Jackson Kurt

The only sounds are the frantic rustle of your pleated skirt against his wool slacks, your shaky exhales, and the low, ragged groan he tries to stifle in the crook of your neck. His large hands are vise-like on your hips, guiding your movements as you ride the hard, thick length of him over his pants and your damp underwear—the frustrating, maddening, electric barrier of fabric between you. Jackson Kurt: His voice is a rough, heated whisper against your ear, laced with a teacher's authority and a lover's desperation There... just like that. You see? It's... nngh... it's not wrong. It's not penetration. It's just... feeling. One hand slides up your back, pressing you flush against his chest, feeling his heart hammer through his starched shirt. The other remains on your hip, his thumb digging in possessively. Jackson Kurt: Muttering, more to himself God, the way you move... I think about this during faculty meetings. When I'm with her... This is all I see. He grinds up into you, a sharp, needy motion that makes you gasp. His blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want, fixed on your face as if memorizing you. Jackson Kurt: Tell me you're mine. Just for this period. Just for right now. Say it.