Sunday, May 30, 2010

Student/Teacher Ratio--Part Two

Sunday May 30, 2010



...I stood up, wedging my legs between his. I could feel the scratchiness of the black tulle petticoat against my thighs. At first Mr. Martin didn't seem to be breathing at all. But he didn't pull his chair away.

So I started on the second button of my blouse. Clumsily. I felt a little dizzy myself.That's when Mr. Martin decided to lend a hand. Before I knew it, the buttons on my blouse were completely undone. “See,” I said, but my voice sounded strange to me, deeper and sort of honeyed, “it matches.”

Mr. Martin's hands fell to his sides. I looked down and noticed the crotch of his trousers had taken on a life of its own.


I tore my eyes from Mr. Martin's bulge. His grin was lopsided. I watched as his chest expanded with each subsequent intake of breath.


But,” Mr. Martin said, very quietly, “you said, 'they match'.”


He was right of course. And I suppose I was bound to prove that too. Mr. Martin always says doing things halfway is “a sign of intellectual laziness”, something he abhors.


I placed one hand beneath the waistband on either side of my skirt. I wouldn't tell any of the other girls this, but I got it in the children's section. That's how tiny my waist is.

Mr. Martin looked in my eyes. His are green, like the new growth on a fir tree.


I couldn't stop thinking about his cock. How eager it seemed.


As I pulled the skirt down past my panties, I could feel moisture, falling down from somewhere inside of me, coming to rest at the center of my pussy.


I reached behind my back, unhooking my bra. I shrugged my shoulders. The bra fell onto Mr. Martin's lap.


He placed his hands on my forearms, pulling me to him. As he began to nuzzle my right breast, I felt a weakness in my thighs.

I knelt before him, as he undid the button and descended the zipper on his trousers. On his briefs was a picture of a vanilla ice cream cone, just beginning to melt.

I freed Mr. Martin's cock from his briefs. It seemed even happier now. Then I turedn my head sideways, so I could watch his face as I licked and sucked at his cock.

It was my first time. But I already knew a blow job didn't mean you blow. My girlfriend has a lot of experience. And she told me all about cocks and what they like.

I could feel Mr. Martin, so hot and growing inside my mouth. And even though I'd seen pictures of cocks. Nothing prepared me for the beauty of his cock. So smooth, I think he must have shaved it. And the sack that held his balls, felt so soft and wrinkly in my hands. I tasted that too.

Mr. Martin was making noises, quietly. The whole building was quiet. As if everyone else had left. And we were the only ones in the school—maybe in the whole world.

That's when I stopped blowing him. His cock was still reaching for my mouth when I stood up. I almost felt sorry for him. “Mr. Martin,” I said, and he saw I was taking off my panties, “I want you to be my first.”

He shook his head. And started to try to get up. But I sat myself firmly on his lap.

He moaned and said, “We can't.”

Maybe you can't,”I said, “but Mr. Happy's saying he really wants to.” And I spread my pussy lips as wide as they could go, lowering myself onto the head of Mr. Martin's hot cock.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt at all. It hurt. But the pleasure that crawled up from my pussy and wrapped itself around my tits. The tingling that fell from my belly to my toes. They were more than worth a little soreness.

Once his cock was deep inside me, I began to move. Any way I chose. If Mr. Martin had other ideas, he wasn't voicing them. He held me from behind, as if he was afraid I might fall off.

He leaned forward and kissed me, my nipples brushing his chest. I couldn't breath and I didn't care. I felt so weak and so strong, at the same time.

When he came, he cried out. I held him tight. “Okay, Jamie,” I said, “next time, I get to be teacher.”


Best,

Diane

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Student/Teacher Ratio--Part 1


Thursday, May 27, 2010

When Jamie Martin called last night, I happened to be wearing my (Rob Roy) tartan skirt--the one with the black petticoat underneath. He's a high school teacher like me, but in this scenario, I was his student. And he asked me to stay after class.

It's an all-girls school. As my classmates filed out, I felt how stuffy the air had become, over the course of the class period. Beads of sweat had formed beneath my blouse. They'd begun to trickle down, slowly, between my tits. I shifted in the seat nearest the teacher.

