Jasmine’s Secret: Caught & Seduced


I love Christmas… I always have.

I love the decorations and lights.

I love Christmas songs (my iPod has over 400 Christmas songs that play randomly from December first on).

I love decorating the tree. We always do this the last weekend in November, wanting it to be up at least a month.

I love buying new decorations every year… just three or four personal ones to update the personality of the tree.

I love buying candy canes.

I love eating candy canes.

I love buying presents for the people I love.

I love wrapping presents, treating each one with the care it deserves.

I love seeing their faces when they unwrap their gifts and get something special… sometimes something they didn’t know even existed. It’s not the price of the gift that matters, but the personal care with which it’s selected.

I love Christmas movies from ‘Home Alone’, to ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ to ‘A Christmas Carol’, I even loved the mostly hated ‘Jingle All the Way’. I always watch the women’s network in December to see the new and old romantic Christmas movies like ‘Christmas in Boston’ and ‘SnowGlobe’.

I never miss the annual showing of the television version of a ‘Charlie Brown Christmas’ and ‘How The Grinch Stole Christmas’.

I even give all my students candy canes on the first school day of December and again on the last day of school before Christmas.

So I was my jolly, holiday happy self, just starting the last week before the Christmas break when things began to get strange.

On Monday, after school, there was a present on my desk wrapped with a note. I assumed it was another Secret Santa gift, something our staff did every year, although I had already received one that day.

I opened the note and stared at it, perplexed:

A present for the hottest teacher in the school.

What a weird note.

Curious, I opened it and gasped. It was a pair of beige thigh high stockings.

Who would give me a pair of thigh high stockings? I mean I love stockings and wear them every day. Sometimes it’s stockings and a garter, sometimes it’s pantyhose and sometimes it’s actual thigh highs… it’s my own secret rebellion hidden beneath my rather conservative teacher’s attire.

Most people saw me as a dedicated, caring English teacher, some saw me as a bitch who doesn’t accept excuses for sloppy or tardy work, but none saw the other sides of me.

Because I hid those other two sides of me from almost everybody.


Only my husband, and a one-night-stand partner in the extremely rare lesbian encounter when I travelled, knew of my sexual subservient nature.

In the bedroom I was my husband’s slut. I loved being his obedient submissive. I loved being fucked and used like a bimbo bitch.

I love sucking cock.

I love swallowing cum.

I like getting facials, although I prefer swallowing the yummy load… I do like the submissive humiliation of allowing my man to plant his metaphorical flag of ownership over me with a facial.

I like getting fucked hard… doggy style my favourite.

I even take it in the ass, although usually only when I’m drunk and really willing to be a hundred percent subservient.

I also love role playing, having a couple dozen costumes where I act out the sluttiest possible version of a character like:

Slutty Airline Attendant (for the record we joined the mile high club on the way to Japan in the tiny washroom and again on the way back when I blew him right in our seats… an older couple sleeping across the aisle from us.

Me the Student and him the Teacher, my being able to look a lot younger than my 37 when I tried with just an extra few touches of makeup.

A Witch getting a load just seconds before taking my children out trick or treating.

A maid who doesn’t speak English.

These, of course, were just a few of the kinky, slutty, outfits I had… although with young children and a husband whose work had him gone for weeks at a time… I didn’t get to wear them as much as I would like… or get fucked as much as I like.


Unknown to any of my friends, or colleagues, or family, or even my husband, I write erotica for fun and have done so for over six years. I’ve posted almost 300 stories (if you include each chapter of my many sequel stories on their own) in almost a dozen genres out there. Unknown to all is my secret name: Jasmine Walker… and my secret writing name silkstockingslover (which goes back to an ex-fiancé who was absolutely obsessed with nylons and a fetish I kept long after he dropped out of the picture).

Then… one week in December 2016, my two worlds, three I suppose, came colliding into each other all at once.

I looked back at the gift. These were nice sheer thigh highs… these were expensive and worth it.

As I lifted them up, I noticed there was a second note.

I unfolded it and was again surprised by the words.

I expect you to be wearing these tomorrow, my pet.

It was typed, so I couldn’t analyze the handwriting.

I instantly felt I was in one of my own stories. I had a lot of fantasies that I had written about, and some I had yet to write about… but I definitely had a half dozen plus recurring themes in my late night fantasies:

A bukkake in the locker room (preferably a dozen senior football players or basketball players coating me in their hot, sticky, cum.

Getting fucked by a big black cock or eating a black pussy (preferably getting fucked by black cock while eating black pussy). I sometimes am called a racist for this fantasy, but the reality is that the taboo of it turns me on and I find the black body beautiful… and although I know many black cocks are average size, I also know many others are super-sized.

I desperately want to get double penetrated… preferably by two hung seniors who know how to fuck the living shit out of me before they give me a double facial.

