The English Teacher

The English Teacher

This story is about a young man who, a few years after leaving school, runs into his English teacher. He discovers that away from the classroom, she is a very different person from the martinet that he remembers from his English lessons.

The sexual nature of the teacher is based upon a real-life reader and I thank her for her contribution to this work. Thanks, Susie!

This story does contain depictions of sexual punishment and anal sex, so if that's not your thing, please pass on by. If you continue to read, I hope you enjoy the story and I look forward to feedback and comments.

Sylviafan, June 2025

After university I settled in a village about twenty miles from the town I grew up in, and where my parents still lived. Close enough to visit when I wanted a free Sunday lunch, but far enough so that my mother wasn't always coming round to check that I was wearing clean underwear and brushing my teeth properly. She was, unfortunately, that sort of mother. Evidently she was that sort of wife, too, because dad was out of the house more than he was in it. He went away for golf breaks with his mates at least five times a year and it was while he was away on one that this story really starts.

It was mid-July and he'd gone to Tenerife to play and mum was pissed off because that was like a holiday destination and she felt he should have taken her along so that she could shop and sunbathe while he played golf. She explained all this to me on Saturday morning. I'd gone round at her request to unblock the shower drain in her wet room and she'd leaned in the doorway while I was doing it and given me chapter and verse on a husband's obligations and the reasonable expectations of a wife. After I'd finished she said, 'I'll make us some lunch, Paul, and then we can have a good old chat. You don't need to leave early do you?'

I had a horrible vision of me sitting in the lounge for an indeterminate time while mum talked at me, an endless litany of dissatisfaction. Suddenly an idea popped into my head. 'Actually, Mum, I was going to go to the library in town after lunch. They've got a really good reference section on recently published scientific papers and I wanted to check up on a couple of things related to work.'

It was all a lie, but it sounded convincing and mum's mouth turned down in a moue of disappointment. Then she brightened. 'Well, while you're there you could change my books for new ones. You know the sort of things I read.'

'Yes,' I agreed, 'I do, but I don't know what you've read and what you haven't.'

'Don't worry, Paul,' she smiled, 'neither do I half the time.' We both laughed and suddenly, for a brief instant, she was the mum I loved. 'Ok,' I said, 'I'll see what I can do.'

The municipal library was housed in a Victorian gothic pile in the town centre. I did in fact use the technical reference library quite a lot, though I was less familiar with the fiction section. I checked mum's four books in and started wandering aimlessly through the aisles. Well, not entirely aimlessly, I was looking for the 'Crime Fiction' section; Mum was an avid reader of detective novels. Anything from Agatha Christie to Ian Rankin. After twenty minutes I'd selected four likely looking tomes, with different authors, and I made my way back to the main desk and joined a queue of people waiting to have their books checked out. Next to the reception desk there was a big window, looking out onto some council-maintained flower gardens with wooden slatted benches scattered around. A couple of the benches were occupied, but it was the one facing the library, and partially hidden by a bed of lavender, which interested me. It was occupied by a lady in black slacks and a red V-necked sweater and there was something about her that rang a distant bell.

I walked over to the window and looked out. She was reading a book, holding it in her lap, her head tilted down, her long, toffee-coloured hair cascading down onto her shoulders. And as I stared she lifted her head and looked straight at me, as if she were aware of my scrutiny, although the sun was shining directly onto the library windows and she couldn't possibly have seen me. I took in the black-framed spectacles, the slightly twisted mouth, the all-too familiar features. Mrs Pearson! Well I'll be damned!

I'll go back in time for a bit, at this point. The town I grew up in had two high schools, and there wasn't much to choose between them. I went to Six Hills High, which was named after a row of Saxon burial mounds on the edge of the town. It was ok. The staff did their best with unpromising material and everyone seemed to rub along together reasonably well, most of the time. I wasn't a star pupil, but I managed to keep a place in the top class of my year and keep my parents happy. My favourite subject was English, which grew out of a love of books engendered by my parents and nourished by Mr Jones, my English teacher. He recognised a fellow bibliophile and we got on well, often spending time after lessons discussing books and he made some recommendations that were key to my developing intellect.

All that changed when Mr Jones retired and his place was taken by Mrs Pearson and it seemed that right from the start she took a dislike to me. I would sit for long minutes in the classroom with my hand up to answer a question and she would ignore me, choosing someone who'd only just raised their arm. When I did answer in class she was sarcastic and dismissive and she seemed to relish making the class laugh at my expense. Then there were the detentions: physical punishment was banned by this time but she could, and did, hand out regular detentions which required me to stay behind after school and miss the bus so that I had to walk nearly three miles home and in the winter it was dark by the time I got there.

I was around fourteen when Mrs Pearson came on the scene. That difficult period for a young man when hormones are playing mental and physical havoc with your body and leaving you in a state of intense confusion. I frequently look back on those days and ask myself the question: had I been attracted to Mrs Pearson because she was a reasonably attractive, mature lady and I was a horny kid, or had I been perversely attracted to her because she was a figure of authority and moreover one who liked to frustrate and humiliate me?

It's hard to say at the distance of seven years, which was the last time I'd seen her - the day I left school. If I'm being brutally honest with myself, like a lot of depraved young male students, I had the hots for most of the females on the academic staff, except for the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound head of chemistry and the sexagenarian drama teacher. And I might not have turned her down if push came to shove! But from day one there had been something about Mrs Pearson.

It wasn't her age, I don't think. She was only in her late-thirties when she arrived at the school, barely as old as my own mother. And she wasn't especially attractive. She wore spectacles with thick, black frames and her mouth was a bit lopsided, and when she smiled you could see that her front teeth protruded slightly.

But she had lovely, thick, toffee-coloured hair and there was something quintessentially feminine about her. She was just under medium height and slender with quite big breasts; she had lovely slim legs and she always wore dresses or skirts with pantyhose. When I was in detention, which was about once a fortnight, she'd sit at her desk at the front of the class and I'd sit in the front row of desks, immediately under her scrutiny, while I copied out The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, or some such other pointless task. I would secretly stare at her legs under her desk, crossed neatly at the ankle. And every so often she would cross her legs the other way and I would hear the rustle of nylon against nylon and my cock would twitch and I would swallow convulsively and sometimes I looked up and her green eyes would be on me, boring into my soul, reading my inner thoughts, it seemed.

So I was smitten. But I was also fearful of her and at the same time angry that she had taken such a dislike to me for no obvious reason when I thought she was so sexy. I wanted to talk to her and let her know what I was really like, perhaps let slip how I felt. Oh callow youth!

Like most members of staff in a big school, little was known of their private lives but there was much juvenile speculation. It was rumoured that Mrs Pearson had moved to the town after her husband was killed in an accident. She'd moved from a town in East Anglia where there were numerous RAF and USAF air bases and it was further rumoured that her husband had been a pilot. In fact Mrs Pearson herself confirmed this one day. It was the last day of term and everyone, including Mrs Pearson, was feeling in a holiday mood and she was chatting easily with us about holidays and families.

'Was your husband an RAF pilot?' one of the girls ventured to ask. There was a bit of a shocked silence but Mrs Pearson smiled and said, 'Well, he was a navigator.'

'Was he killed in the Battle of Britain,' asked Steve Perkins, the class wag.

