Small Desks

Normally I dread parent/teacher conferences and leave them to my wife, but I had heard intriguing things about my son's new teacher, especially from my son himself. He kept talking about how great she was, how young, how beautiful.

So I volunteered to take this one.

My wife wondered what the hell was going on, but she shrugged and let me go, staying home with the kids instead.

My son was right. She was fucking gorgeous.

Coming into the room the first thing I saw was long curly red hair down to her slight shoulders, then her slender curves, especially the curve of her small breasts as she heard me and turned, her face reminding me of so many of my own teachers who I had crushes on when I was my son's age.

She was busy with another parent, so I crammed myself into one of the kids' desks and looked around the room while I waited. It was a typical fourth grade classroom and didn't have much to hold my interest, so I thought back to those teachers she'd reminded me of.

I loved the sound of their voices, the rustling of their dresses, the click of their heels on hardwood floors, the way the light would catch them in profile, accentuating the lines of their necks and the curves of their breasts. I would sit at my desk slack-jawed, empty-eyed, and hopefully not drooling as I imagined them naked and/or kissing me.

Unfortunately, even at this age, in the presence of this teacher, it happened again.

She was standing in front of me, looking down, and I was staring and drooling.

"Uh. Hi," was the best I could manage.

"You must be Jonathan's father," she smiled, extending her hand.

"Uh," I mumbled again.

"Same facial expression," she laughed delightfully, and I was completely smitten.

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