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Message-ID: <37987asstr$1030101005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "she-cries" <she_cries@hotmail.com>
Reply-To: "she-cries" <she_cries@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Breaking in Teacher II (1/?) by she_cries (MF, mmF, nc, reluc, humil)
Date: Fri, 23 Aug 2002 07:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Breaking in the Teacher II part 1 (apologies for the '?' I will
repost in entirety when I am done) by she-cries

(feedback is welcome and encouraged at she_cries@hotmail.com)


THE NEXT MORNING

I woke up abruptly.  Though I felt rested, I had not dreamed, nor
had I forgotten anything.  No moment of disorientation or fuzzy
confusion, just as if I had been switched on.



I was naked, on the couch.  Sprawled rather ungraciously I might
add.  I had fallen asleep under the panting sighs of Eliot, my
latest lover; only sixteen years old.  Though I had worn out his
younger friend James, Eliot had only just begun on me in the wee
hours of the morning, so I stayed with him until he was spent.



My sex was oddly relaxed, considering the rampant abuse I'd put
it through the day before, and especially considering my long
abstinence beforehand.  I 'd have expected it to be sore and
painful, but though I had a few bruises on my back I felt
surprisingly fit as if the copious amounts of sex I had had the
day before had served to invigorate me.  I felt that after
John-two, the leviathan jock with a member to match (despite all
jokes about over-compensating weightlifters) that I should have
been unable to copulate for weeks, but clearly I had a few things
about myself yet to learn.



"Wendy?" the whiney voice alerted me that I was not alone, and I
opened my eyes to be greeted with James, the skinny, short
sophomore who had doffed his leather jacket and sat on the floor
with his friend Eliot in his underwear and an overlarge
sweatshirt.  Eliot was wearing his trenchcoat, and they both were
smoking.  James looked away, almost bashfully, and Eliot was
staring lower, at my mid-section.



I sat up quickly, snapping my hand to one side when I realized I
had been fingering myself, my legs spread apart, while I had been
contemplating the lack of soreness.



I realized they had been talking in hushed tones, probably what
awakened me. I also realized that I was not only naked in front
of them, but in spite of having let them use me all last night I
was completely shamed to find myself so.  Giving yourself to a
man is one thing, two is another, but waking up to the almost
casual behavior of two high school sophomores was another thing
entirely.  They could have been any thirty year-old guy I'd
brought home from a bar with their nonchalance about my nudity.



They seemed almost indifferent.  Having had me, I suppose, they
didn't seem to have the same pressure that was on them before to
score.  Maybe they woke up and realized that I wasn't exactly the
hottie they'd picked up last night, but was instead nearly thirty
with slightly saggy breasts, a few stretch marks, and a tummy
that scrunched up when I bent at the waist.  I certainly didn't
have a tight bottom or slender legs or, quite frankly, any of
those attributes that make men slaver after women though I do
have a cute face.



The simple fact is that I'm the girl a guy goes after after he's
had a few and he's struck out with everyone else.  I'm not
exactly desperation material, and I certainly don't think any guy
has ever woken up next to me and wondered how much he'd had to
drink, but, simply put, I'm the girl you walk up to when you only
have one thing on your mind.



It wasn't a long trip to the bathroom, but it felt like I
couldn't have been more dorky, stumbling around, my tits flopping
every which way, my hair undoubtedly a ridiculous mess.  But I
made it away from them, and got through a shower.  They kept
their distance, which didn't bother me so much as the fact that
it bothered me at all.  That their attention was worth more to me
than their leaving me alone.  There was nothing particular about
the boys that compelled me to desire their attention, but the
fact that they had grown so disinterested made me feel cheaper
than ever.  That feeling pervaded me as I scrubbed Eliot's semen
out of my labia.



Coming out of the shower I was a little surprised to see how
early it was, barely six o'clock.  James was on the couch, Eliot
was rifling through the fridge.



"Can we come over tomorrow, Wendy?"



I had expected the question the night before, and even prepared a
response, but it still caught me off guard, how casually he
seemed to deal with having a teacher as his pet, rather than the
other way around.



"I can't James.  Last night needs to be a one time thing."



He seemed like he was expecting to hear that, but I was both
relieved at the dismay in his voice, and upset at my relief.



"You mean, like, never again?"