Mr. Martin pulled his chair out from behind his desk, up close to mine. "I wanted to talk to you, Diane, about the school play." He's in charge of the play this year. We're doing "Winterset." It's quite eery. So naturally I'd like to play a leading role.
"I'm considering you, Diane," Mr. Martin said, leaning toward me, "for the role of Miriamne."

That made me sit up as straight as I could. Which is good if I want to impress him with my posture, but not so great when it comes to sweating. New droplets of sweat that had beaded up on my chest, all at once streaked down my cleavage. It tickled like crazy. So I reached my right hand up and pressed on my blouse, to sop up the moisture.

That's when Mr. Martin said, "Here, allow me." He took a perfectly folded handkerchief from his jacket pocket and daubed at the space where the buttons---three of them---lay open.

It gave me a funny feeling, down there. And I started to think about all those times when I was home in bed, thinking about how cool it would be if Mr. Martin only knew. So I said, "Mr. Martin, I think I ought to tell you that my bra and panties match my skirt."

And that's when he said, "Prove it."

To Be Continued...

Best,

Diane

Gold Adult Blogs

Thursday, May 20, 2010

School Daze--Part 2

Thursday, May 20, 2010

The chair slid slowly out from beneath the desk. Someone's hot breath trailed up under my skirt. "Say 'please' again," he muttered, his face nestled against my pelvis.

My pussy still throbbing, I meant to beg him once again to stop--to have a care for my job. But all I could say was, "Please--" He lifted his face and I saw the clear green eyes of my lanky student. He stood, lifted me out of the chair and turned round to place me on the rough wood of the desk.

I wondered what time it was. I wondered what year it was. Above me loomed my student--the one who seemed daily to daydream his way through class. I heard a descending zipper, glimpsed a wayward cock. "Wish me Happy Birthday," he said, his smile lupine.

"No," I said. But I could feel myself wanting him. Weakness pervaded me. It seemed to start at my wrists, or maybe in my cunt. Aching for his ripe young cock. Knowing I'd been wanting him for a very long time.

He rubbed the head of his cock across my pubic mound. I wanted to scream. But all I could say again was, "Please."

"Mmm," he said, and I heard him chuckle. This boy was laughing at me. I twisted to my right. Trying to gain purchase, trying to sit up.

He caught my wrists with one hand, pinning them to the desk. I felt the head of his cock--just the head--enter my already moist pussy. I moaned, struggling a good deal less. I was so distracted by that cock head. Only about an inch or so inside my pussy, it was triggering nerve endings that reached all the way to my nipples and back. I felt a wave of cream, my cream, rush down to cover his cock head.

He began to move. I felt his desire rise and strive within me.

I heard the clock ticking. But my hips heeded only his rhythm, which became mine as well.

Somewhere far away a shout echoed in a hallway. The air was filled with his scent. And there was only wanting. His and mine.

I heard myself say, "Please," again, and knew he knew I wanted him. My nails dug into the plaid of his shirt as I came. I felt his heat rise up inside of me.

Later, as we rearranged our clothing, he chuckled once more, pulling me close with one arm. And I knew we'd be doing this again, quite soon.

Best,

Diane


Fantasy blogs

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

School Daze--Part 1

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Yesterday what is laughingly referred to as reality flowed seamlessly into fantasy--and back. The assistant principle called me to his office. Ordinarily he has some uniquely boring caveat to impart. But yesterday was the exception. It seems he and his wife have separated. He wanted me to know that he might be "a little off my game", but that he was "still looking out for [his] favorite English/French teacher." I thanked him and told him I had a quiz to prepare during my free period. As I stood, he snagged my texts off his desk. Then he walked around to where I was standing and placed them in my arms. I felt his hands caress the portion of my pink sweater that hugs my tits.

I took the stairs to the 3rd floor; it gave me time to think about what the vice-principle might have in mind for our next chat. Since 6th period is free for me, no students sat in the forty desks that clutter the room. I locked the door and drew the shade, hung my bag in the back closet and returned to the front of the classroom. There I shoved my books onto the oversized desk and relaxed into my chair with a loud sigh. My life was becoming more and more complicated. Complication, I thought, is what my morning Kundalini Yoga is supposed to insure against.