Having a threesome with my two sisters who both worship me or who both make me their slut.

But my biggest fantasy… by far… was being seduced and dominated by a teenage female student. Every year I would have a student who dominated my dreams and was the key female archetype of my stories.

Once it was a cheerleader, another time a popular rich bitch… each who would use me as the secret slut I was.

But, more years than not, I fantasized about one of my shy students being the one to blackmail me and make me her personal pussy pleaser….

This year it was Melanie. Shy and sweet, a hard working young lady, with excellent marks and, to top it off, she wore pantyhose most days… which, as you know, is my fetish… my greatest personal weakness.

I love the look of them on a female’s legs and especially displaying her feet.

I love the touch of them… especially if they’re sheer silk.

I love a pair of legs wrapped in them and then wrapped around my body as I eagerly eat a pussy (something that has happened only a few precious times).

They also easily distract me.

When I see a student in nylons I almost always stare.

Then I wonder if the nylons she’s wearing are reinforced toe or sandalfoot toe… my preference is for the latter, as I like the clear, clean sheer look; the reinforced toe distracts from the elegance of the shiny look and the contours of the enclosed foot.

I assume that the girl is wearing pantyhose, but in my fantasies she will always be in thigh highs or a garter-belt and stockings… her own sexy secret, like the one I have.

As I re-read the brief note, I focus on two key things:

  1. The person is telling me to do something

  2. He/She is calling me her ‘pet’… instantly creating a hierarchy in power… one where I am obviously the subservient.

Again these are all details I have used dozens of times in my almost 300 released stories… and assuredly in many yet to be released.

Conflicting emotions swarm through me at the note, the gift.

I am undeniably turned on… the idea of being someone’s submissive is my greatest unresolved fantasy.

I’m petrified… who is doing this? A teacher? A student? A parent? Who? Who? Who?

Not knowing creates instant anxiety as I ponder the implications of the note.

Did someone have a clue I was silkstockingslover? It seemed rather unlikely, but that was the first thing that popped into my head.

Why would they send me nylons?

Why would they order me to wear them?




Oddly, even as anxiety riddled me with consequences: my job, my reputation and my family all potentially at risk, my panties were sopping wet.

I felt compelled to obey, not out of risk of being ‘outed’ (although that hung above me like a dark storm cloud), but in response to my natural submissive DNA.

Plus, I wore nylons every day, even casual Fridays, so it would be easy to obey without really changing anything I did.

Sometimes I even wore thigh highs to work, sometimes a garter and stockings and on occasion I even went commando by wearing crotchless pantyhose… my own secret rebellion to the generic perception of an English teacher.

I put the two notes and the thigh highs in my purse and headed home, with a pile of Hamlet essays to read. As I was leaving, Joan, a Chemistry teacher, asked, “What did you get today?”

I stammered, Joan seeming highly unlikely to be my secret gift giver, “W-w-what?”

Joan clarified, “From your Secret Santa.”

“Ohhh,” I nodded, realizing she wasn’t talking about my unorthodox after school gift, but the traditional Secret Santa we had among staff. “A coffee on my desk at break and a donut.”

“Nice,” she smiled, “I got a Christmas coffee mug.”

“You can never have too many coffee cups,” I joked.

She laughed, “I think you can, and I’ve just reached that number.”

I nodded, a coffee mug for my principal, who was the name I drew, was what I had intended for one of the remaining days, “I may have to reconsider my upcoming gifts.”

“Have a good night,” she said.

“You too,” I nodded, heading out.

That night, my husband gone (all week, actually, as he often was, working in the oil industry), I ended up working on a new sex story in my ‘turning contest’ series, knowing I was too horny and distracted to even begin to grade a Shakespeare essay.

As usual, once I started I got going and wrote over 3000 words while my pussy slowly percolated.

Somehow, and I don’t know why I assumed this, I knew the person who left me the thigh highs was a girl.

I had no rationale other than a feeling, but I just knew. I wasn’t sure if it was a student, a fellow teacher or even a parent, but I was positive it was female. But who?

So going to my lesbian porn files, I clicked on one of my favourite video clips, ‘Friendly Fuck’ starring Lolo Punzel, Dylan Daniels, and Parker Swayze, and began watching it (I loved the unbelievable but super-hot scenes where a girl is seduced with others around… this one a MILF molesting the daughter of a friend while they are all in the kitchen… I suppose it is like the idea of me being seduced by a student while the rest of the class is oblivious), splitting my computer screen in two so I could watch while I continued writing.

The reality is, and perhaps my readers have noticed this over the years, I enjoy the setup of the sex scene much more than the actual sex scene.

Perhaps because, being female, I like the foreplay that comes before the play, or perhaps it’s because I love creating living, breathing characters that are more outgoing than myself. I create characters that often represent how I wish I could be.

