Story Time with Miss Z

My hands feasted on Miss Z's big, soft ass.

"Oh, Ben, tell me more."

"I like what I feel so much that I get this crazy urge, and I can't help myself."

"What? What do you desire?"

"Just wait; I'll tell, but first I raise the back of your skirt and slip just high enough to dip my head underneath, and I slide my hands up your thighs. Then, I slowly pull your panties down to your knees."

On the bed before me, Miss Z didn't move. She waited. I began kissing the back of her thighs while my fingers churned the flesh of her butt. I moved higher. And higher.

"I kiss your ass, and I suck it, and I can smell your wet pussy."

I dragged my tongue over the smooth skin up one side and down the other. I kissed it and sucked on it.

"Ben," she moaned. "It's too much. I don't think I can take anymore."

"Yes, you can. So anyways, I grip your ass and pull it apart, Ashley, and I bury my face in it. My tongue stretches until it finds your pussy."

I cranked Miss Z wide open. Her little pink asshole flinched when it met the cool air. Her pussy sat underneath, sopping wet and ready for me. As I eased my face into the cleft I'd created, I let go, and the soft curvy halves hugged my face in warmth. I sought and found her wetness with my tongue.

"Oh, Ben!"

I lapped at her wetness, and I stretched my lips out to pinch and suck. Then, I pulled her apart and drew my face out. "Finally," I told her, "I know what I need, and I don't know why I need it, but I do. The crazy urge can't be put aside, Ashley. I put my fingers inside you, and I fuck you with them while I lick your tiny asshole."

Three fingers. Miss Z gasped, and I did what I told her I would do. My arm pistoned. I wasn't rough or abusive; I was like fucking.

And I loved every second of hearing her cry my name.

She didn't move much after it ended, raising one knee and turning her face to the side. With a long sigh, she murmured her appreciation, and then she fell asleep while I rubbed her back.

Hearing her regular, rhythmic breathing, I quit the light massage and sat up. Four orgasms, I thought. If four was her physical limit for one session, I was cool with that.

And I was proud--and grateful. She taught me how to please her, and I was able to give and give. Every second we'd been together, I'd wanted to fuck her or ask her to suck my cock. I needed it badly, but what I needed more was for her to feel like someone else was working hard for her benefit for once. She'd given as a teacher. She'd given as a lover. I wanted her to get, and so I gave. If that meant a hopeless boner and some hefty nuts, so be it.

I covered up her body with the sheets and left.

***

The next night I was back at Miss Z's house. She was reading one of her favorite short stories to me, something called "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." It was a sort of Civil War-era fever dream. Hearing her voice reminded me of being in class. When she finished, I said, "Let's make a story of our own--right now."

"Write one?"

"No," I replied. "Live one--one we can tell each other."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," I said, thinking. "Maybe something from school. Wait--!" The idea was all there. I couldn't articulate it, but I knew it would work. "Come on. We're going to my car."

"Ben!"

I knew her concern--being seen with me by her neighbors. "Ah, shit. Yeah, I know," I muttered. "Look, I'll get in my car and go. Ten minutes later, you go for a walk, and I'll pick you up at the north corner. Plus, it's almost dark."

Blinking, she said, "Well, okay. Where are we going?"

"The high school."

"What for?"

"Make a story."

My excitement was irrepressible. She had a lot of questions, but she agreed.

Twenty-five minutes and many questions later, we pulled into the high school in darkness and drove around to the football stadium. Miss Z had a master key, so getting into the press box was easy. From there, we exited on the home-side bleachers and walked down the stairs, through a gate, across the track, and onto the field.

The stadium lights, of course, were off, so the freshly-cut grass field was like a flat, black sea, interrupted only by the hint of yard-line stripes and hash-markings. I took her hand, saying, "Remember the semi-finals from this year--after the game?"

She nodded. "You won, made it to the finals, and the kiddos stormed the field. Yes, of course I do. Oh, that was so much fun!"

"You came down on the field, too, and we hugged. Remember that?"

"I do."

"First time I ever hugged you."

She smiled. "Not the last."

"Okay, you probably already know this, but I liked hugging you a lot that night. A ton. Dream come true kind of thing."

"A very nice thing to say to your girlfriend."

"What I didn't do that night was tell you to meet me, here, after the stadium closed down."

"No--no you didn't."

"But this time," I said, "I did."

