David Crane
Scandal school

CHAPTER ONE

John Tremont had a hard-on.

Most of the time, since he enjoyed having a hard cock and positively devoted himself to the pleasures of masturbation, John was not at all displeased to find himself with a rampant pecker throbbing lustily in his pants.

This was not one of those times.

For one thing, John was in English class.

For another, it was almost time for the bell to ring, dismissing the class. That was going to pose a serious problem for John. He knew that when he stood up, his hard cock was going to be on display in magnificent bas-relief, delineated through the material of his jeans and, no doubt, writhing like a coiled spring behind his fly, blind to all but its own selfish desires and not giving a damn how much it mortified John.

He willed it to diminish and soften; it swelled and hardened. He commanded it to droop; it rose. He tried to force the purest of thoughts to fill his mind; spurning purity, his dick thundered away madly, as if trying to break out of the confines of his trousers by sheer force. His prick was a willful sort of beast, much in need of obedience training, but to what obedience school did you send a pecker? Someday, surely, some girl or woman would tame the rascal – but that was in the future. John was still a virgin, with no immediate hopes of terminating that unfavorable condition.

Nor did there seem any hope of terminating the rock-hard condition of his dick, at the moment.

There were girls in his English class! How could they help but notice his bulging crotch if he had to stand up? Whatever would they think of him? Consider him a vile sexual pervert? Worse – might they laugh at his predicament? It was most distressing for the youth, and he thought about all the girls in the classroom in order to subdue his erection, threatening it with exposure, as it were. But thinking of girls wasn't a good idea at all, and it worked in quite the reverse of John's intentions.

Girls! Girls with tits! Girls with firm asses! Girls with… CUNTS!

John's eyes rolled as he gazed around the room.

He saw Belinda, whose blouse was open at the top buttons, revealing the beginnings of her mysterious cleavage.

He saw Joanne, whose ass was as round and firm as an apple.

He saw Donna, with her sleek, trim thighs which, reputedly, had been known to open willingly for football players.

He saw Anne, the cheerleader, who displayed her panties when she leaped into the air.

He saw… be gulped… he gasped. His eyes blurred, then refocused. His tongue ran across his dry lips and his fists clenched at his sides. His teeth rammed together, his lungs labored for breath. He could not believe what he was seeing!

There were few things that did not give young John Tremont a hard cock. Sometimes, quite naturally, he got hard while looking at pictures of scantily clad girls in magazines, and sometimes he got hard thinking lewd thoughts, often combining the two. These hard-ons were perfectly explainable. But at other times, he got a prick up for no apparent reason at all – like when he had been standing in his pew in church, being pious, or because his fevered mind had extended the most tenuous connections between the commonplace and the erotic. Thus, if he were to notice a nubile young woman handling a stick transmission, his dork immediately blossomed just as though her hands were shifting the gears of his own potent loins.

Playing poker, he always got a hard-on if he held the queen in his hand, for not only was the queen female but, being double-headed, it reminded him of mystical practice known as "sixty-nining". If he held two queens… well, John had perfected a poker face, but it did him no good at all when, by creaming his jeans, he revealed the contents of his hand to all: let it be universally known that at least two queens were snuggled together in his hand! John had even been known to get a hard-on the dentist's office, when it occurred too him that the phallic drill was often inserted into female mouths.

But of the things that had hardened his cock over the last couple of years, none had astonished him so greatly as the sight before his eyes at that very moment.

John was gazing at the teacher's crotch…

Miss Amanda Bridewell, the English teacher, was twenty-six years old. That alone made her seem absolutely grown-up to John, an impression enhanced by the fact that she wore, while teaching, a severe hairstyle – her luxurious brown locks drawn back in a tight bun – and no discernable make-up. Not married, she was considered an old maid or, at best, well on the road to spinsterdom. Therefore, John had never favored Miss Bridewell with impure thoughts or fantasies.

Thus, it was even more astounding when he found himself looking at her crotch.

Miss Bridewell in her innocence and devotion to teaching, perched herself on the edge of her desk as she made some salient point. She had crossed her legs. Her skirt had ridden up her nylon-sheathed thighs and, lo and behold, John had a clear view of her crotch. Her panties, he saw to his amazement.

