Oops, Wrong Seat

"Mr. Woods, what's that thing pressing against me?"

I was teaching a freshman girl how to drive at a driving school.

I never expected that this innocent-looking but boldly dressed underclassman would actually ask to sit on my lap and have me teach her hands-on.

On the way, I held back my urge and forced myself to focus on teaching as I deliberately ignored her brushing against me.

But then she released the clutch too quickly, and the car suddenly stalled and shook violently.

She fell heavily between my legs, and I could feel myself pressing against her core.

She was only wearing a short skirt, with thin underwear underneath.

My name's Ryan Woods.

Last year, I offended the director of my old driving school and got kicked out.

This year, I came to work as a driving instructor at a school near a community college, and it was full of young female students.

The students' thinking was simple and sheltered.

They partially understood desire and had no real sense of boundaries, acting purely on instinct. They would dress provocatively and flaunt their bodies.

Because of that, I ended up seeing plenty I probably shouldn't have.

But remembering how I was fired for offending my boss before, I treasured this job and forced myself to stay professional when teaching my students, even when I felt tempted to do otherwise.

Still, physical contact was sometimes unavoidable.

Most of them were around 20, right in the age when emotions ran high.

Some of them had never dated in high school and had never been close with a man before, so they were especially sensitive.

Especially that girl from the dance department, who had just started her first year of college. Her figure had developed perfectly, with curves all in the right places, and even the way she walked drew attention.

She seemed to particularly enjoy being close to me, always requesting that I tutor her one-on-one.

Sometimes, she would press her chest against my arm, and sometimes, she would brush her fair, perfect legs against my pants.

After giving her lessons, I would have to spend half a day relieving myself after I got back home.

These incidents happened more and more often, and the way she looked at me grew bolder by the day.

That afternoon, Alice Brown hurried over in small, quick steps to practice driving.

She was wearing her dance outfit, a white practice suit with a short skirt that hugged her figure closely, showing all her curves.

She bent over and knocked on the car window.

"Hey, Mr. Woods. Sorry, I'm late. I was just in dance class."

Her dance outfit had a deep neckline, and when she bent over, it was hard not to notice the fullness contained inside.

I opened the passenger door and smiled.

"Took you a while. Hurry up and get in."

She sat in the passenger seat, grabbed my arm, and pleaded in a soft voice, "I've already failed the field test four