Young guy continues to humiliate former teacher

With apologies to writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton, it was a dark and stormy night. The novelist may have written those words more than 150 years ago, but I have always wanted to begin a story that way.

Yet it was not a dark night a couple months back, the sun was setting but there was still enough light to see things as I gazed across at room 23 at the inexpensive Friendly Motel owned by my friend Jake’s family.

Nor was it stormy, as in fact we were in the middle of a southern New Jersey drought. Normally this time of year the corn was six to eight feet high, the flowers blooming in wonderful colors and the watermelons humongous.

Still, I had always wanted to write that line, which somehow came to mind because I was so darn bored. I kicked myself for having to be at the seedy motel, known as a No Tell Motel by teenagers and others with a bent for discretion, but it was something I needed to do. See, I had lost $2,800 on a “sure bet” at the race track and I needed to pick up a few bucks in addition to my regular job as an accountant at a local insurance company.

I told Jake of my troubles, he asked me to fill in for a couple months, a day here and there, and both of our problems would be solved. I got the money I needed and he had someone reliable to relieve him until his wife got back from helping her mother in Pittsburgh. Simple and convenient, if not dark and stormy.

So why am I telling you all this? Simple, it was the person who left room 23 at 6:32 p.m. this Wednesday evening. I remember checking the guy in earlier in the afternoon, about 3, but didn’t see his “company”. But when “he and she” emerged that night from the room a whirlwind of memories wisked through my brain like a Midwest wind storm.

It was Mrs. Jennifer Sinkinson, my 12th grade homeroom teacher, leaving the motel room in early evening with a man I was betting was not her husband.

Oh, she was a bit chunkier, her hair was lighter and she seemed smaller than I remembered, but there was no way I could ever forget that face.

I hated the bitch.

Okay, okay, I know, 12 years was a long time to hold a grudge, but Mrs. Sinkinson caused me nothing but heartache my senior year. It wasn’t enough that she was on my case about this or that for the entire school year, but with just a month to go before graduation she scored a triple play of trying to destroy my life.

Let me back up. I was never a great student, but I got Bs and Cs in all my classes. The one Mrs. Sinkinson taught, an elective course in the political election process, was an easy B for everyone in the class —- except for me. I got off on the wrong side of the woman the first week of classes, and it got worse as the year went on. Nothing I could do would satisfy her, everything I did was wrong. I was barely holding on to a C through midterms and struggled over the second half of the year.

Still, things were going on well for me. I had plans to travel the west for the summer, I found an unbelievable girlfriend in Tiffany Dawson, and had already decided to spend the next year at a local campus of Penn State.

Tiffany was a heck of a find. I had been with two other girls before meeting Tiff, and she was a whole lot different. While I had gotten lucky with Barbara Ann Fahey and Connie Whelan, Tiffany didn’t believe in sex before marriage. So why was that good? Tiffany was one hell of a cocksucker. Uh huh, while she wouldn’t have sex with me she had no problem sucking me off nearly whenever I desired.

The girl was a natural born cocksucker, and I found that out on our third date when she gave me a fantastic blow job in the parking lot behind Lone Star. That was followed by an equally incredible head job the following Saturday, and soon, why, while I wasn’t getting any pussy I was getting the mouth of a pro four times a week. This was a once in a lifetime babe, a girl who enjoyed pleasing a guy as long as that pleasure would in no way make her pregnant.

Which brings us to that fateful day in May. Mrs. Sinkinson had hated my essay on the Senatorial race, and the F she gave me brought my average down to near failing. What’s worse, she came into home room when Jill Berger and I were in the midst of a word fight over some stupid thing or another. Jill was a know it all who was the teacher’s pet, and when she told Mrs. Sinkinson I had smacked her (I hadn’t) the teacher marched me down to Principal Sloan’s office.