It was the first time anyone had seen Mrs Pearson really angry. Her pale face flushed red. 'How dare you say something so horrible,' she spat out at Steve, who went white and started to apologise. But Mrs Pearson stormed out of the class and slammed the door and we didn't see her again until the holidays were over.

But there was one area where my relationship with Mrs Pearson was a little more amicable, and that was the annual school play. Miss Betts, the sexagenarian drama teacher, was too old and frail to take on the responsibility of organisation and rehearsals and set design and it had fallen to Mrs Pearson who, despite many challenges, did a great job in producing a polished performance for parents and guests the week before school broke up for the summer vacation each year.

One of those challenges was that almost none of the pupils wanted to be in the school play: rehearsals took place after school and at weekends and nobody wanted to be bothered. And as far as the male pupils were concerned, any boy who wanted to be in the play was clearly a sissy. To her credit, Mrs Pearson did a great job of cajoling reluctant material and she always got enough cast. And she always got me. It was the only time in the year that she spoke to me as anything approaching an equal, so I always volunteered and threw myself into it to try to please and impress her.

Which brings me to the last school play before I left school. It was a locked room murder mystery thing and I played the detective inspector who investigated the case and uncovered the villain. It was the biggest and best part and I like to think that Mrs Pearson chose me as a reward for my years of allegiance. It was more probably because no one else would take such a challenging role on.

As I said earlier, we rehearsed after school or at weekends and it was on a Saturday morning that the incident occurred. The scene we were rehearsing was close to the end of the play and only involved me and a girl from the fifth form called Jennifer Read, who played Vera Todd, the victim's wife. The scene was about me breaking down her story and getting her to confess that although she hadn't actually killed her husband with a brass candlestick, she wasn't entirely innocent. At one point in the scene I grabbed Vera Todd and pulled her to me, thrusting my face to hers and telling her that I didn't believe a damned word she was saying.

This particular Saturday, Jennifer Read didn't turn up for the rehearsal so it was just Mrs Pearson and me. I was all for going home but Mrs Pearson said, 'I'll play the part of Vera Todd.' Well that had my dick stiffening in my pants straightaway at the thought of grabbing my English teacher by the arm and pulling her to me. Actually touching her! I was shit scared at the same time. Frightened that I wouldn't be able to stop myself acting inappropriately and screwing for eternity any remote chance I might have thought I had with Mrs Pearson.

It was quite a long scene, ten minutes or so; the pulling bit came near the end. We ran through it three times and I managed to contain myself to begin with, although I was deeply aroused. Mrs Pearson was shorter than me and weighed about fifty pounds less. When I grabbed her arm the first time I was surprised how easy it was to yank her across the stage and up against me. She was wearing what she wore during the week: a summer dress and high-heeled shoes and the second time we ran through the scene she stumbled on her heels and crashed into me and I was momentarily aware of her breasts against my chest and her hair in my face before she righted herself and pulled away with a little laugh. 'Let's hope that doesn't happen on the night,' she said.

I felt hot and short of breath. We should have taken a break then but Mrs Pearson said there was somewhere she had to be in half an hour so could we press on and do the third run straightaway. The third time I grabbed her arm and pulled she came up against me and our faces were six inches apart and I suddenly realised that I'd completely forgotten my line. I paused for long seconds, desperately trying to recall what I was supposed to say next, my brain a mush.

Then I tried to kiss her. On the scale of stupid things to do it was right up there with the best of them. I lowered my head and sought her mouth with mine but she pulled back a yard or so and looked at me and I will never forget that look because it there was fear in it and I felt ashamed of having caused that, but there was something else, too, something less easily definable.

'Sorry,' I mumbled.

Mrs Pearson kept looking at me but the fear was gone now and her gaze seemed, when I thought about it afterwards, more speculative. 'Come back in five years, Paul,' she said softly. And then she was walking to the side of the stage and picking up her handbag. The door to the assembly hall closed behind her and I was alone.

I didn't really see much of her after that. It was the last rehearsal before the play was aired on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night of the last week of term. After the final performance, there was a party to celebrate but I got the impression Mrs Pearson was trying to avoid me and I still felt deeply embarrassed and ashamed of my behaviour so I didn't try to talk to her. And at the end of that week I left school and I never saw her again. Until now.

I checked mum's books out and put them in my rucksack before leaving the library and walking around to the little flower garden with the benches. She was still there, and I could see as I approached the bench that it was definitely Mrs Pearson; the same toffee-coloured hair, falling to her shoulders; the same black-framed spectacles. She looked not a day older than she had the last time I'd seen her and I felt desire well in my chest.

I stopped by her bench and looked down at her and she looked up at me, the sun reflecting off her spectacles so that I couldn't see her eyes. 'Mrs Pearson?' I asked, tentatively.

'It's Paul, isn't it,' she replied after a pause. 'Paul... Robinson,' she finished.

'Yes,' I confirmed.

'What have you been doing with yourself since you left school?' she asked, closing her book. 'I hear about some ex-pupils but I've never heard anything about you. Why don't you sit down, Paul? You're not in a hurry, are you?' She closed her book and put it in her handbag.

So I sat down next to her and told her about university and my job in a research laboratory and my house and she listened quietly. 'I'm surprised you read sciences at university,' she said after I had finished. 'You were always so good at English. And drama,' she added with a smile.

I glanced at her. What was I supposed to make of that? She'd been the person most instrumental in putting me off a career as a writer, with her endless put-downs and poor marks on my assignments. I was finding that her close proximity after the years that had passed was just as powerful as it had been when I was an adolescent. More powerful in fact. I felt hot and fuzzy-headed and anger was building up in me.

'You put me off, English, Mrs Pearson,' I said eventually.

'What do you mean?' she asked, apparently genuinely surprised.

'You made a fool of me in the class by ridiculing my answers. Whenever I suggested something for "Book of the Week" you told the class it was garbage, or childish. You gave me Cs and Ds for my assignments and you gave me detentions for things that the other kids were doing and getting away with.'

'I'm sure I never--' she began but I cut in.

'All the class knew you had a thing about me. A few said I should tell my parents, get them to complain to the head teacher.'

'So why didn't you?' she asked quietly and for a long time we just sat there on the bench outside the public library on that sunny Saturday morning and looked at each other, the years rolling away.

It was Mrs Pearson who spoke, eventually. 'You're right,' she began, 'I was hard on you. Too hard.'

'Why?' I asked.

She was silent again for long moments and I took the opportunity to study her close up, something which I'd never really done before. She was more attractive than I remembered: the skin of her face smooth and fresh-looking apart from some faint lines at the corners of her eyes. Her cheekbones were prominent and her eyes were a deep green, the brows darker than her hair. Her chin was firm, her nose was perfect, her mouth, which I'd remembered as being twisted, was just a bit lopsided, lower at one side by a fraction of an inch. But her lips were full and juicy and red and her teeth, although the front ones were a tiny bit too big, were straight and white. In fact, I decided as I looked at her, these so-called imperfections were what made her attractive; without them she'd just be ordinary. I looked down at her hands, looking for a wedding ring perhaps. She'd never worn one before but maybe she had remarried. But her fingers were bare, the nails long and painted dark red. At school, she'd always painted them dark-green, which was considered very racy in those days.

'It's complicated, Paul,' said Mrs Pearson and I was suddenly dragged back into the present.