"So I'm meeting the hero of the game on the field at midnight?"

"If that's how you think of me, I won't argue about it--yes."

"And this is something you imagined?"

"A lot."

She smiled.

I ran off.

"Ben?"

Turning, I hollered back, "You're waiting for me, and there's no one else here!" Then, I continued until I couldn't see her anymore. Past the track, I spun and waited a few minutes, leaving her out there in the dark. There had to be some suspense, I thought, right?

About to go, I double-checked around myself. No one around and pitch black. I walked around the track about a quarter of the way, so that I would approach from a new direction, and I began walking toward her.

She heard me anyways, spinning at midfield.

"I didn't think you would come," I said.

She smiled. "When the handsome hero asks, who can refuse him anything?"

I reached out, and she took both my hands. "I always wanted to tell you something, Miss Z."

"What's that, dear?"

"I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world, and I really like you."

She smiled. "And I've always thought you were the most gorgeous young man I ever knew, but why did you want to meet me here and now?"

"Why did you come?"

She stepped closer and put her hands on my chest. "Because I wanted to be the one to reward the gridiron hero," she said, and she leaned in for a kiss. I gave her one, and our tongues immediately came together. One hand went for her ass; the other for her tit. Holy fuck.

Miss Z was pulling up my shirt. I let her go and helped, stripping it away and tossing it on the ground. Before I could get a hold of her body, she was working on my shorts. Soon, they were gone, along with my underwear. Miss Z dropped to her knees, removing my shoes and socks. I was completely naked on the fifty-yard line of the high school football field.

My gosh, the woman really liked it when I was buck-ass naked.

"Look at how hard you are for me," she said, admiring and stroking it. Then, she glanced up at me and asked, "Will you allow your teacher to suck on your penis?"

"Yeah." I had all kinds of plans; they were gone. I wanted to fuck Miss Z on the fifty. Or I wanted at least to lick her pussy there, hear her cries of pleasure echo in the stadium.

Instead, she was giving me a mind-breaking blowjob. Her head slid back and forth in long, gentle strokes. I watched nearly the entire length of my cock vanish and reappear. The shaft, when visible, shined with Miss Z's saliva. Gathering it up, she moaned--and this was a thrilling moan, a sound full of slow, savoring adoration. Letting the shaft back out, her lips broke their seal and she drew a quick, slurping breath. Again and again, this happened.

Then, she made eye contact. I groaned. Her eyes held there, watching me. "Fuck you're beautiful." She drew off, grinning in appreciation. Then, she stroked it while her lips and tongue made out with the knob.

It was a welcome respite because when she resumed that deep, slow blowjob, the hairs on the back of my neck thrilled to life. My body buzzed with goosebumps.

A crazy thought leaped into my mind, watching her pleasure me: people should know how good she is at this. How amazing would it be for students to know that their teacher, Miss Z, gave fantastic blowjobs? Parents, too. At conferences, they ought to understand how she could, if she wanted, take a cock in her mouth and make it go from soft to cumming in less than two minutes, but that she doesn't. Instead, she luxuriates in the act. She pours her kindness and generosity into sucking cock. Her joy, really.

The idea was nuts; I understood that, but it teased upon a need I felt from the moment she asked me to kiss her again at the carnival. I wanted people to know her not just as a great teacher, but for who she is as a person. No more theories about her private life. I didn't love my teacher; I loved Ashley Zeigenberg, and I wanted people to know.

Sensing the rapid approach of my climax, Miss Z went deep, and she held there. I felt her tongue coax on the shaft, and I was gone. Eyes closed and face toward the sky, I came in Miss Z's mouth. Deeper than that, actually. Somewhere in her gullet, the fat knob throbbed and disgorged.

People should know this about her! my mind hollered. She's so much more than an amazing teacher!

I held my breath and didn't make a sound because I liked hearing her swallow it all down--the muted gulps and gossamer squeaks. And then the big gasp when, satisfied at my satisfaction, she drew off.

Once again, I found myself dropping down to my knees and wrapping Miss Z in a great hug. She laughed. She laughed even harder when we overbalanced and tumbled down to the grass. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said.

I didn't want to let her go. I held her tightly, my face between her breasts. If I told her, right now, that I loved her, I wondered, would it count for less? Would she assume I had said it because of the blowjob? Would it upset her?

