I'm going to tell you something that happened to me quite some time (thirty-odd years) ago. Some details have been changed to protect the guilty... I should set the scene by telling you that I've always been tall and physically well-developed; even as the second-youngest of four boys in my family, people always assumed I was the oldest. My birthday is quite early in the school year so as well as being among the tallest I was also the oldest in the year group. I went to a fairly smart school in the North of England and, as well as having a useful size for contact sports, I found I was pretty good at Maths. My A-level Maths teacher was Mrs. G. She was about 5ft in height, with dark skin and mid-length black hair which she kept tied back. I've always assumed her to be of Indian heritage, although I never asked. Her face was kind, with a prominent, slightly hooked nose and keen dark eyes that seemed to sparkle. Her wide mouth completed an image that you wouldn't call classically beautiful, but somehow seemed quite lovely. She was extremely intelligent, with a calm and gentle - almost austere - manner, and she liked to keep everything around her under control and in order. Looking back, I think she'd married young and as a recent graduate or post-grad probably wasn't much older than I was. He teaching outfits were plain - a dark-coloured shift dress or blouse with mid-length skirt, and pale flat shoes or sandals. She brightened her outfits with jewelled or brightly-coloured hairclips, which would be on show when she turned to face the whiteboard. Inevitably, though, being an eighteen year-old lad for much of my final year, my eyes would drift downwards from her hair, skimming the neat tuck of her waist, down to her wide hips and her greatest asset: her peach of an arse, which was always impeccably displayed by the fabric stretched tightly over it. During lessons my dick began to develop a kind of Pavlovian response whenever she said 'so let me demonstrate' in her soft Leeds accent; she would turn to face the board and I'd struggle to focus on the calculations, eventually giving up and drinking in the view of her hourglass figure and the tight bulge of those pert cheeks. Back in the days when porn was a rare and prized resource, my 'private moments' would often rely on conjuring up that view of Mrs. G. We got along pretty well - once I'd got through that demure exterior we felt more like mates than teacher/pupil, and I'm pretty sure she clocked me stifling my erection on the way out of class a couple of times. I took my A-levels in the June, but term wasn't officially over until the start of July, so she asked me if I wanted to drop by her house to talk about how it had gone. I thought this was kind of odd, but I put it down to her 'completist' nature, and also I kind of felt obliged after the help she'd given me. So, I went to her house: a neat, well-kept semi on one of the suburban estates. I rang the doorbell and waited, feeling unusually nervous. Normally I don't have much of a visual memory but the sight that greeted me when she came to the door will be with me for all time. She wore a lightweight white and yellow floral summer dress, cinched at the waist with a wide gathered band which accentuated the curves of her broad hips. The dress length was modest but the top half was off the shoulder and loosely ruched around the chest; her hair, for the first time, was untied and its length brushed to one side so that it cascaded down her perfect left shoulder, laying over the gathered hem that ran across her bust. I don't remember what we talked about, but we ended up sitting at the dining table with pencils and paper. At home she seemed much quicker to laugh, and I do remember her telling me a couple of times that she was not my teacher anymore - each time the sentiment being emphasised with a gentle touch on my arm. I don't think we got to the subject of Maths at all. After about half an hour of conversation, during a moment of gesticulation she brushed a pencil onto the floor. She rose to her feet, turned away from me and, bending from the hips, reached down to the floor to retrieve it. The light fabric of her dress tightened and stretched over her beautiful bottom, and lazily rode up the backs of her legs to reveal her smooth golden-brown calves. I remember thinking that this was not a good time for the inevitable instantaneous hard-on, and when she turned back to face me and asked me to stand up I opted to keep one hand frozen in place over my now-straining bulge. She asked me in a soothing, almost whispered voice if I was ok. I did not want to catch her gaze. She reached for my crotch and softly brushed her hand against mine, and from there in one graceful movement she stretched forward over the dining table, resting her head on her folded arms, with eyes closed. In this position, with feet still on the floor, her hips and arse seemed huge - the pattern on her dress stretching and distorting over them. She kept her head still and began gently to raise each foot on tiptoes one after the other, back and forth, so that her big bum gently wiggled, and a serpent-like motion travelled up her spine. My close proximity to the focus of so many of my fantasies was dizzying and felt shocks of adrenalin in the pit of my stomach as I instinctlively reached out to trace my fingers over the tight fabric. Mrs. G. pursed her lips and purred softly, a sound which developed into in involuntary open-mouthed sigh as my hands flattened out and stroked