John gulped. His Adam's apple leaped up and down in his throat as if, like his dick, it were erecting itself. Not only were the panties black, but the crotch band was narrow… so narrow that it had somehow gotten sucked up into her crack!

John could see a hairy cunt lip on either side of the slender band of nylon.

It was John's first sighting of a cunt. His dick pounded against his fly, his loins swirled in a maelstrom of lust, his head spun dizzily.

He gripped the edge of his desk for support and shook his head to clear it. He tried to look away from Miss Bridewell's crotch, but his eyes were drawn back there as surely as iron is drawn to a magnet. His cock tried to point at her carnal pole as if it were the needle of a compass, to boot.

He heard Skip Cartwright giggle.

John forced his eyes sideways towards Skip's desk. Skip too had seen Miss Bridewell's crotch but, unlike John, he had not been overwhelmed. He was smirking. When he saw John look at him, Skip winked, pointed at the teacher with his thumb, then pointed down at his crotch with his index finger.

John saw that Skip too had an erection.

John was pleased that be was not alone in his affliction, that at least one other boy would have to walk bent over, books carried like a shield before his loins as he left the classroom. But unlike John, Skip was not ashamed of having a hard-on. He seemed amused by it. He was smirking and grinning, and made no effort to hide the lump in his pants.

John envied his self-confidence.

Skip was a big, broad-shouldered boy. The fullback on the junior varsity team, and he was much in demand by the local girls. He was self-possessed and somewhat vain. John figured that came from playing football, which, as everyone knew, built red-blooded Americans. But John had not gone out for football because he had been forewarned that Red Miller, the coach, was death on masturbator's. Miller had a theory that pulling one's pudding sapped one's athletic vitality as much as smoking ruined the lungs, and drinking, the stamina. Weighing the two against each other – the benefits of being on the football squad versus the joys of jacking off – John had opted for the latter. He had never regretted his decision.

Now be wondered what Skip was going to do with that big hard-on, if he could not jerk it off.

But Skip seemed unconcerned with that problem, as he leered at Miss Bridewell's pussy.

Suddenly, John was aware of a dead silence in the classroom. He glanced around. Everyone was looking at him. He looked at the teacher, struggling to keep his eyes on her face, and realized that she had addressed him.

"I'm sorry," he stammered.

"Daydreaming, John?"

"Er… I… ahhh…"

She looked stern. "I asked you to define a split infinitive, young man," she said, looking right at him, completely unaware that her cunt was open to his gaze.

John, in point of fact, knew what a split infinitive was, and under normal circumstances could have responded correctly to the question. At the moment, however, his state of mind was such that his thoughts stuck at the first ward: split! Miss Bridewell had a split between her legs, and her panties were sucked right up into it!

He said nothing.

"I think a little extra homework is in order for you, young man," she said. She turned to Skip. "Can you tell me what a split infinitive is?" she asked.

Skip, being a football player, was not required to know very much, or even pretend that he was there for an education. "Hell, no," he said…

It brought a stunned silence, followed by giggles and gasp. Miss Bridewell's face darkened.

"You will stay after class," she said.

Skip balanced, wondering if he had gone too far. But he had an image to uphold, and he shrugged as if he couldn't care less. He'd scored two touchdowns last Saturday, so what the hell!

Then the bell rang.

Skip lounged in his seat, feet in the aisle, ankles crossed, looking nonchalant. Everyone else gathered their books and got up. John held his books in front of his crotch – and felt his dick beat against them like a hammer. He walked slightly bowlegged and tried to look natural. He was very glad that Skip had taken the pressure off him. Now he was anxious to get to the men's room where, secure in a cubicle, he could beat his cock to a frazzle.

When everyone but Skip had left, Miss Bridewell slid from her desk and crossed the room to the door. She closed it. Then she went back to her desk and, to Skip's amazement, sat on the edge in the same position, her crotch showing.

"Come here, Skip," she said.

Skip looked sullen. Now that he no longer had a crowd to play up to, he was sorry that he'd been so bold and gotten himself in trouble. He got up, looking hangdogged, and walked up to the front of the room.