Then, like a knife in the spine, I remembered her glare after I pantsed her in class. Even if none of the things that had happened could have been possible without that betrayal, still I wished to erase it from our history.

Miss Z stroked my hair and kissed my head. "Come back to me, Ben," she cooed, maybe sensing my troubled thoughts.

"I'm here. I like being here," I said to her breasts.

She giggled and asked if I liked the new story we'd just made.

I nodded against her chest.

Laughing, she said, "I liked it, too, Ben, and maybe it's because, somewhere deep down inside, I wanted something like this for you after that football game."

I looked up at her.

Petting my head, she went on. "Is that crazy for me to say? I mean, it is only a game." She sighed, thinking. Then she said, "But it wasn't the game; it was the thrill. It was your performance--the joy you brought to the crowd. That's what I'm thinking of now, and I wonder if that's what I thought about then. On the night of the game, I didn't say the words in my mind, but a hazy idea was there--that that boy, Ben Childs, deserves something special for such a performance. And if we had actually met here like this on midfield at midnight, alone, after the game?"

She paused. Our eyes met.

She answered her question. "I would have, Ben. I would have given you pleasure with my mouth, just like I did now."

"And I wouldn't have told a soul about it," I said. "I would have kept our secret."

She kissed my head.

A minute passed in silence. "Was he a football player, too?" I finally asked.

"Ben!" Miss Z quietly chided. "I don't want you thinking about him, comparing yourself to him."

"I'm not," I assured her. "I--I guess learning about him helps me get to know you a little bit better."

She sighed. "Yes, he was a football player--and a good one, like you." I waited for more. She said, "Like you, he scored lots of touchdowns, but he did it through speed. He was fast, and he could run away from defenders; you do it with strength. You break through their tackles or run over them."

I nodded.

She hugged me close, whispering, "I like your way better. He won through fear--fear of getting hit and tackled; you win through desire. You don't care about the obstacles between you and the end zone."

When her eyes found mine, I said, "I want your pussy bad."

"'Badly,' my sweet. It's an adverb because it answers the question 'to what extent?'"

"Badly. I want your pussy to a bad extent."

She giggled. "Then I suggest you satisfy your desire."

I loved Miss Z's pussy--every part of it. Even more, I loved how she responded to what I offered. I liked working hard for a person who appreciated hard work, and in that way, eating her pussy was a little bit like her classes. She welcomed my advance, encouraged it gratefully.

Then, while I labored between her thighs, she coached me. She redirected and gave instant feedback. And, again, there was that feeling like--well, like you were bringing your teacher a present--something she loved and did not expect.

The way she breathed and the sounds she made were enough to inspire a crisp, enduring erection, but it was also what she did with her hands that I loved. Her fingers plunged and delved into my hair like I was some luxuriantly furred beast. Her hands gave helpful nudges and directions, too--freezing on my head when something felt exquisite and guiding me to new places.

I liked how wide she spread herself for me, too. Complete, unchecked access she offered, with her thighs forming almost a straight line across her groin.

One of my favorite things was when she watched me. She propped herself on her elbows and, mouth hanging open, gazed down at me with eyes full of appreciation and aching pleasure. Those were times when I couldn't feel her hands on me, but I didn't mind because when our eyes met, she seemed to be lost in pleasure, and I felt like a big tiger between her thighs, feeding on her pussy while I regarded her with fiery determination.

I got what I wanted. I almost smiled while I toiled away because she cried out. Right there on the fifty-yard line of the high school football stadium, I got to hear Miss Z sing her orgasm to the stars.

Half-dressed a few minutes later, we held hands, side-by-side on our backs, and stared up at the night sky.

"We made a story, didn't we, Ben?"

"Yeah."

"A lovely story," she offered, "One about gratitude and--and how love can be given as a special gift to the deserving."

"You to me and me to you."

"Yes," she agreed, and then she turned to me, squeezing my hand. "Oh, Ben, I do so hope that you enjoy pleasuring me with your mouth. Tell me, please, if you don't."

"I do. I love it."

"Oh, my sweet, it's indescribable--it's transcendent for me. You take me places. You take me to the stars. Beyond even them. I touch heaven, Ben. When your tongue is there and all you're strength is between my legs, I'm sailing over the void so high that I feel I can reach up, and my fingertips graze across the threshold of paradise."

