Nathalie (Or Sex, Love, & Training Wheels)

I met Nathalie on a chilly autumn afternoon. It was October, and already the leaves were spiraling down from the trees in short breezes. When Nathialie ("the new girl") came into my class that first day, she tracked a yellow leaf in with her, which flitted across the floor in the draft from beneath the door.

Within a month Nathalie had established herself as my star student. I taught English, and most of my students couldn't care less about Fitzgerald and Shakespeare, yet Nathalie turned out stellar analysis and brilliant poetry with every turn. I knew she belonged in a more advanced class, but this was a small, private girls' school, and we didn't have that sort of instruction here. Still, I had to do something.

"Nathalie," I called one day, at the end of class.

"Yes, Mr. Larsson?" she answered, pausing in the doorway. Her hair was cropped tomboyishly short, and she tucked it behind her ear, looking at me obediently. I motioned for her to come over, and proposed after-school tutoring sessions, making it clear that I felt she deserved special attention. She wholeheartedly agreed, and promised to come in the next day.

We spent nearly every afternoon in November and December together, discussing literature, critiquing poetry. Nathalie was a brilliant conversationalist, knowledgeably debating everything from politics to pop culture. I enjoyed our time together, and I was sure Nathalie did, too. Nathalie had been a loner ever since her first day at the school, and I know she was glad to have someone to talk to.

In fact, Nathalie grew more and more attached to me as the weeks went on. I knew how hard it was for new students, especially eighteen-year-old ingénues like Nathalie, to make friends, and I was flattered that she would want my company. She began choosing a seat in the front of the room, near my desk, every day. She would watch me attentively during class, chime in during discussions, and comment on the books we were reading after each lesson.

And I enjoyed Nathalie, too. She was fun to talk to and had a wonderful sense of humor. Yet something more was coming over me. I couldn't deny that she was a lovely girl; small, with Botticellian slim hips and small breasts, she looked beautiful even in the school's uniform. (White blouse, navy sweater, plaid skirt, navy kneesocks, and black shoes.) She must have been about five feet tall and weighed only a hundred pounds. Her smile was lively, her brown eyes bright, her chestnut hair silky and fine. When I watched her tapping her foot during class, her head bent studiously over her notebook, I felt drawn to her. I didn't want to admit it, but I was falling in love with a high schooler.

I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. Here I was, a married man in my late thirties, lusting after a girl who was barely more than a child. Sure, my wife and I didn't have sex much anymore (and when we did, it was routine) but so what? Plenty of men had mid-life crises, plenty were attracted to other women. It was just abnormal for a grown man--a teacher, for heaven's sake--to believe himself to be in love with an adolescent schoolgirl.

But, against my better judgment, I allowed our afternoon meetings to take on a more friendly tone. We sat side-by-side on my desk, we performed 'Romeo and Juliet.' It was a thrill almost heavier than I could handle. But I did pay my price, when Nathalie laughingly pulled me close, playing Juliet to my Romeo, I fought off the erection that threatened to rise right against her sweet, firm belly.

I didn't know how much more I could take, or how much longer I could hide it. I debated calling off the meetings, dropping the class, quitting my job, moving far, far from here. But I couldn't take the thought of losing Nathalie altogether. Something had to give.

And it did.

Rather, Nathalie did. She stood on a chair, the day before winter break, as we played out the balcony scene. Holding her Shakespeare paperback high, she read her lines, nearly reciting them. I stood on the floor, a few feet away, grateful for the distance. And gradually, we moved closer, following the stage directions and our own inclinations. Then, when it came time for Juliet to kiss Romeo, Nathalie did not kiss the air and pretend to have done the deed. Shy but swift, she reached for me. Her lips touched mine, closed, quickly, in a chaste kiss. Then she giggled, dropping her book and running from the room, calling, "Merry Christmas!" down the hall. I was left alone in my empty classroom, the shadow of consummation still on my lips, a full erection at my groin.

I re-lived the kiss over and over as I drove home and then, when I reached my driveway, it hit me. I would not be seeing Nathalie for a full two weeks of winter break. Perhaps the break was for the best, though. Temptation might prove too much for me if I were to see her tomorrow.