He still had a hard-on, and he tried to conceal it by walking with a stoop, hands in his pockets. But that attitude struck, the teacher as insolent.

"Straighten up," she said.

Skip straightened, and squared his broad shoulders. His fat dick bulged undeniably in his pants.

"You were very inattentive in class, Skip," said Miss Bridewell. "Furthermore, you were insolent. I wonder just how I should deal with the situation."

"I don't know," he mumbled.

She stared at him. Then, to his chagrin, her gaze went slowly down from his face to his crotch. His face registered a look of helpless horror, but his pecker, oblivious to the possible ramifications of the situation, refused to budge an inch. If anything, it swelled more proudly as it basked under the school mistress' gaze, as though her vision was possessed of tactile properties, her eyes caressing him, fondling him from a distance.

Skip squirmed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. A deep blush crept up his neck and onto his face. Normally, he looked older than his ate, both physically and in character. He didn't know what to do. It was one thing to carry a pigskin through a line of defenders roughly his own age and size. It was a much different thing to carry a lump of phallic pork up to his English teacher's desk!

For a wild moment, falling back on what he knew he could manage, he was tempted to straight arm Miss Bridewell and dash out of the room as if he were galloping off on a broken field run, bent over his hard-on as though it were the football.

She gave a little start and stared at the squirming lump of cock in his pants.

Blushing furiously, Skip averted his eyes for a moment. Then he darted a quick glance at her face, wondering just what her reaction was going to be – how bad it would be, and how much trouble he was going to have over his injudicious hard-on. Would he be expelled from school? Banished from the football team? Sent in disgrace to a home for pubescent perverts?

He anticipated shock, followed by a black scowl on Miss Bridewell's face. He was surprised to see that neither of these expressions registered there. Instead, she looked… thoughtful.

Her lips moved, parting. Skip cringed, expecting her to scream.

But she did not cry out in horror. In fact, had he not known it was impossible, he would have thought it was a slight smile that turned her lips.

Her gaze rose to his face again.

Skip averted his eyes. He was red as a beet, and his usual self-assurance had deserted him. His only thought was: will it go easier on me if I squeal on John Tremont? If I tell her that he had a hard cock too? Or will I be scorned for a tattle-tale as well as a pervert?

Miss Bridewell said, "Why, Skip!"

He frowned, confused. She did not sound angry or shocked, she sounded concerned. A wild idea darted through his mind as he mentally clutched at straws. Miss Bridewell was not married. Perhaps she had never seen a hard dick! Was it too much to hope for? No, it seemed impossible, even plausible. His mind worked very logically now, as he desperately clung to this faint hope.

Miss Bridewell was a spinster, therefore, she had never had a legal look at a dick; Miss Bridewell was a school teacher, therefore, she would surely never have had an illicit look at a hard cock.

The conclusion was obvious: Miss Bridewell hadn't the faintest idea what the writhing beast within his trousers was!

That explained the concern in her voice!

The innocent old maid thought that Skip had some horrible growth in his pants, some tumor so virulent that it was growing right before her eyes!

Hope and relief surged up in the lad.

Then Miss Bridewell dashed his hopes.

"Why, Skip, you have an erection," said the teacher.

Skip sputtered. He stammered. He could get no words out, but that hardly mattered. For what words were there that could possibly explain the obvious?

"That explains it," said Miss Bridewell.

"M'am?" he said, eyes lowered.

"That explains why you were so inattentive in class… why you were insolent."

"Huh?" he said. How come she wasn't screaming at him?

He looked up again, noticing, in passing, that her crotch was still visible as she perched on the corner of the desk.

She said, "It's all clear to me now, you poor boy. How on Earth can you be expected to pay attention in class when you are tormented by natural pubescence? How could you ever concentrate on grammar when your loins were demanding all your awareness? You should have told me, Skip! Poor, brave youth."

Skip gaped at her. His big jaw hung open so far that his chin almost rested on his breastbone. He noticed that her mouth was doing funny things, twisting and working in some way he couldn't label. His mind had registered her words and made the proper connection, and he realized that she was not castigating him – far from it, she was sympathizing with him! But although he saw this clearly, it was so incredible that he couldn't believe it. Watching her lips work in that funny way, he still expected her to scream.

