3’s: Teacher-Student Relationship

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It’s been five years since I started teaching and every year it keeps getting harder. Administration always adding some new program or new way of teaching, that I cannot seem to get behind. My co-workers complain to me so much, their ramblings have become incessant chatter to my ears. The joy of being a hardworking Black male whom listens.

The students, well, they surprise me every year. Twenty-five to thirty kids a class period, and each with their own personality and mood swings. There is one thing all my students agree with, I am a hard-ass. Seriously, some kid hacked into my teacher’s webpage and changed my title to Mr. Hardass.

I just left it the way it was until admin told me to take it down. The parents were not happy about it; students walking through the halls using the title; it wasn’t a good thing. Right now, I am off for about two and a half months, and I do not have to see another student for this entire time. You know a parent had the nerve to ask me to tutor?

I decided to visit my hometown for a couple weeks, maybe. Yes, I’m staying with my parents. You try getting by on a teacher’s salary. The “maybe” because my mama and I will start butting heads by the time a week passes. Just the way our relationships is. My pops, he just does his thing.

I walk into the kitchen asking from sleep-mode my mama when the schools around town will be letting out. She keeps up with these sorts of things. Coincidentally the local ones are out today. I finish the breakfast she cooked: pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs; and get myself ready.

For a while I wanted to visit my old elementary. My mama kept me up-to-date through the years about the schools around town. They updated it over the decades and added on to it, still has the classes when I was enrolled as a student there.

It doesn’t take me long to get to my school. In the parking lot I see people taking boxes and other school year nick-nacks to their cars.

“Good, I won’t look too suspicious.” A young man coming to help clean out some rooms. My first year taught me to strategically relinquish my classroom so my last day of being contractually obligated to be at the school is limited to three hours at best.

I walk into the building. That ol’ school smell – cafeteria food, children, and supplies. I turn into the front office on my left. I am greeted by a woman whom seems to be in her thirties. A petite black woman with a wide smile and glasses. I introduce myself as a former student back when I was younger. She seems interested enough, but I doubt she will allow me to walk around and give myself a tour.

“Yeah, one of my favorite teachers worked here, a Mrs. Monroe?” I guess.

“Oh, you mean Ms. Sweet!” She says excitedly.

“Pardon?” I ask confused.

“Ms. Sweet. She went back to her maiden name after the, [mouthing word] divorce.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I knew her as Monroe.” I say surprised.

“Yes, today is her last day of teaching. Wow, over thirty years of teaching.” The secretary informs. I am blown. She is a dying breed, lasting that many decades in the teaching field of the education realm. I remember her being very tough, but a fair teacher. She rode my ass in fourth grade. I made 80’s, then she asked why not a 90 all the time. She never allowed me a 70, not even a 79. My parents received frequent calls because of my grades. My weekend-life sucked that year.

I politely ask the receptionist could I visit her room. She expresses a quizzical look. I ask her to look up the class picture of a certain year for her class. She complies, and lo and behold, she recognizes me instantly. I really hadn’t changed much. I was a chubby kid, cheeks and all. The receptionist responds with one of those “how cute you used to be” phrases. She gives me Mrs. Mon-, excuse me, Ms. Sweet’s class number. I walk the hallways looking at the new renovations. Quite the upgrade from when I went here.

I arrive at her door, and it’s open. I knock on the door and, “Come in!” Her voice still sweet and strong from the time I was in her class, just ore mature, like a sultry grandmother. She hasn’t turned to see who is at the door. What I can see is her back, the large mane Afro she is rocking, and a backside that’s not stopping or quitting.

When she realizes no one responded and she turns towards the door. Ms. Sweet is wearing glasses; she didn’t when she taught me.

“Hello, may I help you?” She asks a bit suspicious.

“Oh, I’m Carter David. I was once a…”

“Well, well, well. Mr. David in the flesh. How have you been?” She greets happily. She opens her arms waiting for me to come hug her. Yes, she did this to me as well when I was in her class, especially when she saw I was having rough and bad days. I walk to her and give her a hug. She squeezes hard for a woman her age.

We release. “Let me get a look at you. Boy, you have grown. Practically towering over this old lady.” She stands half an inch below my chest, and I stand at about 6’0″.

“So, tell bonus veren siteler me, what are you doing here? Surely, it’s not to see me. Young, handsome, intelligent man such as yourself have too much to do!” She chastises and compliments at the same time.

