Ms. E in 4C – 01

“You’ll need to nuzzle in deeper than that to lick me, Honey.” Ms. E’s voice was a gentle contralto – just as calm and pleasant as it was when she greeted me in the hall.

“Are you going to crack my head like a walnut again?” She’d pulled up her skirt so our eyes could meet, and she could see that I was smiling.

“I’d never.” But we both knew that she would – or at least her plump thighs would try to when she was on the verge of orgasm. The truth was that I really didn’t mind, but I liked to teas her.

I gave her thighs one last kiss. I always started by kissing her thighs – her skin was so soft there, so supple that it begged to be nibbled and licked. When she wore nylons (and she often did) I couldn’t ignore the curve where her pale skin blossomed fleshily out of the top of the lacy band – I was an addict.

Her legs shifted position, and her round bottom lifted from the comforter as I slid further into the vertex between her thighs. She cinched her skirt up to watch me and flinched, giggling when my lips pressed against her panties. This week her panties were cotton, but a sleek black printed with tiny purple flowers; they were always pretty and feminine. And as always, they were new – the creases had been ironed out, but they still smelled faintly of plastic beneath her subtle perfume and her own, stronger odor. I sucked them into my mouth until they were slick with my saliva, until I’d leeched out both the light dew of her anticipation and the slightly bitter stain of some excitement earlier in the day when she must have soaked them through. I often found her new panties previously (or still) moist, and I liked to imagine that she’d spent the whole morning at church thinking about the afternoon. I imagined her sitting on a hard wooden pew in my mental image of some generic church, pretending to focus on a hymnal, crossing her legs to contain the warmth flowing in her loins, but squeezing her thighs tight and squirming just enough to cultivate the pleasure of her clandestine fantasy.

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