"You should have told me, poor tormented boy," she said.

"Huh? I mean… well, gee, Miss Bridewell, I couldn't of very well stood right up in class and said, 'I can't concentrate on account of I got a bone on… er… I mean, an erection, could I?'"

She smiled as if she found that amusing. "You should have asked to be excused," she said. "No one would have known the reason."

"Er… I."

"Yes. You should have gone to the lavatory and relieved yourself, instead of suffering in brave silence."

"Huh? Relieved myself? You mean…"

"Surely. I am not totally unaware of the need of a virile young mans need to masturbation."

Skip was no longer blushing beet red. Now he was as white as a sheet. He was also, due to the aggressive nature of this unlikely conversation, getting harder and hotter and hotter, until he felt dangerously close to creaming his pants.

His hand moved towards his crotch, a habitual movement which he arrested in the nick of time.

"But, gee… I mean… gosh."

"Oh, you needn't be ashamed of it, Skip, you silly boy. It's a normal thing, a natural thing. Everyone masturbates, it's nothing to be shy about."

EVERYONE, she said. Not every boy, but everyone!

That implied that girls did, too. Maybe even Miss Bridewell did!

Skip staggered with lust. He felt weak, as if every bit of his vitality had seeped into his raging dick. He stole another glance at her crotch.

Unaware of this, in her innocence, Miss Bridewell shifted on the corner of the desk. Her thighs parted a bit farther. Her thighs were trim and sleek, and her panties, he saw, seemed to be damp. The crotchband was being dragged right up her snatch now, with a soft, hairy lip exposed on either side.

Skip staggered again. His thighs were watery, his knees elastic – the only thing hard about him was his pecker, which was hard as stone.

"Now, don't be bashful, Skip. I'm concerned with your welfare and well-being. I've always believed there should be more sex education in this school, you know. Now, tell me… how many times do you masturbate every week?"

"I… I never do!" he gasped.

"Skip…"

"Honest, Miss Bridewell. Never! Well… not during football season, anyhow."

"Don't try to deceive me. I… Skip, to put you more at your ease, I shall tell you that… I masturbate with great regularity, myself."

She lowered her eyes demurely. "I masturbate every Saturday night, and usually on Wednesday afternoons and sometimes in between. There! Now that I have told you, you can tell me without shame."

She had tried to put the youth more at ease, good teacher that she was, but she merely caused his cock to balloon even farther, and he felt dazzled and dazed.

Miss Bridewell reached up casually, as if unaware of what she was doing. She plucked a pin from her hair. The severe knot unraveled mystically, a Gordian knot solved, and her dark tresses fell over her face.

Skip was astounded. Why, Miss Bridewell is pretty! he thought.

She was waiting for him to speak. He was still too ashamed to talk about pulling his pork. Instead, with some half-hearted thought of sharing the blame for his disgrace, he said, "The reason I got a boner on in class is… the way you were sitting on the edge of your desk…"

She looked surprised. "Oh?" she said, eyebrows lifting.

"Yeah. I could… see… your…" he faltered, about to say "crotch". Instead, he said. "Your panties."

As he said it, he winced, anticipating anger.

But Miss Bridewell laughed. "Oh my! I didn't realize that. I shall have to be more careful in the future."

"Yeah!" he said. Encouraged by her reaction, he said, "Wasn't just me, neither."

"Either," she said.

"Yeah, me either. John Tremont had a boner, too."

She laughed again. Her soft hair fell in a dark cascade over her checks. She looked much more human than a school teacher was supposed to be.

Well, she was. She even jerked off! he thought, then wondered if there was a more specialized term to use for when a woman did it. He couldn't picture her jerking her clit up and down like a dick. In fact, Skip had no idea how women masturbated. He'd always thought that only whores or tramps did that, usually with frankfurters or bananas.

She had not, he noticed, shifted her position following his revelation.

"I'm still waiting," she said. "I really feel I must know the frequency of your self release."

Skip saw there was nothing to do but answer. He hung his head and said, "Well, during the summer and spring, I usually pull myself off twice a day. More, sometimes, if I been looking at dirty pictures. But during the football season I never so much as touch it. Honest!"

