Cherri
- 1 year ago
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Her Buring Desire free porn video
Every art classroom I've ever been in smells the same: the pungent, intoxicating aroma of tempera and acrylic paints; the dry, woody perfume of construction paper; the acrid bite of paint thinner combined with old-building staples like dust and black mold. Mr. Thompson's room is no different, though I can recognize the distinct scent of coffee wafting out from his office where he reclines in his creaky, ragged desk chair, scribbling grades into a tattered binder. I long to be back there with him. I want to saunter inside, nonchalantly, closing the door behind me, peel off all my clothes and tell him that he can do whatever he wants to me. I want him to take my virginity. Yes, he's f******n years my senior and if anyone found out he'd most definitely be fired and probably arrested, but my eighteen year-old heart wants what it wants. It wants him. It wants his wide palms and long fingers moving over my skin, his mouth upon mine, his groin pressed against my backside, his cock – well, this is where it all gets a bit hazy. Of course, I know what is supposed to happen when people have sex but since I've only ever gone as far as French kissing, I have nothing to relate it to, nothing to flesh out that void in my fantasies.
Today I have chosen to remain after school to work on my final project for the big art show next Friday that the department puts on every year. I am painting a life-sized portrait of a woman, naked against a stark, black background. She is beautiful and imperfect and stylized to the point of surreal, but still identifiable as woman. Mr. Thompson says I am very talented and that he would be happy to write me a recommendation to any art school of my choosing should I wish to pursue this work professionally. I told him I would think about it. As far as I'm concerned, anything that allows me more time alone with him is worth pursuing.
I hear the sound of papers shuffling and the creak of his old office chair from the back room, followed by footsteps and the uneven spray of water sputtering out of the old faucet where we clean off our palettes and brushes. He is in the classroom now, maybe twenty feet behind me. I am standing by a long table where I have laid out an assortment of paints and other art tools, as well as my work-in-progress. I bend over the table and roll onto the balls of my feet so that my ass is slightly raised and my back arched; I hope I'm not being too obvious. I've chosen to wear a short, black skirt over gray stockings with pretty rose detailing, and a black tank top. Technically, we're not supposed to wear tank tops to school, but since it is after hours and I'm growing bored with subtlety, I've removed my sweatshirt so that Mr. Thompson might get a better look at my sizeable chest and petite figure. I'm no supermodel, but puberty has been surprisingly kind to me, so although I may only stand a little over 5'3" I am well-proportioned. More than anything, I hope he notices this, too.
I've pulled the skirt up a bit so that, when I bend over, one can just barely see a hint of my purple knickers (I've always loved that word – it's naughtier than "underwear" and less trite than "panties"; the fact that I'm not British is of little concern to me). He turns the faucet off and then there is silence. I assume he's still at the counter but don't dare turn around to look. I pray to every God and Goddess that has ever existed that he is looking at me, thinking about what might be waiting for him under my skirt. Of course, there's always the possibility that he's looking at me with amusement, thinking my efforts silly or too transparent. I would die if he asked me to cover up. Then again, I would die if he asked me to take it off. Please, I beg, just fucking kill me already.
Mr. Thompson's footsteps break the silence, becoming louder as he briskly makes his way over to my table. My heart threatens to choke me but I remain composed – I hope. He is standing beside me, surveying my work. I happen to be shading the woman's left breast, relying on neon yellows and navy blues to give it a more three-dimensional appearance.
"This is coming along beautifully, Mireille," he says. "I really like how you've decided to go with unconventional colors. They stand out nicely against the black background." He gestures to the work I've already completed around her face, those beautiful hands moving in ways that both excite and transfix me. I also can't help but relish the way my name expertly rolls off of his multilingual tongue; he obviously speaks French.
"Thanks." I am nervous and can't seem to raise my voice above a loud whisper, but the emptiness of the room negates the need to project myself.