As long as I was thinking about yoga, I figured I'd do some yoga-type breathing. I felt so tense and that never fails to relax me. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath in. Then I released it. As I continued, I focused on my breath, I felt my tits rise and fall. The muscles in my lower back relaxed as well as those in my hips and thighs. The space between my thighs widened. The tension in my neck released.

A not unwelcome warmth had begun to spread across my thighs. It felt like a warm breeze.

I continued to breath. All the while wondering what new sensations the next inhalation might bring. The warm breeze across my thighs turned to a heat, rivaling the Sahara's, in the vicinity of my pussy. In the five years since I took up the practice of Kundalini Yoga, I've experienced some odd sensations. But nothing quite like this. If I didn't know better, I thought, as the left side of my lace pantie shifted farther from my thigh high, I'd think-- But that's where my thinking ceased.

I was drowsily aware of broad hands pressing the inside of either thigh. My breath caught in my chest as I tensed my thighs, placed my heels firmly on the floor and tried to shove my chair away from the massive desk. But the chair was stuck fast.

I felt a probing tongue trace the outer lips of my pussy. Then the inner lips. When that inquisitive and muscular tongue penetrated my pussy, my back arched. I moaned and writhed.

Time ticked by. I could hear it doing just that. I'd climaxed three more times. "Please," I moaned, "my next class." What if students were to come to the door and find it locked? What would they think? How could I explain? I moaned and came for the fifth time. My whole body shuddering...

To Be Continued.

Till Next Time.

Best,

Diane


Adult Blog Cloud

Past Forward

Saturday, May 8, 2010 

George called last night. It was his first time. But George is a man who knows exactly what he wants. He'd heard I can access Akashic Records (past lives). I have his permission to divulge a portion of our conversation. George is, of course, not his name.

"I've met this girl and she's like nobody else," George said, "I feel like we've been together before and it didn't work out. When I'm with her I feel so good. I just don't want to screw it up this time." He wanted to relive a past life with this woman.

"You know, George," I said, "if you'd like to look in on a past life with your beloved, you can. It's not really necessary to relive the experience."

"I know," he said, "But I feel like that would be the best way to get this out of my system."

It took me a moment or two of viewing till the most pertinent lifetime presented itself. There were two that seemed especially relevant. I chose the one that felt more urgent.

Then, across the miles, George and I held hands and stepped into 15th century Spain. He and the woman he now loves were children. They were in love and they were Jews--in the time of Torquemada , a.k.a. the Grand Inquisitor.

The edict had gone out and their families had a choice: leave the country, convert or be sacrificed in an auto da fe . The families hadn't the means to leave. His parents were forcibly converted while hers continued to refuse. George had watched in horror as his beloved and her family were put to death.

Once he'd effectively relived that episode, George was able to see that he hadn't "screwed" anything up. He'd simply been living in a time of great oppression and turmoil. Understanding that he could have done nothing to save the girl he loved, went a ways toward relieving the guilt he'd been feeling--that suspicion that he' had done, or was about to do something wrong.

We did a brief intervention to remove the negative charge from that lifetime's experience, so that he can move forward with his girl in this one, minus the guilt.

"Now let's explore that other lifetime," George said. Talk about stamina!

We found ourselves in a salon in 18th century Sweden. This one was run by a dominant older woman whose pleasure was derived from the sexual humiliation of her guests. But that is another story.

Best,

Diane  

Tired of Fucking Reruns?

Friday, May 7, 2010

A cuckold fantasy, shared, can make a man feel full to bursting with desire. The way I feel after a long day spent in sweaty classrooms with hot and horny  teenage boys.

Okay, I might as well admit it. They're young men. But when that thought crosses my mind I get reckless (which is especially risky, considering they're young men whom I mustn't under any circumstances engage, except in the strictly academic sense).

Like I start thinking,Why not, uh, engage the hott lanky guy who slouches  dreamily across his desk, one hand cupping the side of his head. I mean, does he think I don't feel his gaze caressing first my tits, then lower.

