Chapter 8

I suppose that was the turning point. Because I awoke next morning thinking what is the difference in giving myself to Mr. Nash, for two-hundred dollars, and giving myself to Brent and the others as part of my duties as Lonny's private tutor?

I glanced lazily about the bedroom. It was a nice enough place ... lots of sunlight shining through the windows across from the bed ... walls freshly painted ... furniture almost new ... even a vanity about half the size of the beautiful antique in my bedroom in the big house on the outskirts of town. But at the big house, I recalled, breakfast, and sometimes lunch, and dinner if I requested it, was served at my bedside. And, I had to admit, after the first trying days, I had actually begun to enjoy living there, and was surprised-no! hurt and stunned, I realize now-when Brent had my bags packed, folded my wages and severance pay into my hand, and led me to the door, where the taxi was waiting. I had returned home that day feeling like a dismissed prostitute.

"And now?" I thought aloud. By accepting the money from Mr. Nash, I had committed myself to doing what Steve wanted of me. Now, for all I knew, he was planning to bring the entire board of directors home for dinner. Which meant me!

Feeling glum and icky, I leaped naked from the bed, and stopped to say good morning to myself in the dresser mirror. I hefted my breasts. They seemed heavier. Does excess fucking make tits grow? I wondered idly. My bush seemed thicker, too. But that, I knew, was because I hadn't yet showered off the spunk from the night before.

Turning, I glanced back over my shoulder, at my cute ass. There was no change there. It was as round and pink and adorable as ever. And that was the problem, I mused-at least one problem: because if even I couldn't look at myself without getting kinky all over, how in heck could I expect a man to?

My big problem, I decided, scowling at the disheveled but nonetheless seductive me in the mirror, is that I don't look like a dopey teacher. I look more like the hotsy pupil! And I like fucking more than is good for me. It seemed hopeless.

"Well, you're not going to quit!" I told myself. "You are a teacher! And you'll teach even if it means ... well, even if you have to do it as a crummy substitute at Community High! So there!"

Pleased with myself, but deciding I'd best wear plain white panties and bra, and the least revealing, least complimentary thing I owned when visiting Mr. Phelps, I padded to the bathroom. Adjusting the shower, I stepped beneath the fine, warm spray. And as the water fell on my head, washing the last remnants of sleep from my eyes, I realized there was something I wasn't telling myself: something about Mr. Phelps, the Roysters and the rambling Gothic mansion on the outskirts of town.

It was fun watching the students scramble for class when I entered the doors of Community High just as the morning bell rang. But even in a plain, knee-length dress, my hair done up severely and wearing the huge polliwog glasses I didn't need, my breasts drew grins of appreciating from the older boys. One, a senior, it appeared, paying no attention to the bell, held the door for me. And as I walked toward the principal's office at the far end of the main corridor, he followed close behind, and I could feel his gaze on the little round problem that refused-despite the effort I made-to stop swishing.

He was still there when I reached the office, and stopped. Hand on the doorknob, I gave him my best Upset Teacher Look. He winked.

"You'll be late for class!" I snapped, furious.

"Man! It's worth it," he countered-refusing to budge until I had opened the door and stepped inside. Then he waved, turned and ran back the way he had come.

The desk receptionist wore a button which read MONITOR. Fifteen, I estimated, recalling my own school days and the rumors about Mr. Phelps. Judging from the clothes the girl wore-a gold micro-minidress, and apparently no bra to contain tits bigger than mine-she was one of the lecherous principal's straight-A-without-ever-taking-a-test office students. "Something please?" she said in a voice like cream being poured over strawberries.

There were two students ahead of me: one boy, one girl, the latter watching the inner office door with a cautious eye. But when I gave the desk monitor my name, and mentioned I was a teacher, she immediately phoned the information in to Mr. Phelps, and I heard his voice boom from the mouthpiece, "Did you say-? Well, send her in here!"

At least, I thought as I entered the office where it had all begun, he's still anxious to see me. But I was determined to keep it strictly business. But I was also determined to get the job, and I suspected that the two determinations might present another problem.

"Well, well, well now," said Mr. hotsy Phelps as I closed the door and hurried to the chair opposite his desk.

I smiled. I was determined to remain cool. But through the polliwog glasses I saw two of him, and was immediately sorry I'd decided to come see even one.

"This is, ah-an unexpected pleasure," he continued, coming around the desk toward me.

"I-I've decided to accept the substitute post," I said in almost a shout.

Abruptly Mr. Phelps stopped. He seemed to study me for a moment. Then, returning to his seat, he said, "Well, we can always use, ah-use good teachers. And, well, ah-well, I always like to be on-shall we say 'intimate?' Yes! I always like to be on intimate terms with my staff."

