Me and Mrs. Jones

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I had just finished my graduate work in education and was starting my student teaching. I was assigned to an amiable fortyish heavy-set Japanese American woman, named Mrs, Kanagaki, who was a whiz at grammar. I thought, this will be great. I’m crappy at grammar. This just what I need. But after attending her class for only one day, I found out there was a change in schedule, and I wouldn’t be working with Mr. Kanagaki after all. Instead, they turned me over to Mrs. Jones, who was a brilliant and rather ethereal 36-year-old woman who taught Literature and writing to college prep students. She had classic female form, with perfect symmetry to her body and an oval-shaped face with blonde hair and brown eyes. She didn’t hide her femaleness, even in the classroom. And she was married.

I remember thinking what a shame it was that this intelligent beauty was so far over my head that I was lucky to be in the same room with her. Any kind of personal relationship was obviously out of the question. But sometimes there is a wild card that can throw the natural scheme of things into the crapper. In this case, it was Mrs. Jones’s husband. He was an asshole — a traveling salesman asshole, who was so full of himself that he didn’t even consider someone else’s point-of-view on any issue with which he might disagree. For example, his wife once invited me over to their home for dinner. He was cooking steaks on the barbecue grill and asked how I liked my steak.

I don’t know why he asked because he really didn’t want to know. When I said, “Well done.” He said, “What’s the point then; why bother eating it. Only classless primitives eat well-done meat.”

Well, I knew I had my crude side, but I also knew what I liked to eat, and it wasn’t raw meat — and I didn’t like being dismissed as some kind of monkey who wasn’t capable of making his own choices in life. I’m normally not an aggressive or violent guy, and I never ever look for a fight, but I was not pleased with this asshole. I took one step toward him when Mrs. Jones deftly stepped in front of me and said softly but firmly, “Just cook his steak the way he wants it, Charlie.” Charlie shrugged and burnt my steak, which wasn’t great, but better than raw. It was just edible enough to prevent me from having to kick Charlie’s ass.

As I got to know Mrs. Jones better, I learned that she didn’t set herself apart from mere mortals, such as myself. She was actually very down-to-earth, friendly — and approachable. One might even say: “vulnerable” — a very good trait from the perspective of an overly hormoned 28-year-old male. She told me her husband cheated on her continually, but that she hadn’t cheated on him. . . yet.

“Too bad I’m so much older than you,” she said.

“You’re not noticeably older than I am,” I said. “I mean we’re virtually the same age. I mean you look better than 90 percent of the 25-year-olds. I mean, Hell, I’d fuck you in an instant!”

Instantly my heart thudded against my chest, and my breathing stopped. I sincerely regretted using the word “fuck” with this refined, educated, and gentle woman. I could feel my face flushing with embarrassment. I held my tongue and my breath. At first, her expression didn’t change. Then she raised one eyebrow and said softly but evenly, “You would fuck me?”

I remained tongue-tied. Her gaze bore down on me. “You would fuck me?” she repeated, a little louder. Now, she raised two eyebrows as if to elicit a response.

I hesitated, casting about the corners of my mind, seeking a way out of this pool of quicksand I had created for myself. But how does one un-say, the word “fuck.” For better or worse, I had said it, and I was stuck with the consequences.

“Well, yes,” I said lamely. “I guess I did say that.”

I was going to follow that admission with the words, “I’m sorry.” Instead, I stood paralyzed, holding my breath and looking for another dimension into which I could discreetly disappear.

Silence hung in the room like a church pulpit where the preacher’s been caught tapping the choir boys. It was so quiet that I could hear the faint click of the schoolroom wall-clock quietly counting off the seconds over Mrs. Jones’s head — quite possibly the last few seconds of my association with Mrs. Jones.

Without smiling or showing any other emotion, Mrs. Jones looked me levelly in the eye and finally broke the stifling silence with a deep sigh. Then she said, “I would like to fuck you too. What took you so long to bring up the subject?”

