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I’m at university in Edinburgh, nearly four hundred miles from my home town, just north of London. I’ve been here two years — I’m 20 now — and although I love this bustling city I still miss my old home. I try to get back there as often as possible, but it’s not easy. Last time I went back though, I had an amazing experience.

I’d arranged a lads’ night out with some of my mates and my kid brother, Nick. He’s 18 and currently studying for his A Levels at the same school I attended, hoping to get good enough grades to join me at Edinburgh. Ours is a small town, with not many nightspots, but after starting off in a pub we headed for a new club that I hadn’t visited before. Even before we descended the stairs to the basement entrance we could hear the throb of dance music. As the bouncers opened the door to let us in the volume became almost deafening, and we were hit by a blast wave of heat and the glare of flashing lights.

Although it was quite early the place was packed like a sardine can, and we shouldered our way to the bar. One of the other lads started to get in a round of Budweiser, while I surveyed the dance floor. It was heaving with gyrating bodies, but one in particular caught my eye. She was a little blonde, right in the centre of the crowd, swaying and waving her arms wildly above her head. She wore a gold lamé boob tube which glittered with the reflected light from the overhead mirror ball, as did a little jewel nestling in her belly button. As she whipped her head around, her hair hid her face, but I was sure there was something familiar about her. I wondered if I knew her from school, but she didn’t ring any bells as a former fellow pupil.

A couple of our group noticed my interest in her, and started nudging me and joking about me trying to pull her. I should say at this stage that I haven’t had a steady girlfriend for some time. It’s not that I don’t like women, or vice versa — I’m six feet tall, slim but well-toned with light brown hair and always had plenty of girls interested in me at school. It’s more that I intend to return home when I finish in Edinburgh, so there’s not much point in starting a serious relationship with another student who could be from anywhere, and might not be keen on settling in a provincial little London dormitory town. The girl on the dance floor, and the fact that I couldn’t quite place her, intrigued me. It never crossed my mind to seriously try chatting her up, I just wanted to know who she was. She didn’t seem to be dancing with anyone in particular so, giving the lads a grin and a wink, I started to make my way through the throng of dancers towards her. As I reached her, her twirling movements brought her round to face me — and I got the shock of my life! I knew her from school all right — but not as a student.

She was my old teacher, Miss Taylor. Well, I say old, she’s actually only about 10 years older than me. I’d been in her form at school, and she had also bullied me through to the ‘A’ grades in my Modern History and Political Science A Levels which had clinched my placed at Edinburgh University. I’d had an odd sort of relationship with her — I respected her immensely as a teacher, but there were times when she’d been a real bitch to me, slagging my work and making me re-write entire essays and projects. She grinned in surprise at seeing me, and shouted something. The music was too loud for me to hear her voice, but I could read her lips saying, “Well, Barry Robson — hello.” I nodded in reply, still amazed to see her there. She started to say something else, shook her head laughing then pointed to the bar with one hand, miming drinking from a glass with the other. I nodded and she took my elbow and steered me through the mass of dancers to a relatively quiet corner, at the other end of the bar from my mates.

She pulled herself up onto a bar stool, and I sat opposite her. I reached for my wallet, but Miss Taylor stopped me. “No, you hard-up students need to save your money, I’ll get them.” While she tried to attract a barman’s attention I took in her appearance, which couldn’t have been more different to the prim and proper teacher I’d known. Her corn blonde hair, worn in a bun at school, hung loose on her skinny bare shoulders, her fringe plastered by sweat to her forehead. She had twinkling green eyes, a slim nose just a fraction too long, a wide mouth and a pointed, dimpled chin. Her blonde hair, her elfin looks, her size (she’s only about five-two, and petite) and her toned down Cockney accent could lead a person not to take her seriously — until she’s torn them off a strip, and they emerge from the wreckage feeling as if they’ve just been mugged by Mike Tyson’s bigger, meaner brother. That evening her eyelids were painted silver, her lips cherry red, matching her finger and toenails, and she had glitter on her flushed cheeks. The boob tube emphasised a decent pair of tits that I’d never really noticed in my school days, her nipples forming little hillocks in the material. It stopped well short of her navel and tuzla escort that sapphire coloured stone I’d seen before, set in a gold mounting. In addition she was wearing a pair of white shorts that barely extended onto her thighs, showing off short, shapely legs, and strappy sandals. As the drinks arrived she took a long pull at a bottle of Bacardi Breezer — clearly not her first drink of the night — and grinned at me again, shaking her head. “Well, well, well — Barry Robson. Of all the discos, in all the towns, in all the world…” She giggled at her Casablanca reference.