the inviting roundness of her behind. She reached back to rest her hands on her hips and, making a drum-roll motion with the perfectly-manicured fingers of both hands, she gathered up the skirt of her dress. The hem rose, inch by inch: exposing calves, the backs of her knees and her thighs until it finally slid over the fullness of her bare arse. The thong she wore did nothing to slow the juices which were running from her dark crease and down the inside of her leg. I unbuckled my belt and unzipped my jeans, the sound of which brought another gentle sigh from her. I don't know if I've ever been as hard before or since that moment. I pulled the gusset of her underwear to one side and used my dick to probe her crease, gently sliding it up and down, until trying to push it into her. Despite the slipperiness, there was quite some resistance as i tried to drive it into her - but eventually I filled her, stretched her, and she whimpered and moaned when I was fully inside. I gently began to slide back and forth, and she reached forward and gripped the far side of the table as if in severe pain or ecstasy. Trying to keep my vanishing wits about me, I decided that I would pull out before I came. The idea of getting her pregnant was too complicated to think about, and it felt kind of wrong to spill my spunk as the guest in the front room of such a neat and tidy house. As my humping settled into a rhythm, the slapping of my lap and balls against the tight fat of her bottom and thighs was gradually joined by the bumping of the heels of her feet, and I realised I was lifting her off the ground with every thrust. Just as I began to think that the sight of her arse and bare shoulders might cause me to need a few moments to cool off, she reached back and pushed me away. I gently slid my cock out of her, feeling some resistance against the grip of her vagina that seemed to want to hold on. I briefly thought she'd had enough - until she turned to face me. I suddenly felt self-conscious, even a little shy now that she was looking directly at me. My cock however didn't waver; it was still rock-rigid, shiny-wet and pulsating. She leant back and, throwing off her sandals, shuffled her way backwards onto the table and lay back, leaning on her elbows. She spread her legs and drew up her knees so that her toes gripped onto the table edge. Her open crotch and darkly glistening, trimmed fanny were framed by the delicate crumpled fabric of her dress which was now entirely around her waist. Her small breasts and dark nipples were now freed and poking above the gathered hem of the top of her dress. By this point I was simply acting on animal instinct and I desperately rammed my dick back into her. Her hair had become wild, mussed up with twisted strands sticking to the sweat on her face. Her chin was resting on her chest, her eyes pressed shut, and she let out a squeal with every thrust. Very soon I began to feel 'the tingling' in my balls. She must have detected that something had changed in my grunts: without raising her head she opened her eyes and lifted them to mine, and fixed me with a hungry stare. From the corner of her mouth she blew the hair away from her face and whispered, almost hissing: "Cum inside me". We were just animal, grunting and fucking and thrashing and my body was entirely wracked with the vice-grip of angry desire. My balls were tight, and as the tingle grew my whole body became so tense I could barely flex enough to thrust; instead just rocking on my feet and using my tight hold on her tiny waist to pull her back and forth on my cock. As the ecsatic relief of contractions came to me she threw back her head, whipping her mass of sweaty hair behind her and let out a growl. I felt my whole self gushing and spasming into her from the tip of my cock deep inside her warmth. I filled her completely and the tightness of her fanny made the cum overflow and squirt back past my still-rigid and thrusting cock and pool on the table edge, dripping in threads down to the clean carpet. For a moment I had to move my hands to grip onto the table edge to steady myself. She kicked out her elbows to lay flat on the table, arms outstretched, and as I looked down at her, eyes closed, head resting on a black treacle mess of hair, heaving golden-brown breasts glistening with rivulets of sweat that ran down into her shallow cleavage, I felt quite in love with her. This was it - I would never find quite the same thing with any other woman, and I was certain that I would die with her, or for her. I spent the rest of that Summer waiting for a call, an invitation for another meeting at the table, or in the marital bed. The call never came. I only saw her once after that - by chance, at the main railway station, shortly after I had graduated University. She introduced me to her husband as 'my hardest-working pupil'. For the briefest moment I wasn't sure if we all knew what had happened between us. As the husband regarded me casually I reached out to touch her on the arm, but she offered me a fairly formal handshake - and after a short exchange about my career, and hers, she was off again. I think it was a kind of insanity I had been labouring under, but the spell was somehow broken that day. From then on I understood better the meaning of 'no strings attached'. I now have a wife I adore, a beautiful family and a long and successful career in technology. But if Mrs. G turned up on my doorstep in her summer dress today, I'd walk out without a backward glance.