I looked at the boy who so clearly refused to understand the
serious complications such a relationship, even a casual one
might bring, and couldn 't bring myself to draw the line quite
that boldly.



Indeed, after only a few minutes of persuading, by both James and
Eliot, I had promised that they would get to spend the night
again, "some day." They had even offered to let me stay over. 
What little satisfaction I had gotten knowing they were skipping
out for the night, at the risk of punishment by their parents,
for the chance to have me evaporated when I discovered that
James' parents were out of town and that Eliot was spending the
night at James' under false pretense.  So staying out with me
hadn't been a sacrifice they'd made so much as an added bonus to
the liberty they were already enjoying.



James made me take down his number and the dates his parents
would be returning.  They also argued me into agreeing to let
them drop by any time, so long as they had a good cover story.



After that I smoldered in the bedroom at my weak-willed
personality.  The only real consolation I had against my behavior
was that I was no longer frantically fantasizing about the men
who had had me the night before.  I wasn't compelled to abase and
humiliate myself.



I was, however, deeply upset at the thought that if I didn't
follow Coach Gold's instructions to wear something slutty for his
boys that I was in for a potentially serious confrontation.  In
spite of the fact that I'd only let him have me as a hedge
against the Johns' behavior, my disobedience could have
ramifications that could expose my liaison, accidental as it was
with John-two and his massive member.  What was more was that I
didn't know how I 'd accept the coach's displeasure.



But I was no longer the beaten down whore of the day previous.  I
had recovered.  I simply couldn't decide whether I wanted to face
the coach's disapproval, or worse, wrath.  I could have called in
sick.  Or refused to talk to him, but how could I, given that
he'd had me twice the day before. Or I could simply tell him how
it was.  Yes.  Standing up for myself would be the best thing I
could do in any situation.  It certainly would have prevented me
from getting into the situation yesterday morning that ultimately
led me to giving myself freely to two boys.



That was it.  I was resolved.  Let the coach lament over what
he'd had and lost.  Maybe if he hadn't been such a prick I might
have been a little more receptive to his desire to have a future
chew toy to play with, unattractive though he may be, his style
of sex was something I still found rather compelling, as
oppressive as it was.



And the Johns would probably not be any trouble, if John's
behavior after John-two had filled me up on my desk was anything
to account for.



Fuck it, I decided, I wasn't going to do anything the coach asked
me, or the Johns, including their private lessons.  They were the
ones who'd abused me and used me, and now I'd made the choice
that two sixteen year-old boys were what I'd prefer.  They may
not have had dicks like John-two or bulging guts like the coach
(as repulsive as the thought still was I had to admit that those
attributes gave them the power to treat me like shit and have me
beg for more).



In fact, I was going to dress for the boys.



 --------



I don't know how they did it, but somehow Eliot and James had
managed to pick out the trashiest things I owned, which is not
saying much, but in a drawer stuffed with socks, underwear, and
T-shirts, how James found my black satin and lace corset and
fishnet bodysuit was beyond my comprehension. Eliot's
contribution was a black G-string that served only to cover the
sex, so low was it cut.  It showed my whole bush.  I hadn't seen
that in ten years, but good to my promise I tried everything
on-after a peremptory trip to the bathroom to trim off what was
left of the pubic hair leaving only a little tuft to mask the
opening of my lips.  The runway, as it was called.



The boys were enthralled, to my satisfaction.  The corset was
lace all around but had satin panels in the front and back where
it zipped up underneath my breasts.  The bodysuit covered me toe
to tit, and seemed sort of like a hairnet over each boob.  It
held them in place, but they stretched the netting and quivered
like bowls of Jell-O eager to be let out.  The open crotch of the
bodysuit was much wider than the patch of skin the G-string
covered, serving more to enhance my new baldness than allow
access, though it definitely allowed access as Eliot proved
pushing me down on my own bed and having me, only the slightest
tugging gesture required to expose my sex to his probing member.



I have to admit, I was completely ready for him.  Dressing up
like this as I hadn't done in ten years made me feel very sexy. 
The thought of knowing how I was going to be dressed under my
normal clothes as I rejected Mr. Gold gave me added arousal, as
did the thought of John-two's bulging manhood straining against
his pants while he tried to maneuver me into spreading my legs
for him.