'What's complicated?'

Mrs Pearson looked around, as if seeking help. 'I can't talk about it now,' she said. 'I need to get my thoughts together.' She paused and looked at me. 'What are your plans for the rest of the day, Paul?'

I shrugged. Go back to my mum's house, have lunch, listen to her complaining about dad for a few hours then drive home.'

'Would you like to go for a drink before you go home?'

'Ok,' I said with a nonchalance that I didn't feel. 'Where do you suggest?'

Mrs Pearson named a pub on the outskirts of town. 'Would five o'clock be alright?' she asked. 'We could even have an early dinner there, if you like. My treat,' she added.

I said goodbye to Mrs Pearson and walked home in a daze of wonderment and arousal. An ordinary, actually rather dull Saturday visiting my mum, had just turned into what seemed like developing into the most important day of my life, certainly from an erotic point of view. And what would the evening hold, I wondered? Mrs Pearson seemed ready to apologise for how she had treated me, but what form would that apology take? And goddamn! I still felt as helplessly attracted to her as I had at eighteen on the stage of the school play.

I got to the pub early but Mrs Pearson was already there, waving to me from a table in the near-empty restaurant area of the pub. Later on it would be seething, but for now there was only one other couple. I felt awkward as I approached the table and I think she did too. She stood and we shook hands rather formally. Mrs Pearson was wearing her hair in a ponytail and a plain-blue dress that I thought I recognised from school. She was bare-legged in the warm evening air and I felt a little thrill as I looked at her exquisitely shaped calves and slim ankles. Below that she was wearing matching high-heeled shoes.

'Hi, Mrs Pearson,' I said, as though we hadn't met that afternoon.

'Please, call me Susan,' she smiled.

We ordered drinks and food and after the waitress had gone I sat back in my chair and looked at my ex-English teacher. 'Ok, Susan, the floor's all yours.'

Mrs Pearson cleared her throat and took a sip of water. 'Whatever you think of me, Paul, I'm not the person that you think I am,' she began and I frowned as I tried to make sense of her opening sentence. She smiled slightly, 'Not a very coherent start for an English teacher, I'm afraid. What I mean is that I imagine you saw me in school as an uncompromising, rather strict mistress. A disciplinarian. A martinet, more or less. Am I right?'

'Go on,' I said neutrally. I'd have added "a right bitch" to the list, personally.

'If you'd ever seen me outside school, you'd have seen that that was nothing like I really am.'

She paused, mustering her thoughts. 'What are you really like, then?' I asked.

'Completely different,' she said firmly. 'I'm almost cripplingly shy, I'm submissive, timid, quietly spoken and I lack self-confidence.' She looked straight at me as if to underline what she was saying. 'Everything I was at school was a front. A disguise. I couldn't have been an effective teacher if it had been the real me in the classroom, and teaching was the only thing I ever wanted to do,' she ended with a catch in her voice, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.

I was intensely surprised. And horrified at her tears. It was like finding out that I'd been adopted. My world, the world where Mrs Pearson was a bitch and had put me off writing, had just taken a little jolt and things weren't quite the same afterwards. Without thinking, I reached over and took her hand and she squeezed mine and dabbed her eyes again. 'Sorry,' she said, with a gulp.

'Ok,' I said, 'I get that you put on a show in the classroom, but why did you come down so hard on me?'

At that point the waitress arrived with our drinks and Mrs Pearson took a huge swallow of her red wine. 'There was something about you,' she began, avoiding my eye. 'I don't know what it was, except in very broad terms, but something told me that I needed to keep my distance from you.'

'But I was a well-behaved kid!' I protested. 'What about Steve Perkins and Tony Peterson? And that dreadful Sally Carter? They were the ones you should have been watching out for. They were the ones you should have come down hard on! I loved English. Or at least I did until you arrived on the scene!'

'No, Paul,' said Mrs Pearson, quietly. 'You misunderstand me. I mean there was an attraction between us.'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'I think you probably know what I mean, Paul, and this is really difficult for me to say but I do feel I owe you an explanation; I feel so awful that I put you off English.' She paused again and took another gulp of wine. 'You were attracted to me,' she said bluntly. 'A woman can tell, and a woman teacher can tell which pupils fancy her, and there are always a few, if she's reasonably young and presentable. And there's nothing wrong with that,' she went on, 'it's only natural for growing boys to feel attracted to the women around them. And it's ok provided nothing untoward happens, which it mostly doesn't because we're all in school.'

'I sense a "but" coming up,' I interjected.

'Yes,' she agreed, looking at the tablecloth. 'But it's not ok if the teacher feels an attraction to the pupil.'

She looked up at me and there was a silence. What she had just said hung in the air like a swearword. I was appalled, and at the same time instantly aroused.

'Remember that last school play that I was in?' I asked. 'When I tried to kiss you in the rehearsal?' Mrs Pearson nodded. 'Was that why you said, "Come back in five years, Paul"?' She nodded again. 'And now I've come back,' I said, slowly. 'What happens now?'

The tension was electric. Our food was forgotten. 'I want to apologise to you, Paul,' said Mrs Pearson softly. 'Really apologise in the most sincere way that I can.'

'And how's that?' I asked, quietly, my eyes on my ex-teacher.

She swallowed, her eyes still on the tablecloth, her hands clasped in her lap. 'I want to give myself to you tonight, Paul. I want you to come home with me and I want you to use me to pleasure yourself. And if you feel that I should be punished for what I've done to you then I want you to punish me.'

I gasped, short of breath, heat rising to my cheeks. 'Bloody hell, Susan! Are you sure?'

She just looked at me and suddenly I felt energised and aroused, my cock growing in my trousers. I would have this woman tonight! After all these years and all my fantasies I would take her to bed and I would fuck her long and hard and then when I had recovered I would fuck her again and yes, I would punish her for what she'd done to me and I would be rough with her. I would spank her arse and pull her around and bite her tits...

It was only a short drive to Mrs Pearson's house and we went in my car - she had taken a taxi to the pub. Nothing was said in the car except for Mrs Pearson giving me directions to the modest bay-fronted, nineteen-thirties semi on a quiet avenue that she lived alone in.

She opened the front door and we went into the hall and I closed the door behind us and then I grabbed her like I had all those years ago in the rehearsal. I pulled her towards me and she felt light and slender and insubstantial as I took her in my arms and pressed my mouth to hers, mashing my lips against hers, feeling and tasting her lipstick, pushing my tongue into her mouth and feeling her wetness and warmth. I held her against the wall and pressed my loins into her, thrusting lewdly.

'Is this what you want, Mrs Pearson?' I hissed into her ear.

'Yes,' she whispered, 'it's what I want. It's what I've always wanted.'

I forced my mouth back onto hers, feeling her front teeth against my lip. I roughly kneaded her breasts, feeling their size and firmness through the fabric of her dress and her brassiere. I had imagined fucking my English teacher so many times and in so many ways. I had fantasised about taking her by force in an empty classroom, during an ill-deserved detention, bent over a desk, her dress pulled up to expose her buttocks, her panties pulled aside as I thrust into her. I felt a river of raw lust surge through me. By God it was about to become a reality!