"Do you think you'll have it ready by next Friday?" His blue eyes follow the brush as it strokes the underside of the painted woman's breast. He does not look at me, which I find to be both a blessing and a tragedy. I stare up at his face longer than I should, marveling at the sharpness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw. His beauty is cruel, unfair.
"I think so. The outline is almost finished, so all that's left is the shading." He glances at my face and I feel his gaze penetrate me. My insides knot up and my groin tightens. I bite the inside of my cheek to distract myself and avert my eyes back to the painting; the woman's stare mocks me.
"Well, let me know if I can help in any way." He turns and slowly retraces his steps to the back office but does not shut the door.
My thoughts race as I think of all the things I'd like him to help me with. For starters, he could help me out of my skirt and stockings. After which, he could help himself to my virgin cunt – damn, I love that word. My mother absolutely cannot abide hearing it but I use it every chance I get. Cunt. My tight, virgin cunt. My hungry cunt. I really must stop before I lose my composure, as I've already begun u*********sly squeezing my thighs together and rocking back and forth. The fact that I have to urinate only draws more attention to that sadly neglected area. It's not that I do not masturbate, because I do – often – but I've never had another person besides my pediatrician touch me there. It's one thing to do it yourself, to have complete control over which areas get stimulated and in what way, but I can only imagine how exciting and scary it would be to have someone else's hands, fingers, and – oh gosh – mouth down there, manipulating me in ways I can't even conceptualize.
The shriek of a telephone in Mr. Thompson's back office jolts me out of my fantasy and I realize that I've just accidentally over-shaded the painted woman's right breast. "Shit," I hiss, dipping my brush into a bit of yellow paint in the hopes of compensating for the damage. Mr. Thompson answers the phone at a normal volume but then begins to speak in hushed whispers. I hear footsteps and then the sound of a heavy door being pushed shut. I turn and see that he has closed the door to his office but notice a quarter-sized hole beneath the knob. The door must have once featured a lock but, for whatever reason, it has been removed. I debate the ethics of grasping this opportunity to spy on him but my curiosity is far more powerful than any sense of morality and thus, before long, I've removed my shoes and tiptoed over to the door. I hover just above the floor, crouching, with my eye to the peephole. I can barely make out his side of the conversation and am both affronted and intrigued by what I hear.
"Of course I've thought about you since last August. How could I not? That was some of the best damn head I've ever gotten." He is talking to a woman. I know this because the tinny, intelligible voice coming out the other end of the phone sounds high-pitched, feminine. His own voice is low and guttural, deeper than I'm used to hearing it in class. I'm both insanely jealous and eager to hear more. He is reclining in his creaky desk chair with his legs spread wide apart and his other hand stuffed inside the pocket of his paint-stained blue jeans. There is some squeaky dialogue from the other end of the line. I wish I could hear what she is saying, as he's obviously enjoying the conversation. The thought of perhaps one day being the inspiration for that broad, lascivious smile on his face is enough to make my cunt throb.
"I'm glad I was able to do that for you." He pauses, listening, then continues: "If I could, I'd drive up there this weekend and finish you off properly." More muffled dialogue, then, "Nah, I have this art show thing to get ready for so I'll be pretty busy till next weekend. Believe me, I'd much rather spend the next three days with my face between your legs." A sly smile spreads across his face. "Oh, really? Well, you're welcome to try."
Mr. Thompson stands up and begins to walk towards the door. I scramble over to the opposite side of the heavy demonstration table behind me, my stocking-clad feet aiding in my haste. He opens the door and peers out into the classroom. My things are still s**ttered across the other table but I am sufficiently hidden from sight. He closes the door and retreats back into his office, most likely assuming that I've stepped out to use the bathroom or acquire food. I quietly make my way back to the door and its glorious peephole.