Processing not just the image, but the beauty of her words for a spell, I finally said, "You take me there, too."

"When I suck on your penis? I do?"

I nodded.

She kissed me, smiling. "I'm glad--and I adore doing it, my sweet." She looked at the stars for a few seconds before saying, "I never liked that term--'blowjob.' I don't do much blowing, and it isn't a job; it's a joy. They ought to call it--." She stopped, considering it, and then she said, "Oh, I don't know, but not 'blowjob.'"

"'Suckjoy?'" I proposed.

Miss Z instantly burst into laughter, repeating my word and cackling heartily. She climbed over me and planted all kinds of mirthful kisses on my face and neck. My hands slid down her back and grabbed her ass.

When she looked at me, I asked her when we can have sex for real.

Her smile vanished in an instant, and her expression seemed heartbroken when she responded, "Oh, Ben! I know! I know you wish it, and I do, too! I meant every word I said before--how in my heart I might have made love with you on our first or second date--perhaps even before those times--at the Carnival, I might have, too, but--."

She didn't finish. I said, "But?"

"But I don't think we ought to."

"Ever?"

"I don't know, my sweet. Forgive me? Don't despise me for it! Please don't, Ben!" She buried her face in my chest and hugged me desperately.

"Ashley," I whispered, kissing her hair.

She rose and faced me fearfully.

"I don't want to do something," I whispered, "that you don't want to do."

"But I know you desire it. I feel your desire for it on my buttocks right now," she said. It was true, my cock was jabbing her ass.

"What I mean," I explained, "is my body wants it, but since you don't, I won't ask you to."

She searched my eyes for a moment, maybe to see if I meant what I had just said. Then, she thanked me. She kissed me. She told me she would satisfy my body any other way she could, always.

When the searchlight fell on us less than a minute later, Ashley was sitting on top of me in the act of removing her bra. Her shorts and panties were on. I had my on underwear, but nothing else. We noticed the light. Our smiles vanished, and we turned toward the source.

Illuminated by the parking lot lights, a police cruiser sat parallel to the stadium's outer fence. The searchlight on the driver's side blinded us.

Miss Z shrieked.

I said, "Oh, shit!"

A mad scramble ensued. I grabbed my shirt, shoes, and socks. She covered her loose bra and breasts with one arm and scooped up her shirt with the other. I helped her to her feet, and we ran toward the north end zone, hand-in-hand.

Miss Z whimpered; I laughed. The searchlight tracked us the entire way. We couldn't avoid the thing. Pointing to the equipment shed behind the end zone, I said, "There. Let's go."

Ten seconds later, we had privacy on the back side of the shed. "Go ahead," I hissed. "I'll watch."

Miss Z slid back into her bra and hooked it, asking, "What if he comes back here, Ben? What if he catches us?"

"If he drives, he probably can't control his spotlight; that'll give us some time to get away," I whispered. "Does your master key open any other--wait, isn't there a gate behind the visitor's bleachers?"

She pulled on her shirt. "I don't know. You're the football player."

I laughed, donning my shoes and shorts, and then stuffing my socks and shirt into my pockets.

"I don't see," she started, "how you can possibly laugh--."

"He's coming!"

The cruiser's engine roared and the spotlight vanished. The cop was coming around to the north entrance, and there was a big rolling gate there--for ambulances.

"Visitor's bleachers! Go!" I said. "Just you!"

"Ben--!"

"Open the lock and wait for me there. I'll distract him! Go!"

She went, hollering back, "What if there's no gate?"

"Wait for me there!" I yelled, and then I stepped out from the corner of the shed with my back to the north gate so the cop could see my body, but not my face when he arrived.

Shortly, the cruiser came to a crunching halt in the gravel outside the gate. The spotlight snapped on, illuminating my back. I darted behind the shed.

"Police!" the cruiser's PA blared, making me jump. "You're trespassing. Come out from behind the shed, both of you."

Walking across the front of the shed, I placed myself where I could run toward the field as far as possible without the cop having a line of sight on me, and then I started quietly jogging away from the structure.

"Come on out, kids," he announced on his PA. "There's no place to hide. The gates are locked, and I have a key. You won't go to jail for making out on the football field. I just want to ask you some questions."

I was on the twenty-yard line when, looking back, I could just make out the edge of the spotlight's field of view. Turning toward the visitor's bleachers, I put myself in a stance to break into a sprint.