
“Neither did I,” I admitted, “but I took a class as part of my gen ed requirements and really enjoyed it.”
This was news to my mother, too, who raised an eyebrow and said, “Great, you’ll be living with your dad and I for another ten years.”
I scowled and was about to say something, but suddenly there was his hand again. This time resting on my knee and making a small rubbing motion with his fingertips. I should have said something, or at least removed it. It seemed so… inappropriate.
But I didn’t. I liked it actually. It was comforting and exciting all at the same time. This older authority figure had taken my side, but was also touching me in front of my mom without her knowing. Sure it was only my knee, but still. It was like, our little, adult secret.
As these thoughts swirled in my head, Mr. Applegate spoke, “Actually the ability to read and write is highly prized in the job search. English majors do fairly well on the job market if they prepare themselves for it by taking advantage of their school’s career services center.”
That was exactly what my adviser told me! So I chimed in, “Yes, and I’ve already seen about applying for summer internships this year.”
“See,” Mr. Applegate said to my mom, “You have nothing to worry about. You’ve raised a fine young woman with a bright future.”
Of course his hand was still resting on my knee. Did it slide higher on my thigh, or was that just my imagination?
Mom, no doubt feeling a bit chastised with Mr. Applegate’s defense of me, decided to change the subject back to something she knew well.
“I see you haven’t been shopping today,” she said raising herself up and noticing his absence of bags. At that he quickly removed his hand signaling that he knew my mother would not think his touching was so innocent.
He laughed softly, “The holidays are pretty quiet for me. I’ll see some friends on Christmas Eve, but otherwise, I prefer to spend the time reading. I don’t get a lot of chances during the school year with the workload they put on us these days.”
“You’re not married? No kids?” my mom asked intrusively. I could see him tense at the personal nature of the question.
It was my chance to turn the tables a bit, and I placed my hand on his knee, and gave it a little pat. I was so nervous, practically canlı kaçak iddaa trembling, my heart pounding. But at the same time I couldn’t believe how forward I was being! Was I signaling a desire to go further than simple comforting touches? Did I even want that? A part of me did, but maybe just to spite my mom. He was attractive though.
I let my hand rest on his knee as he spoke, “I was divorced a few years ago,” he said evenly, “And we never had kids.”
“Mom,” I said, “Why don’t we invite Mr. Applegate over for dinner? He seems like he could use a night out.” I smiled at him as he looked at me, genuinely surprised by my suggestion. “Besides, I could show him some of my writing and get some feedback from him. That is,” I gave his knee a squeeze, tilted my head, and smiled, “if you wouldn’t mind.”
He smirked again, but only for a moment, before turning to my mom and saying, “Well, I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Mom gave me a puzzled look and then relaxed. “Not a problem at all. Why don’t you come tonight? I’ll text you the directions.”
All the plans were set, and we were on our way home. My mind was spinning with possibilities. My high school English teacher had seemed clearly interested in me and was now coming to my house for dinner. God, was this becoming a thing? I guess it could be if I wanted it. Or, I don’t know.
Suddenly I was so embarrassed for having touched his knee under the table. What if he really had meant his gesture innocently, and I reciprocated by coming onto him like some silly college girl with daddy issues? And now he’s coming to dinner!
When we got home I went to my room, closed the door, and laid back on my bed, staring at the ceiling reliving the moments at the coffee shop over and over. But as I did, as I thought through the possibilities, wondered at his intentions and my own, I noticed that more than embarrassed, I felt increasingly turned on.
I let my mind drift back to his hand on my knee, imagined it running up my thigh. As I did I traced my thigh myself with my own hand. I thought back to being in his class, how he would clean his glasses with a lens cloth while making small talk with the more engaged students in the front center.
I imagined his eyes falling on me. I imagined him staring at my legs as I wore my field hockey uniform with its pleated skirt above my knee.
As I fantasized in my bed, I licked my lips and undid the button on my jeans, sliding my slim hand inside.
Back in my imagination, he asked me to stay after class. He chastised me for teasing him during his lecture, for making him lose his place. I professed innocence, but he took my shoulders and turned me around, bending me over his desk.
Back in my room, my fingers had slid over my bare mound and found my very wet slit. I pushed my hips up into them as much as I pushed my fingers down. I bit my lip as my breathing increased in an effort to keep myself quiet.
I imagined Mr. Applegate flipping my skirt onto my back, taking hold of my panties and pulling them down, but only half way, only to my knees, trapping my legs and exposing my ass to him. I pleaded with him, “Mr. Applegate, this is wrong. You can’t do this!”
Oh God, why does imagining myself begging him to stop make me so wet?
I imagined him taking hold of my hips and sliding into me just as I sank my middle finger deep inside me. He’d press so hard, so deep. Stretch me so perfectly, and I’d be so wet, he’d take me easily.
“Oh fuck,” I whispered into the emptiness of my room as I quickened the pace of my finger. I ground against my own palm as I finger fucked myself thinking of my former teacher. I was getting so close.
The images began to flicker, the narrative become lost in my need. The scene bounced from him fucking me in his classroom, to the memory of his hand on my knee, to the thought of cumming in the coffee shop in front of my mother. It was a menagerie of sexual thoughts and feelings, all helping get oh so close to release.