I took a swig of my Bud and, raising the bottle to her, said, “Thanks for this Miss. And can I just say, you look amazing.”

She giggled again. “Yeah, I do, don’t I. And you’re not at school anymore, call me Wendy.”

I glanced at the raucous scene around us and, leaning closer to be heard, said, “I wouldn’t have expected to see you in a place like this.”

She laughed and said, “Ooh, hold the front page — teacher has a life outside school. Well, it was either this or mark the fourth year mid-term History papers. Actually, there are a few of us here tonight — Rod Lacey, Susie Gordon…”

As if to confirm her words, at that moment a familiar figure loomed through the crowd — my old Geography teacher, Mr Anderson. I greeted him politely and he half-nodded, apparently not remembering me. Placing a hand on Wendy’s shoulder, he squeezed it gently and asked, “Are you coming over to join us?”

Without taking her eyes from my face she vaguely waved a hand at him and said, “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Mr Anderson turned away, glancing sharply at me. I said, “Sorry Miss, er, Wendy, are you two…?”

She stared at me for a moment as if I was mad. Then she said, “Me and Steve Anderson?”, and threw back her head, roaring with laughter, exposing her slim white throat. Gasping to regain her breath she flapped her hand in front of her face and said, “Whew dear, too much excitement for an old lady like me. Steve’s a poof, I thought you lot had sussed that one out years ago.” There had been gossip about his sexuality when I was at school, but I’d always dismissed it as the usual malicious kids’ mischief making. Then Wendy added, “He and Ian Berry have been together since your time.”

The revelation about our swaggering, bearded sports master surprised me. I’d represented the school at swimming and various other sports, and thought I knew him pretty well. I laughed, and said, “Never! Mr Berry’s gay?”

Wendy nodded vigorously, pleased at my reaction. “Don’t tell anyone though. He’s a bit sensitive about it, and he’d hang, draw and quarter me if he thought I’d outed him.” We chatted for a bit longer about life in school. As I started into my second Bud I confessed, “There were times when I used to hate you.”

She nodded with a laugh. “Yeah, I was pretty mean to you sometimes. Got you through you’re A Levels though, didn’t I? You learn early in teaching how to recognise which kids need the stick and which ones need the carrot. You were always a stick kind of lad. You were like me at the same age — very bright, but basically lazy. I knew if I could get you through your exams you’d thrive at uni, and when I was rotten to you it was only to get your best out of you. How are you enjoying Edinburgh, anyway?”

“I love it.,” I replied. “But I still miss this old dump. If you’re ever up in Edinburgh give me a shout, I’ll take you on the Rose Street pub crawl.”

She chuckled, and said, “Mmm, sounds like a plan.” As she spoke her hand slipped onto my knee. Of course, it could just have been a friendly gesture from a teacher to a successful former student; but my cock didn’t think so, as it started to take a definite interest in the world around it. Suddenly I was lost for words. I shuffled forward slightly on my stool, giving her a firmer contact with my knee. She didn’t remove her hand, just smiled blearily into my face.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I whipped round, half expecting to see another teacher. Instead it was Nick, my brother. He seemed a little peeved that I’d abandoned him and the others. He said, “Hello Miss Taylor. We’re moving on Baz; you with us?”

I pondered my options for a moment. Go off with a bunch of other young blokes on a pub crawl and get completely rat-arsed on beer, probably ending the evening by puking up a semi-digested kebab in some dark alleyway; or see where things went with the attractive, half-dressed, mature blonde whose hand was resting on my knee — one of whose fingers, in fact, was playfully stroking the inside of my knee. It wasn’t a difficult choice. I told my brother, “Nah, I’ll hang on here for a bit. Leave your mobile on and I’ll catch up with you later.” Nick glanced at Wendy, gave me a sceptical sot of ‘yeah, right’ look and moved off.

Wendy sniggered. “Oh dear, that’s my reputation trashed at school on Monday. ‘Here, I saw Miss Taylor in Romano’s on Friday night, looking like a right slapper.'” Then she added, “Look Barry, do you tuzla escort bayan fancy going somewhere a bit quieter? I’m getting hoarse trying to compete with this music. I’ll just go and grab my coat.” Before I could respond she disappeared into the mass of bodies. She was back a couple of minutes later and, taking my hand to avoid us getting separated, led me to the exit and back up to the street. I couldn’t help noticing that, as we walked the few minutes to a quiet pub in a neighbouring street, Wendy didn’t release her grip on my hand.