Anyway, something had to be done about my current erection. I went into the house quickly, and found my wife in the kitchen, just home from work. "Honey," I whispered, taking her by the shoulders and turning her around. I began to unbutton her blouse as I kissed her, murmuring, "Come upstairs with me. I want to make love with you."

Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course. My wife was a pretty woman, and the sweetest person I had ever known, but I did not want to make love with her. I did not want her full breasts and womanly shape. Still, I led her upstairs, nuzzling her collarbone, kissing her breasts. I selfishly skipped foreplay and finished undressing her, pushing her back onto the bed. She whimpered as I straddled her, groaned as I slipped my cock inside, moaned as I began to pump her. I pushed in and out more quickly than usual, her hot wet pussy tightening around my cock and driving me on. She reached her orgasm before I did, pushing aside precedence and crying out my name. But I had my eyes closed as I vigorously drove it home, pushing my cock in harder and faster as the tension grew to a peak. I was imagining Nathalie's body writhing beneath mine, her tight pussy as my sheath, her soft voice moaning to me.

And I was careful not to cry out any name as I came.

I felt guilty for deceiving my wife, as if I had truly cheated on her. She laid her head on my chest when we were through, sighing happily. "You haven't done that in years," she said. "What brought it on?"

"I was thinking of you at work," I lied, stroking her hair. Then a half-truth: "You're beautiful." I did not mention the adolescent with more beauty.

Then, finally, the winter vacation was over. School began with the second-semester commencement, a long assembly at which Honor Roll students from the first half of the year were celebrated, and news for the second half was announced. The school population had outgrown the auditorium a year or so ago, and at the back of the room students and teachers leaned on the wall, wishing they had seats. Others perched on armrests at the end of each row, looking at the stage with medium interest.

My own right hand was resting on an armrest, as I had the seat at the end of my row. Within minutes, Nathalie found me, and took a seat not only on my armrest, but on my hand. From the look of surprise on her face I knew she had not planned it, and I dared not pull away, lest any of the other teachers notice. She sat perfectly still and stared straight ahead.

For most of the assembly I could think of nothing but Nathalie's warmth upon my hand. I could feel her soft labia through her panties, which were (was I imagining things?) a bit damp. Just perspiration, no doubt. I didn't believe she could be lubricated. Then again, I estimated my knuckles were pressed to the soft lips that protected her tender clitoris. Perhaps she aroused; perhaps she couldn't help it.

Then I noticed a gentle movement. Her buttocks tensed and relaxed, pushing her pussy against my knuckles through the cotton. (Yes, it was definite; I was hitting the spot over her clit.) The movement was hardly detectable on my own hand, and I knew no one else could see it. I folded my hand a bit, pressing my knuckles up into the slit between her labia. Through her panties, her pussy lips moved suddenly as her vaginal muscles contracted.

She must have been near orgasm. I marveled at how still and quiet she could be while driving herself toward a climax. Her face was slightly flushed, sure, and now her breathing was beginning to go a bit soft, as if she was trying to restrain it. But there were no other clues. I glanced down at the floor, where one of her shoes, toe braced against the floor, moved rhythmically, the heel pumping up and down. I remember reading suddenly that women could sometimes disguise masturbation this way, moving just a foot while they quietly reached a climax.

Good Lord, could that be what she was doing all those times she tapped her foot in class? It wasn't possible! But here she was, doing just the same thing, and I knew for sure what she was doing now.

Her pussy twitched and, involuntarily, her hips tensed in a pre-orgasm tremor. She masked it by pretending to cough, using the sudden movement as an excuse to hump hard but discreetly against my hand. (She had to have done this before. Had she ever coughed in class, too?) Then she sat up again, looking as if nothing was going on, and I felt her reach orgasm. Her foot tapped a bit quicker, stopped, then started again as her pussy contracted rhythmically, its waves hard enough for me to feel on my hand.

And then, before I had time to think, the assembly was through. Nathalie stood up and I rubbed my hand. Nobody had noticed our position as the crowd rushed to leave the large room. Miraculously, her panties were no more than a bit damp. I thanked heaven that she (apparently) didn't lubricate heavily.

As I reached my room I came to a realization: I could have lost my job for that. There was no way anything like that could happen again. Nathalie and I would have to talk.