Spreading my legs, but for the younger, scrawny, nerdy Eliot gave
me a great deal of satisfaction as he buried himself inside me
for the third time since we'd met, knowing how those arrogant
Jocks would feel if they knew that I'd eagerly give myself to
this boy but not them.  Never again, I told myself over and over
as Eliot pushed his thing inside me, thrusting and grunting with
little grace, a single-minded effort to get his rocks off before
school.



Enjoying myself only marginally, more psychologically for the
imagined victory over the men who had used me the day before, I
lay there in my slut outfit, legs wrapped around the unshowered
boy, letting him kiss me and use me as his lover until finally,
after several long, frantic minutes, he came, pumping more seed
inside me.



-------------



Fortunately Eliot was spent from the previous night's efforts,
and little of his semen dribbled out into the three-inch swatch
of cloth that substituted for underwear as I drove the boys to
school.  I had donned a long, gray skirt, somewhat modest, but
still tight on my hips; mostly to hide the fact that I was
wearing fishnets, a violation of school dress code for students,
although they still showed from about mid-calf down to the
conservative heels I was wearing.



On top I wore a simple black sweatshirt.  It was James' idea to
wear his shirt, which he had worn tied around his waist, and
though it was large on him, my bosom ambitiously pushed against
the front doing little to hide the fact that only a bit of
elastic fishnet held my breasts from swinging freely.  Still, it
was much more modest than my usual attire: flimsy skin-tight
button-downs, and it gave James no little satisfaction that I
wore his totem.  For Eliot, I contented him with the fact that I
would be carrying his semen inside me for the remainder of the
day.  I promised to let him fill me up any time I wanted to wear
James' sweatshirt.  That was a promise I suddenly regretted, not
only for the overt promise of future sex, which had only been
implied before, but for the fact that the sweatshirt was very
cozy, and quite frankly, felt like body armor after my exposed
state the day before.



I had done my make-up as usual, though the lipstick, quite
unconsciously on my part, was much bolder and redder than I had
done since well before I started teaching.  Against the cold day
I wore a knit stocking cap.



I let James drive most of the way to school, holding my breath
and gasping at his inexperience behind the wheel, but after a few
scares we reached the point where we had agreed that they would
walk, and I would drive myself.





I got a few stares in the teachers lounge; being dressed down
from my usual dapper self (from the waist up, at least), but the
sudden cold explained that for me.  It was very chilly, and a
cold fog clung to the ground.   Mr. Sharpe seemed very interested
in my welfare, but my renewed confidence, even if it was born of
slaving myself to the passions of two boys, bore itself out, and
I could honestly tell him I was fine.  I couldn't ignore,
however, the look in his eye.  Knowing he had witnessed Mr. Gold
sexually harassing me in front of a student (if only he knew the
extent of that harassment when we were alone), and may well have
seen the way Mr. Gold had pulled open my skirt, and grabbed my
breast, left me slightly chilly.  It was obvious for anyone to
see that Mr. Sharpe wanted a piece of me, spread open on his
desk, no doubt, in spite of the fact that he claimed to be
happily married.  The fact was that he was happily married to a
born-again Christian who weighed in at nearly three hundred
pounds.  Understandable for someone of Mr. Sharpe 's poor social
skills and even poorer appearance:  gangly, clumsy, and duck
footed, he had an overbite and a ruddy, sunburnt appearance under
his oily skin and greasy hair, he rated down there with jocks and
computer geeks for me; jocks had all the wrong ideas about what
attracted girls, geeks didn't seem to notice there were such
things as attractors.  I had certainly spent the day before
slaving after jocks, before settling in with Eliot and James, but
that was born of fear and some yet unexplored instinct in myself
to succumb before the aggressive side of masculine nature.



I realized with irritation that thinking about the abuse I had
taken I was once again fantasizing about the moments of complete
distraction, where I had succumbed to the throes of passion, and
in spite of Mr. Sharpe's constant chatter I was becoming aroused.
 It became worse when I thought about what I was wearing under a
simple sweatshirt and skirt.



But Mr. Sharpe's attentions waned as the first bell range and we
all ran off to our morning classes.



Passing by the spot where the John's had started it all, by
stripping and molesting me in the alcove to the science classes
(by accident, they had claimed) I began to get very apprehensive.
 But aside from throngs of students rushing to their classes, and
a few of the typical smiles that some of my more friendly male
students always gave me, nothing happened.  The John's were not
there, and I started my day off as if it were any other day.