I would have jumped over the desk and fucked beylikdüzü escort her on the spot, but we were sitting in her classroom, less than an hour after school, and students often came in after school to visit with one of their favorite teachers.

Mrs. Jones stood up, put both hands on the desk and leaned toward me. Her white dress shirt was open three buttons and was gapping nicely. A good portion of a great-looking set of tits peeked out at me.

“I have a pretty decent set of tits,” she said. “They’re not quite as upright as they used to be, but I think they’re maybe not too bad. You might kinda like them.”

“I guarantee I’ll like them,” I said. “They belong to you, and right now there’s not a set of tits on this planet I’d rather see. At that point, a student burst into the room with tons of questions about an essay she was working on. Mrs. Jones instantly became a professional and gave the student her full attention.

When the students stopped filtering in, Mrs. Jones pushed herself away from her desk and grabbed some winter clothing from a rack in the corner of the room. She smiled at me and said, “Let’s go for a walk and make some plans.”

It was January, and even though it never gets really cold in the California valleys, it cools off enough to require some extra clothing when one goes outside during that time of year. I slipped on my jacket, and Mrs. Jones put on about four layers of sweaters, stocking caps, and shawls. I couldn’t help noticing the nice shape of her breasts, as she swung the shawls around her neck.

We took a path that wound through a public park and after walking for about five minutes, we sat down under a statue of a man on a horse, holding a rifle high in the air over his head, as he ostensibly urged his followers on. The statue was covered with pigeon shit, tarnishing the forgotten hero of California’s past.

We sat down after making sure no pigeons roosted on the rifle above us. Mrs. Jones said, “I want to fuck you, Elvis. I really want to fuck you soon. If you make some reservations at some cheap motel, I’ll pay my half when I meet you there.”

“I know just the place,” I said. “It’s called ‘The Ritz,’ and it advertises, ‘Clean sheets and dirty movies.’ How about tonight?”

“How about tomorrow after school,” she countered. I have to cook dinner for my husband tonight and tomorrow night, but I want to get fucked sometime in between. It’s just what the fucking bastard deserves. I’ll be getting exactly the same thing all his girlfriends have been getting. Please don’t wear a condom. I want him to get obvious seconds tomorrow night. When he realizes what have I had been doing, he will go ballistic. I’ll smile and ask him how he likes sloppy seconds, then I’ll roll over and go to sleep with a smile on my face.”

So that was her motivation: to get even with her husband. I could live with that. A piece of ass was a piece of ass. She didn’t have to love me. She just had to fuck me, and I would be happy. I had to clear up one item, though.

“Uh, are you on the pill,” I asked. I wasn’t particularly noble or even particular when I was a young man, but I didn’t want to have any offspring running around without being a part of their lives.

“No, no,” she said. “Not on the pill. But I did have my tubes tied, so I’m safe. “Are you safe?” Have you been fucking any whores lately?” (This refined lady was beginning to show all kinds of chinks in her ladyness).

“I don’t fuck prostitutes,” I said. “And I always use a rubber. Are you clean?”

“Yes, yes.” she said. “I don’t even fuck my husband any more — haven’t for years. He’s just too much of a fucking whore-monger. The only reason I’ll let him fuck me tomorrow is because I know he hates seconds, and that’s what he’s going to get. That will be very very satisfying.”

“OK,” I said. “Tomorrow, then, after school at the Ritz, on Howe Avenue. I’ll make the reservation.”

“OK,” she agreed. “Tomorrow. I can’t wait. You’ll love it. I don’t take a back seat to anybody when it comes to making love. I’m really good at it. You won’t be sorry.”

I didn’t state the obvious. I knew I’d love it. I’d been lusting after that classic body for months, and now I was going to sample it. However, I had one more thing to say to Mrs. Jones before we left the deserted January park. “Just one more thing. Mrs. Jones, I know how things can fall apart even when they look like they’re set in stone. So, even though it looks like a sure beyoğlu escort thing for tomorrow, I would like to hedge my bets here a little bit before we leave. I’d like to see one of your nipples.”