We did talk, and Nathalie promised that the incident in the auditorium had been as close to an accident as that sort of thing could be. She swore the position had her aroused (she didn't mince words, that girl), she couldn't help herself, and "God, no!" she didn't want me to be fired. "Of course not!" she threw in at the end, and I could tell from her tone that she meant it.

But neither of us really meant it when we said the assembly incident would never repeat itself. We did manage to make it through the week without a kiss or a touch, but anything more was too much to ask, at least of me, if not of Nathalie.

We were in the book room, Nathalie searching for some long-lost copy of a Virginia Woolf book, myself seated on the solid sorting table against the wall, watching her. She crouched, she stretched, she bent over boxes to search the shelves, and each new pose provided me with a glimpse of her thighs, her panties, her belly.

Yet after a while, even that grew tiresome, and I began to doze, leaning against the wall. When I awoke, Nathalie was beside me, one knee on the table, ready to climb up. "Jesus, Nathalie!" I gasped, startled.

"Will you let me?" she asked. I wondered what, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Nathalie, look," I said, trying to be firm. "I know you may feel a certain way about me, but--"

"What?" she interrupted. "Wait--you think I've got a--that I think I'm in love with you? God, no, Larsson!

I was disappointed, but pressed on. "What, then?"

She sighed, sitting up on the table. "Look, I mean, I like you. You're nice, and a good teacher, and I trust you. But I'm not in love with you. I decided a long time ago that I wouldn't do something like this for love."

"Something like what?"

"This!" She looked around. "It's not about love. It's about, when you get right down to it, you making me feel good, and me doing the same thing for you. And while it might be better with someone I love, I'd rather start out with someone comfortable. Who can teach me. Like riding a bike but with training wheels."

I took a moment to laugh at the analogy, but she was already straddling my lap, her soft warmth settling down on my cock, which was beginning to harden in my pants. "God, Nathalie," I gasped as her weight settled. "You have this all planned out."

"Mmmhmm," she murmured, but her mind was no longer on the logistics of learning to make love. She was too deeply interested with her own pleasure. I felt disappointed that she was, in a way, using me, but it disappeared as she began to rock herself in my lap, her fully clothed pussy pressing my now-hard cock with each movement of her hips.

She closed her eyes and bit her lip and tipped her head back as she went on. "Wait, wait," I muttered, and opened my pants, letting my cock spring up in my loose boxers. "Better," I said, and she readjusted herself, positioning my clothed cock between her legs. She leaned forward, increasing her rhythm as she dry-humped my cock. Her chin dug into my left shoulder, her hand gripping the right, and then she leaned back for better leverage. Her hips moved more swiftly, more like she was riding me,and I could feel her friction pulling my soft boxers up and down over my cock. She went forward again to do the humping motion, but it provided very little pleasure to me, beyond feeling her weight atop my pulsing cock. "No, lean back again, that way," I said, and she obeyed. This time she hung onto my shoulders as if for her life, panting while she slid my dick in the groove created by panties and swollen labia. Up and down my shaft she rode, and I could feel my balls beginning to tighten as I prepared for an orgasm.

This was the first time I could see her reactions to pleasure, I realized, and I watched Nathalie's face, her eyes fixed on the ceiling then squeezing closed, her mouth open as if in shock. She steadily murmured something I ouldn't hear, but looked like, "Yes, yes, oh God, yes."

Her pussy was beginning to tremble and tighten, and I realized how strong the tension of her inner muscles had to be if I could feel it through her pussy lips. God, there were just two thin layers of cotton separating me from that virgin opening. She humped my cock faster and faster until I felt I would explode. Oh, what I wouldn't do to burst through that cotton, plunge my hard dick deep into that waiting hole, its walls trembling and convulsing in anticipation of our simultaneous climax...

That image, coupled with Nathalie's insistent thrusts, sent me over the edge. Cum shot out into my boxers, a sticky warm stream dripping back onto my penis. She felt it and groaned, squeezing her eyes shut, murmuring "Oh my God, oh my God," as she reached her orgasm.

I imagined being my dick inside of her pussy, her slick red walls shaking with the effort of waiting, trying not to cum as I pushed inside. I closed my eyes, in the back of my mind seeing my cum shoot into her in hot white streams, coating her walls, the force and the heat of it all too much for her.

