I had never been truly or expertly fucked by a man. I couldn't figure out why. I was attractive. I was smart and funny. I wasn't obnoxious or uninteresting. But the guys I had been with never put in the time, attention, or effort to pleasure my body. Maybe they were selfish. Maybe they just didn't know how. I was lucky if their fingers even brushed my clit; they acted as if this most erogenous place on my body was merely a passing stranger they were waving to in the dark. My tormented, frustrated pussy was always heavy with pent up desire - not surprisingly, I never had an orgasm from any of these lackluster encounters. I had almost given up on sex.
My problem had become so severe that I finally broke down and confided in Mr. Kushna, my art teacher. This intimate confession occurred under very unusual circumstances. He taught art at the local community college where I was taking a night course. I'm 27 but look 16, and he mistakenly thought I was a high school kid when I first walked into his classroom. He asked me where I went to school, which district. He looked disappointed when I told him how old I was. But it wasn't really his fault.
That night, I had run out of my favorite perfume so I spritzed on some strawberry body spray at the last minute before going to class. I was 27, looked 16, and smelled 13. He could hardly be blamed for his mistake, could he? I got a kick out of it when men made these "mistakes" about my age. I liked being a naughty tease, making guys feel foolish, stupid and used. It was so ridiculously easy, too. So very easy to lead men around by their cocks.
I signed up for his art class out of curiosity, a change of pace. I thought it might get my mind off my sexual problems and frustrations to funnel my "issues" into artistic expression. When Mr. Kushna introduced himself to the class, I was impressed right away. He was tall, in his 50's, and looked fairly fit and trim. He walked with a slight spring in his step, the way runners or athletes sometimes do. He was wearing a casual Hawaiian print shirt, which gave him an air of fun, as if he wasn't going to take himself too seriously. I liked that. A teacher didn't have to be a bore. Especially an art teacher. Art was all about freeing your mind, experiencing the world visually, not just intellectually. Connecting more with your heart than your head.
He spoke kindly, patiently to us little wannabe artists, some of whom probably couldn't draw a straight line. He seemed to want to encourage everyone to do their best, whatever that might be. Even the lost lambs like me, trying to figure out who we were and what we wanted from our empty lives, received his full and courteous attention.
I went home from the first session feeling uplifted and inspired. I couldn't get Mr. Kushna out of my mind for some reason. Maybe it was my own unfulfilled sexual needs, but I began fantasizing about him. My fantasies centered around his beautiful hands. That's the first thing I noticed about him. Actually, it's one of the first things I notice about any man. His hands were designed not only to make art, but love. He had great sex hands. That's my quirky nickname for it: "sex hands". Some men have them, but many don't.
I can spot hands like that a mile away. The hands of a male that are best suited for lovemaking, for me anyway, must be a combination of strength and gentleness. The hands and fingers shouldn't be too thin (like a sickly vampire), nor too chubby or muscular (like a bodybuilder on steroids). The hands must strike just the right balance between mastery and caressing vulnerability. The fingers, in particular, must look as if they belong in a woman's pussy, ready to probe and explore her deepest intimate regions. Mr. Kushna had hands that could have been on a Greek statue. I had an urge to kiss them.
At the next class, I tried to sit a bit closer to the front row. I wanted to be near this man I was starting to feel quite an attraction for. I had no designs on him. At least none that I'd admit to. I figured he was probably married. I got up close enough to spot the ring on his finger. Yep, he was married. Of course, why wouldn't he be? I had to fight the urge to linger after class, but felt it was safer to leave with the rest of the students, glancing quickly over my shoulder to see him gathering up his papers and rushing to his car.
I know it was wrong of me, but I followed him to the parking lot. I felt like a stalker. If I were a man following a female teacher to her car, I'd get busted for sexual harassment. But since I'm a young looking woman ( girl?) wearing strawberry perfume, I can get away it. Women can get away with certain sexual things that men can't. Like following a man in a dark parking lot.