I got our drinks in and we settled at a corner table, side-by-side. I said, “You know, if it hadn’t been for you I’d probably never have got to any university, never mind Edinburgh. I know it might not have seemed like it at the time, but I’ve always been grateful to you for helping me through my A Levels. After I got my results I sent you a note thanking you.”

Wendy smiled. “I know, I’ve still got it. She held her white wine spritzer up to the light, watching a rainbow dance in it. “It was quite ironic that you didn’t like me much, ‘cos I really quite fancied you.” I stared at her open-mouthed. She grinned at my reaction. “What, you think it’s only male teachers who get hot under the collar surrounded by loads of attractive teenagers just reaching the age when they become sexually interesting? ‘Course, I wasn’t as bad as Helen Patterson. It’s a shame she wasn’t at Romano’s tonight; she’d have loved to see you again, she really had the hots for you. She and I used to compare notes on you. The main reason Helen helped out with the swim team was to get the chance to see you in your little Speedo trunks.”

Miss Patterson, an art teacher, had always been very helpful to me in getting my technique right in the pool, but it had never occurred to me for a moment that she had an ulterior motive. And as for Wendy Taylor — even when she’d put her hand on my knee earlier in the evening I’d assumed she was just flirting with me because she was a bit pissed. I decided to go for a bit of experimental flirting of my own, to try and determine whether she was just amusing herself with me, or whether I really was on for something. I slipped my arm around Wendy’s shoulders, and, leaning closer, murmured, “So this stick and carrot thing of yours. Which do you prefer?”

She giggled and moved her face to within inches of mine. My prick started to rear up as I felt her warm breath on my face. She half-whispered, “Well, a bit of S and M can be fun now and then. But what I really like is a nice, big, juicy carrot.” My stomach did a somersault as I felt her hand rub across my burgeoning erection. “Mmm,” she breathed, “feels like you’ve got a prize-winning specimen there.” She leant in and kissed me, an arm slinking round my neck, her small tongue slipping between my lips. It tasted oh so sweet, and I circled it with my own. Finishing her wine, she took my hand again and said, “Come on, let’s go back to my place.”

Wendy lived a couple of miles out of the town centre, so we hailed a taxi. I felt a little intimidated by the situation, or rather by the person it was developing with. I told myself, several times, this isn’t the school teacher you admired, hated and feared in equal measures a couple of years ago; this is a horny, sexy woman who’s out for a night of fun, and has decided she’s going to pull you — just sit back and enjoy the ride. As she draped her leg over mine and started kissing me in the taxi, the palm of her hand rubbing my groin again, I did have another concern though. Disentangling my mouth from hers, I mumbled, “Look, Wendy, I’m not sure about this. I mean, you’ve had quite a lot to drink. I wouldn’t want you to wake up tomorrow and feel like you’d made some horrendous mistake while you were under the influence.”

She sat back and stared at me for a moment. Then she took my face between her palms, locked her eyes on mine, and said, slowly and clearly, “I’m not as drunk as you seem to think I am Barry, I’m just having a good time. Trust me, I was getting sloshed when you were still playing with Action Man dolls. I’m as horny as fuck, and if it hadn’t been you tonight it would still have been someone. As it is, I’m glad it’s you because I fancied you two years ago, and now I’m actually going to get the chance to screw you. If you want to. Helen’ll be so jealous!” Feeling reassured, and a bit flattered by her words, I answered her last comment by resuming our kiss, my hand dropping to the velvety warmth of her thigh just below her shorts, as she chuckled happily into my mouth.

When we got out of the taxi Wendy led me up the path of a small semi-detached house and unlocked the door. The moment we got inside she thrust me against the wall of the hallway and we got into some heavy-duty petting. I pulled her coat down her arms and she shrugged it off. One of the best things about a boob tube is that they roll down so easily. Within seconds I had both her small breasts in my hands, the nipples rock hard against my palms. As she began to unzip my escort tuzla fly I still couldn’t quite get the thought out of my mind, “Bloody hell, I’m actually going to fuck Miss Taylor.”