I was brought back to reality by the sound of her moan, ripping from her throat thought she was trying to keep quiet. "Ohhhh..." her whole body tensed as her orgasm peaked and mine began to subside. There were no screams, no cries of pleasure, just her steady, calm pleading: "Oh, God, yes. Please. Please. Oh yes..." Somehow, it fit. I wouldn't have expected anything else from her. She took a deep breath, collapsing against me, both of us finally spent.

"Nathalie, we can't do this again," I said. She nodded, pressing her face to my shoulder wearily. "I mean it, we can't." She said yes, humored me, but we both knew it was a lie.

God, how I loved her. Even after that, our afternoon meetings went on as if nothing had happened. Nathalie would trot in, drop her books, and announce what she wanted to discuss that day. There was no mention of sex, of love, of training wheels.

Sometimes I doubted she was even possible. How could Nathalie exist? A supple young body, not a little girl but barely reaching womanhood, those small breasts and slim legs in their kneesocks, all coupled with a mind that was light years ahead of mine. Her intelligence definitely matched my own and her maturity seemed to surpass it, if she could do what we did and still not ruin our student-teacher relationship. It was sex by logic, for the sake of learning, for the sake of just having a pleasurable experience with a friend. She was unreal.

Unfortunately, she was also spoken for. Her popularity had been steadily increasing as more students got to know her. A pretty face and a sense of humor never hurt anybody in the popularity game, after all, and Nathalie fell in with a group of intelligent, fun older girls. (I'd had all of them in my class previously, and I was glad to see her associated with them.) They introduced her to a boy from another private school nearby, she began dating him, and our sexual relationship cooled for a little while. I supposed she didn't need me now that she could experiment with him.

And one afternoon in March, she appeared in my room unscheduled, and asked to speak with me. She was in the doorway, both hands on either side of the frame, her hair tousled, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. The hem of her skirt was a bit crooked, and her shirt was half untucked, too. "Nathalie, what's wrong with you?" I asked.

"Nothing!" she grinned. Then she became serious. "But remember what I said about training wheels? It might be nicer with someone I love, but I need to learn with someone comfortable?"

I nodded, and she went on, telling me how she and her boyfriend had been behind the school, making out. She was braced with her back against a tree and he was pressed against her, and then she knew they would go all the way. "I don't know how, I just knew," she said. "So I looked at my watch and pretended I had to be somewhere and I ran here."

"I don't understand. What do you need help with, then?" I got up from my desk to approach her.

"Look," she said. "I really do love him, and I want to have sex with him. He's a wonderful guy. But I'm nervous. I don't want my first time with him to be awkward. So I need you to show me how."

"Show you how?"

"Please? I'm comfortable with you. I won't be afraid this way. If it hurts, or if I'm unsure about something, I know I can ask you. I trust him, but I on't want to make him nervous either. Please, Mr. Larsson?"

"Are you sure?" I asked, placing my hands on her shoulders. She nodded. "Okay, then. Relax. Don't be nervous." I locked the door, pulled down the shade, and turned off the light so that the room would seem empty. We sat in the sunlit room for a while, talking while I undressed her, occasionally caressing her breasts or giving her a kiss to distract her from being nervous.

I sat her on one of the desks and she leaned back, resting her weight on her elbows as I kissed down her chest, between the tiny peaks of her young breasts. I knew the trouble I could get in, and I was nervous, but somehow I didn't mind. My thumbs grazed her nipples, teasing them into hard peaks as she exhaled in a long sigh, relaxing. "Feel better?" I asked. She nodded, smiling weakly down at me. "If you want me to hurry, I can," I said. "I just want to help you calm down a bit."

"No, no, it's fine," she said, shaking her head, and I went back to playing with her breasts. Now that her nipples were hard, I licked and sucked them gently, first one and then the other. Blowing cool air over them, I watched her skin pucker as they hardened further. I pinched her right nipple softly and she started; her nipples were highly aroused, so the sensation must have been electric not only at her chest but within her vagina as well. "Do it again," she whispered, and I pinched once more. I flicked my finger back and forth over her nipple, then the other, then back to the right, until her hips bucked. "I'm gonna...oh, not yet..." she hissed, and I began kissing my way down her belly.