The ensuing circle jerk turned into a free for all where my mouth got the best of me, and I was sent packing on a three-day suspension. That caused me to miss a test, and Mrs. Sinkinson promptly gave me a zero only to be moved to a 60 when my parents complained. Still, one-two-three, that sunk my year. I was sentenced to six weeks of summer school, effectively killing my summer plans.

That was the least of my problems, as Mrs. Sinkinson told Tiffany that not only had I smacked Jill, but that I had also been caught in the act of fondling the girl. She said that Jill and I had been an item, sneaking around behind Tiffany’s back.

Why, I will never know, but Tiffany believed the teacher and not me, and she sent me packing from her life, sans blow jobs and summer fun.

Just as I had begged Tiffany to reconsider dumping me, I pleaded with Mrs. Sinkinson to give me a passing grade and let me out of summer school hell, to no avail. Whatever it was the woman hated my guts. In one day I had essentially failed a course, got sent to summer school and lost my best of breed, cocksucking girlfriend for good.

I despised Mrs. Sinkinson.

Still, things worked out pretty good for me. I eventually got over all the senior crap, found other (but not as expert at beejays) women and breezed through college into a decent paying job and career.

So there I was that fateful evening spotting Mrs. Sinkinson slithering out of a No Tell Motel with a man who was not her beloved husband. How did I know? The two had been written up a couple months before in the local newspaper for their generous work with an area charity, he decked out in a tuxedo and she in an evening dress complete with a diamond pendant. At the time, I didn’t think much about it, but when I saw her, and the man, emerging from the motel room I put two and two together and realized Mrs. Sinkinson was being a naughty girl.

People like her did not frequent my friend’s motel to discuss lesson plans, unless those lessons were of the sensual kind and involved a rustling of the sheets.

As they drove away I wondered about the liaison, what was going on and how often. The teacher had always seemed so prim and proper, but on this day the now, well, 50-year-old was dressed like a girl half her age. She had on a low cut top, an above the knee skirt and the stockings she wore had a black seam up the back.

No, this wasn’t her teaching attire. And yes, they had been up to something.

Over the next week I checked on the woman, found her still to be teaching at the school, married, and a pillar in the community.

Oh, and on the following Thursday I found out she had a regular rendezvous with the same guy as the week before. This time I remembered him from the preceding week, watched as he signed the register as John Smythe (how cute) and slip back into his late model dark blue car. I gave him the same room and watched as Mrs. Sinkinson glanced around before exiting the car and scurrying into number 23.

Waiting a few minutes to get them time to settle in, I imagined what might be going on in the room. Finally, my mind got the better of me, and I forwarded the phone to my cell, put out the “Be back in 10 minutes” sign, locked the office door and let myself in to room 22. Listening through the thin walls I heard their cries of passion as they rocked the bedsprings for more than an hour. I left, went back a while later, and they were at it again.

And I got an idea: revenge on teacher.

It wasn’t easy, because when I confronted the woman at a charity outing she denied everything. She called me a few names, said she had never been to and such place, and said if I ever came near her again the police would be involved.

Obviously, without proof, I couldn’t so a thing. The coupling twosome would never come to the motel again, obviously, and undoubtedly would cool their jets until the coast was clear. Damn. I guess I just wasn’t cut out for a position as a blackmailer.

A couple nights later, sitting at the front desk of the motel and absentmindedly checking another “Husband and Wife” looking for a night away from the kids and or spouses, it struck me.

The surveillance cameras.

The motel was equipped with two of the beauties, one at the front desk and one in the parking lot. They were changed every three days on a rotational basis. It took a week to rotate through the bunch, and I quickly looked at Thursday’s tape.

Sure enough the two love birds were caught on tape entering the lot and parking by the cashier’s door. His face was fully visible paying for the room, and the parking lot camera caught the horny twosome getting out of the car, holding hands, and going into room 23. Through the open blinds you could see them embrace, kiss and feel each other up before closing the shades.

A little over three hours later and a little ruffled, the two exited the room and got back in the car and drove away.

