I don't think the usual caveats apply to this story per se; there's a lot of sex in it throughout. However, the actual BDSM content doesn't show up until later, so please don't be put off if the chains and such aren't around to start.
Also, hopefully this is clear from the text, but despite the high school setting, all sexually active characters are over 18.
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The faint hint of chemical cleaner, stale water, and BO were not the most romantic bouquet to make love to.
Jennifer didn't care; they weren't making love anyway.
"Yes! Yes! Fuck me! Harder!" she cried out. The words echoed in the locker room, with all the surfaces being stone or metal. The slaps of her ass against his body as he plowed her doggy style also echoed.
"Shut up, for fucks sake," the man behind her growled, "It's already six, there could be people around."
"Just fuck me," Jennifer repeated.
Dick kept going. He was the academy "athletic advisor" because boujee places like Sherwood Academy didn't have anything so pedestrian as a gym teacher. They'd met in college, and immediately pissed each other off; he assumed she wanted in his pants because he played football, she retaliated by calling him Dick constantly, when he insisted everyone call him Rich. Of course they'd been fucking by Junior year, though they never made a relationship work.
She'd recommended him to the board of the school. An NFL prospect with the bad luck to blow his knee out senior year, he was a well-known enough name to gain the school some more clout. And the athletic director being a former NFL player cinched it.
School hadn't even officially started when Jennifer cornered him in the locker room the first time and they got "reacquainted". They were both married, but she didn't care.
"I wanna play with your tits," he said.
"No way," she grunted back as his cock continued to split her pussy open, "Like you said; people are coming. That's why I wear the fucking skirts."
She was proud of her tits. Full 34DDs with no artificial ingredients, she scandalized the older women of the school by wearing push-up bras that turned her chest into a spectacle. She barely had to work to get the attention of male students in her class. They weren't focused on the material so much, but anything to keep their minds from wandering, she could work with.
Dick reached around and pawed at her chest anyway. Despite the two layers of fabric the squeezing actually felt good; his usual clumsy, rough groping was muted into a nice massage of the breasts that helped her arousal.
"Ohhh fuck I'm close," he said.
"UP!" she cried, "Pick me up, finish me like that!"
This was one of the best features of fucking Dick. He used his physique to lift her legs by the knees and hold her against his chest. She came off the floor, wrapping a hand around his neck and feeling his hard pecs against her back. His thrusts into her were helped by gravity, and the angle meant the head of his cock rubbed right over her g-spot. She even got a little extra from her boobs bouncing around in her bra, her hard nipples rubbing against the fabric.
The effort stalled him long enough that he lasted an extra minute or so bouncing her on his cock. Jennifer heard him growl and felt the pulsing as he came. His arms gave a little and he dropped her farther, slamming his cock home deep in her pussy and actually touching her cervix. It felt a little like a punch in her pussy.
It made her cum.
It wasn't a huge orgasm, but it was enough to make her shudder and set her pussy quivering around his shaft. She felt a few drips of their combined fluids leak out of her.
"Put me down, put me down," she urged him.
He let her go and she scurried over to her bag, then ducked into one of the shower stalls to clean herself up. She pulled her skirt back down so it stopped somewhere above her knee again, rather than acting like an extra thick leather belt.
When she came out, Dick still sat there, his pants around his ankles and his shirt off, looking a bit despondent.
"Come on," he pleaded, "We've got some time. Come sit with me."
"Fuck's sake, Dick, we're pushing it as-is. Caught half-dressed in the locker room isn't any better than being caught fucking. If you want to snuggle, get in bed with your wife."
Dick sighed. "She isn't like that. She isn't even around half the time because of work."
"You signed up for that, remember?" Jennifer said as she found a mirror and re-did her ponytail. She had blonde hair long enough that she could make a "topknot ponytail" wrapped with her own hair and it still came down to her mid back. She finished and turned to him.
"I told you back then; I like teaching, and I need someone who can support that, practically and financially. You were going to be traveling everywhere for the NFL before. Now you're another teacher. I helped set you up with your hi-powered lawyer wife, remember?"
"You also said we'd keep each other company on the side," he said.
"What the fuck do you think we just did?" Jennifer retorted.
"That was a booty call," he said.
"Well unfortunately my husband is a little more demanding when it comes to my attention," Jennifer said, thinking in her head that was a vast understatement, "So I can't sneak off with you to a motel room for a sleepover. If you can't handle that, maybe you need to find another side piece."
Jennifer stormed out, the click of her heels on the floor partially drowning out his calls of "Jennifer!"
She wasn't angry with him, but she needed to set expectations. She was fine fucking him on the side, getting quickies in the morning or at lunch. Jennifer wasn't going to start a full-blown affair, though. She wouldn't be able to manage that with her husband.
