Crush on Teacher (Fantasy story) Wednesday, 21-Jan-98 09:25:20

152.163.195.219 writes:

The other day I was remembering one of my high school teachers. And how she used to wear sandals. Then I started fantasizing about what I wish had really happened between her and I. Hope you like.

His sophmore year of high school held promise. His girlfriend dumped him this Summer after learning of his "kinky" fetish. What a horrible relationship-- she'd at first berated him for being too quiet and not "expressing himself" enough. But then she'd shrunk back when he let her know just how mouthwatering he'd always found her feet to be, and how desperately he'd wanted to have them all over his face. After that startling revelation, something always seemed to "come up at the last minute." But now it was a whole new year, with new faces in a new city. A Southern, coastal city, where the girls wore short shorts and sandals. And almost every one of these delightful beauties sported a tan. Let the friend-making begin. Even though it was an up-and-coming school district, the high school he was attending here was old and outdated. An ancient three-story brick building with high, water-stained ceilings and dusty, hardwood floors. The kind of floors that bred dirty and soot. The computers in the computer lab crashed frequently because of the faulty wiring. The auditorium was a hazard because of the rotting floor caused by all the ceiling leaks. And the desks were the old-fashioned kind where the seat and the desktop behind were one piece, nailed to the floor. The broad, one-piece backsupport for one desk rose up 2 inches past the desktop behind, with a pencil trough and hole where inkwells used to rest. And they squeaked badly. But Mark was optimistic with the promise of new friends, new LADYfriends, and a commitment to be more open about his "thing for feet." And he'd penned his goal for the year on the inside flyleaf of his notebook--

"I, Mark Sifford, am committed to having at least 3 pretty women in trample me under their sandals this year. I'm committed to lick at least one pair of female feet. And I will accomplish this by May 15th, 1998".