I grabbed Mrs Pearson's ponytail and she gave a muted scream as I pulled her down the hall and into the big lounge-diner that ran the whole depth of the house. At the rear, overlooking the garden, was a big, oak dining table with six chairs around it. I pulled her over to it and thrust her over the table, holding her down with one hand pressing down hard on her back. With my free hand I pulled the skirt of her dress up over her bum, exposing her long, slender legs with their creamy thighs, the muscles of her calves taut. Loosening my belt, I undid my trousers one-handed and let them slip down to my knees. Fumbling my iron-hard cock out of my underpants, I slid my hand under the leg elastic of her plain blue, nylon panties and pulled them to one side, exposing her hairy pussy. I gripped my shaft and pushed my cockhead into the cleft of her buttocks, searching for her entrance. Mrs Pearson whimpered as I probed, the side of her face pressed to the polished wood. Then she gave a sudden squeal as my cock found her pucker. But that pleasure would have to wait. Now I probed lower and pushed against her labia, hoping that she was lubricated enough, although my cock was dripping a sticky fluid. I needn't have worried. My cock slid suddenly and deeply into Mr Pearson's cunt and she reached out and grasped the opposite edge of the table with her red-tipped fingers as I started thrusting roughly into her.

So many times in life the reality of a situation fails to live up to the one imagined beforehand. Not so here! My ex-English teacher's pussy felt hot and liquid and grasped me like a gentle fist. I couldn't remember sex ever having felt so insanely good! But that was only half the story. Under my restraining hand I could watch Mrs Pearson as I fucked her hard with long, slurping strokes that slammed into her buttocks and made her upper body slide about on the polished table as she grasped the edge and fought to push back against me, grunting deeply with each stroke.

That she was enjoying it was unquestionable and added considerably to my own pleasure. God! After all these years, here I was, balls-deep in the unobtainable Mrs Pearson. If only the lads in the class could see me now!

My orgasm was sudden and devastatingly intense, pulsing through my body as I squirted my come into Mrs Pearson's sopping pussy. When I was spent I slowed to a stop and slid out of her with a faint "plop". I pulled my trousers up and fastened them as Mrs Pearson lay inert on the table. I helped her off and she stood up, a little shaky, and I pulled her to me again, gently this time, holding her in a loose embrace and kissing the top of her head.

'Let's go up to your bedroom, Mrs Pearson,' I said and she looked at me questioningly. 'I'm not done with you yet,' I told her. She led the way upstairs to the master bedroom at the front of the house. I closed the bedroom door behind us and told her to strip. She hesitated for a few seconds, that look of fear in her eyes that I'd seen all those years ago, and there was that other look, too, which I hadn't been able to decipher at the time but now I thought I could. It was desire. Lust.

'Now!' I ordered and she reached behind and unzipped her dress and pulled it over her head. Her bra came off next and I was treated to the delightful sight of her naked tits: big, but not too big, and firm, with dark areolae and stiff, upward pointing nipples. She moved slowly, embarrassed, pulling her knickers down, the gusset soaked with my spunk, revealing her pussy.

'Lie on the bed,' I told her. She obeyed, again in slow-motion, crawling on and rolling over onto her back, naked, watching me silently.

'Masturbate,' I said.

'No,' she whispered, 'I can't.'

'Do it,' I hissed.

'I can't,' she muttered. 'Not in front of you.'

'Ok,' I replied, 'let's see if I can change your mind.' I took two steps to the bed and rolled Mrs Pearson's naked body unceremoniously onto her back, taking her wrists in one hand, pinioning her arms behind her back. 'This is for fucking up my career as a writer,' I hissed. And then I spanked my ex-English teacher's arse. And I didn't hold back. I slapped her buttocks with hard, fast strokes that echoed loudly in the bedroom and made Mrs Pearson cry out and wriggle. But I held her tight, her wrists in my vice-like grip as I thrashed her. Her buttocks grew red and angry-looking and still I spanked her until my arm ached and my hand was sore.

'Now turn over,' I said, briskly. Mrs Pearson rolled over, wincing as she took weight on her bum. She was silent, her face flushed, tears in her eyes. 'Now masturbate,' I repeated.

This time her hand crept to her loins. She turned her head away from me in shame as her middle finger traced her labia. She had the loveliest pussy: dark-toffee-coloured curls above neat, golden-brown labia, parted now by her red-tipped finger and hinting at a wet, pink interior. I could see that she was still leaking my discharge, a slimy trail, trickling down to her perineum. Her finger dipped inside and emerged coated in her juices and mine, then she was teasing her clitoris with little circular motions of her fingertip.

I watched fascinated as her red-nailed fingertip went round and round her pleasure bud and I felt my cock growing as I knew it would. I started undressing, still watching my English teacher as she began making little whimpering noises and stretching her legs out, lifting her bum off the bed as the pleasure from her clitoris started to build and overwhelm her shyness. Then she was gasping and jerking as her orgasm arrived and I was naked too, climbing onto the bed and thrusting my hardness into her soaking pussy.

She groaned loudly and flung her arms out as I penetrated her and I leaned over and held her arms down to the bed while I fucked her hard with long, fast strokes. She was so wet that some of the sensation was lost but not so much that I couldn't feel another orgasm approaching like a distant train. I forced my mouth down onto hers, invading her with my tongue, trying to get it halfway down her throat. I clamped her wrists to the mattress and rammed mercilessly into her as I felt the tingling in my balls and the swelling of my orgasm.

The strength of my second climax was huge, blotting out my senses as I pumped what was left of my seed into Mrs Pearson. Then I was slowing down, senses returning. Aware first of Mrs Pearson's scent, then her body beneath me, her face slack, mouth half-open, eyes closed. I slid out of her and lay down on the bed beside her and, rather to my surprise, she snuggled up to me, her head on my neck, her arm across my chest.

We lay like that for a long time. I don't know what was going on in her head but I was in a whirl of erotic amazement at how the day had turned out. This morning I'd just been a lad fixing his mother's plumbing and now, barely half a day later, I was the lad who had just fucked his childhood dream, his English teacher. Twice.

Eventually I eased Mrs Pearson off me and she rolled onto her back as I went up on one elbow and looked down on her face. Calm after her ordeal.

She opened her eyes and looked at me, a hint of a smile on her lips. 'I wasn't expecting that,' she said, softly.

I raised my eyebrows. 'You invited me to pleasure myself with your body.'

'Yes,' she said, softly. 'But I didn't realise you were going to spank me. And so hard!'

'You said I could punish you,' I reminded her.

'I thought the rough sex was the punishment.'

'You screwed my career as a writer, Susan,' I reminded her. 'You're lucky that I just spanked your arse.'

'What else could you have done?' Mrs Pearson breathed, and it occurred to me suddenly that she was excited. That the talk about punishment was arousing her. She was breathing faster and her hand was stroking my chest, a fingertip teasing my nipples.

'I could have tied you to the bed,' I began, remembering my adolescent fantasies about Mrs Pearson, 'and spanked your pussy. I could have put clamps on your nipples and whipped your bum and your tits.' It was out before I could stop myself. What was I saying! They were all scenarios I had imagined but I'd never intended verbalising them, least of all to her!

But Mrs Pearson was unperturbed. 'If I've spoiled your career as a writer, then I should be punished very sternly. Will you do those things to me, Paul? I'd feel better if you did.'

'Are you serious?' I asked.