I hear the sound of his belt being loosened faster than my eye can focus. With one hand, he slackens his belt, unbuttons his jeans and draws the zipper down over what appears to be an enormous bulge in the front of his pants. I am mesmerized, having never seen a man's penis in person before besides my father's, which only occurred on a handful of occasions and was always accidental, and never erect. Mr. Thompson reaches into the front of his jeans and pulls it out. I gasp and then freeze, afraid he might have heard me, but he is preoccupied, making encouraging, breathy noises into the phone's receiver. He strokes his cock, which is long, thick and smooth, almost picture perfect. No stranger to the internet, I have a general idea of what an ideal erection is supposed to look like: tan at the base, growing pinker towards the head. The head itself is bulbous but not overly so, big enough to intimidate a novice, yet, my eyes are glued to it. From what I've read and from what my friends have told me, I can deduce that he's uncircumcised, but that the foreskin is wrapped quite tightly around his shaft, peeling back behind the rose-colored head with ease. I want to wrap my fingers around it. I want to feel it inside me.
Mr. Thompson continues to run his hand up and down, gently stretching the foreskin, whispering, "Mmhmm" and "Go on," as he squeezes and milks his now formidable cock. I wonder if it's warm and what it tastes like and, before long, I find my hand cupping my entire cunt area over my skirt, clutching and rubbing in rhythm with his slow, deliberate strokes.
"I'd like that," he growls, breathing heavily. "I want to taste that pussy; shove my tongue in all the way right as you're about to come."
I can barely contain my own rapid breathing as I slide my hand under my skirt, finding my knickers damp and my clit so hard that I can feel it through the thin fabric. My God, this man is so beautiful and obviously an attentive lover, the way he talks about going down on this woman. I want him to go down on me. I want him to plant his mouth on my cunt and let his tongue roam over my most sensitive bits. He proceeds to pump his cock, lingering on the now glistening, pink head every few strokes, his pelvis thrusting upward into his palm. His eyes are closed and his mouth slightly open, as he pants and moans for the woman on the other end of the line. For a brief moment, I hate her, whoever she is and then, in a split second, I am so overwhelmingly grateful to her and whatever she's saying to make him put on such a gorgeous, inadvertent display.
"Yeah, I know how you like it," he says. "You want me to bend you over and fuck you from behind, as hard as I can. And, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Right in your tight, wet pussy."
The mental imagery of him doing the same to me is so delicious that I have to consciously stop myself from barging in and begging him to fuck my poor, deprived cunt. I can't take the indirect pressure any longer, so I slip my fingers beneath the side of my knickers and begin roughly caressing my clit, which is already moist and beyond sensitive. Even now, I am close to coming, so I take precautions and cover my mouth with my other hand. I watch his strokes become faster, tighter, less controlled, up and down over that gorgeous monstrosity that I would give anything to have fill me up and split me in two.
"Come for me," he whispers. I can just make out the sound of the woman's shrill cries as she is unabashedly overtaken by thoughts of Mr. Thompson and his perfect cock. My arm begins to grow tired and my legs ache from crouching but I do not cease fingering my swollen clit. Each stroke of his hand whets my appetite further. I slip a finger into my dripping cunt, imagining that it's him, and proceed to fuck myself. True, my finger barely touches the girth of him but it is all I have. I attempt two fingers now, which would normally be too much for my virgin pussy to take, but I am so unbelievably wet that they slip inside me with ease. My eye darts from his now magenta-tinted cock to his beautiful face, open-mouthed and just as flushed. I imagine myself perched on his lap, my warmth enveloping him, impaled and enflamed as I continue thrusting two fingers in and out of my sopping twat.
Mr. Thompson pauses for a second to lick his palm and I see that the skin on his cock is taut and bulging with purple veins. It is bigger and harder than it was even a moment ago and I can't help but whimper at the sight of it. I don't care how much it might hurt, I want it inside me, stretching me, piercing my hymen and transforming me into a real woman – the kind who can make a man come with just her words and imagination. He resumes his pumping and I return my fingers to my aching clit, which is almost too sensitive at this point. I press on, so close to orgasm that I can already feel it building inside, threatening to devour me.