Any day, that is where I might be wearing a corset and fishnet
bodysuit with a sixteen year-old's semen dribbling out of my sex
into a tiny g-string that would get a stripper fired for indecent
exposure.



I was thrilled when the vice-principal announced to the school
that third period would be an assembly for a special speaker
(something about ethnic sensitivity).  Though technically
mandatory, a teacher could use almost any excuse to get out of
it, and I quickly arranged during the break after 1st period to
get Miss Phillips, another math teacher, to take my students with
hers.



What I didn't realize at the time was that John-two was in her
third period class.  I cleared out my class and left and returned
with a steaming mug of coffee from the teachers' lounge. 
Shutting the door behind me I took a few grateful sips for the
gift of peace and quiet (I was going to have to assign reading
for fourth period).  Then I set out to take care of the issues
that had been bothering me.



Over the course of the past few hours, Eliot's semen had dribbled
out of me, and though there was little of it, it was wet and
sticky and making a run down my inner thigh.  This was aided by
the fact that the thong had slipped up one side of my crotch. 
The skirt had a function that allowed it to be worn as a typical,
long skirt, or it could be split up the side by means of a
concealed zipper, which could be buttoned at three set lengths. 
I unbuttoned the skirt at the top and shifted it around.  Peeking
out the window in the door to the class I saw no one, so I
quickly unzipped the skirt all the way up.  It ended below the
crotch so I hiked it up a little more and proceeded to swab
myself out with a Kleenex.



I actually felt guilty for breaking my promise to Eliot.  I tried
to rationalize it by telling myself that his semen was still
swimming around in my uterus, but knew this was weak at best.  A
man's presence in a woman was a thing to be felt, endured, and
adored.



Still, what he didn't know.  Yet I found myself almost playing
with it. Rubbing it around, using it as lubrication over my
over-used clit.  I realized I was still very horny from my
mind-wanderings with Mr. Sharpe (that thought disgusted me), and
though I tried to block the thoughts from my mind, I saw myself
spreading my legs for Mr. Gold, his thickened girth of a waist
bearing down on me.



That was when John-two barged in.



He slunk in, hunched over, looking for all the world like a bad
secret agent parody.  He was wearing school sweats, dark blue
with the school initials in yellow on one thigh and the back of
the hooded shirt, a backpack over one shoulder, his letterman
jacket under the other arm.  Though clearly well fitted, the
outfit did little to keep his pectorals from bulging through
them, nor did it hide the massive stocks that defined his thighs
and arms.



All my well rehearsed planning started to fade away as John-two
burst in on me, fingering myself over a cup of hot coffee,
slipping into dust as I shoved myself forward to hide my nudity
under the drawers, slamming my legs together too soon as I
realized that I had two fingers plunging in and out of me.



John-two looked at me, frantically struggling to pull my skirt
low enough to zip it: a difficult feat done while sitting down. 
His face seemed to be asking for tacit approval.  He was
certainly not authorized to be here, and I could technically give
him detention for cutting the assembly.  For all his mass and
bulk he seemed rather pathetic, groveling like this with a
forced, fake grin for my permission to be here.  It seemed absurd
to me, who he had been spread open wide on my desk before him
only yesterday.  I cursed silently that he hadn't waited two
minutes to come in, when I would be decent.  He was so clearly
panicked that I realized something more was up.



"I think Mr. Schaffer saw me!" he whispered.  Mr. Schaffer was
the Hall monitor on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.  He was a younger
black guy who patrolled the halls.  I think he was still in
college.



I was sorely tempted to send John back out into the halls to take
his reward.  It pissed me off in no small amount that John-two
had decided to cut the assembly, and then, fearing capture, had
run to the woman he'd used and abused the day before, as if I
would offer some solace.



But he was so pathetic-just like he'd been yesterday after he had
realized he'd raped me-that I simply didn't have the heart.  I
freed a hand from my skirt struggle and gestured him to sit down,
grabbing a hanky abruptly as I realized my fingers glistened with
my own juices.  I certainly wasn't going to discuss anything with
him till I'd straightened myself out.  John immediately sat down,
and just as abruptly, Mr. Schaffer walked in.



Nearly as short as me, Mr. Schaffer, at 23, was no less
intimidating that John-two.  What he lacked in height he made up
for with attitude and bulk. No, he wasn't mean, he just had a
great, "don't fuck with me" vibe.  He wore his hair in short
dreads, and wore a tight T-shirt, in spite of the cold, over his
bulky arms and chest.