'I told you,' she replied, softly. 'I'm very submissive. You can do anything you want with me.' She reached up and stroked my hair. 'When you were all big and grown up, in your final year at school, I used to fantasise about you taking me by force, while you were in detention. I think that was one of the reasons I found excuses to give you so many, though I don't think I could really have gone through with it in the classroom. I wanted you to punish me even then; I wanted you to hurt me, in a sexual way.

'All my life I've wanted to be hurt and humiliated in the bedroom and it's never happened. Never. Until now. My husband was lovely and I adored him but he had no idea about my secret passion and if I'd told him that I wanted to be tied up and whipped he'd have had a heart attack or run a mile. Tonight, with you, is the first time my fantasy has become real and it felt so wonderful! So thrilling! I came while you were spanking me and then again when you made me masturbate and they were huge orgasms, overwhelming! Is that really weird of me, Paul,' she asked suddenly.

'What's weird is that I had similar fantasies about us,' I said. 'You were such a bitch to me at school, I used to dream about... well, all sorts of things involving punishment and sex.'

'Will you stay with me tonight, please, Paul? After what's happened today, I don't think I could bear to be alone.'

So I stayed and we got up and dressed and sat in her garden with a drink while we watched the sky turn red, then maroon then black. Soon after that we went back to bed and made love again before we went to sleep. But this time there was no rough-play, just soft, consensual intimacy. Lots of kissing and stroking and, eventually, a long, drawn-out climax as Mrs Pearson wrapped her arms and legs around me and I pushed deep into her sex. Afterwards I rubbed some soothing lotion onto Mr Pearson's buttocks, which were flaming red like the sunset.

I left after breakfast on Sunday; I had things I needed to do that day. Before I went we talked in the kitchen over a last cup of coffee.

'Sorry, Paul, I need to ask,' said Mrs Pearson as I drained my mug. 'Will we be seeing each other again?' She had been rather quiet since we got out of bed and now I understood why - the insecurity of a timid lady.

'Yes,' I said, 'if you'd like to.'

'I mean... not like girlfriend and boyfriend, but like we did yesterday...' She flushed a deep red.

'Why not like girlfriend and boyfriend?' I asked. I hadn't thought about it but why not? If we were going to have sex together like we'd had the previous day then why not have a relationship? 'I'm not sure that just meeting for rough sex would be a great idea.'

She flushed a deeper red. 'I didn't think you'd want to,' she mumbled. 'I'm so much older than you.'

'How old are you?' I asked. 'Forty-seven? Forty-eight?'

'Forty-five.'

'That's nothing,' I said, breezily and she smiled uncertainly. 'Come over to my house next Saturday afternoon, Susan.'

'What are you going to do with me?' she asked, her eyes wide.

'Bad things,' I assured her. 'More punishment for your sins. I'd bring along that bottle of soothing balm if I were you.' Because I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do with Mrs Pearson the next Saturday. It had been one of the most powerful of my adolescent fantasies and now there was no reason why it couldn't be acted out. As soon as I got home I fired up my tablet and started buying things online.

...

Susan Pearson rang my front doorbell just after three o'clock the following Saturday afternoon and I ushered her in, thrilled that she was here in my house, thrilled that she looked so good. She was wearing a smart grey dress and black high-heels. Her make-up was carefully applied, her fingernails were varnished a bright scarlet and legs were bare again in the summer heat. She was carrying an overnight bag.

We sat in my lounge and drank chilled white wine but Mrs Pearson was on edge, sipping compulsively, glancing at her watch and phone. In the end I put my arm around her and drew her to me, kissing her lips and pushing the tip of my tongue against her teeth. But she was stiff and awkward.

'Are you ok?' I asked.

'Sorry, Paul, I'm very excited but I'm nervous, too. I don't know what's going to happen and I feel a bit sick with anticipation. A bit of fright, too,' she admitted. 'Are you going to hurt me a lot?'

'I'm not going to hurt you beyond what I think you'll enjoy, Susan. And if I do, say "Stop" and it's over.'

'Thank you.'

We drank about two-thirds of the bottle, Mrs Pearson had two glasses to my one because I wanted her to be relaxed, but she was still on edge, her eyes everywhere but on me. Her fingers drumming on the rim of the glass. Eventually I had enough and I went upstairs to my bedroom for some of the items that I'd bought online that week.

Coming back into the lounge I ordered Mrs Pearson to strip. She looked at me blankly, as though she hadn't heard or understood. 'Now!' I ordered and she put down her glass and stood up slowly, kicking off her high-heels and reaching for the zip at the back of her neck. I watched in silence as she pulled the dress over her head revealing matching white bra and lacy panties. She unclipped her bra with a practised, one-handed motion and shrugged it off, revealing her peerless breasts, her nipples already hard with excitement. She bent over, pulling her panties down and stepping out of them and then she was naked in front of me, her hands at her loins, partially hiding her naked pussy.

'Put this on,' I said, handing her a little rolled-up bundle of nylon.

'What is it?' she asked, puzzled.

'It's a bodystocking,' I told her.

'Oh my goodness,' she whispered, blushing. She rolled it out and I watched as she figured out which was top and bottom and got herself into it.

The bodystocking was sheer, ten-denier light tan nylon mesh, with tailored apertures for her pussy, arse and nipples. I'd guessed her height but it was a perfect fit, skin-tight and accentuating the curves and lines of her beautiful body. If you love the sight of a lady just in stockings, you'll be knocked out by the bodystocking. I'd dreamed about my English teacher dressed like this in front of me for years, but the fantasy paled beside the reality. She looked extraordinarily sexy.

'Put your heels on,' I ordered, and when she had obeyed I took her arm and marched her into the hall and through the connecting door into my garage. I went to the bench at the back while Mrs Pearson looked around, nervously. Coming back with some lengths of soft, white rope I told her to stand with her feet by the two eyebolts that I'd screwed into the middle of the concrete floor earlier that week, about three feet apart. Using short lengths of the rope I tied her slender, nylon-clad ankles to the bolts. She stood quietly, although I could hear her breathing in the stillness of the garage.

I told her to lace her fingers and I tied her hands together with one end of a thirty-foot length of the rope. Standing on a stool, I threaded the other end through an eyebolt screwed into one of the overhead beams, pulling the rope tight, lifting Mrs Pearson's arms above her head until she was stretched out tautly, her arm and leg muscles standing out like cords, her heels barely touching the garage floor. Her breathing was louder now, almost a gasp as I tied the rope off to the vice on the bench.

I stood by the bench looking at my English teacher, half suspended, her feet tied to the ground, covered in a bodystocking, and I thought I had never seen, or even imagined anything so erotic. I walked slowly round her as she looked at me with frightened eyes. I stroked her hair and her neck. I ran my hands over her perfect body, feeling the sheer nylon under my fingertips. I stroked her bare pussy, feeling the wetness between her labia. I touched her breasts and her stiff nipples. I traced a finger between her buttocks, touching her anus, and she whimpered and shivered.

Going back to the bench, I picked up the ball gag, showing it to her and kissing her lips hard before I pushed the ball into her mouth and secured it with straps around the back of her head. It occurred to me suddenly that she could hardly say "Stop" while gagged, but I had no intention of really hurting her. Well, maybe a bit.

