Mr. Hastings whispered in my ear, and I totally couldn't stop the shudder that passed through me. The 'will' left a lot to be desired, but apparently there was a lot of my skin that was desired. I paused in my writing to let him unbutton most of my shirt. My left hand hung limp as the shirt fell off my shoulder. The only thing keeping it from falling open completely were the two buttons he left fastened at the bottom of my shirt. Oh, and Mr. Hastings pressed against my back.
The 'not' was even worse than the 'will' as I felt Mr. Hastings' fingers move further down to unfasten my jeans. While I wore my pants loose, they weren't so loose that they would hit the ground the second they weren't being actively held up by my non-hips. I gasped as I felt teeth along the junction between shoulder and neck, nearly dropping the chalk in my hand.
“The next word is 'doodle,'” Mr. Hastings helpfully supplied, and I could feel his smirk along my hairline at the back of my neck.
I must have stood there, trying to take a full breath for too long for his liking. He shifted a knee between my thighs, and I could feel--holy shit! That... that was his... his... he was just as into this as I was. Maybe more so. The 'doodle on' was hastily written on the board as I moaned and pressed backwards against that hardness. Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking polar bear. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. I was going to wake up in the middle of class and have to deal with dried jizz on my junk for the rest of the day.
Yeah. Sure. That scribble I wrote on the board totally looked like 'desks.' Totally. As much as a word can look like 'desks' when your hot as hell history teacher had his rock hard cock pressing against your ass.
The 'I' of the next sentence may or may not have looked like a 'T,' but the way he was grinding against my ass like he would fuck me through my fucking jeans was just...
“You are hardly finished with that sentence, Desmond,” Mr. Hastings whispered into my ear, and holy fuck if I wasn't going to finish stupid quick if he kept doing that.
“It's kinda hard...” I started, and I nearly choked on my words as I felt his hand slide into my boxers.
“That it is.”
My brain took a moment to remind me just what the fuck was going on. I was writing sentences on the blackboard after school. My history teacher, who I would swear on any other day hated me to the point of making my senior year miserable, was pressed up against my ass, his cock hard enough to probably rip both his dress pants and my jeans. My shirt was hanging off my shoulders, and he was kissing my neck like it was his equivalent to breathing. Yeah. Just wanted to make sure I was getting all of this. Thanks, brain.
Re: Detention (5/6)
The 'not' was even worse than the 'will' as I felt Mr. Hastings' fingers move further down to unfasten my jeans. While I wore my pants loose, they weren't so loose that they would hit the ground the second they weren't being actively held up by my non-hips. I gasped as I felt teeth along the junction between shoulder and neck, nearly dropping the chalk in my hand.
“The next word is 'doodle,'” Mr. Hastings helpfully supplied, and I could feel his smirk along my hairline at the back of my neck.
I must have stood there, trying to take a full breath for too long for his liking. He shifted a knee between my thighs, and I could feel--holy shit! That... that was his... his... he was just as into this as I was. Maybe more so. The 'doodle on' was hastily written on the board as I moaned and pressed backwards against that hardness. Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking polar bear. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. I was going to wake up in the middle of class and have to deal with dried jizz on my junk for the rest of the day.
Yeah. Sure. That scribble I wrote on the board totally looked like 'desks.' Totally. As much as a word can look like 'desks' when your hot as hell history teacher had his rock hard cock pressing against your ass.
The 'I' of the next sentence may or may not have looked like a 'T,' but the way he was grinding against my ass like he would fuck me through my fucking jeans was just...
“You are hardly finished with that sentence, Desmond,” Mr. Hastings whispered into my ear, and holy fuck if I wasn't going to finish stupid quick if he kept doing that.
“It's kinda hard...” I started, and I nearly choked on my words as I felt his hand slide into my boxers.
“That it is.”
My brain took a moment to remind me just what the fuck was going on. I was writing sentences on the blackboard after school. My history teacher, who I would swear on any other day hated me to the point of making my senior year miserable, was pressed up against my ass, his cock hard enough to probably rip both his dress pants and my jeans. My shirt was hanging off my shoulders, and he was kissing my neck like it was his equivalent to breathing. Yeah. Just wanted to make sure I was getting all of this. Thanks, brain.