I hung back behind a concrete pillar and waited until I saw him hop into his car, a non-descript compact. I figured he'd zoom off, rushing home to his wife and cozy home in the suburbs after a long day of teaching. But the car didn't move. I continued to wait, watch and observe. Still the car didn't move. What was he doing there, just sitting? Maybe looking at student's drawings? But we hadn't done any assignments yet. No papers to grade.
I carefully inched my way closer. As I cautiously walked near the driver side door, I glanced in and was simultaneously shocked and incredibly turned on by what I saw. There was Mr. Kushna, pants pulled down around his ankles, masturbating intensely. He hadn't taken his cock out of his pants yet, but was dry rubbing himself over his underwear, fondling, teasing, his beautiful sensuous hands pleasuring himself in the most luxurious way, his head back, lost in the sensations. There was no time to look away before his eyes met mine in stark terror and embarrassment. It was too late to hide. He knew that I had seen him rubbing himself, risking exposing himself to any student who happened to pass by.
He quickly pulled his pants up in one rapid motion, hands trembling, and motioned to me through the window. I wanted to run, to get away, but it was hopeless. Our lives were on a collision course, and fate had decreed that I be Mr. Kushna's confidante and special friend, keeping his secret and telling him my own inner desires and frustrations. I had known from the minute I laid eyes on him that it would be this way. We women have an uncanny knack for sensing the sexual future. We already have the script written in our heads. Or at least, we think we do.
He unlocked the passenger door and motioned for me to get in. My mind flashed back to his wedding ring. I figured if he was jerking off, alone in his car, things couldn't be that great at home. I got a little tingle in my crotch, hoping that maybe he'd view me as something more than just another student in his art class. I had him in my crosshairs. I wanted him. I liked the challenge and the chase. But my female intuition warned me that Kushna might be a mystery I could never solve.
After I slid into his car, we sat in silence for several minutes, me staring straight ahead nervously. Finally, he spoke, apologetically.
"Stacy, I'm sorry you had to see that. I had no business doing that in the school parking lot. You won't tell anyone, will you?"
"Of course not, Mr. Kushna. We all do stupid things sometimes. I've done many things I shouldn't have. Your secret is safe with me."
He let out a long sigh. "Thanks, I really need my job. My boy's in college and there's been unexpected bills. My wife will kill me if I lose this job. I wish I could repay you somehow."
I thought for a moment. It didn't take me long to realize how he could do precisely that. "Well, Mr. Kushna, there is something you can do for me."
"Name it, Stacy, anything. Well, I won't rob a bank for you, hahaha, but maybe we can come to a meeting of the minds here."
"I need someone to talk to about a problem that's been upsetting me for quite awhile. For years, in fact. I'll be honest, Mr. Kushna - I do think we can be totally honest and open with each other now, right? I've never been fucked very well, not by anyone. I've been with several guys and I've never had an orgasm or even gotten close to it. It's driving me crazy. Every time I go to bed with a man, I dread it because it's the same thing every time. My pussy, my clit are in agony because I'm not stimulated properly. I end up having to give myself an orgasm with my fingers or a vibrator. I'm so embarrassed telling you this, but we seem to be on the same wavelength. What do you think?"
Mr. Kushna listened attentively, nodding his head appropriately at different times during my speech about all the bad sex I'd had.
"Well, Stacy, there's something I just don't understand. You're a cute, attractive girl, intelligent and upbeat. You have a very nice body. I can't imagine any man not wanting to love every inch of you."
As soon as I heard him say the words "love every inch of you" I felt like he'd taken a match and lit me up from head to foot. I shifted in the seat, trying to hide the building waves of arousal in my clit and pussy, which were now steadily throbbing. His remarks caught me off guard.
"Let me ask you some questions, Stacy, just so I know exactly what has gone on in the past between you and these other men, the ones who don't stimulate you. I'll ask you if they have done a certain sexual act with you, and you answer "Yes" or "No" if they did this to you, okay? That way I can get a better picture of what the problem might be."
As he spoke, I noticed that he took out a small booklet and a pen, perhaps to make notes, almost like a doctor with a prescription pad.
"Okay, Mr. Kushna, like a checklist? Yes, please ask whatever you need to know. And since we are talking so personally, can we be on a first name basis? "
.... There is more of this story ...