He was startled to see Miss Caulder behind the desk.  Though he
was a terror for the students, he was deferential to the staff,
"Oh, I'm sorry Wendy." He gestured at John-two, "This student
didn't show me a pass when I asked for it."



I looked at John-two, acting surprised, "John, why didn't you
show Mr. Schaffer your pass?"



He was still visibly shaken, "Uhh.  I didn't hear him?"



Mr. Schaffer gave me a wry grin, leaving me in no doubt that
John-two could not have missed his instructions.



I looked back at John-two, "Why don't you show him your pass now,
John" I was relieved that I could foist off any disciplinary
action onto Mr. Schaffer.  Having to punish John-two with
detention seemed just too damn awkward after having his huge pole
impale me-particularly because of the way I'd behaved while he
rode me: panting and screaming, bucking up to get more of it
inside me as I sought to make the humiliation go away by burying
myself in pain and pleasure.  In the cold light of day, well
removed from the fact, I simply didn't understand what rationale
had led me to act that way, (though rational thought certainly
didn't describe any of my actions so much as primitive animal
instinct).  Regardless, John-two had watched me writhe and buck
like a video porn star on his tree-trunk member and came inside
me.  The first woman he'd ever been with.  Writing a detention
slip seemed absurd in the least.  It would take a lot more than
him cutting an assembly to restore the appropriate roles in our
relationship.



But John was dissembling.  I knew he didn't have a pass, but I
could pretend that I had assumed he did.  The frustrating part
was that I wasn't enjoying this.  I actually felt bad for the
kid.  In spite of everything that had happened I knew that I had
to put it down to both teenage stupidity, and my own weakness. 
John-two wasn't genuinely malicious.  I had seen enough teenagers
that were, including the ones who had taken my virginity.  Most
boys of John-two's age and size would have date-raped their way
past their virginity long before John-two found me spread-eagled
on my desk.  I just felt so sorry for him, trying to cultivate an
explanation from his chimp-like mind.



I sighed, and looked at Mr. Schaffer, "I asked him to return some
books he borrowed yesterday before lunch" I gestured to a pair of
books on female reproductive anatomy on the counter by the door,
"but" I added looking at John, "that doesn't mean you don't need
to get a pass first."



Mr. Schaffer seemed all too ready to accept this.  I knew, like a
lot of the teacher that he turned a blind eye to certain rules,
over eighteens smoking on campus, for example.  He also didn't
call the police when he caught kids smoking weed, and he never
interrupted kids making out if they were out of view.  He knew
something was up, and I was covering for John-two, but that was
good enough for him.



Regardless, he looked at me and said, "You need anything, Wendy,
you come and get me."



I nodded, somewhat dumbfounded.



He nodded back, and said, "You coming to the assembly?"



I nodded again, "After I finish up.  I asked him to return the
books to have a chat with him." And I fixed John with a humorless
glare, hoping it would convince Mr. Schaffer that John-two was to
get some discipline.



He smiled, actually, and said to John-two, "You're not gonna
graduate if you get into any more trouble, man.  You come to me
if you need anything.  I could have followed you here and talked
to Miss Caulder without the confusion."



John-two was looking at his feet, "sorry."



Mr. Schaffer nodded at me and turned to the door, then pausing,
turned to me, "This whole wing'll be clear during the assembly."
He glanced at John-two, then back at me, "So you two'll be
alone." Then with a nod that felt like a wink, he turned and
left.



Both John-two and I remained motionless until we heard Mr.
Schaffer's footsteps round the corner of the empty hallway
outside.  Immediately I dropped the soiled hanky I had, for some
reason, been clutching the whole time, and started trying to hike
my skirt down, but John-two was up and leaning over the desk in a
second,



"Aww, man, Mrs. Caulder, that was great.  I really owe you one."



Slamming myself against the edge of the desk I shot back at the
boy, "Do I look like a Mrs. To you!?"



John backed off a bit, "Oh, uh, sorry."



I leaned forward, "did I look like a Mrs. Yesterday after
school?" but I immediately regretted bringing it up.



John-two also seemed embarrassed, but clearly had to stifle a
grin as he said, "No, you definitely looked like a miss."



