The English Teacher
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The English Teacher -- Part Four free porn video
The English Teacher - Part Four
By Katherine Day
(Copyright 2008 by Katherine Day)
Emily Sparks, my landlady, noticed the change in me right away after the
re-ignition of my relationship with Paul in class that day. She was a
retired school teacher and even though there was some 40 years
difference in our ages we had become close friends and companions.
You might have thought Emily fit the stereotype of an "old maid" school
teacher, but she was full of wit and fun and a surprisingly progressive
attitude toward life styles. She often encouraged me, in fact, to spice
up my look. I had felt compelled to understate my femininity and my
clothing styles, largely due to the belief that many men who transition
to females often dress too extreme. I wanted to "fit in" as a regular
woman.
Since it was Friday night, Emily and I were planning to go out to
dinner. This had become a fairly standard routine. I was in a buoyant
mood and felt like dressing in bright colors, choosing a full skirt with
bright floral patterns and a peasant blouse. I felt I should dress like
a sexy "Carmen" from the opera, and looking into the mirror, I smiled,
seeing the white soft skin of my chest and arms looking quite luscious.
Suddenly, I realized that I might be looking quite slutty, not the best
image for the High School's English teacher in small town Illinois.
That was solved by putting a sweater on.
"My you're looking vibrant tonight," Emily said as I walked down the
stairs from my upper flat to greet her as we left for the restaurant.
"I am," I said cheerily.
"Don't tell me," she said. "You've found a man worthy of you in this
backwater town?"
I said nothing for a minute, but she must have noticed how I began to
blush. "No, Emily, of course not. I just felt like it."
"You can't fool me, Katie. You're in love."
"No. No. No."
"OK. You have been down in the dumps all week. Something happened
today. You're as cheery as a teen girl on her first date."
I said nothing, and Emily is a very wise old lady and she knows when to
drop a subject that might cause some hurtful feelings. We had a great
time that night, giggling and laughing a lot. We only had two wines
each, but it was a sweet night between two girl friends. I realized so
often recently that I had never felt more comfortable in my life than I
had since I transitioned; I truly enjoyed the company of other women,
and now that I was accepted as a woman, I felt real joy in building
sisterly friendships.
Occasionally, however, my mind wandered that night to visions of Paul
Norris, and my expectations of meeting him on my run tomorrow morning.
It was true, as Emily said, I was as giddy as teen girl waiting for a
date with the high school quarterback. Nonetheless, the gnawing fears
grew that my love for Paul, an underage student of mine, was heading for
personal disasters for both of us.
In truth, in all my 30 years, I had never felt for anyone like I did for
Paul. I had never been in love before, or, at least, had never felt I
had experienced such a love. I had always been shy and afraid of girls
during my earlier life as a male; during high school, my lack of
physical manliness made me self-conscious, afraid that no self-
respecting girl would "date" me. Except for one failed 10th Grade
experience with Sally Cosgrove, a truly lovely young lady who seemed to
accept me, I had not been on a date during all those years before my
transition.
Of course, I was a virgin as a male, frightened as I was of the
certainty that I would have failed in my manly duty. My undersized
manhood had been the subject of teasing in numerous locker rooms and
showers, as was the smoothness and light textured hair that covered my
pubic areas.
During my pubescent years, I cried myself to sleep on more nights that I
cared to count, so ashamed I was of my lack of manliness, wondering how
I was to function in a world as a man who was supposed to be strong and
masculine.
As early as 3rd grade, I remember wondering why I couldn't have been
born a girl. My only real friend during my grade school years was Wendy
McIntyre who lived two doors away and was one grade ahead of me in
class. Her mother and mine had become close, largely due to the fact
that they were both single mothers; their jobs were on differing shifts,
my mother working days at the telephone company and Wendy's working as a
hostess at a first class restaurant.
Thus, after school, I'd venture to Wendy's house where she was to watch
me for about two hours when my mother would get home; then we'd both end
up at my house, where Wendy would stay until her mother collected her at
11 p.m.
Sometimes we'd play games; Wendy had lots of them, and many times two
other girls would join us. Usually, however, Wendy and I played with
her doll house and her selection of dolls; we made up names for them.
Soon, we were playing house, pretending to be a "mom" and a "dad." I
would pretend to be the "dad," showing my masculinity as I would come
home from work. I wasn't much good at it. I didn't know how a "dad"
acted since mine had been gone from the house since I was about two.
"That's no way to be a dad," Wendy protested one spring afternoon. "Let
me show you."