She frowned. "I don't understand," she said.

"Well, Coach says that jacking off saps your strength. He's hell on wankers."

Her lips drew into a tight, prim line. "I think that is very irresponsible of Coach Miller," she said, shaking bet head. "Why, he could cause all sorts of psychological problems with that groundless advice. Even impotence. I shall have to have a word with him…"

Skip gulped.

"Don't worry. I won't mention you."

"It ain't true?" he asked, thinking with regret of the pleasurable pud pulling he had dutifully neglected.

"Certainly not. Masturbating is natural and healthy."

"Golly," he said.

"It's the normal outlet for a boy… until he has a girlfriend or a wife."

"Coach says that sex is bad, even with a wife. He says that boxers go to training camps to avoid women…"

"Well, that proves how silly his theory is," said this excellent school mistress. "What about Joe Namath?"

"Gee… I never thought about him. You think maybe that's why his knees got all buggered up? Too much sex?"

"Of course not, silly. Sex keeps you fit."

"I don't know… Coach says."

"He's a silly man, and he's led you astray. All he is worried about is winning football games, Skip. I, on the other hand, am more concerned with brains than brawn. And your brain cannot function when it doesn't get enough blood, when so much blood is diverted to your penis… when thoughts of sex drive other things from your mind. I…"

Miss Bridewell smiled strangely, "I shall deal with Coach Miller. In the meantime, I want you to promise me that you will masturbate at least once every day, preferably before you come to class."

What could the lad do? He nodded his agreement.

"A boy cannot learn with a hard-on," she said. That sounded so much more naughty than erection that he staggered again. He leaned backwards. He seemed to be supported by his cock, a sort of cantilever thrusting out to counterbalance his shoulders.

"And now, just to make sure that you do it, Skip, I want you to masturbate right here."

"Oh my God!" he squealed.

"I simply must set my mind at rest on this, Skip. I shall not be satisfied until I've seen you relieve yourself."

"I can't do that… not with you watching, Miss Bridewell… I'll do it in the bathroom, honest."

"No, I want to make sure that you do, Skip. This is very important to me. There are things far more important than split infinitives, you see."

She smiled that Skip didn't dare disobey her. He knew she was demanding this for his own good. And theft gradually, he began to get the idea that it might not be unpleasant to pull his pork in front of Miss Bridewell. It might even be exciting. He was nervous, and his belly was doing flip-flops, but he braced himself. He closed his eyes, unable to look at her.

He unzipped his fly.

His dick rushed out of its own accord, dragging his white cotton underpants out with it. Swathed in white, it looked like the ghost of a cock.

Miss Bridewell's eyes narrowed and her lips parted.

Skip hooked his fingers under the elastic and pulled his underpants away from his cock. It raged out, freed at last, standing like a banner before his loins… like the figurehead of a ship, made buoyant by semen. Miss Bridewell gazed at his pecker. She was smiling with her lips, but her eyes were bright with some emotion that was not humor.

His cock, like the rest of his football player's body, was well developed and, like his athlete's frame, got plenty of work-out and exercise. The pulling of pork was much more enjoyable than doing push-ups. Now, standing proud and free, his pecker throbbed. The big, triangular cockhead was flushed a dark purple, and the thick vein that ran up the shaft was writhing and pulsating. The cleft was parted promisingly.

Skip hauled his balls out, automatically. Once, leaving his balls in his pants, he had got them caught in his zipper during the frenzy of his climax. It had been some job to extricate them. Now, bloated and laden with spunk, they were bunched in a tight knot at the base of his stout shaft.

He opened his eyes to a slit, looking at Miss Bridewell.

She, her own eyes slitted, was looking at his prick.

Tentatively, Skip wrapped his right hand around the root of his cock. He gave it a gentle experimental tug.

The knob flared like the head of a hooded cobra coiling back to strike, seminal venom dripping from a fangless tip.

"Do a good job now, Skip," she whispered. "I want you to milk out every last drop!"

Her words affected him so greatly that he had a muscle spasm. His bones seemed to lock, and his hand, as he took a second pull, slipped off his cock.

His cock was bucking and snorting, demanding attention.

