The Tudors Lesson
Is it okay to keep your glasses on during sex? I kept mine on
while Mr. Fisher was pulling my white cotton panties down because I
wanted to see what he was doing. They say that men don't make passes
at lasses in glasses, but in my case that never stopped anyone.
I was 18, and Mr. Fisher was my algebra teacher. We were upstairs
in his den and downstairs I could hear his wife bustling around
in the kitchen, preparing supper, which I had been invited to stay
for. It was very kind of her.
I hiked my ass up off the counterpane so he could slide my panties
down. Put up a fight? Never occurred to me. I was keen on
investigating the possibilities of sex with older guys and I was
quite happy to do it with Mr. Fisher.
He was supposed to be tutoring me on the math lessons I had missed
while I was out of town. So we had one hour of privacy in the den,
and I honestly thought we really were going to go over the roots of
the quadratic equation or whatever it was.
Instead he started staring at my chest and blushing, and you know,
I always loved that funny little mustache of his, and like I said
I had my eye out for older guys that year, so I made it easy for him.
"You know, Mr. Fisher, I've always had a crush on you," I exaggerated,
slightly.
Actually it had not even occurred to me before. But there was
his hard-on sticking out in his pants, and there were my
prematurely ripe breasts sticking out in my sweater, and it was
starting to feel a little warm in there.
"I think you are very pretty, Jenny," he said in that sweet,
faintly Central European accented voice of his. He had a gentle
but manly tone. Girls liked him. My friend Amy had a big crush
on him and she was going to kill me if she ever found out that
I had sex with him.
"Really?" I breathed, like I had not heard it a couple of hundred
times before, from practically any male who had got me alone since
I started wearing a bra. "What do you think is pretty about me?"
Judging from where he was looking the featured attractions were
a double feature -- Breast One and Breast Two. Like I said,
supposedly men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses,
but this is where staring at a girl's chest instead of looking
her in the eye lets you down. If he had been looking me square
in the eye he would have noticed the glasses.
"You have such big eyes," he lied. I dimpled. "And such soft
brown hair." Actually it is auburn. I reached up to fluff it
up a bit. If men understood sign language they would be more
aware that this is a green light.
"Do you like it like this?" I asked. "Or should I cut it?"
"Oh don't cut it," he said. "I like it the way it looks now."
I ground one of my sneakers into the other, squirming as I
looked up at him. I could feel a little chemistry starting
to mix.
"Do you think I am a little fat?" I said.
"I think your figure is perfect."
"You don't think my chest is too big, do you?"
"Oh, of course not!" he spluttered into his mustache. "Anyway
I hardly even notice it -- I am your teacher, after all."
"You are so sweet!" I smiled. "You are such a sexy man, Mr.
Fisher." I leaned up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
I let my soft lips linger for a moment on his cheek before
I pulled away.
"You know a lot of the girls in the class have a crush on
you," I said.
"Really? Well, you know, one of the girls left a note on
my desk -- don't tell anyone I told you that!"
"Yes -- you have that Continental charm." In an odd way. Mr.
Fisher had once confessed that his ambition had been to be a
long-distance truck driver on the Autobahn, before he came to
America and became a math teacher. You could see the truck
driver in him, even though he was not a big muscular guy.
"American women always think I am going to kiss their hand
or something -- like I am Erich von Stroheim!" he muttered.
"You could kiss my hand." I held it out.
He refused with a smirk. "In my town, I never even saw a
hand kissed until I went to university. That is an obsolete,
aristocratic custom. We were just simple villagers where I
grew up."
I continued to hold my hand out, the back of the hand facing up.
"I've always wanted to have my hand kissed. By a grown man,
I mean, not just a boy play-acting."
"You'll find out some day that a grown man is just a boy
play-acting. But if you insist..."
He took my hand in his and bent slightly to bring it to his
lips. He just barely touched his lips to the back of my hand
-- no slobber. I felt his mustache tickle my skin and a little
thrill went through me.
I was disappointed that he didn't click his heels like in the
movies.
"Your servant, mademoiselle," he smiled.
"Enchante'" I breathed.
He didn't let go of my hand. I was breathing a little quickly
and my head was swimming. I had the oddest urge to throw my
arms around him and squeeze him so I just said "Can I hug you?"
and threw my arms around him before he could say no.
I squeezed him and pressed my adolescent breasts into his
chest. After a long pause his arms gently clasped me, and
I snuggled into him.
"Jenny...I think..." he began.
I pressed my body into his, so he could feel how warm and
soft I was. I looked up at him hopefully, pursed my lips
and gave him my best "kiss me you fool" expression, practiced
in front of the mirror.
"Jenny, I think that is quite enough. I am flattered, but we
have to remember that we have a teacher-student relationship.
I am a married man. Adina is downstairs making you dinner
right now." I could hear her clattering the pans in the
kitchen.
That's why you should lock the door before you ravish me, I thought.
I pulled away from him reluctantly, rather hurt. I looked pointedly
at his crotch -- big erection. Men are so contradictory. His body
was telling me in plain language the exact reverse of the words
that were coming out of his mouth.
"If we were the same age, and you weren't married...what would you
do?"
"I suppose I'd kiss you. I wouldn't let the chance to kiss the
prettiest girl in the school pass. Even if you slapped me for it."
"And do you think I would let you kiss me? Because...I would."
"It's too bad I'm not twenty years younger."
"I don't think it's bad at all. I prefer older mature men to boys
my age."
"I suppose we older men should be grateful for that. Why do you feel
that?"
"Well," I blushed. "I want to tell you but it is hard to say."
"You don't have to."