Of course, she was good at being a dad, having experienced a real dad
until her mother's divorce about two years before. It was decided that
I would from there on be the mom.
"Here put this on," Wendy told me, producing a single piece print little
girl's dress from her closet. "This is too small for me, but it should
fit you."
"Not now," I protested. "Can't I just pretend to be the mom? Do I have
to wear a dress?"
"Do it, silly. You have to look like a mom to be real."
"I can't do that."
"Yes, you can," she said, grabbing me by the arm and directing me to the
bathroom.
I was too weak to fight her; she was taller than I was, obviously
stronger and a year older, and besides, I worshipped her. She always
dressed so pretty, and when I began to wonder about my gender, I began
thinking I'd like to be a girl just like Wendy. Her mother was a
classic beauty, slender with pitch black hair. She always went off to
work wearing a subtle, flowery scent of perfume.
She handed me a pair of silk panties and a camisole and told me to take
off my boy clothes and dress myself in the panties and camisole. When I
was finished, I returned to the bedroom where she slipped the dress over
my head. She fussed over the buttons in the back of the dress, and then
puffed up the bodice a bit, looking at me, smiling. I thought the smile
was a bit impish.
Then she had me sit on the stool before her vanity where she brushed my
hair; I had longish dark blonde hair that was turning brown by the year.
"You have beautiful hair, Kevin," she said, tying the strands into two
pigtails with light green ribbons.
"What are you doing?" I protested. "We're just playing house."
"You want to be pretty, don't you?"
"Why would I want to be pretty?"
"Because you're the mom, and moms are pretty."
"I guess," I said, but secretly intrigued as to how I would look.
She finished up by having me put on lipstick, but I already knew how to
do that, having watched my mom, and having had her put some make up on
me just for fun.
"You do that like a real girl," Wendy said as I applied the lipstick.
She found a pair of little girl pumps with short heels, and they fit my
small feet perfectly.
"Wow, you're the prettiest little girl," she said when we were done and
as she was directed me to a full length mirror in her mother's bedroom.
"Is that me?" I said, stunned at seeing a pretty little girl staring
back at me.
Our game of house was Wendy's and my secret; we were always careful to
put the clothes away and clean the makeup and lipstick off of me before
my mother got home. We didn't do it often, but, in truth, I would have
done it every day if Wendy had suggested it. We were old enough to
realize this game of "house" might lead to something "naughty," although
we weren't sure what that something naughty might be.
"You're more of a girl than I am," Wendy said one day.
"How can that be? I'm a boy."
She laughed. "Look at you. You got arms like a girl."
"No, I don't," I argued, recognizing she was right but being too
embarrassed to agree with her.
"Show me your muscle then. Make a muscle," she taunted.
"Aw, come on, Wendy. I got muscles."
I raised my right arm, pulled back my tee shirt sleeve, and hardened my
arm in an effort to show a sinewy bicep. Nothing appeared, but a flat
soft upper arm.
Wendy did the same, showing a firm bicep with a slight bulge of muscle.
Suddenly realizing that she was shaming me, she quickly dropped her arm
and said: "Let's play Nintendo."
I smiled; it was the one thing we did in which I could usually win.
By the time I was 11, and she was 12, our games of house ended; Wendy
went off to another school and soon moved. Despite tearful promises to
be friends until death, we soon lost track of each other.
We hugged hard, crying real tears when we parted. Wendy whispered into
my ear during the tearful session: "You're like a girl friend to me,
Kevin."
And I cried a bit harder, finding real happiness in being recognized as
a "girl friend." From then on, I found myself yearning more and more
for the companionship of girls, not for sexual reasons, but because of
the sisterhood I cherished.
Thus, I spent my school years, shy and retiring, trying not to be
noticed. I steered away from making friends with other boys, and
instead concentrated on getting good grades. I loved to read and write,
and this took me into joining the school's literary magazine where I was
the only boy on staff. I had no real friends, finding companionship
with my mother who was beginning to worry about my antisocial behavior.
Yet, my grades remained solid.
When I was old enough to work, I found a job at the nearby supermarket,
bagging groceries at first, but soon - because of my courteous demeanor
and quickness with money - I became a checker, one of the few boys so
selected. Soon, I found myself associating with the girls at work; I
was still young, slender in stature and quite na?ve and seemed to be
accepted by the girls as a nonthreatening male. With my slight physique
and long hair, more than one customer was heard to call me, "Miss."
Now 15 years later, I that knew Paul, seeing me now as an attractive 30
year old woman, likely thought of me as a woman of great experience.