No, not damning, but surely incriminating. I called a friend at DMV, promised him a $100 finder’s fee, and had the plates run on the car…voila, a Mr. Brandon Cantwell, a long-time business partner of Mrs. Sinkinson’s husband.

That night I printed several still shots from the video, making sure I caught each of their faces and the motel room in the background. I had a great shot of them in the room, curtains open, making out. The next day I followed her from school, parking one row over at Target, and “accidentally” running into her inside.

“Get away from me or I will call the cops,” said Mrs. Sinkinson, reaching for her cell phone, the minute she saw me.

I handed her an envelope, and walked away. Outside, I stood away from the front door and waited for her exit. Minutes later she did, spotted me, and walked over. She was flushed and I swore she shook.

“These don’t prove anything,” spat the woman.

“No they don’t, Mrs. Sinkinson, except that I have the video of your coming to the motel each week on Thursday afternoon for a month. I have your husband’s business partner’s signature from the front desk, but of more importance, numerous photos of you and him in the car. I have you exiting the car for a room. I have the two of you spending hours at a time alone in the room, including a lot of kissing and fornicating. Something tells me I have a lot of proof for your sweet husband and his darling wife to see….gee, maybe I can have your husband and Mr. Cantwell compare notes.”

Mrs. Sinkinson blanched at the mention of her husband’s business partner.

Okay, okay, I didn’t really have them screwing, but she didn’t need to know that. Or that I didn’t have weeks of them meeting, or that who knows if handwriting analysis would agree that he signed the book. Who cares, I had photos of them together for hours and a lot of innuendo.

The woman looked as if she smelled a fart. Or tasted something foul. She probably wished those two things were true and not my little potential expose.

“What do you want?”

Silently staring at her, a small smile began to grace my lips. My wish was coming true, as I believed I had her where I wanted her. It was time to make my proposition.

“I want my lost summer back, I want Tiffany back, and I want you to set everything right.”

The woman looked at me as if I was from Mars or beyond.

“You know that’s impossible, I can’t do that. I can’t turn back the hands of time.”

Mrs. Jennifer Sinkinson was correct, of course. Still I pressed on, a man with a mission. “No, but you can at least make things up to me.”

She looked at me as if I had just farted at a party. “Oh, I sleep with you and you will forget all this? Yea, right, in your dreams. You are a disgusting example of a sub-human.”

I told her I knew she would say that, and that I had made numerous copies of the photos and videos and addressed them to her principal, friends at the prestigious country club she and her were members of, Cantwell’s wife and board members of her charitable organization. I had dozens of other ideas as well. So it was no skin off my back how she felt. Saying the words was one thing, but the look in here eyes, the way she sort of cringed when I mentioned “the club” gave me hope she might give in.

The woman stared at me with watermellon eyes in disbelief. I could tell her mind was all twirled as she thought of a way out. She glanced at around, as if a Good Samaritan might appear. Maybe she was awaiting her fairy godmother. Nobody came to her defense, and soon she realized her predicament.

Mrs. Sinkinson could barely look at me, but she silently mouthed the words. “I’m sorry…I’m truly sorry for what I did. Is that what you want?”

Nodding my head, I shook her hand and gracefully accepted her apology. But I also wanted a little something more. Giving her detailed instructions ensuring we wouldn’t be followed, I outlined my simple demands.

“I want a blow job, a good one like the ones you cost me from Tiffany’s wonderful mouth. I want them for several weeks, my lost summer and your summer school, so to speak. And I want you to like it. Smile even. After that this all goes away and you go back to your life with the knowledge nobody will ever know.”

The woman appeared puzzled and shocked at the same time. “I don’t do that.”


“I don’t…you know…use my mouth.”

Will wonders ever cease? I know there was a time when girls didn’t like oral sex, but in the new millennium?

What’s the one thing that will cause a woman to stop giving blow jobs? As the old joke goes, “a wedding ring.”