“I’ve been in town for a little while visiting my folks. My mama told me about local schools’ last day and I decided to visit my old elementary. Come to find out, you just now retiring.” I give a for-shame gesture with my hands.

“Oh please chile, I should’ve retired years ago, but you children were always a weakness of mine.” She says as she continues packing away. I smile. Nice to know we didn’t destroy the spirit of a decent and strong human being through the decades.

The intercom chimes on with a ring. “Ms. Sweet, please come to the cafeteria for your retirement party! Ms. Sweeeeeeeet! Please come to the cafeteria for your retirement party!” The principal shouts.

“Oh really now Ms. Sweet?!” I congratulate

“They’re making something out of nothing. Anyway, I have to make an appearance.” Sthe stands up straight placing her hands on her wide hips.

“I’ll stay here and get some stuff together.” I offer genuinely.

“You sure, this “party” will take over an hour.”

“More than enough.” I reassure. Ms. Sweet leaves, accepting my offer, I watch her backside swivel like most mature ladies at her age do, that I’m-too-old-for-this-shit type walk. I begin packing all her stuff neatly into her cardboard boxes, plastic crates, and bins. The past five years working in a school has allotted me experience to organize more effectively and proficiently.

The room gives off a familiarity that helps reminisce over the past. I wasn’t the most popular kid, I basically hung in the middle. I had few friends that didn’t get me in trouble. There was one fight I had in Ms. Sweet’s class. Man, she called my parents, the principal called my parents, the vice principal called my parents, the other kid’s parents called my parents. My ass was in the goddamn trenches that month, which my birthday resides. I guess I really didn’t show much restraint because that so-called peer never once said a word to me the whole time in class. Then on my birthday, and I kid you not, he just pesters me the whole day. I think I was set up. Then he had the nerve to say something about my mama. I lost it, and my presents.

“Oh! Wow, you were not kidding, were you?” Ms. Sweet said when she returned from the party. She surprises me, I didn’t hear her come in.

“Yup, all done.” I respond. She comes over and hugs me again for appreciation. Obviously, this ordeal would have taken her hours more to complete.

“Now I have to do something for you.” She offers.

“Don’t mention it, my pleasure.” That sounds a little flirty, I admit that. I help her get the heavy packages to her car and pile other stuff in my truck.

“I have to get checked out and then we can drive this horde to my house.” She walks toward the school with a pep in her step. I have never been to a teacher’s home. I feel a bit nervous, like I’m in trouble. Am I in trouble?

The drive to her home takes only twenty minutes. We take all the goods in and she has me put it in an empty room. I notice a lot of the rooms are like this. Filled with boxes of past school year papers and memorabilia.

“Hey, Ms. Sweet…”

“Hun, it’s Betty.” She corrects.

“Oh, Betty [Feels strange calling my teacher by her first name], there are a lot of rooms filled with stuff. Please tell me you are not a hoarder.”

“Oh no, I’m just lazy and forget about it by the end of the summer to get rid of the mess. Here, have a drink.” She hands me a glass of juice.

“Thank you. Well, I can get rid of the stuff. In fact, I can do some organization projects for you so keep your precious memories in order.” I offer as I look back at the rooms.

“You don’t need to. Just toss it all.”

“I am not allowing you to destroy decades of hard work to keep little knuckle heads like I was from doing stupid stuff. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.” I counter. She looks at me, deciphering my intentions.

“Ok then, but, I am going to do something for you since you helped me with my room. How about food?”

“I can always eat.” I accept quickly.

“Good, come by tonight around 7.”

“Oh, ok.” I sound a bit more surprised than I should.

“What’s wrong? Still scared to be around your ex-teacher outside of school?” She asks folding her arms under her chest and sticking her left hip out, prominently. She did this a lot when students were in trouble.

“No, I’m sorry, I was thinking of going out to eat.”

“Chile please, I’m in for the rest of the day and night. Now, 7, and don’t be late.” She said as she pushes me out the door.

Around 6:30 pm I leave my parents’ home to arrive a few minutes early. Betty, I must get myself use to calling her that, greets me, and blows me away with the ensemble she decided to wear for our meeting. bedava bahis I have never seen her wear skirts and the this one, loose as it is, does not hide her abounding curvatures. Also, the typical cardigan and blouse that teachers wear. Then there’s the wedge heels that do nothing but accentuate every part of her lower body.

I follow her into the house, and the smell of a home cooked meal hits my nose like a roundhouse kick. That and her nice, sweet perfume. I’m diggin’ her Afro more than usual too.