"Oh no!" I yelped, sitting tall, thrusting my chin at him. "No more of that! I said 'teach,' and that's all I mean is t-t-teach, and if you think I mean-if you mean-if you think you can-and me-well, I won't!"

"Dear me." Sitting back, hands forming a pyramid at his nose, Mr. Phelps stared from beneath lowered brows.

"I-I've been looking and looking," I added pleadingly. "There isn't another vacancy anywhere. And I have to teach. I have to! Or else why did I go to college in the first place?" I stared helplessly back at him. But my cunthole was already twitching, as if to say you had me before you went to any dumb college.

Me. Phelps cleared his throat. He seemed to soften. "Well then. I suppose there's nothing for it but to put you to work as a teacher."

"Now?" I couldn't believe it. I had expected at least a day to put filler paper in my loose-leaf, and sharpen pencils.

"Right now," said Mr. Phelps. "We can start your, ah-your trial period by acquainting you with school discipline."

"D-d-discipline?" I smelled a rat.

"Of course. We, ah-we run a tight ship here, Carol. You don't mind if I call you Carol?"

"Uh-uh," I said-but it was sure beginning to sound one heck of a lot like my first interview.

"Good! Now, Carol, a student who makes a nuisance of him or herself is, ah-shall we say 'to be shown the error of their ways?' Yes! And, as coincidence would have it, there are, at the moment, two such nuisances waiting in my outer office."

I blinked-recalling the tiny brunette in miniskirt and blouse, whose body was just beginning to blossom, and who had been watching the office door with a cautious eye when I came in. The switch! I thought, remembering the stories from my own schooldays. Oh, the brute! I fumed mentally. The horrible, horrible man! He's going to make me watch, perhaps participate, in one of his whippings.

Before I could protest, even before I was certain my suspicions were accurate, Mr. Phelps had lifted the phone, and was telling the outer office monitor to send Susan somebody in. Men! I thought. They're the same everywhere-Steve and Brent and Lonny, the black chauffeur, Mr. Nash. They dominate, abuse and take advantage of women. And women-me in particular-women allow it because they secretly enjoy it!

The girl, Susan somebody, was suddenly standing at the desk beside me. And Mr. Phelps-Lord! Mr. Phelps had produced a three-foot switch from beneath the desk, and was alternating his hot gaze from me, to the attractive girl-no more than thirteen years old, I supposed. Smacking the weapon on the mahogany desktop, Mr. Phelps said, "Well, Susan, we, ah-we've been through this before. The choice is yours, dear: red buttocks, or bring in your parents to explain the truancy."

The girl hesitated only a moment. Then, bringing her five-foot frame up tall, thrusting her button breasts at the principal, and sniffing indignantly, she said, "Use your darn ole switch."

I gasped. The girl looked abruptly back at me. But before either of us could speak, Mr. Phelps added, "You, ah-you know the routine, Susan. Over the edge of the desk. Skirt up. Carol here has asked for a demonstration of our, ah-of our homespun disciplinary measures."

"I never!" I balked.

"Now-now," said Mr. Phelps, leering. "Mustn't begin your career by allowing the students to think they have a softy." Hand at the small of Susan's back, he bent her far forward over the desk-rump up and toward me. He lifted her skirt-exposing two sweet little cheeks in nylon panties so thin and tight it was as if she wore nothing.

My own little round bottom felt suddenly vulnerable. I watched the girl shift: open her thighs slightly, showing both me and horny Mr. Phelps where the nylon was stuck deep in her chubby young cuntlips. My breath caught. Unconsciously, I reached for the polliwog glasses, took them off. Now I could see the ebony curls at the legband of the panties cutting into her tender flesh. I squirmed ... wanting to leave, but unable to tear my eyes away ... imagining myself bent forward over the desktop, skirt up, with a stiff cock-the one I now could see growing in Mr. Phelps' pantsleg-instead of the switch poised ready to send fire through my loins.

"One for each day you played hooky should be sufficient," said Mr. Phelps.

I met his gaze: watched him raise the switch; watched it come down across the girl's plump, tense bottom. I watched her buttocks leap-pull the panties tighter still, exposing even more of the downy hair at her sex. Again the switch rose and fell: hard enough to make Susan's creamy, virginal flesh leap, but not hard enough to do more than sting momentarily. Again and again the weapon lashed out ... Mr. Phelps' gaze devouring the girl's charms, and darting to me, apparently studying my reaction.

By the time the last blow fell, my panties were so wet it felt as if I'd peed all over myself. I watched the girl stand, a knowing smile on her flushed face, and straighten her mini. Giddy, I watched the principal lead her to the door, where they exchanged words I didn't hear. Then she was gone, and Mr. Phelps-swipe standing almost straight out in his pants-was at my side ... hand low on my shoulder, and inching toward the taut peak displaying my excitement through bra and dress.

