Do as the teacher pleases.

The disgruntling realization of your youth washes over you as a tidal. You could not believe that the rapturous creature before you was being **** to be forfeited from your grasp, because of age. As you hold the salacious little underwear in front of you, you begin entertaining thoughts of hormone-fueled fantasies based upon non-consented screwing. But you restrain yourself, if only for now.

"But... What about now?" you ask, still hard.

"I'm sorry, but you know I can't do that. But you don't worry either of your heads about that," she says, giggling. "Soon, you'll have all the Mrs. Taylor you can handle."

She gave you a lingered kiss on the cheek, then, immediately, cupped her soft hand against the pulsing bulge of your front.

"In the meantime," she whispered, stroking with her middle finger, "You just keep those delicious, though slightly nonsensical, teenage fantasies coming. Because you know what?"

You shake you head, gulping. All the while, her hand was rubbing, and her breasts were pressing against the gentleness of your shirt.

"Nothing turns me on like a young man's fantasies of his favorite teacher. And we want me as wet as possible for your birthday, don't we?"

You nod, dreaming.

"Good," she says.

Mrs. Taylor leans back against her desk, straightening out her clothes. You can't help but stand there, waiting, as if something else is coming.

Then: "Oh, and one more thing."

She crouches, with one knee to the floor, and wraps her arms around you until she sinks her claws into the cheeks of your ass. She gives them a squeeze before pulling you closer and planting a powerful kiss right on your straining erection. You here the tell-tail 'pop' of a puckered smooch and, quite literally, almost blew it. She stood up and smiled.

"That should keep you, along with those," she says, nodding to her lacy panties and bra.

She puts an arm against your back and begins guiding you to the door.

"Now remember, don't let anyone see you with those. I want to be nice and lawsuit-free for our meeting."

Mrs. Taylor opens the door and pushes you out.

"Don't forget," she grins, slowly shutting the door, "To work on that prose."

With that, the door slides home -- something you desperately want to do, and the comparison almost makes you laugh. One week wasn't so bad, however. In one week, the wait will seem like a passing memory, especially once you're over Mrs. Taylor, bucking and pumping.

But now is no longer the time for dreams, and the sound of voices and footsteps lets you know it. You look down at the "souvenirs", wondering what to do with them.

It is only then that you notice the big, blotched smear of red lipstick forming an almost perfect replica of a woman's lips on your bulging hard-on. This time, the laughter is unhampered.