Mrs Pearson watched as I went back to the bench again and picked up the riding crop that I had bought. I walked over to her and swished it through the air a few times and she strained against her bonds, her eyes wide, a guttural moan escaping from her gag. 'This is for fucking up my writing career,' I reminded her. Then I used the crop on her.

I started out on her buttocks, lightly whipping the naked flesh, relishing the noise of the impact of leather on skin, leaving faint red marks on her taut bum cheeks. I paused between strokes, relishing her anticipation, her muscle-clenching as she waited for the next blow. After a while I moved to her back and shoulders, not hitting her so hard as she was less padded there. Then back down to her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. God, I was so turned on! I had never, never, experienced anything so powerful!

After five or ten minutes I moved slowly round to face Mrs Pearson. She hung defenceless before me, her face red, her eyes wet, saliva trickling from the ball gag down her chin and neck. I stroked her pussy with the business end of the whip and she shivered and gargled into her gag. Drawing back the crop I struck her pussy lips with a faint, wet smack. Then another, a bit harder, then another... A bit later I moved up her body, whipping her torso and her bare breasts, flicking the leather end onto her sensitive nipples as she writhed at the end of the rope.

I whipped Mrs Pearson as she hung in my garage for something like twenty minutes, before my need for release became so strong it was overwhelming. I tossed the whip onto the bench and stripped my clothes off - I was only wearing shorts and a T shirt. My cock, when I released it from the prison of my boxer shorts, was iron-hard, purple and angry-looking, a trickle of sticky fluid dangling from the head. Mrs Pearson watched as I walked up to her and, taking the shaft of my dick in one hand, guided it to her pussy and thrust it inside, as deep as I could go.

Her eyes opened wide as I penetrated her and she gurgled and threw her head back, her toffee-coloured hair flying around her head. Her cunt was sopping wet and warm and tight and I held her waist and fucked her hard, bringing myself close to orgasm four or five times. And as I fucked her I sucked and licked her nipples and bit down hard on them making her flinch and crash her hips into mine.

All too soon a monster climax was building but I wasn't finished with Mrs Pearson yet. Pulling out, I went back to the bench for a final time and found the tube of KY jelly that I'd bought at the chemist the day before. I didn't know if my English teacher had ever had anal intercourse before; if not, that was all about to change. Moving round behind her I uncapped the tube of jelly and squeezed a big gob onto my fingers. She flinched as my fingers sought her sphincter and groaned as my lubed finger slid inside, relishing the tightness of the entrance. I used a lot of lube on Mrs Pearson's arse; I really didn't want to hurt her. In fact I wanted this to be an enjoyable experience for her, albeit that she had no choice in the matter. Eventually, when I'd put two fingers deep inside her, I decided she was ready.

Quaking with desire, I gripped my cock shaft again and guided it to her well-lubed anus. Mrs Pearson struggled a bit as I put an arm around her waist and pushed my cock against her tight little pucker. I pushed harder, hoping she'd relax and perhaps she did because without too much effort the big head of my cock opened her pucker and I slid inside.

Mrs Pearson squealed through her gag as I entered her rectum and I stopped to let her get used to it. She felt wonderful! Soft and warm and lubricated, her sphincter round my shaft in a vice-like grip. I pulled her to me with my arm still around her waist and my cock slid deep inside her and a wave of utter pleasure washed over me. I started a tentative in and out motion and Mrs Pearson moaned and gargled into her gag as I speeded up, my strokes longer and harder.

I was never going to last very long in that scenario, however much I slowed down. That feeling of a monster orgasm approached overcame me again and built and swelled inside me. In the last few seconds I reached around and pressed my palm to her pussy, my fingers seeking her clitoris. As I did this Mrs Pearson gave a strangled shriek and I started ejaculating into her anus, jet after jet until I was spent and limp.

I withdrew carefully and went over and untied the rope from the vice, allowing Mrs Pearson to lower her arms for the first time in over half-an-hour. I removed the ball gag and untied her feet and her hands and she collapsed into my arms and I held her as she sobbed and sobbed and I thought, 'What have I done to this lady?'

With an arm around her shoulders, I helped her back into the lounge and sat her down on the settee. I handed her a bunch of tissues from a box and she wiped her eyes, smearing her eye-liner.

'Was that too much?' I asked her, quietly. 'Did I hurt you too much, Susan?'

'It was wonderful!' she breathed. 'I never knew anything could feel that exciting! Oh Paul, I loved it!'

'Not much of a punishment, then?' I suggested and we looked at each other and then we were laughing and I was hugging her and kissing her.

After a while, we went up to my bedroom and I helped Mrs Pearson out of the bodystocking. There were a few faint weals, mainly on her buttocks, but they were rapidly fading. We had a bath together, enjoying the steaming hot water and the intimacy of the act. Afterwards Mrs Pearson redid her make-up and we went out for an early dinner at a bistro in the local town and we talked quietly as we ate and I felt warm and close to her.

Much later we went to bed together and, for the first time, I tasted my English teacher's pussy, burying my head between her thighs and pressing my mouth to her labia. She tasted sweet and musky as I pushed my tongue deep into her, kissing and sucking her intimate folds of skin and licking her stiff little clitoris until she gasped and came, clamping my head between her thighs. Then I penetrated her, slowly and tenderly, the ferocious passion of the afternoon spent. She made little mewing noises as I slid slowly in and out of her, kissing her lips and neck, loving the way she put her legs over mine and thrust her loins up to meet me.

I looked down on her face as I came into her for the second time that day and a surge of tenderness filled me. Afterwards we talked quietly as the evening faded into night.

'Were you frightened when I first tied you up?' I asked.

'A bit,' she admitted. 'After all, I don't really know you very well. But it was a nice fright and it made me tingle all over.'

'Did it hurt when I whipped you?'

'Yes. But it was a nice hurt. A sexy hurt.'

'Did I hurt you when I put it up your bum?' I asked, curious as to her reaction.

'That frightened me,' she said, quietly. 'I've never done that before. But it didn't hurt like I thought it was going to.'

'Did you enjoy it?' I asked, pushing my luck.

'Mmm, I did. Especially when you rubbed me near the end. I had a huge orgasm.'

We made love again on Sunday morning and Mrs Pearson sucked my cock for the first time and she did it exquisitely, her lips flicking over me like a butterfly's wings, her tongue soft and curious and slippery as she explored me. She stayed until Sunday afternoon and I was sorry to see her go. We sat having a last coffee on my patio as the sun climbed slowly down out of the sky.

'What are you doing next weekend?' I asked.

'Nothing special,' she replied. 'Would you like me to come over again? I can come over in the week, too,' she added. 'It doesn't have to be a weekend.'

'It does this week,' I laughed with pleasure at her apparent desire to be with me. 'I'm away on business until Thursday.'

'Next weekend it is, then,' she smiled, with her gorgeous lop-sided mouth.

'What would you like to do?' I asked, teasingly.

She did a little act of appearing to think about it. 'Well... I was wondering if we couldn't go into your garage again, Paul. What do you think?'

'Well like I said, if you enjoyed it that much then it's not much in the way of atonement for the way you treated me, is it, Susan?' I pointed out. 'I think there's a bit more punishment to come for what you did. Something a bit naughtier than just tying you up.'

'What might that be?' she asked, quietly.