"Come, sit down here on the day bed with me." It was the sort of
little den under the eaves that has wood-paneled walls, a sloping
roof, a little desk and a day bed. I don't know whether the bed
was to seduce schoolgirls on or whether it was there so the master
of the house had a place to sleep after getting kicked out of his
own bed by the mistress.
He sat down next to me.
"It's rather warm -- do you mind if I take my sweater off?"
Why would he mind? I made a big production out of taking it off
in a way that displayed my breasts to their best advantage,
straining against my shirt fabric as I peeled the sweater over
my head.
Then I unbuttoned a couple of shirt buttons. Well, it was warm
after all, but it didn't accomplish much because the shirt wasn't
gaping, so he couldn't see down it anyway.
"People always treat me as if I am older than I am," I
began. "You know -- because I started developing early."
"Ah," he said.
"People started treating me as an older girl after I got my
first, um, you know..." -- I whispered with a red blush --
"bra. You know, boys and men, looking at me that way. They
thought I was older -- older boys asking me out, even men
your age."
"Boys your age...?"
"Were afraid of me. Still are! Oh Mr. Fisher, you can't imagine
what it's like. Boys my age treat me like I am an older woman.
They look at me, but they are afraid to talk to me. And it's
all because of --" I looked down at my chest ruefully "--these."
I put my hands on my boobs, cupped them, and held them up for
inspection. "It's all because of my big chest," I said shyly,
with a red face.
My shirtfront still wouldn't gape so I surreptitiously tugged
at it when he wasn't looking to make the neck gape. Now my white
cotton bra was visible.
"It's so embarrassing being the girl with the biggest breasts,"
I sighed. It was a Judy Blume moment to be sure. Actually my
breasts were not a big problem but teachers always want to
hear about a problem -- they will hear you out if you are
suffering from some sort of adolescent angst because they all
want to be the teacher that kids go to with their problems.
And this works on me too, now that I am in the teaching
profession.
"Have you ever read "The Sorrows of Young Werther"?" he asked.
"No." Why are teachers always trying to get you to read a book?
I thought we were talking about my breasts.
"You should. It's a bit advanced for kids your age but you are
a very bright girl, I think you would appreciate it. It's about
a young man who can't see that his terrible problems are really
quite small, in the vast scheme of things, but he becomes so
obsessed with his own misery that he kills himself in the end,
for little reason."
Well, if that isn't a plot spoiler.
"I'm not going to kill myself just because Tommy Jones calls
me Chesty LaRue when he passes me in the hall," I muttered.
"Everything changes rapidly when a young person is your age.
It's hard to adjust to the pace of the changes going on. It's
normal for boys your age to be afraid to talk to girls. I
myself was completely tongue-tied with the opposite sex until
I was in my second year at university."
"What happened then?"
"Oh, an older fraulein taught me to be less afraid and to have
some regard for myself as a man. She was quite kind to me."
"She was your, um, lover?"
"Yes."
"How much older was she?"
He looked embarrassed. "Oh, about 10 years, I suppose. We never
discussed her age -- you know, a woman."
"What did she think about having a younger boy for a lover?"
"Well, how does one know! I suppose she had an instinct to
encourage me, as a protege."
"Was she your first...?"
"What a question! I won't say. And you...?"
"And me what?"
"Your first yet? Or still pure?"
I was as pure as the driven slush. My Girl Scout troop leader's
son had broken my cherry when I was 12.
"I have had some experience," I said. "Boys my age don't really
seem to know what to do. They aren't very good."
"Well, that comes with practice. I was terrible at it when I
first started."
My bra was still visible and I suddenly realized that he had
been staring at it. I took a deep breath to expand my chest.
"An older guy...you know. I, uh, like older guys, I mean,
you know? And I really like you. You are so sexy. I love
that little mustache of yours."
(I'll tell you a little story about Mr. Fisher. One time my classmate
Patricia went into a newsstand with him, to get a cup of coffee.
The woman behind the counter saw him, pulled out a new
issue of a dirty magazine, HUSTLER or PENTHOUSE or something,
pushed it at him, smiled wickedly and said "Your usual, sir?")
"Jenny, just because you have big, uh, you, know, doesn't
mean..."
If a man simply will not take the hint there is only one
thing to do. Well, actually there are about four things
you can do but I took the direct route, and leaned up
against him and kissed him on the mouth.
He started to fight and I held on. Not necessarily like
grim death, but he wasn't putting up that much of a fight.
After a few seconds he stopped struggling and kissed me
back.
Now we are getting somewhere, I exulted.
I teased his lips with my lips and then I forced my tongue
into his mouth. His breath tasted of beer and pipe smoke.
It was a nice leathery masculine taste, like the manly way
he smelled.
His tongue played with mine and slipped into my mouth.
I cuddled up tight against him as we embraced and kissed
passionately. The door wasn't locked, and the kiss lasted
about 5 minutes. I could hear his wife running a mixer
in the kitchen and I wondered if she would come upstairs
and catch us. She wouldn't dare report us to anyone -- Mr.
Fisher would lose his job and she'd be hard up for alimony
with him unemployed.
At last we pulled slowly apart and looked deeply into
each other's eyes -- his were a sparkling grey like
a winter sea. I figured we had only another 40 minutes
or so before dinner was served. I started undressing.
I unbuttoned the rest of the buttons on my shirt. Mr.
Fisher watched me, and I pulled my shirt open to show
off my lacy white 34-C bra. I turned around and said
"Can you unhook me, please?"
Mr. Fisher got up and walked away. I was crushed. Then
I heard the door click. He was locking the door. Oh.