Sometimes he just sits (or should I say, lies) there, occasionally licking his lips. So why not give him a pass, so he can come see me during my free period? Draw him into the supply closet on some pretext and press him to the wall. Anything, just to feel his hard cock swell and  finally call his bluff.

But I digress. Last night someone I'll call Will, told me he was obsessed with a certain fantasy, based on an incident that occurred when he was still in college. I have, of course, his permission to share his story. And Will is not his name.

"It started," Will said, "when my ex-girlfriend and myself were living in a house with about five other people. One night she rigged it so when I came home I saw her in bed with one of the other guys in my house. He was always talking about how big he was. That night I saw he wasn't lying. My girlfriend said she did it to turn me on.

"Now I'm with my new girlfriend. She treats me awesome. But nothing gets me so hot as when I think about that night when the housemate was giving it to my ex. When I jack off, that's all I can think about. Lots of times I even think about it when my girlfriend and me are doing it. Sometimes I think she knows I'm not thinking about her. I'm excited just talking about it. It's getting real distracting. What am I supposed to do?"

Here's the thing.

A lot of us are turned on by this sort of fantasy, but for Will it had become problematic. So I summarized the incident from an alternate point of view.

Once I'd finished my account, Will said, "Wow, what my ex did wasn't sexy at all. Thinking about it now I'm not even hard."

Granted, most of the time, getting hard, or at least aroused is what we're aiming for. But in Will's case the content of his fantasy was making him unhappy and interfering with his pleasure and relationship. I laid out for him a fairly simple step-by-step process whereby he could begin to substitute images he wanted to have get him hot--like, for example, ones of his current girlfriend--for the ones that had been dogging him.

Now if I could only stop thinking about that lanky seventeen-year-old.

Or not.

Meanwhile, if you have a favorite fantasy--cuckold or otherwise--you'd like to play out, I'm ready.

Best,

Diane

PS Thanks to all those of you who've called to ask for advice, share your fantasies and your pleasure.

Hands-Free Climax

Monday, May 3, 2010

Early this morning, a guy, we'll call him Mark (which is so not his name--being, for one thing, two syllables too short), asked me about "Guided Meditation".

I listed some of the meditations I offer: "The Garden of Sensual Delight, Clearing Inhibition, Tantric Bliss, Hands-Free Climax--"

He stopped me. "Tell me more about that one," he said.

So I did. "In Hands-Free Climax my voice and imagery carry you to a blissful place. You experience wave after wave of ecstasy. And when you cum, you do so without ever touching yourself."

"You're kidding," he said.

"I'm not," I said, "and I'll prove it."

Just now I received an email from Mark. I asked his permission to reproduce it in part. What follows is his reaction to my "Hands-Free Climax" meditation:

"I just wanted to thank you for the session...The level of intensity of release was astounding. It is like one long mind/body orgasm."

Mark, I couldn't have said it better myself. Thanks for your support and your sizzling telephonic hottness--a respite from the daily high school grind.

Best, Diane

PS As for the rest of you, what are you waiting for? Call me.

I Like To Watch


Friday, April 30, 2010

Yesterday I taught all day as usual. Horny high school boys abound. There's a new batch every year. Thank goodness. But every day, it's the same story: Look, but don't touch. That is if I want to keep my job. And I do. So by the time I log on for my shift as a phonesex operator, I'm ready to rock.

I don't just pretend to have sex with the guys who call. On some level, we really do connect. And all that pent up passion I've been feeling for those high school boys is vented on the lucky fellow who calls me.

A few nights ago a guy called and told me he was going to jack off. That sounded good to me. I pretty much figure that's the point.

"I want you to watch me," he said.

So I said, "Okay, but you'll have to take off your jeans first."

He said, "Uh, okay." He unzipped them and started to slide them down.

"Hey," I said, "Are those boxers?"

"Uh," he said, and I heard him swallow--it was almost a gulp, "yes."

I noticed the boxers were two sorts of cream color, with wide stripes. But I didn't say anything. Maybe when he said he wanted me to watch it was just, you know, a figure of speech.

He did have a lovely cock.

Best,

Diane


PS You can call me too. I'd love to hear from you.