"Oh, you're still nervous, I see," said Miss Bridewell. She sighed. "Well, I can see that there's nothing I can do but help you do it, Skip."

His eyes opened wide. "You? You mean…"

She smiled, nodding. She reached out and, without the slightest hesitation, wrapped her delicate hand around the root of his big bloated rod. He almost fainted at the touch. Waves of fire coursed through him, burning the fabric of his body and searing his mind with white-hot flashes. That hand, the hand he had so often seen holding chalk against a blackboard… that very same hand was holding his pecker!

She pumped him once, slowly, her fist fitted snugly around his thick stalk. Holding him drawn back at the base, so that his knob seemed to be straining as if to burst away from the shaft, she paused and said, "You mustn't think there is anything prurient in what I'm doing, Skip. I'm merely clearing your mind of base thoughts so that you will be able to concentrate on your school work. You do understand that, don't you?"

Skip didn't know what prurient meant, but he got the idea. He nodded, his teeth grating together and his pecker throbbing in her fist.

Then Miss Bridewell set to work on his pecker with a vengeance. She push-pulled up and down the stalk, loosening her fist so that she merely skimmed over him for a few strokes, then tightening it into a snug collar and hauling his foreskin up and down. She watched what she was doing, her head lowered and tilting from side to side, fascinated by the situation, studying his reaction as if this were a scholarly pursuit, a difficult and arcane problem she sought to solve. But there was nothing scholarly about the look that had transfigured her countenance now. Her face was a mask of lust. Her eyes were narrow, sparking with lust, and her lips were parted. Her tongue glided across her lower lip, soft and pink and moist.

Reaching out with her free hand, she cupped his swollen balls and squeezed gently, as if she were trying to force the cum from his nuts with the pressure. Aiding her right hand, she rolled his balls to drag his ejaculation out like a suction pump. She was working on him with a steady rhythm, designed to bring him to the peak with the least effort. Her thumb criss-crossed over the sensitive area where the cock merged with the head as her hand pulled to the top. She pushed down firmly, dragging his foreskin back so that his cockhead bulged out, naked and glowing. The head of his dick was so hot it seemed incandescent. The tip felt as if it were smoking. Skip felt sure that if they were in a dark room, his knob would glow like a lightbulb.

A drop of preliminary fluid seeped from his piss slit and dripped from the bulbous knob.

Miss Bridewell was lashing her tongue back and forth across her lower lip in a veritable frenzy.

She said, "Do you… have… a… handkerchief… Skip?" Each word was punctuated by a push-pull on his cock.

Another heavy glob of spunk oozed out and slid down his knob, leaving a slimy track on his glowing flesh. As she pumped, the glob dropped off and fell, sluggish as quicksilver, onto her knee. He understood her concern. She was worried about where to deposit his creamy load. But he had no handkerchief. He always jerked off into the toilet or the sink. He shook his head, his jaws clenched and his loins knotted.

"I'll… have… to… use…" she grated the words out, pumping his pecker fluidly as she spoke, "… my panties…"

He stared at her through misty, glazed eyes.

Miss Bridewell, neat and fastidious as she was, did not want errant jism all over the room. She opened her legs wide. She was still seated on the edge of the desk, and now she was aiming the head of his cock towards her cunt like the nozzle of a firehose. His cock tried to get at her cunt. Like a dog pointing at a nestling quail, Skip's pecker pointed at Miss Bridewell's furry pussy. He could feel it drag on his loins as it sought in vain to rip free and fly like an arrow into her wet pussy. He groaned. Her hand pumped up and down, faster now, and she realized that his orgasm was rapidly approaching. His cock strained and throbbed. It had the scent of cunt, and it was seething for the feel of it, desperately trying to bury its burning length in her soft cunt.

A few more spurts of creamy cum slipped from his slit, coating the knob with a filmy layer of jism and running down the head onto the shaft. A thick ribbon of cum welled up against her index finger, then flowed onto her knuckles. Another streamer of spunk eluded her hand and ran onto his balls. Seeing this, the fastidious teacher drew his cockhead closer to her crotch and opened her nylon-sheathed legs even wider.