How wrong he was! I had never been with a woman during my years as a
male, and since my transition had been with only one man, a dock worker
by the name of Jim. He was beefy, hairy and, it seemed, always horny.
It was what I, as a recently transitioned woman craved, and he drove me
to ecstatic orgasms.
I would become so active and wild while in my orgasms that I sometimes
hurt him, or scratched him.
"Jim," I would ask repeatedly. "Take a little time. Please romance me,
hug me caress me before you act."
"Oh Katie," he'd said, "You're the hottest woman I ever had. I can't
get enough of you."
After sex, however, Jim had little to offer me, and I was interested in
finishing school and getting a career. After a nearly a year with Jim,
I left to go to school at Northern Illinois in DeKalb, and our
friendship ended. At school, I associated only with other girls, while
working as a parttime checker at a department store and going to school.
Paul, I knew, was no virgin. He knew exactly what he was doing during
our several brief sexual encounters. I was jealous, knowing he had had
other girls; yet, I felt his adoration for me was real. In short, we
were in love, a true, honest love. It was a love, however, that was
wrong, improper, even illegal. He knew it, and I knew it.
Yet, I knew Saturday morning could not come soon enough for me. We
would meet at the corner and begin our run. I wondered where that run
would take us.
*****
There was still frost on the ground when I began my run Saturday
morning; the cold forced me to wear a full sweat suit outfit, my
Northern Illinois Huskies outfit with the black and red colors of the
school mixed with the pink of the outfit. I wore my pink baseball cap,
with my hair tucked out the back.
"Oh Miss Enright, you look so cute this morning," Paul said has he met
me at the corner.
I was already puffing, but I gasped: "Paul, don't be silly. I look
like a wreck."
He joined me in stride, commenting, "a cute wreck." I could do nothing
but smile, as we continued our run into the wooded area. We soon found
our quiet spot, a clearing along a little traveled path deep into the
woods at the community park.
We ended up falling on the piles of leaves that had gathered, breathing
heavily from our run, all sweaty in spite of the November cold. We fell
into each others arms, kissing gently, hands caressing each other. It
felt so sweet to be in his arms; I melted into his hard male body.
His hands moved under the waistband of my sweats, venturing to my
crotch. His fingers found my vagina and first one, then another
entered, fingering me. I felt all wet down there, probably from a
mixture of sweat and feminine juices. I panted heavily, and soon
squealed aloud, breaking away from his kisses to scream in lovely
ecstasy.
My own hands progressed inside his sweats, finding his sweet manhood,
his large, round, throbbing shaft, also wet with sweat and precum.
My breathing became heavier and I lost all sense of time and location.
My screams became louder, and Paul lightly kissed me, hoping to drown
out the sound. He was more aware than I was of the fact that we were
indeed in a public park, and even though we were deep in the woods,
there was always a chance someone might come along and see us.
"I want you so bad, Paul," I whispered.
I was desperate now, and began ripping off his sweat pants. I wanted
him to pull mine down too, as I lay on my back, legs apart awaiting his
wonderful youthful boy cock. My breathing continued heavily, but
suddenly Paul stopped, quickly pulling his pants up, and removing
himself from me, and standing up.
"Sh! Sh! Sh!," he warned. "I hear someone."
I was still in a deep funk, not sure what I was hearing. I was so na?ve
about sex, even now, that my liaisons with Paul were so fresh and new
and exciting. In my orgasmic state, I thought of nothing but being
penetrated by Paul. I was so hot now and flushed, and all I could hear
was Paul saying in an urgent, but low voice: "Get up Miss Enright.
You'll catch a cold."
Then it dawned on me. He was warning me that someone is coming, and I
quickly arose from the ground, and he helped brush the leaves off me; he
quickly, turned and began jogging ahead, beckoning me to follow. I felt
so cheated that our forest tryst would end so abruptly and with both of
us unfulfilled.
I heard the brush of leaves and light thump of feet, noticing two
runners jogging on the nearby adjacent path, as Paul led me down a less-
traveled path deeper in the woods, and adjoining the river bank.
"Whew, that was close," Paul said several minutes later as we left the
wooded area, and headed toward home.
"I know, and you had good ears, Paul."
"You were screaming so loud. No wonder you couldn't hear."
"Was I that loud?"
He smiled as we jogged, finally saying: "Would you like to stop for
coffee?"
"I'd like that, but I don't have any money with me."