"Oh God, I'm coming. I'm coming!" he moans, probably a little louder than he should. His hand motions slow as he makes one final pelvic thrust and I witness spurt after spurt of thick, white cum shoot out of him and onto his hand and t-shirt. He continues to rub himself slower and slower, until finally, breathless and spent, he lets his cock fall limp onto his semen-stained shirt, his hand hanging limp in his lap. I'm quickly overtaken by my own orgasm, pulsating and spreading out from my cunt all the way up my spine and into the base of my brain, consuming me, alongside vibrations that echo out into my fingers and toes. I clumsily fall back onto the linoleum, staring at the tiled ceiling until I hear the creak of his desk chair. Shit.
I clamber up off the floor and tip-toe back over to the table where the painted woman eyes me knowingly. "Don't judge me," I whisper. Thinking that it will look strange if I haven't made any progress since we last spoke, I quickly snatch the painting and carry it over to the drying rack, placing it toward the bottom where it won't be easily noticed. I grab my palate and brushes and carry them over to the sink and begin rinsing the paint out of the bristles while, at the same time, washing the juices off of my spent fingers. After a few minutes, Mr. Thompson opens the door and emerges wearing a different t-shirt. He is startled to see me but stifles his reaction in an effort to appear nonchalant.
"Oh, Mireille, you're still here." He glances in my direction but avoids making eye contact, running his now clean fingers through his hair.
"Yeah, I went to grab a drink and then came back to finish up the torso. I should really get going though. I'm sure the extra-curricular bus will be leaving soon." I wash the last of the paint off of my palette and then set it onto the counter to dry.
"Well, if you miss it, I can give you a ride home." He smiles warily at my feet, raising his eyes to mine for only a brief second before darting them away.
"That would be great." I walk back over to my station to collect the paints I'd been using, depositing them into their appropriate receptacles in the "Acrylic" closet. Mr. Thompson disappears back into his office and I begin to gather my things. As cold as it will be outside, I refrain from wearing my sweatshirt, thinking that perhaps he will notice that I'd been sweating and put two and two together.
Then again, do I want him to know that I was watching him? Or that I'd heard anything that went on in his office? As awkward as I feel about violating his privacy, I still can't help myself. I love him. I don't really know what any of that means but it feels right to think it. When he laughs, my pulse dances; when he smiles, my whole body melts; when he touches himself, I wish our palms could trade places. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and if all I ever get from him is the secret memory of his perfect, enraptured face as he strokes himself to completion, then I will take it.
Mr. Thompson emerges from his office wearing a light jacket and a brown messenger bag slung across his chest. "It's almost five. I might as well just drive you," he says. I nod, following him out of the classroom as he turns off the fluorescent lights and locks the door. "Shall we?" He gestures for me to lead the way down the side stairwell and out into the teacher's parking lot.
I've seen his car from a distance – a silver Honda Civic – but never before had privilege of actually riding in it. He unlocks my side first and politely holds the door open for me. I smile shyly and duck inside, closing the door behind myself. I can't quite put my finger on exactly what the interior of his car smells like, but it's not unpleasant. Something like pine with the hint of stale coffee. For a moment, I notice that my panties are still wet with my juices and worry that I might leave a damp spot on his seat cushion. He opens the driver's side door and sits down, a mere ten inches from me. I am frozen. If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. I don't dare. He starts the engine and turns on the heat. "It'll be warmer soon. This car has a decent heating system." I nod.
"So, where do you live?" he asks.
I clear my throat. "56 Butler Terrace. About ten minutes from here. Take a right onto Fergus Street and then just keep going till you hit Roosevelt Ave, on the left. Then take a right at the stop sign."
