[F] - The one about fucking my high school teacher (Years later, of course)

Back in high school, there was that teacher. You know the one. The guy half the girls whispered about, the one who had that stupidly confident walk, the kind that made you wonder if he knew we were all staring. Mr. D (let's keep it vague, but yeah, his last name started with a D—fitting).

The rumor was legendary: He's hung like a fucking horse. Of course, none of us had proof, but teenage girls are nothing if not relentless detectives when it comes to dick speculation. The evidence? The way his pants clung just a little too well when he leaned over a desk. The way he adjusted himself casually during class like he was carrying something that needed rearranging. The way the senior girls who'd had him the year before would smirk and say, Oh, you'll see.

Cut to me, years later, mid-twenties, back in my hometown for a friend's wedding. And who do I see at the bar? Mr. Fucking D. Older, salt-and-pepper hair now, but still that same smirk. Still that same way of standing, like he owned every inch of space around him.

I wasn't even drunk yet when I walked up to him. Just bold. Or stupid. Or both.

"Remember me?" I asked, all innocent, like I hadn't spent half of eleventh grade fantasizing about him bending me over his desk.

He squinted, then laughed. "Jesus. You're all grown up."

Yeah, no shit.

One drink turned into three, and then we were in his car, and then, fuck, we were in his bed, and holy hell, the rumors were not exaggerated.

Let's pause here for a second, because I need you to understand the sheer audacity of this man's dick. It wasn't just big. It was obscene. The kind of cock that makes your throat clench just looking at it. The kind that makes you think, Oh, I'm gonna feel this tomorrow.

And I wanted it. Badly.

So I dropped to my knees right there, still in my little black dress, and took him in my mouth. Not all of him, let's be real, that would've been a challenge, but enough to make him groan, to make his hands fist in my hair. He tasted like salt and sin, and the way his hips rolled forward, just enough to tease my gag reflex? Ugh. I was dripping.

When he finally flipped me onto the bed, it was with this look, ike he'd been waiting years to do this. And maybe he had. Maybe I wasn't the first former student he'd fucked. (Do I care? Nope.)

He took me from behind first, one hand gripping my hip, the other pulling my hair, and fuck, the stretch was unreal. I was whimpering into the sheets, arching back, begging for more. And he gave it to me, hard, deep, the kind of fucking that leaves bruises and memories.

Then he rolled me onto my back, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and pounded into me. Eye contact the whole time, because of course this man was a sadist like that. Watching me unravel, watching me choke on my own moans.

I came so hard I saw stars.

After, lying there sweaty and wrecked, I laughed and said, "So. The rumors were true."

He just smirked. "Which ones?"

Asshole.

I saw him a few more times after that when I was in town. Never talked about high school. Never pretended it was anything more than what it was: filthy, shameless, and so fucking good.

And yeah. Sometimes I still think about it. Especially when I'm alone. And especially when I'm feeling a little nostalgic.

So, Mr. D—if you're out there, thanks for the A+ experience.