So for all he cared, school could've met in a barn. As he'd entered his assigned homeroom, he noticed only one seat left. Front row and center, dab smack in front of the teacher's desk. Oh goody. Nonplussed, he took his seat and again studied what he'd written in his notebook the night before. He wondered again about his goal for the year. Might he have aimed a little too high? His thoughts were interrupted by the bell. Showtime. Let's see what sort of dinosaur I've got for homeroom. He made a bet with himself whether or not the old bat would have all her real teeth and hair color. What happened next made Mark sit up straight and almost swallow his tongue. Into the room breezed Mrs.Mosher. Five foot 7, roughly about 130 lbs.(or so Mark imagined), long and wild raven-dark hair, flashing blue eyes, and a smile that lit up the room. She was wearing a sleeveless tea-length dress, with muted floral patterns all over it. Her skin was golden brown and looked smooth to touch. As Mark noticed the brightly colored notepad she was holding, he also noticed the devil-red nail polish on her fingers. Stunned by this sweet vision, he'd almost forgotten to check out what she wore on her feet (usually the first thing he checked out). He wasn't dissappointed. On the contrary, he was riveted by what he saw. As she stood there, pleasantly calling roll, his eyes feasted on her feet. They looked athletic, yet feminine. They were tan and muscular, with a slight hint of veins tracing near her ankles. Her toes were round and long, the nails painted the same devil- red. They flexed and gripped the sole of her sandals as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. They were perfect. He wished desparately he had a camera. He would've loved to poster his wall at home with blown-up pictures of these breath-taking feet. What happened next rattled Mark even more. Mrs. Mosher took a seat on the edge of her desk and stretched her legs out to the side of Mark's desk. While she addressed the class with the "What I expect from you and what you should expect from me" ritual speech, he found lots of reasons to open his notebook and take notes-- 10 of them. 10 beautiful, delicious looking reasons. And as he sat there, head down, hand on his forehead to obscure her view of his straining eyes, she wiggled her 10 reasons occasionally and it darn near drove him crazy. Suddenly, the feet pulled back to where they'd come from. But just to keep his ruse legit, he kept his head down and continued writing nothing really. He*d look up in a moment. As he finished his last sentence, as he was ready to look up, he felt his desktop shake heavily. Absentmindely he glanced up to notice the Vision had lifted both sandaled feet and had planted them solidly against the backseat nailed to the front of his desk (something they'd left attached to the desktop so ladies in short skirts could have privacy while sitting in the front row). All he saw where her tanned legs, sticking out from underneath her all-too-modest dress, resting together and leading to feet he couldn't see. He looked back down to his writing, a little turned on to think that if the seatback in front of him weren't attached, her feet would now be resting in his crotch--Whoa! What a rush that would be! As he was beginning to drift deep into this fantasy, still looking down and writing nothing in particular, his desktop shook again. What he saw made his pulse begin racing uncontrollably-- he could feel it in his head. His throat was suddenly tight. As the Vision was beginning to wrap up her speech, she*d walked her feet up the seatback so that her incredible, sandaled feet were perched atop the 2" lip at the front of Mark's desk, just inches away from his notebook. Inches away from his fingers. Inches away from his eyes. He was trying his best not to stare, but that*s all he could do. He was frozen dead in his tracks with sexual tension. He'd never in his life had a woman*s feet this close to his face. As he sat there, transfixed, her succulent toes danced, wiggled and flexed, right above his writing hand. Tiny particles of dirt were actually falling off her flexing sandaled soles and onto his notebook paper. He was yanked back to reality when the feet suddenly and roughly disappeared, and Mrs.Mosher was leaning down in his face, whispering an apology for putting her feet on her desk. She timidly explained that she was new here and was just trying to appear relaxed. Mark jumped in a little too quickly and reassured her a little too much that it was just fine, no harm done, and any time she wanted to put her feet up on his desk to feel free-- he didn*t mind at all! Mrs.Mosher only smiled at his overreaction, while he heard snickers from those sitting around him. All at once he felt extremely embarrassed and wished he'd just said nothing. Mrs. Mosher, unphased by it all, took the opportunity to try "building a bridge with at least one student" by asking Mark what he was writing. He quickly closed his notebook and sat bolt right up in his desk. The teacher in her came out, and before Mark could protest she'd snatched the notebook off Mark's desk. With her authority in question, Mrs. Mosher tried to regain the class' respect by pulling the "let's share it with the rest of the class, shall we" speech, Mark was mortified, panicking, ready to wet himself. "Let's see," she clasped the notebook to her breasts, "just what deep dark secrets Mark has penned. But before I do so, class, I want you to know that the only writing to be done in here is class-related-- taking notes, taking tests, or working on assignments ONLY when I allow you to. Okay, Mark, let's see. Is this a love note? A bomb threat? Let's find out." With that said, she opened his notebook and continued her pacing. Mark began sweating as she began to read, "I, Mark Sifford, am committed to hav--" but stopped midword. She stood absolutely still, pokerfaced, and read the rest of Mark*s year goal. Mark was sweating like he'd just been to hell and back, and wanted desperately to die and disappear. He could never look the Vision in the face again. Because of his obvious overreaction to her feet on his desk and by what she was now reading, she knew something very intimate about him. A little too intimate. Mark sat there, almost trembling, starting to gather his books so he'd be ready to boltfrom the room if Mrs.Mosher read aloud the part about his wanting to be trampled-- and by women in sandals. Slowly a smile crept across Mrs.Mosher's previously unexpressive face. She cut her eyes over to Mark, almost looking right through him. The look on her face made him shiver. In that moment they both knew she had the power to ruin his reputation, to let the world know here and now that Mark Sifford was a "foot guy!" She slowly walked over to him and handed him his notebook. Placing it on his desk, she leaned down and whispered almost with a tease "Relax." As quickly as she'd softened, Mrs. Mosher--no-nonsense homeroom/English teacher was back in control, barking out to the class a speech about how Mark Sifford has goals for this year. And with hard work, patience, and determination he would meet those goals. She rallied them to work hard, to do their best, and to fly where they'd never flown before. As she droned on, Mark began to relax. He was safe. She was keeping his secret. At least for now. As she spoke, she moved back over to where Mark*s desk. She sat down on the edge of her desk. Mark was again at attention, having her so close again in his proximity. She then paused, picked up her notebook from her desk, opened it, and gazed directly down into Mark's wide eyes. Without breaking his eye contact or batting an eye, she announced with a smile that the seat everyone was sitting in now would be their assigned seats for the rest of the year. While some of the students groaned, Marked mouthed "Thank you" to the Vision. Her smile broadened. She raised her feet again and planted them on the front edge of Mark*s desk, this time making no apology. Mark was in heaven. ============================== (More to come. If you're interested.)

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