1. Her Buring Desire


    Date: 11/13/2014, Categories: Fetish, First Time, Interracial Sex, Author: gizmobbcguy, Rating: 100, Source: xHamster

    over to the table where the painted woman eyes me knowingly. "Don't judge me," I whisper. Thinking that it will look strange if I haven't made any progress since we last spoke, I quickly snatch the painting and carry it over to the drying rack, placing it toward the bottom where it won't be easily noticed. I grab my palate and brushes and carry them over to the sink and begin rinsing the paint out of the bristles while, at the same time, washing the juices off of my spent fingers. After a few minutes, Mr. Thompson opens the door and emerges wearing a different t-shirt. He is startled to see me but stifles his reaction in an effort to appear nonchalant. "Oh, Mireille, you're still here." He glances in my direction but avoids making eye contact, running his now clean fingers through his hair. "Yeah, I went to grab a drink and then came back to finish up the torso. I should really get going though. I'm sure the extra-curricular bus will be leaving soon." I wash the last of the paint off of my palette and then set it onto the counter to dry. "Well, if you miss it, I can give you a ride home." He smiles warily at my feet, raising his eyes to mine for only a brief second before darting them away. "That would be great." I walk back over to my station to collect the paints I'd been using, depositing them into their appropriate receptacles in the "Acrylic" closet. Mr. Thompson disappears back into his office and I begin to gather my things. As cold as it will be outside, I refrain ...
    from wearing my sweatshirt, thinking that perhaps he will notice that I'd been sweating and put two and two together. Then again, do I want him to know that I was watching him? Or that I'd heard anything that went on in his office? As awkward as I feel about violating his privacy, I still can't help myself. I love him. I don't really know what any of that means but it feels right to think it. When he laughs, my pulse dances; when he smiles, my whole body melts; when he touches himself, I wish our palms could trade places. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and if all I ever get from him is the secret memory of his perfect, enraptured face as he strokes himself to completion, then I will take it. Mr. Thompson emerges from his office wearing a light jacket and a brown messenger bag slung across his chest. "It's almost five. I might as well just drive you," he says. I nod, following him out of the classroom as he turns off the fluorescent lights and locks the door. "Shall we?" He gestures for me to lead the way down the side stairwell and out into the teacher's parking lot. I've seen his car from a distance – a silver Honda Civic – but never before had privilege of actually riding in it. He unlocks my side first and politely holds the door open for me. I smile shyly and duck inside, closing the door behind myself. I can't quite put my finger on exactly what the interior of his car smells like, but it's not unpleasant. Something like pine with the hint of stale coffee. ...
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