A/N: Hello there. While this is hardly my first time delving into writing erotic literature or any other type of literature for that matter, I fear after a long break I became rusty, so observation is encouraged and cherished. This is probably a part of a series, although I have yet to decide on writing further. Please enjoy and don't forget to leave me your thoughts. Ellen.
All characters in this story are over 18.
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How I came into the revelation that my cunt is absolutely running wild when I even think of older, scruffy men is unknown to me. I was perhaps too busy fucking myself to understand the enormity of the information that suddenly sprang to life. It must have been around the age of fourteen, though, when after endless quick clit rubbing I turned into actually taking the time to explore the inside of my pussy and find I actually love the taste and spend minutes after an orgasm just sucking on my fingers. How easy it is now to just smile at the memories.
I went for cock next, this time with more in mind than just sucking it. I needed inside me as much and often as I could. By the time I got to be of age, barely legal and experienced in the art of picking up hook ups, there was little I hadn't done. I'd at least tried most of it once just to spite my OCD.
During my last high-school year, I broke a personal record. It was October and I was so caught up in everything, including my family falling apart, my mother dying and suddenly finding myself alone that I realised I hadn't got laid in forever. Well, four months but it was taking its toll and I was feeling it deep in my bones. What am I saying? I was feeling it deep in my cunt. It was this never ending ache that I couldn't alleviate. This never ending itch I couldn't quite reach to solve. It was the lack of cock in me. I still fucked myself every now and then, but it was hardly enough because you see, I didn't miss only the actual sex, where some preferably forty year old someone (I was known to go for younger guys as well) stuck his delicious cock in me in all possible ways. It was more than that. I missed the chase, the knowledge that I would end up fucking that guy. It was the flirting, the foreplay, the way cum just found a way on my face and my glasses, in my hair and on my chest.
With a sigh, I got ready for school. School. It sounds like I'm in primary years all over again, now when I mentioned it. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror - that had got to be one of the dullest uniforms I had ever seen, dark blue and white, with touches of gray, with a thin tie that could be used for so much more than hanging there. I was never hot. Not in the way society pinned hotness to be. I had a bit of a belly and some hips and my legs weren't thin and my ass wasn't perfect and I was relatively short. I learned to work with what I had, though and I was pretty. Not beautiful, that's something only the privileged possess but I was pretty and I had killer boobs. Double Ds always half spilling out of a balconette bra. I was hot and not because society made me that way but because of my red hair, because I was sultry and seductive and knew how to work cock. I had men at my little finger in ways perfect girls only dream of because honestly, who the fuck wants a corpse to stick a dick into? Apart from necrophiliacs, that is. If you can't move in bed, you'll have to settle to a sad life.
I had a boring life in school; just going, sometimes falling asleep, barely ever finding anything worth studying and I spent most of class time reading or skipping to chat with my best friend. Well he didn't know he was my best friend but and I'm exaggerating a lot when I call him that, but he was cool and valued my opinion. I also called him "Mister C.", cause he was some sort of principal. I'd just spend hours in his office until he kicked me out. And while I normally had no scruples when it came to married men, I was forever in love with his child and couldn't wait for him to grow up so he could make me a happy milf. Besides, Mister C. was too vanilla for me, he seemed like the guy who'd make sweet love to me and never pull my hair when I dropped down to suck on his balls. I could be wrong but no matter how much I wanted to fuck a teacher, he was not the one for me. He taught sociology and that was about the only class I was still paying any attention.
I'd fuck teachers before, just not ones in my schools. I had a weekend getaway on my eighteenth birthday with a Psychology teacher I met online and he spent half the time he fucked me telling me how I had an unresolved issue with my father. Hello? Why else would I want to fuck men over forty. I had to sit on his face to shut him up. It was brilliant.
Now, each and every one of my three-gone-one-left years of high-school I found a teacher I could watch in class and fantasise about fucking while they kept trying to teach me shit. It was entertaining and it made time fly faster. The damn private school daddy put me in was adamant against leaving its premises until class time was over and I was slowly withering away in there. In my last year, this new teacher came into the campus. His name was Dale something, I never knew his surname. He was teaching English Literature and even before seeing him, my friends told me I would want him - "he's your type, Ellen, old and unshaved". They were right because the second I laid eyes on him, I wanted his dick. He was teaching younger years and I had a hard time coming to terms with that.
That didn't stop me, though. I had plenty of time to watch him over lunch, to step in his classes and just pretend I was there for additional teaching methods training or just play the mysterious senior who would just be there. Now, Dale was a sight. Tall and rough, always with a dress shirt, always smiling for some reason, a faint scent of tobacco and scotch surrounding him. And suddenly, hello literature contests. Hello, reading club. Hello retaking exams because he was supervising. I was troubled about a man for the first time in ages because he was in a space I pretty much lived in. It was as if fucking my own family. Hello sudden wetness of my cunt.
I was doing nothing ridiculous such as popping the buttons of my shirt in front of him, sucking on my pen (okay, once or twice) or just throwing myself at him but I could swear he knew something. At one point, he took off the sweater he wore over his shirt during an exam he was supervising and I was simply lost. My classmate had to slap me back to reality; I left a draft paper with a little cock haiku I pondered upon.
What most drew me to Dale was that he was unattainable; he was unattainable and he had the most erotic combination of British and New Zealand accents. Where do you find these people? He was around forty and I wanted to fuck him for every month that passed since he was born. I was desperate to just be near him because that meant he could notice me. I took over his extra hours when he came down with the flu; I was going for a major in that for University and I was the only person in that whole damn school who wasn't asking for money for those classes. I was getting so desperate for him that after I accidentally bumped into him and his entire height of 6'3 collided with me and he picked me off the floor and gave me back my books with a smile on, I had to furiously masturbate in the restroom and smoke my two after-cigarettes, risking expulsion.
It had got so bad, I couldn't even go out to fuck strangers, even after I realised I could and should because they were suddenly not hot, hot tall, not rough and lacked the accent Dale had. I was so fucking bored into the pub I was for the night, I seriously considered just going home and reading something or watching a movie. And I swear, I thought I was delusional when I saw Dale enter that same pub. I was unaware until that very moment he even had any friends in the foreign city he found himself in. Apparently he did, cause he was dead drunk - even worse than I was - and avidly looking for fun. Any type of fun, it seemed because the second he laid eyes on me, he waved and came over with a smile.
"Ellen!" The music was loud but his accent was unmistakable. With a slur, since he was plastered. Instant wetness and I crossed my legs on the high bar stool for some friction. Anything that would touch my clit would do; my tight jeans were doing just the trick.
"Sir. I didn't expect to meet you here."
He looked around as if scared to be seen and finally gave up on the pretense, took a cigarette from my pack and lit it. "It's Friday, fuck it. I needed to get out and drink my week away. What about you?"
I needed a fuck. Do you mind? "I'm working. My client should be here any minute." I puffed up my tits for that, threatening to make them spill from their confines. With a smile on, I took his scotch and downed it. Careful to wipe the corners of my mouth suggestively, I cocked my head waiting for his answer. He didn't disappoint. With a small step back, he winked twice and struggled to keep his eyes out of my cleavage.
