Fucking Mrs. McKinley
Introduction:
The events leading up to and following the few months I spent fucking the Theater Arts teacher.
I’ve only had one sexual encounter that was really anything to brag about, and the cruel irony is that it’s something I can’t brag about. People could lose jobs. A marriage and a childhood could be ruined. So congratulations, reader. Seven years of not being able to relay this story to my closest friends has led to it being posted anonymously online.
Because the teacher involved in this story has a very unique last name, I’ll be replacing it with a more common one. I’m changing my name as well, but that’s less paranoia and more of a personal choice. I’ve never written anything like this before, so I’d like to apologize in advance if the pacing is weird. I tend to ramble.
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I was the weird kid growing up. Not all of it was my fault, but regardless of how many of the kindergarten rumors were true, I was stuck with them. Most of the specifics faded over time, but the residual “that guy’s weird” remained. I tell you this to give a little context. I became the quiet guy who sits in the back of class and doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and that’s how I went through most of my high school career. Theater Arts was the only exception.
If you asked the principal, Theater Arts was the class that taught acting, improvisation, shit like that. If you asked a student, it was the class everyone wanted to take, mostly thanks to Mrs. McKinley. No, she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous with huge tits and a tiny waist. Think of a more “girl next door” look, then age it up to thirty or so. Round face, cute features with dark brown hair, not particularly skinny but nowhere near big enough to have rolls, just curves. She was attractive for a teacher, but not the one the guys talked or fantasized about. No, people took Theater Arts—myself included—because it was a blowoff class. We didn’t do a goddamn thing in that class. There were literally couches in one corner of the room, under the guise of “a place to read and rehearse more comfortably.” Mrs. McKinley was the type of teacher to pass out books, then turn around and tell us to be ready to pretend to be reading if the principal poked his head in the door.
I figured out pretty early on that she and I shared a sense of humor, which is probably why hers was the one class where I actually talked pretty often. Cracked jokes, had a good time, basically acted like the opposite of what I was in the rest of my classes. I honestly think that was what led to the events that followed, but I’ve never come right out and asked her.
See, the principal wasn’t an idiot, and neither was Mrs. McKinley. She knew that he’d catch on eventually, so in order to avoid that, she had to look busy. She set time aside to work with students on Theater Arts-y stuff. The students knew the tutoring sessions didn’t matter, but as long as both parties played along with the rouse, everyone would stay happy. It was during one of these one-on-one sessions that things took an unexpected turn. (Again, this happened seven years ago, so understand that the dialogue is only approximate.)
“So, Tyler. You’re great at improv. The things you come up with are unique, and your timing especially is great.” She paused for a second, and I could feel the “but” coming a mile away.
“But, you can’t handle anything else. You know? If it’s a serious role, you have trouble putting on a straight face and acting the part.”
Well no shit. Everyone in our class had that problem. When you don’t take the class itself seriously, anyone who gets invested in the mostly-for-show exercises we did was seen as trying too hard.
“Yeah, I guess I could work on that. Just, some of this stuff is kinda…”
She raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Well, you know. Cheesy? Like, that stuff we were going over earlier didn’t sound like anything people would say in real life.”
I wouldn’t know it for another minute or two, but that was the key phrase here. That was the turning point in all this. Maybe Mrs. McKinley had been planning it all along, but knowing her personality and her married-ness, I really doubted it. When she took out her copy of the play we’d been reading through and said “Show me which part you mean,” she hadn’t turned it around to face me.
That meant I’d had to get up and move around to her side of the desk to point out the few lines that stuck me as hard to believe. She sat at her desk, and I stood next to her, giving me view of her cleavage from a pretty rare angle. “Like this,” I said, motioning to one of the lines and reading it aloud. “That’s just stupid.”
She cocked her head up at me. If I’d had the experience then that I had now, I’d have known she was being just a little bit flirty. The type of flirting married women would do with the barista at Starbucks, but would never act on. I moved to point at another line, and just barely felt the back of my wrist brush against her right tit. I pretended not to notice, mostly because it would have been weird to point out “HEY OOPS SORRY I JUST TOUCHED YOUR BOOB,” but she actually leaned almost imperceptibly into it. The body language equivalent of “10-4, read you loud and clear.”
I was pretty sure I was just reading too much into it, but not one to end things myself, I turned the page and leaned down just a bit closer, placed my hand just a bit more daringly on the page. We’re talking a matter of millimeters, but when it comes to technically touching your teacher’s tits, it was a huge difference. It didn’t matter that it was just my wrist, it was the fact that she hadn’t stopped it, and in fact, was leaning ever so slightly into it. The kind of subtle confirmation guys are trained to look for when getting handsy with a girl, the point where she either stops you or very blatantly doesn’t.
“I’m not saying you have to become a theater major,” she said, turning to look at me. God, somehow the gap between our faces had closed more than I’d realized. “Just… try to go along with it.”
I know I said before that I didn’t remember much of the actual dialogue, and I don’t. Just the general idea of what we talked about. That line, however, I remember word for word. Probably because she’d chosen her words so carefully to make sure they made sense in both the actual conversation and the unspoken one that had apparently been taking place for a minute or two now. She had stopped talking probably no more than a second or two ago, but when you’re in close quarters with someone, looking right at them… given the circumstances, it was pretty clear what was about to happen. I moved forward just barely, and when she didn’t stop me, I kissed her. If she jerked back and slapped the hell out of me, I’d actually have been surprised at this point.
