Graduate School

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“You want to do what?” I said as I stared at my husband in disbelief.

Actually, I heard what he said. I just needed a moment to process it.

“I want to quit my job and go back to school and get my MBA,” repeated Dave, as he studied me carefully to gauge my reaction. “I’ve really hit a wall at work, and I just don’t know if I can keep dragging myself in every day. With an MBA, I’d have all kinds of new professional options that can make our lives a lot better.

“At least, it would do wonders for my mental health, and that would have to be better for you in the long run.”

I looked at Dave—really looked—for the first time in a long time. He was still the handsome guy I met in college 10 years ago. Six feet tall, with a hard lean body, dark brown hair and brown eyes that smile when he does.

People consider us an attractive couple. Strangers even sometimes think we’re brother and sister, with my shoulder-length brown hair, round and expressive brown eyes and athletic 5-4, 115 pound, 34 C-23-34 figure.

Honestly, Dave didn’t seem quite as strong or vital these days. Maybe his shitty job really was sucking the life out of him.

“But what about the life we’ve been building here for the past seven years?” I asked. “You’re saying we should just walk away from it?”

“Not so much walk away from what we have now, which if you’ll be honest, hasn’t been all that good lately,” Dave explained. “Think of it as walking toward something really new and exciting.”

I had to concede at least one point—things hadn’t been so good for us lately. Dave’s high-pressure sales job kept him stressed out and away from home too much. I had been staying busy with my job as an elementary Başakşehir escort bayan school teacher, and our time together now consisted mostly of running errands and doing chores around the house every weekend.

Not surprisingly, our sex life had suffered, too. A hurried missionary-style fuck once a week (at best) is about all we’d been able to work in for longer than I cared to remember. Actually, the best sex I have these days happens in late afternoon, when I come home from a long day with my third graders, draw a warm bubble bath, and luxuriate until just before Dave arrives–usually several hours later.

My typical routine is to light the scented candles that rest on the edge of our spa tub, dim the lights, and turn on some soft music. The sights, sounds, and smells invariably relax my body, and my mind drifts to one of several favorite fantasies. Soon, I feel that faint sensation of butterflies in my stomach that is my first hint of arousal.

Before long, my fingertips trace ever so lightly over my breasts and discover that my nipples have grown hard and erect. My tits are wet and slick from the soapy water, and I gently roll the nipples between my thumb and finger until they grow extremely sensitive to my touch.

I always pay special attention to my breasts, and expect my lovers to do the same. At 34-C, they are my best feature, at least from the neck down. They look ample on my lean frame, and at 28, I’m proud they still look good without a bra.

I lift my left breast just high enough to allow the tip of my tongue to lick the nipple, which is now exquisitely sensitive. My tongue gently traces circles around my pink areola, Escort Bayrampaşa leaving a small trail of wetness that reminds me of the pre-cum that oozes from the purple head of Dave’s cock when he’s highly aroused. My right hand drifts slowly down my stomach. As my fingers trail lightly over my belly button and reach the top of my mound, I can’t help thinking about the first time a boy slid his hand along this same path.

There’s nothing in the world as thrilling as doing something new, exciting and, of course, naughty for the very first time. As I relive this exhilarating feeling, my hand (or is it my first boyfriend’s hand?) moves with sudden urgency and touches my pussy, now slick and warm with my own arousal.

As my left hand kneads my breast more vigorously, my right floats over my pussy—just close enough to lightly tickle the short brown pubic hair that is trimmed in a neat v-shape. Over and over, my middle finger traces the length of my slit, finally slipping just inside the outer lips. Using my now plentiful juices for lubrication, my finger moves slowly higher, grazing my clit and sending a shiver shooting from the base of my spine, down both legs and up my back.

A few more minutes of these glorious sensations, and every nerve ending in my body is almost too sensitive to touch. I have reached that magical place where my mind tells me that I want—no need—this exquisite state of arousal to go on for hours. But my body has taken over and demands to CUM RIGHT NOW!

Instinctively, my middle finger plunges deeply into my pussy and my left hand dives for my clit, rubbing the little pearl in a circular motion as fast as I possibly can. Somehow Beşiktaş escort there are now two fingers in my steaming hole, then three. They pound in and out and in my mind transform into the fat, 10-inch cock that I fuck in all my fantasies.

Then I stop. Literally afraid to move. Knowing that even the slightest twitch will push me over the brink. It’s that point where if my Mom, my Dad and Mr. Rogers, the elementary principal, all walked into the bathroom together, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. I’d scream at them, “MY CUNT FEELS SO HOT AND I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU HOW I LOOK WHEN I CUUUUUUUMMMM!!!”

And then I cum. The walls of my pussy contract over and over, gripping my ten-inch fantasy cock. My entire body tenses and my toes curl, as the waves of orgasm and the warm water of the bath wash over me. I hear the throaty moans of someone getting her brains fucked out and realize they’re coming from my own lips, which are slightly parted. My eyes half close and my fingers linger inside my soaking pussy just a little longer,

Finally, I slip my three fingers from my still-quivering pussy, move them slowly to my mouth and savor that one last taste and scent of hot sex. I’m relaxed and spent.

“So, whad’ya think, Cheryl?”

I hear a voice from some distant place calling my name.

“Earth to Cheryl,” Dave grinned. “Whad’ya think about my idea? Grad School?”

I looked into my husband’s soft brown eyes and knew there was no way I could say no. This thing was just too important to him . . . and to us.

“Okay,” I said, “Let’s go back to college. If it’s half as much fun as the first time, this could be the start of a great adventure.”


This is the first in a series of stories I plan to write about Dave and Cheryl’s adventures when Dave goes back to college. They’re going to meet some interesting characters I think you’ll enjoy. Please cast your vote on chapter one and e-mail me any ideas for future episodes. Constructive feedback is greatly appreciated!

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