I lowered my mouth to one of her breasts and licked a nipple. She gave a little gasp of pleasure then started to push me back. “Oh God, no, not here, let’s get upstairs.” She pulled me into the lounge — and we nearly walked straight into another woman! She was in her mid-thirties, wearing a dressing gown and holding a steaming mug of what smelt like cocoa. Wendy gave a little embarrassed laugh, and said, “Oh hi Sylv, I wasn’t sure you’d be in tonight. Barry, this is my house-mate, Sylvia. Sylv, this is, um, an old friend of mine.”

Sylvia glanced at Wendy’s exposed boobs, grinned at me and said good-naturedly, “Not that old. Are you resorting to cradle snatching these days, Wend?”

Wendy laughed and said, “Cuh, you can talk. Sylvia’s a lecturer at the local college. Or should I say a lecher. You should see some of the pretty young things she brings home, of both sexes.”

Sylvia pretended a look of hurt innocence for a moment, then laughed herself. “Yeah, well, I haven’t got any with me tonight, so just try and keep it down, otherwise I might come in and join you.”

Wendy hugged me to her and replied, “Hands off! You get your own shags, this one’s mine.” With that she took my arm and half-led, half-dragged me to a corner staircase which led to the upper floor.

In her bedroom she stripped naked in seconds and leapt onto her double bed. It had a brass bedstead, modern but designed to look antique. As I removed my own clothes I took in her sweet little body. Her skin was quite pale, her breasts small and round, crowned with perky pink nipples. On her left hip was a blue-black tattoo of a scorpion. The jewelled piercing still twinkled in her belly button, and below that her pubis was completely shaved of hair. Seeing where I was looking she eased her thighs apart, and I saw puffy pink lips pouting at me, just a hint of moisture between them. As I dropped my underpants her eyes fell to my 7-inch uncut erection and she giggled, murmuring, “Wow, I owe Helen five quid.” I had no idea what their bet had been, but Wendy didn’t seem too disappointed at having lost it.

I joined her on the bed, and we took each other in our arms, her boobs pressing into my chest, my cock rubbing against her thighs. We’d been kissing for a few seconds when she broke away and, turning her back to me, said, “Hang on a minute.” She giggled as I stroked a hand across her bum, then took something out of a drawer beside her bed. When she turned back I saw it was not one but two pairs of fur handcuffs, with a tiger stripe pattern, and some silk scarves. Thinking back to Wendy’s earlier S and M comment, I wasn’t sure how I felt about being restrained, but then she cuffed one of her own wrists to the bedstead. Then she held the other things towards me. “Here, do my other arm, then tie my ankles with the scarves.”

A bit uncertainly I squatted over her to secure her other wrist. As I did so she reached up her head and took my cock into her mouth with an exaggerated moan of pleasure. Having cuffed her I shuffled further forward to give her better access to me. She licked her tongue up and down my shaft, then took my balls into her mouth before returning to my cock, sliding tongue and lips up and down it, gradually increasing her speed until, gripping the brass bedstead tightly in my hands, I had a shuddering climax in her mouth. She muttered “C’mere.” When I bent my head to her she gave me a snowball kiss, smearing my spunk around the inside of my mouth with her tongue.

I tied her ankles with the soft scarves, while she whispered, “Make sure you got the knots good and tight — ooh, that’s it, lover.” I still couldn’t quite believe what was happening, and who with. Within moments, my former schoolteacher was spread-eagled on her own bed, completely at my mercy. I stroked a finger along her bare slit, and her hips twitched and she gasped. “Oh fuck, yes, make me cum you randy little sod.” I lay beside her and eased two fingers into her pussy, drawing a sigh from her. As I kissed her I started swirling my fingers around and flicked my thumb across her clit, causing her to groan in my mouth. She must have been really turned on, as my fingers felt as if they were burning and within seconds she was writhing on my hand and panting into my mouth, her small pussy tightening around my probing fingers. Then she sank back into the bed, pulled away from my mouth and whispered, “Thanks Barry, I really fucking needed that.”

I started to kiss and lick her tits, then something caught my eye — a pink ostrich feather in a vase on a dressing table at the foot of Wendy’s bed. She began to ask what I was doing when I stood, but then saw me pick up the feather and started to giggle nervously. “Oh no, you can’t tickle me, not when I can’t defend myself. You can’t…Barryyyyyyy!” She trailed off into wild, shrieking laughter as I ran the feather lightly across her body, concentrating on her armpits, the soles of her feet and the area around hr pussy. She squirmed about, tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks as I tortured her with the feather.

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