I felt myself flush, but John seemed to have drifted off,
remembering how it felt to have me under him, impaled on him, on
the very desk that separated us presently, "Good!" I said, only
managing to bark in a harsh whisper, "So what's my name?"



"Can I call you Wendy?"



"What?"



"Well, I mean, it's kind of hard to think of you as a teacher-"
he immediately shut up, a look of shock coming over him, "But I'm
really, really, really sorry about what happened yesterday!  I
was totally wrong." He was practically begging, and he came
around the desk, another step with each "really" until he was
kneeling at my side, behind the desk.  It was all I could do to
clutch the skirt up around my legs.  Letting go, hiked up as it
was, would let them fall apart and reveal the fishnets from toe
to waist, not to mention the thong.



John-two seemed to notice that I was sitting there, frozen, as I
tried to compose a reaction, "Are you okay, Mrs. Caulder?"



I groaned with frustration at the simple-minded boy, "It's
miss--!  Never mind." I turned away from him, "you need to get
out, John.  You need to leave me alone for five minutes, okay?"



"What's up?  And it's John-two, not john."



"I know!" I spun back on him unconscious of the fact that though
I held my skirt together, by turning in my chair to face him I
was revealing the condition of my skirt, and not a little bit of
skin that showed though the cracks.



John was talking, "It's just that you're always correcting me."
he had seen what I had tried for so long to conceal, and broke
into an honest grin, Aww, Mrs. Caulder, you don't have to worry
about me.  It's not like I ain't already seen you."



As if he had completely forgotten his overtures of pathos a few
moments before, John-two was leering over me.  He even gave me a
playful poke in the ribs, "Though I ain't never seen a girl
wearing that before." He was indicating the fishnets.



Having succumbed to the pressure of the John's yesterday, under
the same false rationale he blurted out then made me cringe, but
for some reason made it no easier to argue.  There was simply no
rational way to counter that statement, and emotional pleas
always sounded pathetic in the face of cold, male logic, as base
and simple as it may be.



Clutching my legs together I had to try, "John, please, I just
need you to leave."



But he wasn't listening.  He had a hand on my leg and was pushing
the skirt back, "Come on, I just wanna see what you look like in
those-" and hooking one hand he started to pull one leg apart
from the other.



But I was on my feet.  If he caught a glimpse I don't know, but I
shot up, spun around and tugged the skirt down.  Quickly and
efficiently I corrected myself, now that there was no need for
stealth.



I had worn the underwear to spite John-two and the others. 
Letting him look would not only defeat that purpose, but
undoubtedly provoke added speculation in John-two's thick, addled
mind, as to why I would dress in such a way if not for him.



I quickly straightened out the rest of my outfit, looking in the
cabinet mirror, asking, "Now John, what do you want?"



I saw him blushing in the reflection, "I need you to look at
something."



Turning to face him I could see that he was, once again,
completely dissembling in embarrassment, "What sort of thing,
John-two."



It took him forever, it seemed, but finally he said, "The coach
gave us a lecture, last season on, uhh. STB's."



It took me a moment to realize that he meant STD's: sexually
transmitted diseases.  The thought certainly hadn't occurred to
me the day before, but Mr. Gold, being as promiscuous as he was
could certainly have given me something which I'd have passed on
to John.  What didn't make sense was how soon symptoms would
arise in John-two, since neither Eliot nor James had given any
indication.  "John, it's too soon to be seeing signs of
anything."



"But it." John was clearly fighting with terminal embarrassment
to admit this, "But it hurt to pee yesterday."



I had to grin, "That's normal, John-two, after an orgasm.  
Sometimes.."



But he spun on me, "And there's a mark."



I sighed, "What does it look like john?  Are you sure it's not a
scratch, or a bruise?"



He shook his head, "It's easier to show you."



I gasped, "I'm not a doctor, John."



But he walked up to me, towering over me, "But you're a sex ed
teacher.  I mean, that makes you qualified, doesn't it?"



I cursed the fact that he was, in fact correct.  I had even
worked in a free clinic for a while, and had learned to diagnose
the more common forms of STD.  But I knew he had been a virgin
before me, and that he couldn't possibly have any visible signs
less than one day later.  "Yes, John, but you can't possibly."



"Can you just look?"



