Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 by Zane

bore the pain with pleasure as she pulled her husband onto the dance floor. She pulled him … close . Tossing her hands around his waist, she straddled his leg and let her pussy take the reins.
    Behind his Flock of Seagulls hairdo, Ryan’s eyes shot wide open. “What are you doing?” He chuckled with nerves and looked around the gym. “Angie, I’m a teacher at this school—”
    “So let’s show these kids how it’s done.” She grabbed his ass with both hands and squeezed those delicious cheeks. A surge of sexual energy coursed through her arms, and then through her core as she pressed her pussy down against his ripped jeans. The seam dug into her clit a little bit harder every time she slid down Ryan’s thigh.
    He was freaking out—“Angie, come on, this isn’t funny!”—but her pussy didn’t give a fuck and her hands wouldn’t let go. She was possessed by the demon of high school hormones. They hung heavy on the air, along with the lingering scents of sweat, fruity perfumes, and cheap cologne. Angelique admired teenagers. They were shameless. She could be shameless, too. She would drink from their cups and dig her nails into her lover’s fine flesh. His energy was hers for the taking, and she would take it and transform it. Her pussy would be his desire and his home.
    God, she wanted him.
    Angelique was vaguely aware of the cries twinkling like strobe lights all around them: “Go, Lambert!” and “Nice dancing, Mr. Lambert” and “Who’s your bitch, Mr. Lambert?” The air hung heavy but electrified, like the calm before a lightningstorm. Any other time, she would have been pissed that some little punk called her a bitch. Now their squeaky voices disappeared under the beat of music she’d danced to in her bedroom twenty years ago. She’d been alone then. Now she was with Ryan.
    “Is your wife drunk, Mr. Lambert?”
    Only on the heady dose of teenage pheromones surging through my sweaty skin! She threw her head back and wiggled her body for Ryan. Watch my tits! Get a load of this! Don’t you want me, baby? When she shot upright, dizziness destroyed her, and she giggled as an electric tornado touched down on her pussy. Her insides swirled as Ryan spoke—she couldn’t hear what he was saying—and dragged her unwilling ass into the hallway.
    It was bright out there. She shielded her eyes against the fluorescent lights and the lockers painted shades of turquoise and peach. Ryan started to scold her, but there were too many students milling about. Grabbing her around the waist, he dragged her up the staircase and unlocked the door to his classroom. She laughed the whole way there.
    “Are you drunk?” he hissed.
    She felt eighties pop music booming up the girders. Its muffled beat rocked the floor beneath her pink jelly shoes and carried with it the spirit of torn fishnet stockings, cone bras, and messy crinolines. Those kids … their energy was inside her. Her jeans pressed hard against her clit and her body surged with hot, liquid sex. The trippy show downstairs hadn’t just been driven by a desire to fuck. No, it was rebellion. Against what?
    The classroom was dark—Ryan hadn’t turned the lights on when they came in—but the streetlights outside lit a path. She pressed her lips to his and pulled him toward the teacher’s desk, but he pulled away.
    “What is going on with you?” Ryan snapped. “You’re going to get me fired.”
    His brow furrowed, but she leaned back against his desk and winked. As she gazed at him through star-colored glasses, his expression slipped into concern. “Angie,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you high?”
    Clapping her hands, she laughed, then wrapped him in a hug. “You know very well I’ve never even smoked a cigarette.” She kissed his neck. He smelled like skin and hair gel. His whole body felt like denim. “It’s these tight jeans, baby. I’m high on acid wash.”
    The heat of his angry body radiated from his sleeveless vest. As his