Teachers Pet
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Teacher's Pet free porn video
Teacher's Pet
By Cal Y. Pygia
I never responded to a personal ad before I responded to
Manuel's ad, and I never will again. I wish I'd never
answered his, but of course it's too late to worry about
that now. I was an idiot, no doubt about it, but self-
recriminations won't change anything. The best I can do is
to resolve not to repeat my mistake, and believe me, I have
no intention of ever responding to another such ad, even if
it means I die a lonely old maid.
I knew better, or course. I'm not a stupid woman. In fact,
I'm not only fairly intelligent, but I am also reasonably
well educated, with a master's in fine arts degree from an
impressive university back east. It's just that, between
teaching American literature and freshmen composition
classes and grading student's papers, an English teacher
can get awfully lonely. There's not much gratification in
marking the sentence fragments, comma splices, and shift in
tense in students' papers. At the time I saw Manuel's ad, I
was feeling blue, mostly as a result of the periodic self-
pity parties I throw for myself, and, quite frankly, his ad
sounded refreshing, if a little na?ve, and sincere. I've
pitched it, but it wasn't long, and I have a good memory,
so I can quote it to you verbatim:
I am not only passionate in myself, but the
cause of passion in others as well. - Manuel
It didn't bother me that he was paraphrasing Prince Hal
who, concerning Falstaff, had remarked that the fleshly
knight was "not only amusing" in himself "but the cause of
amusement in others as well." Indeed, the covert allusion
intrigued me. Manuel's familiarity with the bard caused me
to hope that he might have more to offer than just a stiff,
warm body on a cold, dark night. Silly girl that I'd been,
I'd dared to hope that Manuel might have a brain as well as
a cock. It's not difficult for a lonely woman to believe a
dozen impossible things about a man, all before breakfast,
to paraphrase another man of letters.
It didn't take long for me to become disillusioned on that
score. As soon as he answered my knock at his door, I saw
that he was a hopeless dimwit.
Although Manuel was a magnificent physical specimen; as
muscular as he was handsome. He had broad shoulders, a deep
chest, a firm belly, a strong back, powerful arms and legs,
a tight, compact ass, and a long, thick, manly cock, but
there was nothing between his ears. To call him as dense
as a post would be to insult the post.
Naturally, I was curious as to how someone as obviously
intellectually challenged as Manuel was could have
conceived the idea of paraphrasing one of the best writers
in the world. I wouldn't have asked just anyone. Some men
would be offended by such a question and some men, when
their egos are bruised, are not opposed to venting their
wounded sense of themselves by loosening a few teeth or
breaking a couple of bones. Manuel seemed quite capable of
accomplishing either of these tasks, but I had no fear of
him - not initially, at least. He was too stupid to
understand the implication of my questioning him as to how
he had managed to come up with such a witty line as the one
that had appeared in his personal ad.
When I asked him, he'd said, "Huh? What line?"
"You know, the one in your ad - ?I am not only passionate
in myself, but the cause of passion in others as well.'"
"Oh!" His face reddened as he recalled the words. "I paid
some college asshole to write that for me."
"Whatever for?"
His blush deepened. "I wanted something that sounded, you
know - " he faltered, seeking his next word.
"Sophisticated?" I prompted him.
"Yeah, that's it - suffocated. I wanted to sound, like,
suffocated."
I'll admit that I should have cancelled our date, right
then and there. I wish I had. However, as I've mentioned, I
was lonely at the time - all right, lonely and horny. I
hadn't been with a man in months, and, stupid or not,
Manuel was a magnificent specimen of the male sex. I
figured, What the hell? Why not? All I wanted was a
quickie; it didn?t even have to be a one-night stand.
Judging by the size of him, he ought to be able to satisfy
me in that department, at least, I reasoned. Afterward, I'd
just be on my way, sexually sated, never to see Manuel
again.
Was I using Manuel? Okay, maybe I was. I was lonely. I was
horny. Besides, he was using me, too, wasn't he? We were
two adults, consenting to use one another.
Of course, I made sure he understood that I have a cock and
a pair of balls of my own as well as firm, full tits and a
round, feminine ass. Most guys don't like surprises - not
in the bedroom, at least - and stupid men like Manuel seem
to like such surprises least of all. I didn't want a split
lip, a bloody nose, a concussion, or worse, so I told him
I'm a transsexual.
His reaction was as I'd expected. "Huh?" he grunted.
"What's that?"
I knew I had to put it in the simplest terms for him, so I
said, "It's a chick with a dick."
He frowned, clearly puzzled. "Huh? Is that possible?"
To prove to him that such a transformation is possible, I
hiked up my skirt, lowered my panties, and showed him my
genitals.