"I do, Katie," he said. "But we better not go in together. Let me go
in first, and then you follow. OK?"
I agreed. Paul was so adult and responsible, while I was acting so
recklessly. I was supposed to be the leader here, but it seemed my
desires were getting the better of me.
Java Stop was a popular coffee shop along the main street of our city;
everyone went there to read the newspaper, meet friends and just hang
out, and it wouldn't be unusual to meet someone there incidentally.
Our so-called incidental meeting went off perfectly; no one could sense
it was nothing more than a coincidence that a popular high teacher,
finishing up her jog, might meet up with one of her students on a
Saturday at the Stop.
"I'm so happy you showed up this morning, Miss Enright," he said after I
got my latte and joined him at his table. "I thought you were so mad at
me."
"No, Paul, I could never be mad at you," I said, blushing.
"Why did you act so mad about my comments about Bill's reading of 'Casey
at the Bat?'"
"Oh Paul, it was just me. I had been worrying about our relationship.
You being my student, and all that."
"I know, Katie," he said quietly now, almost intimately. "I've been
thinking of that too."
I smiled, realizing what a fine young man Paul was becoming.
"First, Katie," he continued. "That poem I read, 'How do I love thee.'
I meant every word of that."
His words were said quietly and I knew I loved this boy so completely
now.
"It's my favorite poem, too, Paul. I could have read the poem for you,
too."
I felt like leaping over the table and grabbing this hunk of a young man
and throwing my body upon him, open to whatever he wanted to do with me.
Under the table, I felt our lower legs meet, and begin to rub together.
It was most sensual and I wanted to scream out loud in excitement.
"What are we going to do, Paul?" I asked. "This is really so wrong. I
could hurt you so badly."
"I know, Katie. I've never felt like this with any girl before."
"And, I'm sure you've had plenty of girl friends," I said. The words
came out a bit petulantly, perhaps showing my growing jealousy that this
delicious young man had been with other girls.
"A few," he said, innocently.
I looked at him intently. "You seemed to be an experienced lover," I
said, again taking a certain nasty tone. I regretted the words
immediately. I imagined that he had fucked every cheerleader in the
school by now.
He nodded, slowly. "But, you're the best, Katie. The best."
I'm sure he must have realized that I was not the most experienced lover
in the world, in spite of my obvious beauty.
"Paul, there are many things we don't know about each other," I said.
"I think it's best we no longer meet like this."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I think you need to finish your senior year and get ready for
college. Our affair can only ruin that for you."
"But, Katie . . ."
"Let me finish," I said, cutting him off.
He nodded.
"And I can't afford to lose my job. This is very wrong."
It was so hard for me to say these words. I knew they had to be said;
we had to end our affair.
"Next semester, I will arrange a transfer for you to Mrs. Wembly's
English class. You'll like her and they'll be studying contemporary
America literature."
"Oh Miss Enright, do you have to? Can't I stay in your class?"
"No, Paul. Just seeing you stirs my passions, and I can't continue to
teach that way."
To his credit, Paul agreed that everything I said was correct. We had
to stop meeting and becoming so attached to each other. In truth, we
were lovers and our love was a forbidden as that of Romeo and Juliet.
If we didn't separate now, our love affair would end as tragically as
that historic romance did.
"I understand, Katie," he said. "It doesn't mean I don't love you."
I smiled, nodding in assent. I wanted to kiss him so badly now.
"Paul, I want you to get a nice girl friend and get on with your life
without me," I said, and tears began to flow from my eyes. I loved this
boy so.
I got up, thanked him for the latte, adding that I'd pay him Monday in
class. I left abruptly, without awaiting his reply. I cried for all
four blocks as I walked home; I cried that afternoon.
Was Paul going to be the only love of my life? Would I never again feel
such emotion and affection from another human being?
I had cast him out of my life, probably forever. I knew, and guess I
even hoped, he'd go off to Carbondale, be a big success in sports and
college, find a corn-fed luscious Illinois girl, get married and grow
bald after having six kids. Meanwhile, was my life to be that of a
small town high school English teacher whose future meant dodging lewd
remarks of married male teachers or dads before becoming old and ugly
and unloved?
Is that what lie in store for Katie Enright, woman teacher?
Deep down, I pictured Paul going off to Carbondale, becoming bored with
all the lovely young co-eds and calling me up for a date. My fantasy
was so sweet: this virile, handsome young man choosing me, a middle-
aged and transsexual woman school teacher, for his lover.
I doubted that would ever happen, but a girl can dream, can't she?
#####
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