And then I heard the door handle click. My eyes shot open and I ripped my hand from my pants just as my mother poked her head in the room.
“Taking a nap?” she whispered, seeing my half lidded eyes look in her direction. I just nodded, unable to speak without giving away my breathlessness. “Well,” she continued, “don’t rest too long, Mr. Applegate will be coming soon.”
I nodded, and she exited my room. I let out a big sigh and briefly considered going back to what I was doing, but the moment was lost, and it would take a bit of time to get back there. Instead I needed to get ready. I wasn’t sure what would happen, but I knew I wanted him to look at me and wanted something to happen.
I debated about whether or not to cancel. It was a very kind offer of Miranda and her mother to have me over for dinner, but really I don’t know what I was thinking when I accepted. Actually, that’s not true at all. I know exactly what I was thinking and it had everything to do with my hand on Miranda’s firm young thigh, canlı kaçak bahis and her petite hand on mine.
It had, admittedly been quite a while since I had sex, but still, a student? Well, former student anyway. The first time I placed my hand on her knee, it had been a natural response to her mother’s attempts to embarrass her, a sign of sympathy. But once I touched her leg, encased as it was in the soft cotton of tights, the same kind of tights I see students wear daily. Showing off firm legs and tight asses and driving not only boys their own age wild, I just wanted to push it a little.
And then she responded in kind. Was she hitting on me, or merely trying to offer a return bit of comfort in a difficult moment? It was precisely the kind of thing young people do. Trying out the moves of adults, trying them on, not fully aware of all of their implications.
Or maybe she was aware. Inviting me to dinner had been her idea after all. I don’t know. Every bit of my 47 years was telling me that I was been foolish to even entertain the thought, but still I dressed for an evening out. I even shaved for the second time that day, in order to look as presentable as possible.
Even at 47 years, I had stayed in pretty good shape. I didn’t have my high school physique, of course, but a flat belly, and just enough age to make me look distinguished without making me look ancient. But who knows what young eyes see?
Of course, her mom had definitely been flirting with me, and she was an attractive woman in her own right. A kind of older version of Miranda, more confident, with fuller hips and breasts. I briefly entertained the thought of her, but she was married, and everything I knew said her husband would be at dinner.
My God, what’s wrong with me? It must have been a while, my thoughts were bouncing back and forth between mother and daughter uncontrollably like I was an oversexed adolescent. It was all foolish anyway. The only thing I was getting that evening was dinner. I told myself to stop imagining things or I’d make a fool of myself. I thought again about canceling.
When I arrived at the door, I was greeted by Miranda’s mother, who insisted on giving me a hug and a peck on the cheek in what I had known as a very European thing to do.
“So glad you could come,” she smiled as she took my coat. “Miranda is still upstairs, you know college girls, no doubt, always taking forever in front of a mirror.”
I smiled awkwardly. Suddenly I felt like I was Miranda’s prom date. I tried to shake the feeling from my head as I followed her mom into the house to the den where a man about my age was sitting reading news stories on a tablet. Miranda’s mother introduced me to Miranda’s father.
He stood and extended his hand, “So you’re Mr. Applegate, Miranda’s high school,” he paused, “history teacher?”
“English, actually,” I replied shaking his hand. His hair was a little thinner than mine, and his belly a bit rounder, but all in all I was struck by how similar in age we were. I never really thought about how students must see me, but it struck me that I was old enough to be Miranda’s father. Of course I knew this, but having seen her father the fact hit home like cold water in the face. What was I doing here?
“I’m not much of a reader, actually,” he said a bit smugly, like he was proud of the fact, “But I can see why some people might enjoy it.”
I was struck a little dumb, trying to find a reply that remained polite but also expressed how ill considered his opinion was, but looking past me he blurted out, “There she is… about time.”
I turned to see Miranda descending the stairway, and for the second time in a few seconds was left speechless.
She wore a blue dress that flared into blue and black pleats with a hemline just above her knee and black tights. He dark hair fell loose to her shoulders in slight ringlets of curls.
She smiled when she saw me, but not a warm welcoming smile, a mischievous smile which said she knew what I was thinking.
Of course she knew. I did a terrible job of hiding my reaction as I stood staring at her slack jawed. Her father was behind me, luckily, so he would have to guess my thoughts without the benefit of my expression, but I suspect, being a warm blooded male, he knew very well my reaction.
“A bit overdone for dinner at home, don’t you think?” he grumbled to his daughter.
She rolled her eyes and tilted her head in the most charming way. “Dad, we have company. It seems only polite to put some effort in on his behalf.” She walked up to me and took the lapels of my sports coat into her hands, “Besides, I knew Mr. Applegate would dress for us.”
I stepped back a bit uncomfortable at her sudden forwardness in front of her father. Smiling awkwardly I turned to her father and said, “So, what kind of work do you do?”
He eyed me a bit suspiciously, but seemed to relax when he saw me backing away from Miranda. “I’m a loan officer at a bank.”
I nodded as if that meant something. As is often the case I had nothing more to add. He didn’t read, and I didn’t care the least bit about finance. I glanced around the room looking for something to talk about, something to occupy my attention other than Miranda’s hemline, which I fear my eyes were darting toward far too often.
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