Leaning close, speaking into my ear, he said, "Now, that wasn't as, ah-as bad as you thought it would be, was it?" His fingers brushed the top of my breast. He blew into my ear-sending a hot chill down the steps of my spine.

"You-you bbrute!" I managed, trembling.

Laughing softly, knowingly, Mr. Phelps licked my ear. "The girls understand that our, ah-our little disciplinary procedure is more-shall we say 'ritual'? Yes! More ritual than actual discipline." Taking the glasses from my hand, he set them on the desktop. With thumb and forefinger, he captured the rigid nipple straining to burst free of the confining bra and dress.

I couldn't stop him-couldn't make my body obey. My breathing seemed to fill the office. "I-I'm n-not-I d-d-didn't-I w-w-w-won't-" I stammered.

Again Mr. Phelps laughed softly. "The girls seem to enjoy having their fannies warmed," he continued, ignoring my discomfort-knowing, it seemed, as I knew, that the whipping had ignited the tiny pink bud in my cunthole. "We, ah-the girls and I have an understanding. As you and I do, dear-though, ah-though you seem reluctant to admit what it is you really want."

It's your own fault! I accused myself. You knew it! You knew it!

Stepping in front of me, knee to knee, Mr. Phelps worked the zipper at his fly. "N-no," I whispered as his big dick sprang free. But my hand reached for him: fingers trembling, but eager to close about the hard, veiny shaft, and mouth suddenly thick with saliva.

"Perhaps, ah-perhaps a little suck would, ah-shall we say 'calm you'?" Stepping closer, using his knees to spread my legs and bringing the bloated knob of his bobbing cock within inches of my face, the principal cupped my chin in the palm of his hand.

I couldn't resist. My tongue-a gentle pink snake acting on its own-lashed out, and swirled.

"My, you do have a way with you." Mr. Phelps' hand touched the back of my head, urging me closer.

Without me realizing it, my own hand had found the hem of my dress, had crept beneath, and beneath the wet panties, and now was fingering the hot gash between my thighs. My other hand dove inside the principal's pants, to capture his fat, hairy balls. He sighed. A tiny bead of clear gel appeared at the aperture in the glans of his rod. My tongue lapped it away. I washed the entire tip, making it glisten, then worked slowly down and back up the throbbing shaft.

"In your mouth, dear. Suck me off." He pressed his hips forward. Dick jerking between my chin and nose, he applied pressure to the back of my head.

Wanting to, not wanting to, uncertain what I wanted but unable to stop now, I opened my mouth. The burning glans touched my lips ... pressed in ... widening the gap ... in past my teeth, and gliding smoothly back on my tongue. I smelled him: the acrid stink of sweaty balls and asshole. And the taste! God! I hadn't sucked a prick in weeks; had almost forgotten how delicious stiff manmeat was.

"Ah yes, dear. Urhmm. Marvelous." Gripping my head in both hands, eyes closed and face contorted with pleasure, he began to fuck the long veiny thing into my face. "You'll do, ah!Ahhhhhhhh! You'll do f-fine. Yes indeed. My word. A teacher. What we need here at Community High is more ohahhh! Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! More t-t-teachers with your qq-qualifications."

I was too busy sucking to pay much attention to what he said. Noisily I drew on his cock until the entire length was buried in my face. There was no hope for me, it seemed. I was destined to spend the rest of my life sucking and fucking-with maybe, if lucky, a class or two of pupils to teach in between.

But even the pupils! I thought, recalling the handsome boy who had followed me down the main corridor, and wondering if his dick was as big as the one I was sucking. Even the pupils saw through my clothes, through my college diploma, to my sweet white-blonde wedge, my lovely round ass, my young thighs.

Well then, why fight it? me asked me. Why not simply accept it? Just consider how nice Mr. Phelps' cock moves in and out of your face, and enjoy yourself!

Moaning-partially because I had at last decided to take my own advice, but mostly because the swipe in my face was already geysering hot cum-I fucked my fingers furiously in and out of my dripping cunthole. I gulped the principal's cream. I kneaded his sacs, coaxing more. I sucked and sucked and sucked ... until he sighed and released my head, and slid the limp-ish, slimy thing from my face. Then I threw my arms around his legs, rubbed my face against the front of his pants, and whispered, "Fuck me now. Please. O-over the d-d-desktop. Oh, do it! Do it!"

Without hesitation, Mr. Phelps lifted me from the chair. His arms went about my waist-hands exploring my ass through the dress. He pulled me close. His lips covered mine ... mouth open ... sucking the breath from my lungs as I had sucked him off a moment before.

