Filling my Inbox
written by:
Wayward Eve

Hi. You can call me Evelyn.

There are some things you should know about me before we get started. First, I'm 5' 5". I have blonde hair. I wear it short. 34C. I usually hover around 115 pounds. Second, aside from a few minor details (like names), this is autobiographical. Lastly, I'm not what you would call a ‘good girl' or a ‘nice person'. I'm sharing this with you because it gets me off. If you don't like me, I don't care. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. As always, you might want to keep some tissues handy.

This is a digression. I think you'll like it. I was going to tell you more about my college next, but today was exceptional. I am a teacher by trade. Let your naughty little minds wrap around that for a second. During the day, I work as graduate assistant teaching basing rhetoric to undergrads. In the afternoons, I work as a remediation specialist for an afterschool program at a high school. Before you get too excited, I keep my work and play separate.

Mostly.

All of my work skirts are knee length and form fitting. Sleek, professional, and sexy. Up top, I favor tight sweaters or, weather permitting, blouses that tease a glimpse of bra now and then. All of my students look. I want them to. It turns me on to imagine them imagining me when they touch themselves. With the high school boys (some of which are old enough to write about here), that's as far as it goes. It's just a little harmless game to flesh out their teacher fantasies (and mine). It's not that I'm not tempted. There's one boy, let's call him Billy. Billy is nineteen and a senior. He fucks me with his eyes every day. Sometimes, I lean on his desk while I talk just to watch his pants fill out. He fills them out nicely. The bulge makes more than my mouth water. I've already decided that I am going to fuck him when he graduates. He's old enough now, but I didn't claw my way through college and the praxis exams to get blacklisted for being impatient. Besides, the waiting and the temptation are exquisite torture. I savor it. Right now, I really want to stop typing and use my hands for something else. It wouldn't be the first time today. I'll wait for now. Just a little longer.

Normally, I behave myself at work. Today was different. Last night, my very first story went live. Today, it was all I could think about. I felt so exposed. Knowing that eyes were sliding over my words felt like eyes sliding all over my body. I was flush and breathless all day today. My clit ached constantly. I had to go to the bathroom more than once just to clean myself up. I kept thinking that as I was going about my daily routine, somewhere people were cumming over me. I told myself that I wouldn't log in to here from work. So much for that. I had to know. I was obsessed.

My ESmail box was brimming with messages. People complimented my eloquence, my mouth, and my boldness. I got a few naughty questions or artistic suggestions. I loved all of them and I tried to respond to most, but it was the other ones that got under my skin. "Yes," they said. "I came for you." Some of you were beautifully explicit. The more I read, the more I needed release. Then I got to a message from a man saying that he'd cheat on his wife with me. I am not a nice person. Taboos are an aphrodisiac for me and playing the love verses lust games is one of my favorite pastimes. Oh, I burn a lot of bridges that way, but they all burn so pretty. Forbidden fruit is my favorite kind. I am Eve, after all. That message was the final straw. It melted my resolve into sweet submission.

I couldn't even make myself go to the faculty bathroom first. I couldn't wait any longer. I'm lucky. My classroom is on the second floor, facing outwards. I got up, walked across the room, and closed the door. By the time I sat back down, I was already panting. I keep a small vibrator in my purse. It's a tiny, metallic thing that resembles a tube of lip gloss. It runs on three watch batteries and it is very quiet. I read the message over and over as I turned my little helper on and slid it under my skirt. I sat at my desk and made myself cum. It was so hard to be quiet as I caressed my hood with the little bullet, not touching my clit right off. I had to coax myself into that. I came so hard, I saw spots. I didn't dare try to stand up. My thighs were Jell-O.

Those of you who wrote me today, I want you to know that you made me cum. You're about to do it again. I share a three bedroom apartment with two boys and one of their girlfriends. We'll call them Chad, Jordan, and Amanda. We're all polyamorus. I mention this because Jordan is reading over my shoulder right now. He's caressing the back of my neck, right where my hair starts. It's just one of those places on me that drives me wild. Men are simple. Touch their cock and you're good. I almost pity them. There are a hundred little things that can set me off. Jordan and Amanda know them all. I'm still training Chad.

Jordan says, "Hello," but his fingers are doing a lot more talking than that right now. He's got an arm draped over my chest and he's untying my pajama pants. Now, his hand is slipping inside. He has good hands, a guitar player's hands. Such deft, tireless fingers. He has two of them inside me now, curling upwards. I can hardly think. I'm going to send this in now. His cock is right here and I want it. He's a bad boy. He tastes like Amanda.

I'm cumming.