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I had just turned eighteen, was about to graduate, and I wanted my English teacher to do terrible things to me.When I finally confessed to him that I wanted to be used like I had done with the one girl I ever dated, his eyes opened wide and he gave me a knowing smile. It didn’t take long before he took me to his apartment and began giving me lessons that started with me kneeling on the floor.But being with him alone didn’t satisfy my cravings to be a complete and utter slut. And just the thought of his friends watching us and wanting me too made me harder than I have ever been. After a week of him teaching me how to take all of him, it was time for some company. It was time to prove to him that I had learned something, and it was time for me to finally be used like I desperately needed and wanted.Teacher’s New Toy, is a short erotic story of submission. It’s quick, kinky, and incredibly filthy.
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All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.
Copyright © 2017 by Guy New York
Published by QNY
Cover design by Guy New York
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
About The Author
More by Guy New York
“I JUST REALLY WANT TO be fucked,” I said. I blushed the second the words left my mouth, and I could see the change come over his face in an instant. He went from a patient teacher to something I couldn’t quite describe, except to say I felt small and vulnerable in a heartbeat.
I didn’t know anyone else at the time. I had three weeks before I graduated high school and he was the gayest man I knew. Hell, he was the only gay man I knew, and it didn’t matter that he taught my AP English class. Mr. R. as we all called him, was young, kind, and hot enough that the girls gossiped about him over lunch and the boys all followed him around hoping to one day be as cool.
But I knew he was gay, and I knew he would listen, and so what if he sometimes smiled at me in class and I smiled back? So what if he offered me rides on occasion and let me talk his ear off without ever saying a thing?
But that afternoon, sitting in the front seat of his car, my confession still hanging off my lips, everything changed. He pulled over the second I told him I thought I might be gay, and he listened as I told him about kissing a boy over the weekend and trying to wrap my mind around everything at the same time. He nodded and told me everything would be okay, and I mostly believed him.
I was working through everything at once, but at the time the physical was far easier for me to understand than the emotional side. Kissing the guy had been nice, but it wasn’t nearly enough. I had felt him grow hard through his jeans and I rubbed against him, my hand tracing his length through the tight fabric. And at that moment, my hand on someone else’s cock for the first time in my life, I knew I wanted someone inside me.
“Is that all?” he finally asked, looking at me in the passenger seat as the car instantly warmed to boiling. I nodded because I wasn’t sure what else to say. It felt like the biggest confession of my life, and Mr. R. was treating it like I told him I liked ice cream. As I tried to work it out, I looked back at him and realized in an instant that wasn’t what he meant. And the second I understand, everything else hit me at the same time. He wasn’t dismissive at all. He was asking me what else I wanted, and the truth was a lot more complicated. I had barely let myself fantasize about it, but I was instantly full of more ideas than my brain could handle.
“I had this girlfriend for a while,” I began, trying to explain myself, but still shaking and still confused. “And she liked it when I held her down. She loved it when I fucked her from behind with my arm around her neck as I called her filthy names.”
“And?” he asked, his seatbelt off as he listened. I looked down, almost as embarrassed as I was turned on. The truth may not set me free, but sometimes it makes me hard as a rock.
“I want to be used like that,” I finally said realizing it was true. “I want to be held down and fucked so hard that I lose my mind. Even when I was doing it to her, I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be on the other end of it. I wanted to be the one held down and fucked hard.”
“When do you graduate again?” he asked, a smile crossing his lips.
“Three weeks,” I said, wondering if he was going to say anything more. Wondering if he was going to do anything.
“That’s so fucking long,” he said, looking me up and down, this time with more clarity.
“I am eighteen, though,” I said, moving closer to him even as I felt my heart beat so fast I almost couldn’t breathe. He was a good teacher, and a decent guy and I wanted him so badly none of that mattered. At that moment, his job, his career, hell, even his guilt didn’t matter to me. I had waited so long in admitting what I wanted that waiting anymore felt impossible.
“Fuck,” was all he said, adjusting his cock through his jeans as I watched. He looked at me, and then back at the wheel. I inched closer to him on the bench seat, reaching out slowly with one hand. When I touched his shoulder, he turned and smiled, that feral look once again covering his face.
“I live a few blocks away,” he finally said, looking over his shoulder to the street behind us. It wasn’t busy, but cars drove by every few minutes, and we were not well hidden.
“Take me there,” I mumbled before I finally gave in downright begged. “Please?”
We were silent when we walked into his apartment. I didn’t know what to expect, and the truth is I barely remember what it looked like. I don’t remember the art on his walls or the layout of his kitchen. All I recall was walking straight to his bedroom with my heart in my throat as I wondered if it was actually going to happen. I stopped at the foot of his bed and turned around, nearly bumping into him in the process. He was a few inches taller than me, and he lifted my face up to his with one finger beneath my chin.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he whispered, and I wasn’t sure I believed him. Backing out felt impossible, and not just because I was so desperate for it.
“I want to,” I finally mumbled. “I’ve thought about it so many times.”
“About what?” he asked this time a hint of demand in his voice. I swallowed and told him the truth.
“I’ve thought about you fucking me,” I said.
“Does it get you off?” he asked. “Do you come thinking about it?”
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