My guts contracted. It was another fantasy that I'd had for years, but it was a quantum step beyond what we had done so far, even the anal sex. I decided to take the plunge.

'I thought it might be interesting to have someone else there. Another man.' Mrs Pearson went white. 'Then you could feel what it was to take two cocks at once, one in your mouth and one in your pussy. Or maybe one in your pussy and one up your arse.'

She swallowed. 'Are you serious?'

'Deadly,' I replied.

'Oh, God,' she said.

After she'd gone I called my friend Jack from school. He'd been in the same English class as me and he knew Mrs Pearson as well as I did. Well, perhaps not quite as well as me. I arranged to meet him at seven o'clock in the same pub that Mrs Pearson and I had gone to that first Saturday.

He was late as usual. Some things never change, I reflected. Jack was actually short for Giacomo; his dad was from Florence and Jack had been known in the class as the Italian Stallion on account of the size of his dick. He and I had been best mates, still were, and we had shared girlfriends in the past, once with four of us in the same bed.

We had a pint and chatted about this and that and then Jack asked me why I had wanted to meet up at such short notice.

'I wondered if you might be interested in a little threesome,' I said, smiling.

'He smiled back. 'You dirty bugger! Who's the lucky lady?'

'Mrs Pearson,' I said, blithely.

His jaw dropped. 'What, as in Mrs Pearson our English teacher at Six Hills High?'

'That's her,' I said, barely containing a laugh.

'No fucking way!' he exclaimed.

'I'm serious, Jack. I met her in the library in town a week last Saturday and we ended up having sex.'

'You're fucking kidding me!' he insisted. 'She hated your guts!'

'Turns out that was all a front to disguise the fact that she fancied me,' I said smugly. Jack had always been the babe-magnet and it was sweet to trump him on this one occasion. 'I'm serious, Jack. And she's mustard in bed! Up for anything!' I felt a few qualms saying this about Susan but then I remembered the years of detentions and crap marks. She's coming over to my place next Saturday afternoon. Come over at three and you'll get to fuck Mrs Pearson.'

In fact I went through a serious crisis of conscience over the next few days. It was all very well going through this delicious sexual punishment act with Mrs Pearson, but wasn't having two men fuck her at the same time going a bit too far? She hadn't said, "No", but... In the end I fretted, but I did nothing to cancel the event.

Mrs Pearson arrived promptly at two o'clock the following Saturday. She was wearing a really nice floral dress in a silky material and when I complimented her on her appearance she admitted that she'd bought the dress that week to wear for me. I suddenly felt terrible that Jack and I were going to abuse and double penetrate her that afternoon.

Inside my house I fed her some wine to relax her; I'd had half a bottle before she arrived. I sat on the settee with her and we kissed and I stroked her and smelled her scent and told her how lovely she looked.

'Is there going to be someone else this afternoon,' she asked, fearfully.

'Yes,' I said softly. 'But it'll be fine. I'll look after you and you'll enjoy it,' I said with my fingers crossed. Which was odd, because in two short weeks I'd gone from wanting to punish Mrs Pearson, wanting to hurt her and humiliate her, to feeling warm and protective about her.

As the big hand on the wall clock reached the six, I took Mrs Pearson's arm and led her up to my bedroom. 'Take your dress off,' I told her. She unzipped her dress, pulling it down over her hips to reveal black lacy underwear, including a matching garter belt and sheer, black, nylon stockings. I had asked her to wear stockings today and I was pleased to see that she had obeyed me. 'I bought them this week,' she said, self-consciously, 'when I got the dress.' I had also asked her if she had still got any of the green nail varnish that was such a trademark of hers at school. She'd admitted that she did and she was wearing it this afternoon and the erotic memories of those classroom days were flooding back.

She removed her bra and panties and stood before me and I was almost struck dumb by her beauty and elegance. Her sheer, naked, sexual attraction.

'Lie on the bed,' I told her. She scrambled on and rolled onto her back as I pulled a cardboard box out from under the bed.

'What have you got there?' she asked with a trace of nervousness.

'A restraint system,' I told her. 'I'm going to tie you to the bed.'

'Oh God, Paul,' she whispered.

I attached the wrist and ankle restraints to the bedposts and clipped the Velcro cuffs to them. Then I fastened the cuffs to Mrs Pearson's slender wrists and ankles and pulled the straps tight, one at a time and slowly. I went round from arm to arm and leg to leg, tightening and adjusting until Mrs Pearson could barely move and the muscles were standing out on her thin arms and slender legs with their super-sexy black stockings.

I looked at my watch, a quarter to three. I kissed Mrs Pearson's red lips and then fished the ball gag out of my bedside drawer. I pushed the ball into her mouth with some difficulty and secured it around the back of her head with the leather strap while she looked at me fearfully, her eyes wide, her breathing fast and shallow. On a whim, I went downstairs and picked up Mrs Pearson's thick-framed spectacles from the lounge and went back up and put them on her. Now she looked unmistakeably like the English teacher who had terrorised me and, to a lesser extent, Jack.

I stood up and looked down on her tightly restrained body, resisting the temptation to finger her cunt or suck her nipples. Jack would be here any minute. 'Don't go away,' I said to her as I left the bedroom, her eyes following me to the door, which I closed behind me.

Jack was five minutes early, surely a first for him. 'Is that Mrs Pearson's car?' he asked, nodding at the little hatchback parked next to my saloon.

'Yes,' I replied as we went into the lounge.

'Where is she?' he asked, looking around.

'Upstairs,' I told him, getting a beer from the fridge for him. 'Waiting for us.'

'No, seriously, who is it up there? Is it Sally?'

'Wait and see,' I smiled.

I had another glass of wine and Jack sucked from his bottle of cold beer, but he was tense and twitchy and he kept standing up and walking around the lounge. I thought of Mrs Pearson on my bed, strapped down tightly, gagged, waiting for me and for a stranger to come and sexually abuse her. I shouldn't keep her waiting too long.

'Ok,' I said, draining my wineglass. 'Let's go.'

I went up the stairs and Jack followed in silence. I opened the bedroom door and he followed me in and stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes bulging, his mouth hanging open as he stared at the lady on my bed, looking at him with her eyes wide.

'Fucking hell,' he said at last. 'Mrs Pearson!'

'Articulate as always, Jack,' I smiled. 'The English lessons really paid off, didn't they. Do you remember Jack, Mrs Pearson?' She stared at him and he stared back, taking in her bonds, her sweet, stockinged legs, her slender torso and firm breasts and the face, so familiar from school. Now gagged and staring wildly through her spectacles.

'Are you sure she's ok with this,' he asked, nervously.

'Are you ok with this, Mrs Pearson?' I asked. 'Nod for yes.'

She nodded, vigorously. 'You see,' I said, pulling my T shirt over my head.

Jack looked at me then back at the bed and then he started to undress, pulling his polo shirt off and unbuckling the belt of his shorts. Thirty seconds later we were both naked, standing at the end of the bed, cocks rigid and looking down on Mrs Pearson.

'Would you like to find out what she tastes like, Jack?' I asked. 'Remember all those dull afternoon lessons that we spent looking at Mrs Pearson's legs and imagining what was at the top of them? Well, here it is, buddy. So why don't you get on the bed with her and gorge yourself.'