She looked at me, head askance, then smiled and started digging through six layers of clothing. She opened a coat, unbuttoned a sweater, pulled up a sweatshirt, unzipped an inner shirt, pulled up a blouse, reached into her bra and took a tit into her hand. With only a small amount of gymnastics and contortionism, she managed to get a nipple to the surface of her clothing. It was only a nipple and a very small amount of pale flesh surrounding it, but it was just what I wanted to see: Mrs. Jones’s nipple. If I never got anything else, I’d have gotten that.

She held it there for a least a minute, then she said, “I’d give you a taste, but it’s too cold today. It’s already beginning to firm up, see?”

“Yes, I said. “I see. It sure looks tasty. But as I moved my mouth toward her, Mrs. Jones buried her nipple back under six layers of clothing.

“Not now,” she said. Tomorrow, you’ll get it all.”

She was as good as her word.

The next day was a long day, as I anticipated getting into this woman’s pants. Afternoon finally arrived, and I found myself in a cheap motel room, lying comfortably on the bed, and covered only by the sheet that draped across my lap and legs. Mrs. Jones stood in front of me, again wearing six layers of clothes. She removed the the shawl, and as she did so, I could see her full female form straining at all the layers. Even with all the clothing, she still had a prominent female outline.

She unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off. Next came her sweater, followed by a sweatshirt. Great, I thought. Only three more layers to go. She unbuttoned a shirt and slipped it off. Finally down to a pullover blouse, she slowly began to pull it up. Her flat stomach came into view, then the lower edge of her lacy black bra. She hesitated briefly, then smiled and lifted the blouse over her head. She was standing in a skirt and a sheer black bra that allowed her nipples to peek though. She stopped and stood with hands on hips and a smile on her face.

“Do you want me to continue?” she asked. At that moment, if there were only one sure thing on planet earth, it was that I wanted her to continue.

Feigning a casualness I obviously didn’t feel, I shrugged and said, “Sure. That would be OK.”

Again, she smiled and put her hands behind her back. She unsnapped her bra, but didn’t remove it. Instead she left if hanging loose, but still covering her tits. She hooked her thumbs in her skirt and pushed it down over her hips. Her black panties were just barely there: enough to cover her bush and top of her crack, but not much else. She let the skirt drop to the floor and stood, looking at me, still smiling.

“You have been a very attentive boy,” she said. “And you are about to get your reward. Push that sheet out of the way.”

I did so, and of course my hard-on was as full as it was going to get. She looked at my cock and said, “Oh good. You’re bigger than my husband. I was hoping you would be. I will tell him so, tonight, after he fucks me with your cum in my pussy. He’ll be so pissed off! But it’s just what the unfaithful bastard deserves: sloppy seconds, after a bigger cock than his. I’m really going to enjoy that.” (Mrs. Jones was really getting into this “dirty talk” thing. It seemed so out of character, but of course, I wasn’t complaining even a little).

However, I was getting slightly annoyed about something else. I didn’t really mind being used to get back at her husband, but I wanted Mrs. Jones to at least remember she was with me. Then I suddenly remembered what was going on. Upon reflection, I decided that I didn’t really care what Mrs. Jones thought about me, as long as I wound up with my cock in her pussy.

“Let’s make this good,” she said. I want to enjoy it. But please let me take the lead. I haven’t had a cock in me for three years, so we have to go a little easy — at least at first.”

She walked over to the bed and stood with her panty-covered pussy only inches from my face. Slowly, she pushed them down. Now, her pussy was right out in the open — a sight I would have bet a week’s wages on not happening only two days earlier. Holy shit! This was Mrs. Jones’s pussy, and I was going to get into it.

I stuck out my tongue and she moved toward me, spreading her cunt with her fingers. bizimkent escort It was already wet, but I planned to make it a lot wetter. I ran my tongue from the bottom of her crack, which was more like an opening, as she kept herself spread. I pushed in as far as I could reach, then licked upward. When I came to her hood, I pushed up with my tongue and applied pressure against her clit. She shuddered and pushed back.

