My name’s Sachin. I’m 18, standing a solid six feet, with a dusky complexion and a body carved from hours at the gym. I’m in the 12th grade at Saraswati Vidyalaya, and my class teacher, Mrs. Agnes, is a 38-year-old Christian married to a South Indian guy. She’s about five-foot-seven, with skin like dark honey, and long, silky hair cascading to her waist like a midnight waterfall. Her eyes are deep pools, framed by arched brows that could pierce your soul. Her lips, especially when coated in red lipstick, are like ripe cherries begging to be tasted. But her ass—God, it’s a masterpiece, full and curvaceous, swaying like a pendulum with every step. And her breasts? They’re massive, like two ripe melons straining against her blouse, probably 38DD, bouncing with a life of their own. She always wore tight black or red sarees that hugged her curves like a lover’s embrace. Every guy in my class dreamed of fucking her, but I was the one who got lucky.
I was a math whiz, and Agnes had a soft spot for me. We even shared the same birthday, which made us closer than most teachers and students. At first, I respected her like any good student would, but soon my eyes started wandering. When she leaned over my desk to check my work, her cleavage was like a forbidden valley, pulling my gaze. At night, I’d jerk off imagining her naked, her curves under my hands, her pussy wet for me. She seemed so reserved, almost untouchable, which made me hesitant to act. But we got along well, and she was a bit more open with me than others. She lived just two blocks from my house, so we often walked or rode back together. Her perfume, like wild jasmine, drove me wild, and her soft, teasing voice made my cock throb. I couldn’t hold back anymore.
It was our school’s annual day, and the event wrapped up late, around 10:30 p.m. My parents were at my grandma’s place because she was sick, leaving me the house keys. But I saw an opportunity and lied to Agnes, “Ma’am, I lost my keys.” She didn’t hesitate. “No worries, Sachin, stay at my place tonight.” I thanked her, my heart racing as we headed to her house. Her husband was working offshore in Mumbai, and her young son was already asleep. The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the night and moonlight spilling through the windows like liquid silver. She handed me her son’s clothes and said, “Go change in the bathroom.”
In the bathroom, I found a bucket of her unwashed laundry. On top was a black bra, its lace like a siren’s call. I picked it up, ran it across my lips, and inhaled her scent—musky, intoxicating, like forbidden fruit. My cock hardened instantly, like a steel rod in my underwear. I jerked off hard, imagining her wearing that bra, her tits spilling out. After calming down, I changed and joined her for dinner. She was wearing a white maxi dress, so sheer I could see her white bra underneath, like a beacon in the night. One button was undone, revealing a sliver of cleavage, like a tease from heaven. I forgot my food, staring at her breasts, my cock stirring again. She caught me and asked, “Sachin, what are you doing?” I stammered, “Just… worried about my keys, ma’am.” She smiled knowingly, like she saw through my lie, and said, “Don’t stress, it’ll be fine.”
After dinner, she said she wasn’t sleepy and asked if I was. “I don’t sleep before midnight,” I replied. We moved to the living room and turned on the TV. By some stroke of fate, the cable was playing A Short Love Story, right at a steamy kissing scene. I reached for the remote, but she stopped me. “Keep it,” she said, her voice low, like velvet. For the first time, I saw hunger in her eyes, like a lioness eyeing her prey. She watched the scene as if she wanted to dive into it. My pulse raced, my cock twitching. Suddenly, she turned to me. “Have you ever kissed someone like that, Sachin?” I admitted, “No, ma’am.” She looked disappointed but kept watching. I was exhausted and must’ve dozed off.
I woke to a warm, teasing sensation on my cock. My eyes snapped open—Mrs. Agnes was sitting next to me, stroking my dick through my pants, her fingers moving like a dancer on a stage. I froze, staring at her. She didn’t stop, her eyes locked on mine, filled with raw desire. Then she spoke, her voice sultry, “You wanted this, right, Sachin? I’m giving it to you.” I couldn’t believe it. My teacher, my fantasy, was offering herself to me.
She slid off the couch and knelt before me, her eyes gleaming like dark stars. She pulled down my pants, and my cock sprang free, hard as a rock. “Fuck, what a big dick,” she whispered, her voice dripping with lust. She stroked it faster, her hand like a warm glove. Then she leaned in, her tongue flicking the tip of my cock, like a cat lapping cream. Shivers shot through me. Slowly, she took my entire length into her mouth, sucking with a rhythm that made my head spin. Her lips were soft, wet, like petals wrapped around me. I moaned, “Oh, ma’am, fuck!” She sucked harder, her tongue swirling, her mouth a hot, wet paradise. For twenty minutes, she worked my cock, alternating between slow licks and deep, hungry sucks, her saliva making it glisten.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled her up and onto my lap, her face inches from mine. I grabbed her head and kissed her hard, our tongues tangling like lovers in a storm. She was a fucking expert, her mouth devouring mine, her lips soft and demanding. I tore off her maxi, revealing her white bra and panties. Her tits were barely contained, like ripe peaches ready to burst. I slid my hand into her panties, grabbing her ass, soft and full like velvet cushions. She moaned, pressing my face into her cleavage, her tits enveloping me like a warm embrace. I was in heaven.
I unhooked her bra, and her massive breasts spilled out, their nipples hard like ripe berries. I sucked them greedily, her moans filling the room, “Sachin, suck harder!” Her voice was pure sex. I yanked off her panties, exposing her pussy, wet and glistening like a dew-kissed flower, with a neat strip of hair like a guiding arrow. She grabbed my cock and led me to her bedroom, where a silk-sheeted bed waited like a lover’s promise.
We fell into a 69 position. I buried my face in her pussy, licking her juices, sweet like honey. She sucked my cock, her mouth relentless, like a starving woman at a feast. I slapped her ass, each smack making it jiggle like a ripe fruit, her moans growing louder, “Fuck, Sachin, spank me harder!” Her ass reddened, like a sunset glow. Finally, she growled, “Fuck me, you bastard. Fuck this slut hard!” Her voice was raw, desperate, just like in my fantasies.
I spread her legs and slid my cock into her pussy, tight and hot like a velvet glove. I started slow, then fucked her harder, my hands squeezing her tits, soft like dough, while I sucked her nipples, hard like pebbles. She screamed, “Oh, Sachin, fuck me harder!” Her moans echoed, like music in a cathedral. I pulled out and placed my cock between her tits, fucking them, her breasts bouncing like waves on a shore. Then she climbed on me, guiding my cock into her tight ass, like a key sliding into a lock. We kissed as I fucked her ass, our tongues dancing, her body trembling. “Fuck my ass, Sachin!” she cried, her voice wild.
I came hard, my cum spilling over her pussy and ass, like rain on a parched desert. She climaxed too, her juices flowing like a river, and she licked my cum clean, her tongue eager like a kitten’s. I kept sucking her tits, lost in their softness. It was pure ecstasy. The next morning, as I left, she whispered, “Need more? Come back anytime. This whore is yours.” Her voice was a seductive promise. I walked home, my mind buzzing with the thought of our next fuck.