His eyes widened, and his mouth gaped. "What the hell?" he
cried, amazed.
"Do you want to fuck me or not?" I asked. I was horny, but
I was damned if I was going to be gawked at by some
retarded muscleman. As far as I was concerned, I'd shown
him the package. He could take it or leave it.
He clapped his hands together, grinning like an idiot.
"Hot damn!" he cried. Picking me up, he carried me through
his living room, into the bedroom, and set me upon his
king-size bed, as carefully as if I were a china doll. "I
ain't never fucked no chick with a dick before. I didn't
even know there was such a thing."
In bed, Manuel was every bit as magnificent as I'd
anticipated. He wasted no time. Stripping off my clothes
and then his own, he lubricated my asshole with his saliva,
pointed his erection between my buttocks, and shoved his
monster cock through my tight sphincter. The long, thick
column of flesh plunged into my rectum, and my anus
fluttered frantically about his invading organ. He slapped
my ass hard, they way, I imagine, he might have slapped a
mare's flank (or the backside of his favorite ewe), and
rode me hard and fast, pounding his enormous manhood into
my impaled bottom with a fury bordering upon violence.
There was no tenderness or affection in his actions; I felt
more as if I were being raped than being made love to. I
was just an ass to him, just a hole into which he could
drive and plunge. It felt as if he were splitting me apart.
I gasped and cried and moaned, but my discomfort and pain
merely excited him further, and he ravished me with greater
urgency, his long, thick, hard prick working like a piston
within my bowels. He would withdraw until only the enormous
glans remained lodged within my ass, and then plunge back
into me, to the very hilt, so that his balls slapped
against me.
I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut against the tears
that welled within them, telling myself that I could endure
this ravishment. As fierce as it was, it would end soon.
I was wrong.
Manuel was a stallion. The harder he pounded me, the more
excited he seemed to become. I had the feeling that he was
watching his prick sliding back and forth between my wide-
stretched anus, getting off psychologically as well as
sexually on the assault he was committing against my
impaled buttocks. It seemed clear to me that he was as
enamored of his own strength, virility, and machismo as he
was of my naked helplessness. He rammed his cock into me as
if it were a battering ram. For Manuel, it appeared, sex
was a means of dominating another person. For him, women
were but weaker vessels of his own strength and stamina, to
be occupied and conquered, possessed and subjugated by the
power of his manhood and the strength of his masculinity; a
chick with a dick even more so, perhaps, than a genetic
female.
He was strong, and he had stamina such as I'd never
imagined but, of course, eventually, he climaxed. He
shuddered violently, crying out as if he were an enraged
bull, as he shoved his huge cock as deeply into my rectum
as possible, and his thick, warm semen flooded my bowels,
gushing into me in long, copious spurts, as if he were
emptying not only his balls but also his very heart and
mind and soul into the depths of my being.
He collapsed atop me, his prick still deep inside my ass,
and I felt his wild heart beating against my back, as
frantically as my asshole had fluttered when he'd first
impaled me, and I thought how ironic it was that the line
he'd paid a student to write for him, plagiarizing
Shakespeare, was true, for, I must confess, his passion,
though doubtlessly born of a sadistic need to punish and to
conquer, did awaken within me an even deeper, corresponding
passion - a lust to be hurt and used and humiliated, the
passion of the masochist.
He lay atop me for some time, sweating and gasping, his
lungs heaving and his heart pounding, his thick cock slowly
dwindling within me. I felt worse than ashamed at the
thought, but I wanted him to remain inside me, stiff and
swollen, panting and heaving and sweating, forever. I
wanted his cock to fill me. I wanted his prick to hammer my
ass. I wanted his thick, warm semen to flood my bowels
again and again, erupting like molten lava inside me for
eternity.
Finally, his penis, soft and limp, plopped from my gaping
asshole, trailing a last tendril of semen down my cleavage,
and he rolled off me. Now that the act of violence had been
completed, he was the same na?ve, stupid fool he'd been
before he'd ravished me. With anyone else, I would have
attributed the question that he was next to ask to
audacity, but, in Manuel's case, I attributed it to his
pronounced lack of intellect.
Looking at me with this dark eyes, he smiled. "When can we
see each other again?"
Inwardly, I said "never," but to his face, I said, "We'll
see." I started to get out of bed, but he put his hand on
my arm. It was a heavy hand, with powerful fingers,
attached to a strong, muscular arm.
"Wait," he said.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Can we talk a while?"
I didn't want to talk. I wanted to put my clothes on, go
home, soak in a hot bubble bath, and forget I'd ever met
Manuel.