I felt my head spinning, burning deep in the pit of my stomach. 
He had come to me as the one person he could trust, in spite of
having raped my (again, by accident).  I had proven faithful to
that trust by covering for him with Mr. Schaffer.  My feet were
shaking, but something deep inside me told me that by examining
him, in essence turning this into a doctor patient relationship,
I might well take us further along the road to restoring the
teacher-student relationship that was appropriate.  The other,
important factor was that if he was diagnosed with an STD
somewhere else they might ask who he got it from, like the school
nurse, and he might be too dense to hide the truth.



At the very least I could put his concerns to rest, and my own,
for I realized that there was a slim chance that there might be
something I was overlooking in my confusion and fear that may
well indicate and STD that I was spreading.



"Lock the door," I said, looking at the clock.  There was a good
forty minutes before the assembly was over.



John-two did as I asked, and I brought him to the back corner of
the classroom, where we would be well hidden from the door
window.  I was very hot, due to the sweatshirt and the heated
room, something I hadn't anticipated.  My own anxiety was also a
cause of this heat, but there were simply no circumstances that I
could take it off.



I would have preferred to use my desk as an examining table,
where I could stand over him, but the class desks were too tiny,
and something in me recoiled at the thought of having him lie on
the floor while I kneeled by him, so I resolved to do it standing
up.



"Okay, let's see." I said, holding my breath as he untied the
sweatpants and pushed them down.



They fell quickly to his ankles, his legs muscular and well
defined.  His member was soft, but impressive nonetheless,
hanging a full eight inches, while flaccid, down the length of
his left thigh, "show me," I said.



He started to reach for it, but hesitated.  My initial thought
had been that it might be a ruse, just to get me into the same
sort of position I'd been in yesterday, but his lack of erection
arrested that concern.  This boy would spring up at the slightest
hint of a woman.  He must be genuinely concerned.  But he looked
me in the eye, "can't you. go down on m. I mean, get down and
look?"



I sighed.  His waist was much higher than my own, his manhood
reaching my bellybutton.  But in order to examine it, I would
have to look all over, and that meant kneeling.  I took solace in
the fact that he seemed pretty genuine.  Besides, I knew how to
treat a patient, even ones who did get hard.



I started to kneel, but realized that my skirt prevented that,
risking tearing, "Okay, John."



"It's John-two." He stammered, "and you're Miss Caulder."



I glared briefly at the boy, then unzipped my skirt where it
parted, now on the side.  It only buttoned at the calf, below the
knee, and up high, so I just left the zipper half undone, at
mid-thigh, so I could use my legs while crouching.



In my kneeling position I realized that I was looking up at him
member.  The head drooped to just below my own, and it occurred
to me that if he were hard it would be poking me in the forehead.
 I was reminded uncomfortably of kneeling before Mr. Gold like
this the day before.  How he'd used me, came on my face, and left
me in the bushes.  Nevertheless, I took the head of his penis in
between two fingers and turned it over. I couldn't see anything,
and I said as much.



"It was totally there this morning.  This big, red spot."



"When you woke up?"



"Yeah!"



"Were you erect?"



He seemed to blush at this, and nodded, his body shifting with
the gesture, his penis swinging to the left and the right.



I was looking up, over the length of his body, past his penis,
which was only a few scant inches from my face, "it might have
been a bruise colored by the blood from the erection."



"Can you check that?" he asked.



I immediately cursed myself for suggesting that.  "Not unless you
are  erect."   I remembered how obsessed I had been with his
gargantuan sheath the day before.  How it had spread me beyond
any levels I had ever known, leaving me frantic to find a
substitute, someone to fill me the way he had, only without the
pain but with the all consuming envelopment.  I remembered the
humiliation of trying to drive myself to that escape on him as he
came too soon, and returned nothing but humiliation and pain.  I
could feel that sensation in me then and there, kneeling before
this boy, his penis dangling in front of me, and tried to stifle
it.



"Okay." He said.  Fortunately he still hadn't seemed to have
regained the confidence of the day before.



I waited.  "Well?"



He shrugged, "I don't know, I mean, I can't just make it hard."



I groaned, silently.  Normally I'd have suggested a magazine, but
that seemed patently absurd now, "What do you need, John-two?"



And then he was grinning, "Well, if you did what you did
yesterday, during the private lesson."



"I'm not taking my clothes off."  On that point I was adamant.



"But you didn't."  he stammered, "I mean you-I already seen
everything.  We, I mean, you and I, were.  You ain't got anything
to hide from me."



