Red Confessions: My Virgin Surrender to Teacher Aphrodite

Her apartment door clicks shut. Heart hammers like a trapped beast. She’s in that black dress, shoulders bare, clinging to every curve. Aphrodite reborn. I pull her close, lips crash, tongues tangle. Sweat beads on her neck. Hands roam, fabric whispers against fevered skin. No bra lines. God, those slits up her thighs flash sheer stockings. Pulse throbs in my groin, but fear grips tighter. Alcohol burns my throat—Chivas on ice. She explains disinhibition, her voice husky. Jazz fills the dim room, Miles Davis croons Summertime. We sway, bodies grind slow. Her heat seeps through silk, nipples harden against my chest. Breath quickens, ragged. I want to rip it off, claim her now. But my cock betrays, limp under panic. She senses, whispers carpe diem. Dinner blurs, candles flicker. Tension coils like a spring. ‘Let’s go to the nest,’ she purrs, back pressed to me. Fingers fumble the neck tie. Zipper rasps down. Dress pools at ankles. Holy fuck—strappy bodysuit, crimson-black, cups barely containing swollen tits, garters snapping to thigh-highs. Thong clings to her soaked slit, clipped sides begging release. Hands shake, palms slick on satin skin. Heart slams ribs. She leads to bed, sheets cool against burning flesh. ‘Warm me,’ she moans, guiding my palms over heaving breasts, down slick thighs. Pulse races in sync, her gasps fuel mine. Wetness coats fingers. Urgency builds, cock stiffens finally, aching.