"Talk? About what?"
"Us."
My eyebrows rose. "Us?"
He nodded, his face somber. His hand seemed heavier.
I shrugged. "Okay." He removed his hand from my arm. "What
do you want to know?"
Now, he shrugged. "Where do you work?"
I'm a very private person. Normally, I would never answer
such a question, especially since it came from a virtual
stranger. But I wanted to go home. I wanted to soak my
aching body - and my sore ass - and I wanted to forget all
about Manuel. What would it hurt, anyway, I asked myself.
The bastard was retarded or close to it. In the morning, he
probably wouldn't even remember my name, much less where I
worked. I smiled. "I teach English," I told him, "at the
local community college. My next classes start tomorrow, in
fact."
"A teacher," he repeated, stroking my hair with a sausage-
size finger. I was reminded of Lenny, in John Steinbeck's
novel, "Of Mice and Men," and how the big, slow-witted
sharecropper accidentally breaks the neck of Candy's wife
while he's petting her hair in the barn.
"That's right."
He continued to stroke my hair. "A English teacher, at the
college."
"Yes." I refrained from correcting his grammar. I just
wanted to leave. I just wanted to escape, to get home.
"You're pretty," he declared, watching his finger circle
inside my hair. "You the first chick with a dick I ever
fucked."
"It's late, Lenny," I said. "I have to go now. I have to
get up early tomorrow, to teach - "
"What did you call me?"
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You called me a name."
"I did?"
"?Lenny'! That's what you called me. Why did you call me
?Lenny'? My name's Manuel. Manuel Sanchez."
"I guess you remind me of someone."
"Who?"
I looked at him, uneasily. "A man named Lenny."
"Who was he, this man name Lenny?'
"Just a man." I caught his twirling finger in my hand. "I
have to go now, Manuel. Please."
His finger stopped.
"Okay," he said.
I climbed out of bed, and he watched me dress.
"You the first chick with a dick I ever fucked," he
repeated.
I didn't know what to say. "I hope you enjoyed it," I said.
He grinned. "I want to fuck you again," he declared. "I
want to fuck you all the time, every day."
"Well, that's sweet, Manuel. We'll talk, but, right now, I
have to go."
He nodded solemnly. "I know. You got to teach tomorrow."
"That's right."
"Call me."
"I will."
"You got my number, right?"
"Yes."
"Call."
"I will."
"Promise?"
I nodded. "I promise, Manuel."
---
I didn't call, of course. I had no intention of ever seeing
Manuel again.
As it turned out, he didn't leave me that option. On the
third day of English composition, he showed up in my
classroom, having just enrolled.
To say that I was shocked to see him would be a monumental
understatement. I was horrified. "What are you doing here?"
I demanded.
"I enrolled," he announced, looking pleased at himself for
having said such a word. "Enrolled," he repeated, smiling.
"This is a college class," I reminded him.
He took a seat - the one right in front of my desk - and
sat there, grinning at me, like a mindless simpleton,
eyeing the cleavage of my breasts below the collar of my
blouse. I wished I hadn't left the top two buttons
unbuttoned.
He looked huge. He seemed to fill the entire room. The
other students, most of them just out of high school, gave
him an odd look, part of wonder, part of fright. "That
right," he acknowledged my statement. "I'm getting a
education, as a English teacher, like you."
The imbecile probably thought he could win my heart - and
maybe my hand - by entering the same profession as the one
in which I was employed. Very well, I thought. I'd show him
that he hadn't a hope in hell of passing my class, let
alone obtaining a degree. "Class," I instructed, "take out
your notebooks and write a brief account of why you are
here and what you hope to gain." I looked directly at
Manuel as I spoke, a smug grin on my face.
As the class session ended, the students filed out, leaving
their assignments on my desk. I was afraid that Manuel
might lag behind, but he didn't. He went out with the
others, ogling my breasts, a stupid leer on his imbecilic
face. Despite the assignment, it seemed he still believed
that he could pass my class. A person can be so stupid
that he isn't aware of how truly ignorant he is, I thought.
Consequently, he wouldn't understand how hopeless his
aspiration to earn a degree really is. Well, I thought,
picking up his paper, Let's see what he's written. As I
read the ragged scrawl, my eyes widened in shock, my pulse
racing. Had I really read what I thought I'd read? As I
scanned his jumbled scribble again, this is what I read:
"I xpeck a A in this curse, or evreebuddy will no yore
liddle secret."
There was no doubt that Manuel was illiterate, I thought,
but maybe he wasn't as stupid as I'd supposed. Maybe, in
some ways, he was a whole lot more intelligent than I was.
Bess
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