But I simply shook his head, aware that I was doing very well,
though the burning in the pit of my stomach didn't make it any
easier.  The fact was that I refused to let him see me in my slut
outfit, and I was actually thankful I had worn it.  Were I more
modestly dressed I might have considered it, but stripping like
this would be an invitation to more sex, and the only way to make
sex tolerable with the boy would be a repeat of yesterday's
degrading performance.



"Can't you masturbate yourself to an erection?"



But I had forgotten that I was dealing with a teenage boy,



"Oh, no.  I don't do that." He mumbled unconvincingly.



"Fine."  I took the massive member in my right hand and started
stroking it, but it was so damn big and squishy that I simply
couldn't create a kind of rhythm.  I had never been good at hand
jobs.  It actually grew a little, but it was clearly not doing
the trick.  Yesterday, John-two would have sprung up at the
thought of me, but now, having had me, he was clearly less
inclined.  After sex, a hand job wasn't going to elicit much
response, especially when he was so embarrassed about this
"mark."



"Mrs. Caulder."  He said.



I ignored the mistake and stopped pumping him, looking away.  I
simply couldn't bring myself to look up at him, trying as I was
to jerk him off to an erection, this big, lumpy, flopping eel,
"What?"



"Maybe if you.  If you, you know?"



A glance up at him was enough for me to realize what he meant. 
He was pointing at his mouth, obviously to ashamed to say "blow
job."



I felt a great shiver pass over me.  Though flaccid the head of
John-two's member was enormous.  Easily enough to fill up the
palm of my small hand. Putting that in my mouth would require a
wide-open stretch, and that was until it got hard.  I remembered
how big it was pushing inside me, lubricated and spread wide. 
But vaginas are made to deliver babies.  A woman's mouth would be
forced to simply open wide and engulf.  There is nothing there to
stretch.



But it wasn't such technical considerations that sent tingles
running all over my body, and shooting stabs of heat from my
tummy to my sex.  It was the thought that taking John in the
mouth was not the re-instatement of a teacher student
relationship, it was, in fact, the next ultimate step in a woman
submitting herself to a man's desires.



Still, he wasn't erect at the prospect, and that gave me some
rationale for proceeding as I did.  That he was genuinely
concerned, and I was helping him.  But even as I spread my lips
wide, licking them and leaning forward, I knew that I was doing
this because I had already gone too far.  By putting myself in
this position, kneeling before his penis, I was humiliated and
ashamed.  Perhaps, the great engorgement might drown some of that
out.  I licked the head of his manhood several times, not too
surprised to find a dull, faintly acidic taste.  Using two hands
I lifted it up, and squeezed so as to engorge the head as I took
it in my mouth, running my lips over the glans, licking his
frenum.



It was only a few strokes with my head before the blood started
pumping, and John-two's member began to swell and pulse with new
life.  It was more massive than I could have remembered, in spite
of having impaled myself on it and feeling for all the world like
my body was being consumed by his penis the day before.  Stuffing
it in my mouth, I could only open wide while trying not to gag
while my hands were spread apart by the girth.  I felt like I was
trying to grapple with a tree branch.  I had never tried to put
my fist in my mouth, but I discovered in that instant that I
could probably manage with little discomfort.



He was so much longer and wider than any man I had had before,
and I felt the great, slobbering gulps of spit trail off his
glans dribbling down my face as my lips passed, back and forth,
fucking him with my face, strained to the limit, when John-two
let out a mighty groan and a vast gush of briny tasting semen,
acidic like the sweat on his penis, poured onto my tongue,
slipping down my throat as I tried to retreat.  My face came off
his member with a 'pop' and I had a brief instant of feeling
hollow, but his joint continued to shower me with sperm,
splattering me in the face, the neck, the hair, and dribbling
down onto my shirt, jet after jet of his milk pummeled me while I
stood there and let it bury me.  Taking every shot square in the
face, I had to open my mouth for air because of the jizz dripping
on my nose, and another shot hit my teeth, before John-two's
member came plowing back in, and I was forced to open wide as
John-two cradled the back of my head and fucked my face as the
last drops shot into my mouth; great, gushing bursts of his
essence as he rocked me, over and over again, pumping himself dry
into my face while I knelt there and let him, owning me like he
had the day before...



Continued in Part 2 

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