She put her hands behind my head and gently pulled my mouth tightly against her, as I fluttered my tongue against her clit. It seemed like she was almost too sensitive for the pressure I was applying, but she didn’t back away. She caressed the hair on my head, as I worked on her pussy. She was already making little thrusts with her hips in response to my ministrations.

Finally, she pulled back, then pushed me down on the bed and straddled me. She looked down at me from between her tits and smiled again, moving her hips forward and backward, causing my stiff but horizontal cock to rub along the crack of her pussy. Sometimes, she hesitated on the forward thrust and wiggled her clit oh-so-tenderly against the head of my cock. When she did so, she pulled in short intakes of breath accompanied by tiny high-pitched sighs.

Without further preliminaries, she lifted up off of me just far enough and placed the head of my dick at her tender but wet opening. She let herself down just enough to get my cock started into her pussy. She inhaled, rolled her eyes back and held that position for a minute or longer.

“This is going to hurt me a little,” she said, but don’t worry: I’ll get over it soon enough. Just let me do the work.”

I lay on my back and did just that. She closed her eyes and sank down again, sharply inhaling again, but now she was halfway penetrated. Being a visual person, I watched her face form a grimace, as she pushed down again. But she finally hit bottom. Her butt was resting on my thighs and her pussy was filled to the hilt. She smiled a very small smile, her eyes still closed, then said, “This is great. I’ve never been penetrated this deeply before. You have hit new depths. My husband has never touched where you are touching me right now. You’re fucking a virgin, Elvis — and it feels good!

She sat in that position and rocked, easily at first. With each rock, she moved her tits closer to me. I opened my mouth, and she placed a perfectly formed right tit full against my mouth. I sucked and rolled my tongue around her nipple, as she shuddered again. She pulled away and moved her left tit into position, as she continued to rock on my cock. Her speed increased and she pulled away again. This time she placed my hands on her tits, as she continued to rock.

“I’m not hurting now,” she said. “It’s time for you to get a little more involved. Squeeze my tits. Roll my nipples, push your cock into me . . . gently. YOU can fuck ME. It’s your turn.”

As I always do with women I’m in the process of fucking, I followed directions and started a little humping rhythm. I wanted to get those fabulous tits bouncing. She guessed what I was doing and altered the bouncing, slightly out of time, causing a little unevenness in her bounce and inducing her tits to bounce very nicely. Shit! Mrs. Jones was riding MY cock, and she was bouncing her tits for me. How great was that?

She joined the humping rhythm and picked up the pace. The tenderness in her pussy was quickly being replaced by an urgency in her movements. I recognized her urgency and matched her. She rode and bounced and thrust harder and harder until finally, she came down hard and rubbed her clit against my pubic hair, as I pushed back. She was right. Mrs. Jones was good at this.

She ground hard against my pelvic area, with short, hard breaths changing to sighs and just the tiniest of squeals.

She remained in position on top of my cock until all the shuddering stopped. Then she smiled and said, “OK, Your turn.”

With that, she grabbed me by the shoulders and rolled me over, without losing penetration until I was lying between her spread and upraised legs. She was making a “U” for me to lie between. “Don’t worry about my tenderness,” she said. “It’s time for you to get off; you deserve it.”

So there I lay, between Mrs. Jones’s legs, fucking the most elegant and refined lady I had ever known — and she was inviting me to cum right there, inside her pussy. I was only too happy to oblige.

We lay there for only about ten minutes before Mrs. Jones got up and got dressed. “That was great,” she said. You’re a very considerate lover. I thoroughly enjoyed being your piece of ass for this one and only time. Don’t expect this to happen again. Now, I’m going home to let my fucked up husband get sloppy seconds. Have a great life.

So, that’s my Mrs. Jones story. She was a classy lady, she was a great piece of ass, and unfortunately, she was a woman of her word.

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