“Have a seat, I’ll get your plate.”

“Oh no, I’ll get it.” I get up quickly, and I accidentally rub my crotch across over her caboose cheeks. I feel her jump at the touch, but I don’t step back. I grab the plate and insistently let her know I will make my plate, and hers, and she can sit down.

She gives in walks to the table. My dick has grown an inch or two, and I quietly take breaths to calm myself. I finish making our plates, we say grace, and begin eating. We talk over her career and the stories that are most memorable. We somewhat get into her divorce. The gist of it, he wanted to fuck around, but at least he didn’t cheat. I have my doubts on the latter though.

Once we are done, she gets up to clear the table and pates; my habit of my eyes darting directly to the hips and lower regions, zeros in on the swaying performance of the skirt due to her monstrous ass. The clacking of her heels are hypnotic as each cheek bounces in tune.

“How about some ice cream?” She asks.

“On your derrière?” I answer too enthralled by her butt.

“Excuse me?”

“Cookies and cream?”

“I have cookie dough.”

“That’s cool.” As she scoops balls of ice cream into two bowls. I imagine her in only an apron and heels. The rod in my pants goes from noodle to steel pipe. She sets a bowl in front of me and pulls over a chair next to me.

We eat the ice cream and I discuss my plan for the rooms. “So, while I was at home I came up with some ideas. 1: I’m going to make a scrap book for you of every class year. I just need a class photo from those years. 2: Keeping the old school grade books. I actually have a couple myself.”

“Hold on, you are a teacher?” She asks in amazement.

“I didn’t tell you? Weird, I thought I did.” I answer nonchalantly.

“No, you didn’t. Here we are talking about my gone career and you have one in education yourself? Spill it, all of it, now, mister.” She demands Damn, I am in trouble. When she called her students missy or mister, you were either hiding something or lying through your teeth.

I discuss my five years with eighth graders and the subject of ELAR (English, language arts, and reading), same subjects Betty taught. She is into it too; hanging on my every word, sitting close as I feel her mature soft breasts push against my arm.

“Well, and here I thought you were going into business or something.” Ms. Sweet sounding relieved. Once we are done we retire to her living area. She turns on the tv and we watch some type of cop show. I don’t follow because I’m too busy focusing on the area my hand is resting; Ms. Sweet’s ass. She is laying over me; head on my chest, with her feet on the couch. My hand had slid down from the top of the couch and landed on her side, falling further to the rotund cheek.

“So tell me Carter, any one special?” She asks still looking in the direction of the show.

“Nope, been single for over four years now.” I reply.

“Not even a date?”

“Not one. My nosey students always trying to see who I’m dating.” I chuckle at that thought.

“Ha! Yeah, mine had the nerve to try to get me to date one of the teachers at the school.” I laugh, because it’s true. Kids think they are matchmakers. “No dating, which means no…?”

“Sex?” Can’t believe I said that word so easily to a former teacher. “Nope on that too.”

“Aww.” She turns to me with a pouty face.

“Eh, it’s ok.”

“Someone doesn’t seem to think it’s ok.” She says pointing at my crotch. I’ve been sporting this hard-on ever since we sat down, and I give up trying to control it.

“He’ll be alright. Nothing he hasn’t gone through before.” On cue Betty rubs my penis, her touch feels good. She takes care to just use her palm and I let out breaths of contentment.

“Hmmm, you are really into this.” Betty grips my dick softly still pumping me through my pants. I lean to my right a little and play with the crevice of her butt. She giggles at my finger-play and shakes her mountain ass to my touch.

She lifts herself upward and kisses me hungrily, and somewhat playfully. She sucks on my thick lips as she moans in my mouth while my fingers find the entrance to her wet pussy under her skirt. I don’t put any fingers in, I caress the labia smoothly.

“Oh my, you know what you are doing, don’t you? Trying to make it last on this old woman eh?” She challenges playfully.

“Tricks of the trade.” I continue with my fondling. “Betty?”

“Yes Carter?” She says in deneme bonus between kissing me.

“How about we 69?”

“69? Ok, that sounds good to me.” She agrees with one more wet peck to my cheek. Ms. Sweet places me long ways on the couch. I take my shirts off and unbuckle my pants while Betty pulls them off my body. Betty reaches under her skirt and takes off her panties, I can see the large, frontal wetspot. Regular types, hey if they were boy shorts I would’ve, most probably, exploded right then and there at the thought of her wearing them.

