Chapter 3

Miss Driscoll’s classes never ended on time. It wasn’t that she didn’t take her job seriously - she was undoubtedly the most committed teacher at St Augustine’s - but many of her pupils didn’t want to leave when the bell rung loudly to signal the end of the lesson.

For the girls, she was an aspirational figure. They saw the way she carried herself with effortless poise; her deep brown hair highlighted with blonde hanging over her shoulders, subtle makeup perfectly complimenting her smooth, white skin, accentuating her classic English rose face that beamed with a genuine and warm smile whenever the opportunity arose.

They would excitedly ask her which shop she bought her dress from, or point to a photograph in a fashion magazine and comment how beautiful she would look in the latest designs.

Looking good was very important to Miss Driscoll, but she abhorred the vainness that so often afflicted beautiful women with an interest in hair and beauty. She liked the feel of a well cut and perfectly fitted dress. Her slim, toned frame seemed to exaggerate her well placed curves, ensuring that she avoided charges of being ‘too thin’ whilst still feeling feminine and womanly.

Graceful femininity, she often thought, was the most attractive feature in a woman. In her experience, the cliche of men and boys lusting after girls painted thick with make up and wearing cheap, plasticky mini skirts was nothing short of a myth. Give them an Audrey Hepburn or a Kate Middleton and their desires would soon be made known.

That’s not to say, of course, that clothes were strictly necessary in Miss Driscoll’s interpretation of class and elegance. Being obtainable was a necessary part of being desirable, and she took great pleasure in showing the boys that she was indeed obtainable.

It was almost the end of her third class of the day. Her room of Year 10s, now 15 years old, had initially struggled to understand the complex motifs and symbolism of Shakespeare’s Sonnets. But one boy, Jeremy, had excelled. Jeremy had recently blossomed from a slightly weak and sickly child into a confident and attractive young man. His classmates had teased him mercilessly for writing a poem in his Valentine’s Day card to his favourite English teacher (most of the others would just send her a text message with a photo of their erect genitalia in the hope that she would somehow return the favour).

Jeremy had offered an insightful analysis of the three quatrains of Sonnet 116, and had been rewarded by Miss Driscoll spending the last ten minutes of the class sat on his knee. His hands stroked her back delicately as the other pupils took it in turns to read the Bard’s words aloud. His eyes were transfixed, savouring every moment as his teacher nibbled his earlobes, combing his hair with her fingers and occasionally kissing him slowly with an erotic intensity exacerbated by her tendency to pull away, bite her lip, breathe deeply so her firm breasts rose into his line of sight before returning to his lips for a further, elongated kiss.

“Very good...” she would utter from time to time. “ ... And what do you think Shakespeare meant by that?” Before swiftly returning to implementing Her student’s reward.

She stood briefly to reposition herself, her legs now separated as she sat straddling him. Her hair fell against his face as she leaned forward for another kiss, before pulling it back behind each ear with a sigh of almost romantic contentment.

“I want you inside me...” she said softly, making no attempt to hide her desires from the other pupils sat just a few feet away. He grinned so widely his ears twitched. The other boys strained their necks as Jeremy pulled aside the straps of her pale green dress exposing her bra which perfectly held her firm breasts. Her left hand was already squeezing his hardening cock through his trousers before pulling his belt open and unclasping his trousers with expert efficiency.

Several of the girls rolled their eyes with a ‘here she goes again’ look of disdain.

The teacher was almost certain she had never even kissed Jeremy before, and if that was the case then she was now wondering why she had waited so long.

Miss Driscoll couldn’t see his cock, she was too busy enjoying his soft lips that were a touch thicker than most boys at school. But she melted with relief to find that not only was it a good size, the tip was bulbous with a shaft that curved at an angle - experience told her it would feel exceptionally good.

Her hair tickled her own back, now arched as he licked her neck hungrily. As he pulled the bottom of her dress up above her waist and firmly grasped her buttocks he realised that she was not wearing underwear. The headmaster, Mr Peddigrew had approached her in the staff room earlier that morning to ask if he could borrow them. His day-long strategy meeting with the School Governors would be just about bearable if he could enjoy her scent from time to time.

The rest of the class had come to the end of their allotted poems, and she encouraged them to turn to page 254 of their textbooks and read its contents aloud. Most of them did so obediently; there was nothing happening that was particularly out of place in Miss Driscoll’s classes but for some the novelty had not yet worn off and so instead chose to fumble with their phones, quickly switching the camera to video mode.

They continued to kiss passionately as she raised her pelvis over him, guiding Jeremy’s engorged penis into her velvet pussy that, thanks to the power of her daily Yoga class, remained as tight as a woman far less experienced.

She was right. It did feel exceptionally good.

Jeremy was like every other boy at school. He had countless naked photos of Miss Driscoll on his phone and had listened jealously as his friends regaled their own sexual conquests, but her pussy felt better than he had ever dreamt. No stories or rumours could ever come close to explaining how wet, warm and tight it was inside her. He could have sworn that each of her vaginal muscles was working independently of each other, massaging every inch of him from every possible angle.

She rose and fell on top of him with rhythmic timing. At the top of each repetition he feared he would fall out of her, but she knew exactly what she was doing and would sit back onto his solid cock at the exact point that she needed to.