I looked at Mrs. Sinkinson and realized from her expression that she clearly had distaste for oral sex.

“Ever?” I inquired?


Smiling I told her how lucky it was that I would be the one she’d practice and learn on. And, surprisingly, she didn’t say no. She didn’t say yes either.

Three days later after a number of evasive maneuvers that would have made the newest of James Bonds proud, I parked next to her near the beach and opened the door for her to get into my car. I had pushed down the passenger seat, and she lay back, trembling, as I put a headband over her head to block her view of where we were going.

“Don’t hurt me,” said the woman.

I assured her I wouldn’t, that this would be our little secret if she kept her end of the bargain. To be safe I had patted her down to make sure she wasn’t wearing a wire or tracking device. Minutes later I pulled into the Nomad Motel and guided her into room 23.

She obviously remembered the place when she removed the headband.

We spoke for a while, most of the time it was her talking, begging, and asking me to forget about all of this. I reminded her of the photos, and of her position in the community, and how easy it would be to soil her reputation.

We got around to talking oral sex, and she admitted she hated thinking of the topic and surely had never done such a thing. She admitted to giving hand jobs and sex — missionary, Rockygie style and even side by side a few times. But never a cock had been licked or sucked.

“I don’t even know how to start,” admitted the woman. “I tried a couple times but it made me sick to my stomach.”

Anticipating her reluctance, and slowly spoke of how millions of women were skilled in the art of fellatio. I couldn’t prove it, of course, but it sounded good. Besides, I knew Tiffany had been an expert fellatrix and I figured at least 999,999 women were as well.

Reaching into my knapsack, I pulled out one of my sister’s cherry red vibrators and a ripe yellow banana. “Why don’t you practice on these,” I said, “and if you need instruction, you can watch the television.”

I turned on an adult movie channel and watched as a clearly embarrassed woman carefully watched the screen. It was quite powerful knowing I had a hold over her, and I watched as she squirmed. She looked at me, shook her head, and then reached for the yellow fruit.

She gave an okay blow job to the banana — she couldn’t bring herself to put the dildo in her mouth — and even learned something from the film as she licked and jerked the and soon was getting the hang of things.

As I watched her practice I devised a plan to embarrass her yet keep her on the path I wanted. “How about if you jerk me off,” I asked, “how about doing that?”

I thought she would kiss me she was so relieved, but there was a method to my madness. It was like a death row reprieve: compared to the alternative a life sentence isn’t all that bad.

Sitting on the bed against a couple fluffy pillows, the mature teacher sat next to me and unzipped my pants and slid them down. She lowered my boxers as my cock sprung into the open as my former teacher watched it grow. Sitting next to me Mrs. Sinkinson placed her hand around my dick, caressed it, gauged its length and width, and slowly began stroking it to full attention.

On one hand, I couldn’t believe the mature teacher was jerking me off, while on the other, well, it wasn’t great. Still, I persevered. I asked if she had any lotion, and she reached into her purse and removed a small bottle. She poured some onto her hand and my cock and then re-started her jerking motion.

Up and down she went, alternating slow strokes with fast ones. The greased missile worked a lot better. Turns out she clearly had a talent for milking male meat as mine was obviously not the first dick she’d had in her hands. Maneuvering her to the side, I slipped a hand down the back of her pants and under her panties to get a feel of her ass.

The woman jerked me off for a few minutes as I held back my orgasm. I wanted to make this a memorable evening for my former teacher.

“Are you going to cum?” asked the middle aged woman, staring at my cock.

“Oh yes, but not just yet,” I replied, pulling her over my knees.

The woman complained as I unhooked her pants, lowering them down the back of her thighs, but didn’t stop me. I lowered her panties too, and began feeling her pretty ass. I played with it for a while before firmly striking it with the palm of my hand…once, twice, three and four times as she cried in pain.

“Tell me how sorry you are,” I demanded.

By :JRob

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