“You ready?” She asks looking down on me.

“Yes ma’am.” She turns around and places her fabulous, fat donk on my face, I roll up her skiet to her waist. Her smell is sweet. She prepared, I like that. Don’t get me wrong, a hint of musk is coo, just not overpowering.

“Oh yes, I like how your tongue feels.” She says cheeringly. I’m licking the outside using my full pad. I place my hands on her ass cheeks and massage them.

Betty finally reaches down to my hard-on and jacks me off, salivating it with her drool. “Ah, damn Ms. Sweet. Damn.” I try to keep my composure to stay on task. Her juices fall on my lips, I react by jamming my large tongue into her hole; filling it up.

“Yes baby. I feel you so deep and full! Please, do not stop!” She begs. Couldn’t even if I tried because she is bouncing her pussy on my face. Her rhythm gives me a mental image of how she looks bucking her buttocks, so divine. She engulfs my member and my hips shoot up feeling a warm shock of appeasement. I hear her gag a little, and she countines to stroke me in the process.

Ms. Sweet gets her skills into action. She keeps her left foot on the floor for balance, changes her bucking to grinding her pussy over Carter’s mouth, his tongue still inserted, all the while keeping synchronized strokes with her right hand putting a twist at the tip. Her jaws remain loose bobbing in tempo with hand motions.

I hear the sloshing sounds of the saliva she collected. Betty ain’t playing with me at all. I slither inside with my mouth-snake. Basically, imagine the width of three fingers (fore-, middle-, ring-) and three inches in usable length. She howls for joy as my tongue darts around in her cavern.

“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm! Mmmmm!” Her muffled screams as she remains mouth connected to a hard 9-inch long, 6-inch bbc girth. “Oh my god, shit! Whew! Where in the world did you come from?!” She coos. She jacks me even more furiously; the slippery, slimy feel has me jutting my hips upward into her hand.

She then does something I haven’t experienced. Ms. Sweet sits upright smothering my face. I vice grip her cheeks licking her walls with sexual rage. My face is buried in sadistic pity and drowning in creamy juice as she shrouds her heavy stock on my face and head.

Betty looks back to see her ex-student. “You are taking this very well. I’ve orgasmed so much from your tongue, I’m scared to feel this tube inside me.” She says with amusement. Her left-hand juices my head tip; the manipulative tickling is sending me over the edge. She leans a bit further back onto my face causing my lower half to hump upward.

“Oh, I’m about to cum again! FUCK!” To punish her, I stick my thumb in her anus. “OH NO! THAT IS TOO MUUUUUUUUCH!” She sprays my mouth, and then I cum.

My muffled cry for release is barely registered but the freedom of my dick shooting stream after stream of large strings of cum has Betty eating it up. “Mmhm, mmhm. Yes, give me your cum baby. Oooh, come on, more, more.” She chants as if calling upon a god.

The more she squeezes and strokes, the more tender my manhood becomes, making it convulse myself into stupor. When I am finally all choked out she lifts her hefty weight off of me. My face looks like it’s been dunked in a bowl of milk.

“Oh lawd, let me get you cleaned up. I’m sorry I got carried away.” She says as she trods off to find a towel. I watch her horse butt bound away in innocent animation. My dick begins to stiffen once again. Betty comes back with a large, wet towel and wipes me off.

“How many times did you cum?” I ask out of curiosity.

“Don’t you worry about that. I am satisfied, that’s all you need to know.” She chides with a secretive smile.

“Really? Didn’t think women could be satisfied with tongue.” I sit up, my neck is a bit sore. I laugh to myself, knowing I’m the one to blame since I requested the position.

“Well, we can be. Now, let’s get ourselves washed up and you on the road.” She directs.

“Kicking me out? Aww, come on Ms. Sweet.” I playfully act like I’m sad, horribly mind you.

“No, I wasn’t joking when I said about handling this monster inside me. Gonna need some planning.” She says stroking my meat.

“Not the size, it’s the function you need to worry about.” I say seductively.

“Boy please.” She gets me up and pats my rear to hurry me to the shower. We enjoy it together. I give her two more releases with my fingers – two in her snatch and my thumb rubbing her clitoris. She gifts me another famous blowjob and I cum on her face, per her request.

I leave her house agreeing to at least take her out next time, instead of sitting at her home like old folks. I wonder if she wants me to put it in her tomorrow.

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