Sex Stories

Him. My English teacher, I mean. His name's Mr. Harper. He's the one I bump into corridors, spilling his books from his hands, murmuring some sort of apology whilst I pick them all up again, bumping into his head as I get back up on my feet. We were so close then. And not emotionally. Physically. I could feel his warm, somewhat erratic breath blowing my wispy hair in a faint breeze. I remember accidentally looking into his eyes. Oh, those eyes. Crystal blue, suggesting his kind, caring, secretly passionate soul. Darker around the rim, softer with darker rays towards his pupils. Like a whirlpool, not just in appearance but in emotion, drawing you in, wishing you hadn't approached. I could loose myself in those eyes. For a moment I saw a glimpse of reflected emotion in his eyes, but he drew away. That moment had been too long.

I flatter myself, truly. A fourteen year-old girl, copper hair and black eyes, pale with freckles. I'm that one girl at school no one talks to, the object of ridicule amongst her peers due to her high intelligent levels. It's not that I'm bad looking. At least, I don't think I am. I'm polymorphic - there's not one subject I find difficult. Especially English. I always loved English, but never so much as I do now. Now Mr. Harper's here. He joined last term. All the girls were head over heels for him at first (his blue eyes, dark brown hair, as well as being the only decent young male teacher at an all girls school), but the novelty soon wore off. Mr. Harper had high expectations, and although being a sensitive soul definitely would not except, "I haven't got my book today, sir," or "I forgot my homework," just because the girl stating the former(s) had her blouse button undone, and leaned over precariously, revealing something that ought to be hidden. No one was particularly good at this in my class, except for 'the nerd'. I always see such an instant pang of hurt in his deep eyes when he hears them jeer at me, or laugh at my intelligent and well-constructed comments, which Mr. Harper actually finds quite fascinating. So now, Mr. Harper is virtually left well alone from anyone's affections at my school, anyway. He is married.

He always appeared as quite a mystery to me, although shared my true love of Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte, although I had to argue with him on the Mr. Rochester front. He didn't like Mr. Rochester's temper and arrogance, however, I loved the power he had over Jane. Secretly, I find it a complete turn-on. Although I didn't tell him that. I remember him saying to me after our argument, in almost a whisper, " Sounds like you're quite the hopeless romantic, Freja." I could have sworn a longing, or a secret suggestion flitted into those big eyes of his, as they rose from kneeling beside my desk.

He's the one happiness in my life.