"Ah, I know where that is. My brother used to live off of Roosevelt. Buckle up, please." I notice that I haven't bothered to strap myself in and reach for the seatbelt, my shaky hands making it difficult to get a decent grip. He smiles affectionately and reaches across my seat, deftly yanking the belt over my chest and snapping it into place. My cheeks betray me.
"Thanks," I mumble.
"Not a problem." Glancing over his shoulder, he backs out of the parking space and commences the short ride to my house. We sit in silence for a few moments until he decides to switch on the radio. The car fills with the intellectual babble of NPR as I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.
"Sorry I, uh, disappeared for a bit. I had to take a phone call." His voice is even but I can recognize the slight change in pitch on the last two words: phone call.
"That's okay," I say, stealing a quick glance in his direction.
"I just feel – since I offered to help you earlier, it may have been rude of me to then take a call and make myself unavailable." Our eyes meet for a brief second and I immediately realize what his game is. He is trying to determine whether or not I heard anything while he was pleasuring himself in the back room. In that moment, the thought occurs to me that our dynamic has changed. Right now, in this vehicle, I am the one with the power. If I say nothing, he will assume I either didn't hear anything or that I am oblivious to what actually went on. If I confront him, then he'll be burdened with the task of convincing me that it was something else or be forced to come clean and beg for my discretion.
If today were any other day, I may have opted to keep my mouth shut, to deny any knowledge of what happened behind that office door. But something transpired between us and that heavy slab of wood. Watching this man overcome with desire, losing himself in little more than the mere sound of that mystery woman's voice and the imagery she fed him, awoke something inside me. Contained within her voice was an awe inspiring amount of feminine sexual power, so much so that he was positively enslaved to it. Why couldn't I wield such power?
Halted beneath the glow of a red light against the impending dusk, I can feel him studying me. I turn to look at him, forcing myself to maintain eye contact longer than I'm generally comfortable – which usually isn't very long at all. We stare at each other, him growing increasingly unsettled and me becoming subtly aware of my own authority, feminine and sexual. A loud honk from the car behind us forces Mr. Thompson to return his attention to the road and the fresh green light. I take a deep breath before responding, just as we are about to turn onto my street.
"I notice you changed your shirt after taking that phone call." I watch him bristle at this vocalized observation. "Tell me, do cum stains wash out easily or will you have to toss the shirt?" His eyes go wider than I've ever seen them as his lips purse into a thin line. He is speechless.
"Oh, this one is me," I gesture to the house we just passed. He brakes suddenly and we lurch forward. Still dumbstruck, he turns toward me, a look of mortification coloring his gorgeous features. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," I say, staring into those blue, petrified orbs. As I unbuckle my seatbelt, an idea occurs to me. With my eyes firmly fixed on his and my legs slightly spread, I slowly raise my skirt above my cunt. His gaze lowers and he watches me, unmoving, swallowing hard. I take hold of the waistband of my knickers and, raising my ass off of the seat a little bit, slide them down my thighs, over my stockings, and off of my feet. He keeps his eyes trained on my cunt, still moist and glistening. I lift my underwear up off the floor with one finger, dangling them at eye-level for a few seconds before dropping them into his lap which, if my eyes do not deceive me, is now sporting a hint of that marvelously familiar bulge. He glances down at the small bundle of cloth, drenched in all the right places, and then back at me, conflicted.
"See you in class, Mr. Thompson." His mouth parts as if he is going to respond but emits no sound. I d**** my skirt back over my upper thighs and exit the vehicle, leaving him stupefied and aroused. As I round the car and begin to backtrack down the street toward my house, the cool air kissing my exposed cunt, I can't help but notice small, subtle hints of my new found confidence. My stride is longer, my hips more prone to swaying, my shoulders naturally held back and my posture straight and extended. Is this a taste of what it feels like to be a full-fledged, sexually assertive woman? If so, I can only imagine the transformation that awaits me once I actually have sex. Perhaps I can ask Mr. Thompson for a private tutoring session...
Alessandra
- 26.10.2021
- 12
- 0