The crotchpiece of her black bikini panties had been slurped right up into her slit now, and her cunt was completely revealed, the pink lips unfurled like the pedals of a moist and fleshy flower. A frothy trickle of cunt juice ran along her slot, matching the cum that was soaking his cock head and her hand.

Skip stared at her crotch, looking past the head of his cock as if that swollen knob were a gun sight, along which he was taking aim. Vaguely, he wondered why her cunt was creaming, since she was only doing this for his health and well-being. Then he began to snort and shake.

He howled like a tormented spirit, shaking like a man possessed and seeking to cast off the demon that possessed him – the spectra that had taken over his loins. He knew that he was very very close to the point when that possessive demon would be exorcised, torn from his body in a great fluid deluge.

"Come," she whispered. "Come, come, come…"

Suddenly his pecker erupted. The jism hissed from his cock as if that rod were a valve through which his semen had escaped, deflating his whole body as he shot his stuffing out.

His first creamy jet spurted out and struck the inside of her lean thigh, just at the point where her nylon stocking ended and soft, naked flesh began. It ricocheted up her thigh and welled up in her crotch. A broad swath, like the track of a snail, glistened up her leg.

His second spurt, more accurate, shot directly into her crotch and broke into separate nuggets of spunk like a wave against a rocky coast.

She sighed. She continued to pump his dick steadily, aiming it to hose her hot crotch with the cum as if she sought to smother her own raging fire with the blanket of his foamy jism. She arched her back and pushed her belly up, and her skirt rode higher. His third great spurt hit her belly and ran back down into her crotch in three separate streams.

Drained and hollow, Skip went limp.

Miss Bridewell, nothing if not thorough, continued to pump his cock until she was sure that she had milked out every last precious drop. She was sighing with contentment, and a satisfied smile turned her face to radiant joy.

His cock had started to soften in her hand. She drew her fist up, tight on his shaft, gathering up the spunk that glistened on his shaft and knob. Then she brought her hand to her crotch and wiped the cream onto her panties. His cock was still slimy. She grasped it again and, dragging him to her, wiped his knob up and down along her cuntlips until she was satisfied that she had cleaned him satisfactorily.

"There," she said. "Doesn't that feel better?"

He nodded, too spent to speak.

"Now, Skip… I'm going to assign you a bit of extra homework," she said.

Skip blinked, not following this sudden shift back to a teacher-pupil relationship, and wondering why she had such a funny smile on her face.

"I want you to jerk off twice tonight," she said.

His jaw gaped.

"And so that I am sure you completed the assignment, I want you to bring the spunk to school in a jar," she told him.

I don't believe this, thought Skip. "Yes, Miss Bridewell," he said.

"Very well. You are dismissed."

Skip staggered from the classroom.

Miss Bridewell smiled. She rubbed her crotch, shivering as her fingertips brushed across her fiery, tingling clit.

She was thinking: so John Tremont had a hard-on too, did he? She stored that knowledge away in the textbook of her scholastic mind. Someday she would have to help John clear his mind so that he could dwell on split infinitives.

She wondered if John's potent young prick was as big and full of spunk as Skip's.

Her hand caressed her cunt slowly and lovingly. But then, with an effort, she drew her hand away. Her pussy was seething, but she didn't want to waste her climax on her own hand at the moment.

She was thinking about Red Miller, the football coach.

How could he tell the boys such a silly thing? she wondered. But then, Miller was not an intelligent man. He was fit, athletic and attractive, but not overly gifted in the brain department. It was possible that he really believed that nonsense.

If so, did he practice what he preached? The thought caused her pussy to flood with cunt juice.

Red Miller was the school's physical education instructor, as well as the football coach. It was a small school, and the Board of Education saved money by having him do a double job. That meant that Coach Miller was in training year round, except for summer vacation. That, in turn, meant that if he followed his own teachings, he would be not be pulling his pudding with any regularity at all. He wasn't married, either. All in all, it seemed likely that Coach Miller must have a huge load of cum stored up in his trim, athletic loins.

Miss Bridewell smiled dreamily. She had a duty to pay Coach Miller a visit – a duty to all the football players who were suffering agonies of abstinence due to his faulty teachings.

Miss Bridewell had every intention of showing Coach Miller the error of his ways.