She got to her classroom with plenty of time to spare before the bell went off. In the name of maintaining an "old-world feel," the school still used actual, ringing bells. All of the students filed in in their uniforms; jackets for everyone, pleated skirts and knee socks for the girls. Despite the dreams of porn fetishists everywhere, the skirts fell below the girls' knees and their blouses were always done up tight to the collar. Some of them might have been rebels and worn thongs or even gone commando, but that was as titillating as anything could get. The guys just looked like assembly-line suit models wearing the cheapest jackets and slacks that could be bought.
That meant her own jacketless, silk blouse and tight skirt combo with thigh-highs and three-inch heels may as well have been a bikini given the way most of the guys and some of the girls stared at her. She smiled at them.
"Bonjour classe," she said.
"Bonjour Madame Arlington."
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"Are you taking me to lunch Mister Kalmus?" Jennifer asked as she fell into step beside the taller man.
"We seem to be going to lunch at the same time," he replied with a smile.
"And to the same place, I'll bet," Jennifer said.
"Unless you have somewhere else you have to eat," he said.
"Well I don't, but there are stories of young teachers sneaking off with other faculty during lunch you know," she said.
Mister Kalmus smiled and waggled his eyebrows. "Do they now?"
"I think they do," she said, "I've heard some strange sounds sometimes when I've needed to rush to make copies at lunch."
"Oh you mean that supply closet near the faculty bathrooms? Yes, rumors about that room for years. They say that's why it got one of the new coded locks; the old lock was too easy to pick," Mr. Kalmus said.
"Yes, and we teachers all have the code don't we? So if someone did want to fool around in one, it would have to be one of us. Or two of us," Jennifer suggested.
Kalmus chuckled, but sounded down. "Maybe twenty years ago, Madame Arlington. I'm too old to get anyone to play those games with anymore."
Jennifer personally disagreed. Peter Kalmus was older; he'd gone past 50 a few years ago. But he had the chiseled face and stocky frame of an old Hollywood star, with salt and pepper hair and a sensual voice he didn't even have to try to make sexy. He could read the phone book and get panties soaking. Rumor had it certain girls who didn't have anywhere near the required grades tried to get into his AP English classes just so they could hear him read Byron.
"You never know until you try," Jennifer suggested, "I bet you could put your arm around any two women in the school and they'd follow you right into your bedroom."
"And then have to carry me out when the heart attack kills me," Kalums replied.
Jennifer smiled along and chuckled as their banter steered away from the possible and into fantasyland. She'd established the game with him her first year after he'd asked her to stop into a class to comment on differences between meanings in original French literature and the English translations. Some of the content had been a little racy, and she'd used the opportunity to flirt with him after class. He came right back at her with the confidence of a tenured teacher with enough clout to survive a sexual harassment suit, or at least enough money to retire if it didn't go his way.
He had no idea Jennifer wasn't at all kidding, about any of it. She'd take him into the closet, take him home to his bed, even find another woman to join them if he'd only take her seriously. But she had to content herself with staring at him over lunch, then excusing herself to jill off in the bathroom just before class and wash her hands.
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"[You wanted to see me, Madame Arlington]?"
Jennifer looked up at the thin boy standing in the doorway to her classroom. Micah Townsend was in the running for valedictorian of the senior class, basically neck and neck with Amy Hu, a stereotypical Asian girl down to the thin frame, chin-length black hair, aggressive "tiger" mother, and the violin.
He'd greeted her in French, which they were both practically fluent in; her actually, him from education.
Jennifer had cheated her way into education by having a fully French paternal grandmother who ended up raising her a lot of the time after her mother passed away from cancer. While her father tried to split his time between caring for her and working enough jobs to keep them fed, her grandmother inadvertently made her bilingual by speaking French around her as a toddler while her father spoke English. Even with mediocre grades from an unremarkable college, she'd been a shoo-in for the French teaching position; they could claim to all of their patrons that their French teacher was a "native speaker" but didn't have to sponsor her for a visa or pay extra because she was a scholar who'd come over from Europe; they could just pay her like any other second year teacher out of college. After all, they needed to keep the students' $85,000/year tuitions earmarked to maintain the varnish on all the wooden walls.
"[Why are you in my French four class, Micah]?" she asked.
He looked confused by her question and answered her in English. "I'm...it's the next class offered and-"
"You aced French three without even trying," she said, also switching to English "I know; I taught you. Your grade in that class was something like 120 because you did all the extra credit. Why am I teaching you French IV and not AP French?"
"I...I have a lot of other classes and activities and I had to prioritize," he stammered.
Jennifer smirked. He couldn't look her in the eyes, but his gaze hadn't traveled down to his shoes like a stereotypical nervous kid. No; they'd stopped a bit higher.