Jack hesitated for about two seconds then scrambled onto the bed and, kneeling between Mrs Pearson's outstretched thighs, bent his head to her pussy and started licking her labia, parting them with his thumbs and slurping his tongue into her vagina. Mrs Pearson strained against her straps and gurgled through her gag, her eyes closed, as Jack's tongue worked its magic on her.

I sat on the bed next to Mrs Pearson and stroked her breasts and nipples, pulling and squeezing her erect buds between finger and thumb while I watched my friend feast on my English teacher. After a few minutes he raised his face from her loins, his mouth and chin covered in shiny juices and saliva. 'You want a turn, Paul?'

We swapped over and I pressed my face to Susan's cunt, lapping her secretions, tonguing her clitoris, peeping out of its fleshy hood. She grunted and moaned through her gag as I licked her and Jack sucked her nipples, biting down gently on the brown buds.

We swapped over several times before I suggested to Jack that he stick his cock into Mrs Pearson. He'd been waiting for the invitation, sensing, correctly, that I wanted to control the afternoon's activities. I watched as he guided his big cock to her pussy and pushed it in with a satisfied growl. Mrs Pearson's eyes opened wide as his eight inches of rigid meat slid into her and he started a long, slow thrusting and I watched fascinated as his cock slid in and out of our English teacher's sopping hole, making a delicious slurping, squelching noise.

Jack fucked Mrs Pearson for about five minutes before he slowed down and withdrew from her. 'Getting close, mate,' her said, tersely. 'Your turn.'

I thrust myself into her and fucked her vigorously for a few minutes before, like Jack, feeling the beginnings of a climax. So we changed over again, and again, and again... One of us fucking her and the other mauling her tits and biting her nipples so that she writhed against her bonds and shook her head from side to side in pain and ecstasy.

God knows how long we went on. I reckon we must have changed over seven or eight times before I suggested that it was time to give our esteemed English teacher a good old spit-roasting.

I told Jack to release her legs and I undid her wrist straps and removed her ball gag and she sat up, shell-shocked, rubbing her numb arms and legs. 'Are you alright,' I asked her and she nodded and whispered, 'Yes.'

We arranged her on her hands and knees and Jack got on his back and Mrs Pearson leaned over him and took the big, plum head of his cock in her mouth and started sucking and fucking him with her lips in the most exquisitely erotic manner while I entered her from behind and thrust deeply into her pussy, my pelvis crashing into her buttocks at the end of each stroke, my hands on her hips, pulling her towards me as I thrust at her.

This was a very time-limited activity, too, and after two or three minutes I suggested we swap over and Jack fucked her doggy-style while she sucked the life out of my cock with those luscious red lips of hers and her soft, wet tongue. Again, I lost time of the number of times we swapped over, but Mrs Pearson showed no signs of overuse and continued to suck whichever cock was in her mouth with skill and enthusiasm.

The penultimate time we changed over I picked up the KY jelly from my bedside drawer and lubricated Mrs Pearson's anus while I slid in and out of her and she sucked Jack's dick. She flinched a bit as I slid two fingers deep into her arse but then I was done and Jack and I were changing places for the last time.

Sit on my cock,' I told my ex-English teacher as I lay back on the bed and she obediently straddled me and, gripping my shaft in one hand, guided me to her pussy and sank herself down on me, taking me up to the root inside her. I put my arms around her shoulders and pulled her down onto my chest. 'Time for your final piece of atonement, Mrs Pearson,' I whispered to her, holding her down tightly.

'You're both going to take me at the same time, aren't you, you bastards?' she whispered. 'Oh God! Don't hurt me!' It was the most she had said all afternoon.

I looked at my friend kneeling expectantly behind her. 'Fuck her arse, Jack, but be gentle.' Jack's cock was bigger than mine but it was in length, rather than girth, so I was hoping that Mrs Pearson would be able to take him easily. Jack and I had done some pretty wild things together with our girlfriends but we'd never done a DP before and I was both curious and a tiny bit fearful - I didn't actually want to hurt Mrs Pearson.

But I needn't have worried. Jack was probably more nervous than Susan and he went very slowly and carefully, pushing tentatively at her pucker, all shiny with lube. I could feel Mrs Pearson's heart beating against my chest, her face against my neck, her breath hot on me. I reached around and parted her buttocks so Jack had a clearer view of his target and he pushed a bit harder and suddenly I felt his cock through the wall of Mrs Pearson's cunt as the big head opened her sphincter and he slid his cock into her rectum. Mrs Pearson gave a little cry as he penetrated her and then she relaxed as Jack began to fuck her arse and I started to fuck her pussy with thrusts of my hips.

Initially it was awkward, but after a short time Jack and I managed to synchronise our thrusts so that he was pushing in as I was pulling out and vice versa. Mrs Pearson appeared to relax and soon she was grunting as the pair of us fucked both her holes, biting my neck and gasping each time Jack bottomed out in her arse. I could feel his cock pushing in and out and it felt weird and exciting at the same time. 'Go on Jack,' I urged him. 'Give it to her hard, come in her arse!'

He didn't need much encouragement and within minutes he was gasping as he shot his load into Mrs Pearson's anus and I was feeling my own, long-delayed orgasm rise and swell and a massive feeling of tenderness for Mrs Pearson washed over me as I spurted my seed into her.

Afterwards Jack slid his softening length out of her anus and I rolled her off me and onto her front, where she lay silent and slumped, her eyes shut as though asleep. I looked at Jack and nodded at the bedroom door and we both picked our clothes up and went downstairs to dress.

'You lucky bastard,' he said as we stood by the front door. 'Will there be a replay sometime?'

'I don't think so, Jack,' I told him.

After he'd gone I went back upstairs and into my bedroom. Mrs Pearson was lying as we had left her, a dribble of spunk running down one of her buttocks. I lay on the bed next to her and she came into my arms and I held her and kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair and her shoulders and her arms.

'Are you ok?' I asked.

She smiled sleepily. 'A bit tender, in places. But oh, God, Paul, it was so exciting! I lost count of the number of times I came as you both had me!'

'Not much of a punishment, then,' I laughed.

'Well you can always take me into the garage again next weekend,' she smiled. 'I'd really like you to tie me up to that beam again.'

Epilogue.

After that weekend I started to think of Susan Pearson as my girlfriend, albeit there was a twenty-year age gap. We started spending a lot of time together and she suddenly told me one day that she was in love with me and my heart flipped and I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with my English teacher.

It was at Mrs Pearson's suggestion that I started writing and, after a couple of non-starters, I had a contemporary novel published and now, three years down the line, I am a successful author and I've given up working in a laboratory to write full-time. So Mrs Pearson has completely exonerated herself.

Not that that has stopped her regular punishments. Mrs Pearson, it turns out, is more submissive and masochistic than I had imagined. There is a strong link in her mind between punishment and pain and sexual pleasure and she enjoys intensely being smacked hard with a paddle or whipped with a riding crop. She adores bondage and the feeling of helplessness and lack of control that it engenders. Her favourite is still being strung up in my garage, her ankles secured to eyebolts while I whip her tits and her pussy and her arse. And as for bodystockings, she's hardly ever out of one!

But most of the time it's just ordinary, wonderful, intimate sex. Though as I take her gently on a Saturday night after an intimate supper, I look down on her beneath me on the bed and I still wonder how it can be that Mrs Pearson is mine.

The End