Teacher Sex Story

The teacher sex story I tell people stops at the part where I passed, and I let them believe it, because the rest of it belongs to a corridor and a desk and a bare floor.

Teacher sex story

It did not begin in a classroom, whatever everyone assumes.

Meenakshi taught the evening batch to adults, people retaking something they had failed at twenty, and I was thirty-one and doing exactly that.

She had been teaching that batch for six years and had never once called in sick, and I had failed the same paper twice before that term and told nobody.

There was a plate of biscuits on the desk that nobody had touched all evening.

By half past the corridor lights were down, the room smelled of chalk and old paper, and she was still at the board with one hand on her hip.

I had walked to the building that night because the buses had stopped an hour early, and I remember thinking that was the worst thing that would happen to me that week.

That night in Kochi she asked me to stay back, my answers spread out on the desk, the same wrong line on four separate pages.

I said I thought it was right, and she told me it was not, and I said I did not understand it.

So she sat on the edge of the desk — not behind it, on it — and put her palm flat on the wood between my paper and her hip.

She explained it again and I still did not follow it, and something about my face made her laugh, properly and tiredly, her head going back.

“You are not stupid,” she said, “you are just certain, which is worse.”

The building made its own small noises — a radiator ticking down inside the wall, a door two floors below, and then nothing.

“I have to lock up,” she said, and did not move, and her hand stayed flat on the desk beside mine.

“In a minute,” she said, and pulled the cardigan off one shoulder and then the other and folded it on the desk beside her hip, and it was not a performance; the room had been too warm since October, and there was a shine of sweat along the line of her throat.

“Every week you bring the paper up and stand there with your hand on the desk and look at me like there is a question in your mouth and no intention of asking it.”

I had no answer, so I said I did not know what the question was, and she said she did not either.

She reached out and took the end of my tie and gave it one slow pull, and I moved, and my knee found hers under the desk.

“I— that is—” I said, and did not finish it.

Her flat palm came onto my chest, and then she took it off again and said, “Wait — is this a bad idea?”

“Probably,” I said, and she said, “Good,” and kissed me, and it was not careful at all.

She got the tie off first, then the shirt, standing against the desk with both hands flat on my chest and her thumbs dragging up over my nipples until they were hard and I could not put two thoughts together.

I got her blouse open and both hands inside it onto the warm skin of her back, and she let her head drop and put one hand into my hair and pulled.

Her breath was coming against my throat and her heart was going hard under my palm, and she was not so calm now — her wrist kept turning and her fingers did not quite get my belt right the first time.

Then she pushed me down — not onto the desk, onto the floor, onto my own revision, which went everywhere in sheets across the tiles — and she laughed and said, “Oh, for— leave it,” and came down over me with the skirt still on.

I got both hands up under her skirt and her tights were torn at one knee from a day of teaching, and I pulled them down far enough to get my fingers where I wanted them, and she was wet, and gave a short, surprised sound and put her hand around my wrist while I moved two fingers inside her and worked her with my thumb.

“There — like that — do not rush it,” she said, and her hand stayed closed around my wrist.

I did not rush it. I watched her face and she watched mine, and her breath came shorter against my cheek with every slow pull of my fingers, and her hip rolled into my palm on the tile.

She rocked down onto my hand and I slid a third finger in and she bit down on the muscle of my shoulder, and her thigh came up across my hip and pressed and I nearly lost the whole thing on the classroom floor.

Then she pushed my hand away, got her underwear off over her shoes, and came down over my face before I could say anything, one knee either side of my head and her hand braced hard on the leg of the desk.

I got my mouth on her and she stopped breathing for a second and then said, “Yes — oh, yes,” and ground down onto my tongue with the skirt falling over my ears and her knuckles going white on the desk leg.

I ran my tongue flat up the whole length of her and she shuddered above me, and her heel dug in against my ribs and her hand came off the desk onto my head to hold me where I was.

Her thighs closed round my head hard enough that I had to hold her hips to breathe, and she came like that with her head thrown back, her mouth shut, and a low noise held in her throat.

Then she got off me and turned round and got on top of me properly and reached down and put me inside her with her own hand, and sat all the way down with a long breath out, and started to move — slow first, then not slow — with my shirt hanging off one shoulder and her breasts filling both my hands.

The chair rolled half a metre away with my thigh still across her hip and neither of us cared; her foot found the floor and pushed and she laughed, breathless, and kept going, riding me on the floor of a classroom with paper stuck to her calves and the radiator ticking above us.

She rode me with her palms flat on my chest and her spine curved, and her breasts swung with the movement, and I got my mouth up to one and she held my head there with her hand and her breath broke over the top of me.

I got a hand down between us and my thumb on her and she made a high sound and shut her mouth around it, and her whole body went tight and hot around my cock and I had to grip her hip hard to keep from finishing too soon.

She stopped once, both hands flat on my chest, sitting still, and said, “Hold on — hold on,” and stayed like that with her eyes shut and her breath going hard in and out for maybe twenty seconds.

Footsteps in the corridor and both of us went rigid, her hand still flat on my chest, and the caretaker’s trolley went past the door and stopped.

Meenakshi did not get off me — she put her forehead down on my chest and shivered with silent laughter until the corridor went quiet, and then her hips moved again.

I got both hands on her waist and she took it with her mouth open and her jaw tight and her grip on my shoulders going white, and she finished first, one hand knotted in my hair and my name said once, close to my ear.

I finished a moment after her, still inside, with her forehead on my chest and her knees gripping my ribs, and she did not move off me for a while.

Afterwards she sat on the desk with my shirt round her shoulders and her knees pulled up, and said, “The theorem is still not in your head.”

And she explained it a third time, and this time I understood it, and she said it had been worth staying back for.

None of that is the part I kept.

She never mentioned it in class afterwards, and neither did I. I have never been able to explain why I stayed that night, and I am not going to try now.

She marked the paper four days later. It came back with one line at the bottom in her small square hand and no signature, and I have kept it in the back of a drawer ever since. More teacher stories.