She didn’t. She reciprocated with more enthusiasm than I would have ever expected. Reading porn stories about how this thing is supposed to work, you’d think we’d be saying shit like “Fuck, I want you,” and “Oh god, Mrs. McKinley, your tits are amazing.” None of that happened. It started with a kiss, and once that barrier had been broken, the floodgates opened. I felt her hand slide up my leg to the growing bulge in my pants, forcing a breath from my lungs. It was honestly an awkward position, me standing and hunched over, kissing her in her chair, but that didn’t last long. Her fantasies didn’t seem to involve much romance, and mine only involved whatever was necessary to get my dick inside her. (I was 18 and had only had sex with one other girl; things like foreplay didn’t carry much weight in my mind.)
Mrs. McKinley broke the kiss and hastily unzipped my pants, not even bothering to undo the button. I stood up straight as she pulled my mostly-hard cock out through the flap of my boxers and immediately took it into her mouth. It was the second blowjob I’d received at that point, the first being from a girl I’d dated earlier that year, but this was different. Mrs. McKinley knew what she was doing. She took all of my cock, gagging just slightly as I hilted inside her. It took all of my focus not to blow my load right then, but somehow I managed to hold out as she withdrew, then took me in again. Groaning, I reached down and gripped her hair.
Turns out, Mrs. McKinley really, really likes it when guys do that.
She moaned, and only then did I wonder if the doors to the classroom were locked. Her office was a small room inside the larger classroom, but even if her door was locked, anyone who came into the classroom would be able to hear us inside. I wasn’t about to risk putting an end to all this by asking, so instead, I pulled back and started fucking her mouth, pulling her head down on my shaft in rhythm with every thrust. How long had it been since I’d kissed her? Thirty seconds? A minute? Jesus Christ, things had progressed like wildfire once we reached an unspoken understanding.
I wish I could tell you this went on for longer than it did, but our time wasn’t unlimited. As soon as I realized she’d started fingering herself, I took that as a sign that I should move on. When I withdrew from her mouth, she immediately stood and turned, hiking her skirt up and sliding her underwear down. This was the extent of our undressing; she kept her panties around her thighs, and my cock, slick from her mouth, stuck out through my jeans. Both of us breathed heavily as I placed a hand on her back and aligned the head of my cock with her pussy lips.
I was amazed how easy it was to slide in. I’d had sex before, and a blowjob, but somehow not in this order. She moaned a bit more quietly this time, I guess trying to control her volume a little more. I pushed my full length inside and began to grind my hips into her, letting out a slow breath as I took it all in. I was fucking Mrs. McKinley. Remembering that girls supposedly liked it a bit slower sometimes, I took great care in pulling myself back, intending to tease her. Unfortunately, my will broke down a lot faster than I would have hoped. The second thrust was hard, and by the third, I was full-on fucking her.
Mrs. McKinley struggled to keep herself quiet. She bit her lip, groaned, and flexed her fingers as I began to pound into her more desperately. When she did moan, it was a quiet whine, one that said she was trying very to keep herself under control.
Turns out, I really enjoy a challenge.
Sliding my hand down her back, I gripped her hips and gave up on restraint, allowing my thrusts to slap loudly against her ass. She let out a raw, guttural moan, and for a second I thought it might have been a bad thing, but she was eagerly pushing herself back to meet my thrusts.
I wish I could tell you we switched positions, fucked all over her office and the classroom, and had time to spoon on her desk afterward, but none of that happened. When she moaned like that, I had won. She’d tried to keep herself quiet, and hadn’t been able to. That, combined with my relative inexperience at the time, brought me dangerously close to orgasm. For the first time since this all started, I spoke.
“I’m gonna cum,” I groaned, gripping her hair and holding her in place. “I’m gonna cum.”
She responded by pushing her hips back to me and taking several breaths of anticipation. That was all the permission I needed. I pushed myself as deep into her as I could and released stream after stream of cum into her. In reality, it probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like ages. I remember grinding into her as I came, and then for a little while after, catching my breath and reveling in my release.
There wasn’t much to the encounter after that. She didn’t lick my dick clean or anything like that; we did what little reclothing there was to be done and she led me out of the office, handing me a copy of the play we’d been reading as I stepped out into the hall. The only hint that anything had happened was the brief eye contact and the finger over her lips as she shut the door.
These one-on-one sessions continued for a couple of months. I later found out that she hadn’t locked the classroom doors the first time, but did from then on. I guess once she was actually planning on it, the risk became more real. We fucked in her office, in the classroom, we even had a short session behind the cafeteria stage curtains during lunch. It always ended the same way, and in my stupidity, I’d just assumed that “permission to cum inside me” meant “I’m on birth control.”
Yeah. That’s the other reason I can never tell this story to anyone who knows me in person. A few months after our first rendezvous, she excitedly announced to the class that she was going to have a baby. I remember it very well, because the chill and the adrenaline that hit me were unlike anything I’ve felt since. I only had to wonder for a moment before she made quick, subtle eye contact, giving me a slight nod. I fell back to my usual habits. Remain perfectly still. Try not to breathe. Don’t panic. Okay, of course I panicked, but Mrs. McKinley had a husband and a job to worry about. Like hell was any of this going to fall back on me. I still count myself lucky that it hasn’t.
That was the end of our sessions. I’ve since graduated, gone to college, graduated that as well, and settled into a pretty decent life for my age. I’m not sure how it is in bigger cities, but in smaller towns like mine, it’s not at all unusual for students to friend their former teachers on Facebook. I have five of them on my friends list right now, one of whom has a profile picture consisting of herself, her husband, and her six-year-old son.
And that’s my one and only sex story. I may not have as many good ones as my friends, but the one I do have is, in my opinion, well worth the trade-off.