By the time I get to the sex scene, I have sometimes become so exhausted by immersing myself in the setting, the plot, and the characters, that the sex itself seems anti-climactic (pun intended). Ironically, I get questioned sometimes for having too much plot or, if I write a stroke story, not enough plot.

Eventually, as I finished a sex scene in a lesbian story about a future world where women were in charge and men were all submissives (who knows if I’ll ever release that series), my pussy was on fire as it always becomes when I write (people often ask if I get horny writing… of course, I do, if I didn’t I likely wouldn’t write… truth be told, I write for me first and fans and readers second. This is why I only write maybe 5% of my fan requests; as I only write them if the idea gets my kitty wet).

As I watched the lesbian scene, the teenager getting fingered, while the MILF talks to her mother, I imagined a scene where I was about to pay the babysitter while my husband went upstairs to change for bed.

I went to my purse to pay Angela, our babysitter and next door neighbour (a shy girl who I had taught last year… who seemed to be a lot more outgoing this year… including cutting her long blonde hair short), as Alden went upstairs, having had a little too much to drink.

“How was your evening?” she asked, dressed in a short dress and pantyhose (this is my fantasy after all).

“Fine,” I sighed, annoyed he had drunk so much.

She walked around in front of me and objected gently, “You don’t sound fine.”

As I went through my purse I realized I had no cash. “No, I’m fine. Alden just drank a bit too much.”

“Too drunk for hanky panky?” she asked.

I laughed, “Definitely too drunk for hanky panky. He’s likely asleep already.”

“Well that is a shame,” she said.

“It is also a shame that apparently he spent my last forty bucks at some point,” I admitted. “I’ll have to pay you tomorrow.”

“Well,” she smiled, as she roughly pushed me to my knees and lifted up her skirt, “I think I know a way you can pay me now.”

“Angela?” I gasped, as I stared at her pussy through the sheer hosiery… surprised to see she hadn’t worn any panties.

“Mrs. Jones,” she purred, looking down at me. “We both know you secretly want to eat teen pussy… all the girls in the school know it.”

“They do?” I asked, not looking at her but at the tantalizing pussy just out of my reach.

She moved her hands to her pantyhose-clad pussy and ripped them at the crotch. “The way you check out girls in pantyhose, especially if they take their shoes off… it’s obvious you’re a lesbian.”

“I’m just easily distracted,” I lied, even as I was distracted by her shaved pussy.

She grabbed my head and pulled me into her wetness as she ordered, “Well, get focused, you secret slut.”

My face swarmed with the sweet scent of teen cunt, a long time fantasy suddenly coming true… I was about to eat teen cunt. I totally forgot she was a student at my school and my babysitter from next door as I began licking.

“Good girl,” Angela moaned, as her pussy exploded on my taste buds.

“Mmmmmm,” I moaned, the taste even more intoxicating than I had imagined all these years.

“I knew you were a little cunt muncher,” Angela purred, as she drew her hands through my hair.

I was so intoxicated with her pussy I was indeed her pussy muncher. I licked hungrily as I wanted more pussy juice, I wanted to get her off. As her breathing increased, she let go of my head and leaned against the wall and moaned, “Don’t you fucking stop.”

Sensing she was close, I slid two fingers inside her wetness even as I continued lapping her cunt.

“Oooooooh, yes, you fucking slut teacher,” Angela moaned loudly… loud enough to alert my husband if by some impossible chance he hadn’t already passed out.

A few more seconds of furious fingering and Angela came hard… just as I did.

I leaned back and came hard… like I always do after a few hours of writing and then conjuring up one of my few dozen fantasies that played in my head depending on my mood.

My two favourite fantasies were first: being forced to be a slut to a black stud student. Forced to suck his huge black cock.

Fucked in the ass on my desk:

Eventually taking a massive load all over me:

God, I wanted a black cock.

That said, my greatest fantasy was being seduced by a bitchy cheerleader and forced to eat her out right in my classroom:

Anyway, my pussy leaking, I headed to bed still unsure what this mystery person had in store for me.


The next morning, I pondered whether to wear the thigh highs that had been left for me. After some consideration I figured why not. One: I often wore thigh highs anyway; two: obeying such a simple command was easy; three: the more I thought about it, the more this had to be my husband. He often surprised me with presents, although never at work before (other than flowers). I texted him asking if he’d left me a gift on my desk yesterday, but being up north he often had no Wi-Fi, and he hadn’t responded.

So I wore a long skirt with the thigh highs and decided, feeling naughty, to go sans underwear, feeling confident the secret, Secret Santa was my husband. The big question was who he had helping him.

The day went without incident, other than a student bringing me a cup of coffee and a muffin during the morning break… obviously from my regular Secret Santa.

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