I felt the hem of the dress being inched up the back of my thighs; held my breath, heart pounding, until his hands came to rest on my panties. I moved my belly against him. His cock began to grow stiff once more. I moved faster, insistently. My cunt ached to be filled-cried out for the cream I had swallowed. I felt his hands at the waistband of the plain white cotton panties-little-girl panties-I'd worn so as not to entice him. "Hurry!" I breathed into his mouth. "Take them off. Fuck me. Oh, please, f-f-fuck meee!"

Breaking the kiss, the principal spun me toward the desk. His hands tore at the panties. Working them down, to my ankles, his fingers dug deep in my flesh as I stepped out of the soiled undergarment. "Yes!" he croaked, fingering my asshole, my slit. "Bend over, dear. My word, yes. I have, ah-I have just the thing to soothe you."

I obliged-wondering how it had happened. I had entered the office with such good intentions, and now! ... Arms flung wide on the desktop, legs gaped open, I glanced back and watched him undo the pants, let them fall. The shorts followed. His dick pointed skyward. I sobbed and tensed up-waiting for the thrill of penetration. I watched him step close and raise the hem of the dress high on my waist. I opened wider ... spreading my legs as far as they'd go ... thrusting my wet cunt back at his bloated member.

Mr. Phelps groaned. Panting, gaze riveted to my uptilted behind, he gripped his dick at the roots and steered the bulbous glans to the mouth of my pussy.

"OWWWWWWWWW!" I wiggled myself back onto the hot stake. It slipped deep into the slippery folds of my aching cunthole. "More!" I breathed. "Oh, more, more, more. Fuck it all the way in. All of it. Oh, d-d-do it. Please! PLEEEEEEEASE!"

"You are ahhhhhhhhh! You are indeed a fine teacher, dear. You have um! UMMMMMMM!" Retreating, he gripped my hips and paused for a moment-apparently savoring the wetness, the clinging warmth of my sheath-then pressed forward, forcing the rest of his stiffness up my hole. "You have-shall we say 'an educated pussy'? My word, yes! You have what might well be considered a college education between ahhhhhhh! Between your exquisite young thighs."

"Then do it," I cried, cunt snapping.

"Of course. But quietly," cautioned Mr. Phelps. "The, ah-the children outside might not understand."

I had forgotten where we were: forgotten all but the magnificence of taking another stiff prick up my belly. Now I remembered-remembered, too, the tiny girl who had bent herself forward over the desk earlier. I closed my eyes and saw her ... sweet buttocks high ... the switch making her tender flesh quiver. My own buttocks quivered. I felt the blows. But these weren't the blows of the switch. These were the gentle slaps of Mr. Phelps' nuts meeting my flesh. My cunt was so wet, so sloppy, his rod made a faint sloshing noise with each dip. The sound excited me more. Clawing the desktop, biting my lip until I tasted blood, I fucked my ass frantically back to meet his short, rapid lunges.

Suddenly, behind my closed eyes, I was back in the big house on the outskirts of town. Brent was there ... his incredible dick, so much bigger than the one now stoking my vulva, spurting cream into the air while Rhonda fucked the French-tickler-candlestick in and out of my rectum. And Lonny! Crazy, wonderful Lonny! He was there, too ... saying "best pussy!" And the black chauffeur, with his purple, uncircumcised cock. Three lovely swipes: each different and special in its own way. Not like Mr. Nash's minipeg. Not like Mr. Phelps. Not like Steve, whose dick was average size, and who knew all the pleasure points on my body yet couldn't begin to duplicate the wild thrills I'd experienced while a used but pampered prisoner at the Royster mansion.

Memories, combined with the steady motion of Mr. Phelps' dipstick, triggered an orgasm like none since my last bout with Brent. I had thought the night before, with two cocks spitting off at once, was good. But this...! Because, aside from the dick up my cunthole, there were three inside my head. Each was stoking in time to the one digging, digging, digging in and out of my sheath. And each stroke fired delicious spasms through my loins. I went limp on the desktop; my legs becoming mush. But my cunt refused to stop fucking. Like an agitated clam, it dipped and drew on the principal's rod. It opened and closed. Spewing juice down the inside of my thighs, it fondled. It coaxed. It nibbled ... thirsty for cum.

"Oh yes!" gasped Mr. Phelps. One hand shot beneath my round, tense belly. The middle finger of the other twisted up my tight but willing asshole. "Ah yes. AH! AHHHHHHHH! We-oh, my! Oh, that's lovely! Yes! Um. We-ahhhhhhhh! We're th-th-theeeeeeeeeere!"

My hips bucked out of control as the hot semen gushed off up my pussy. My legs came alive again. I slid back and crouched some ... closing on his ejaculating rod. I wanted to scream for joy. But I remembered the outer office monitor, and the boy awaiting his turn for the choice of bringing his parents to school or the switch. Silently I fucked ... prolonging the orgasm ... my cunt drawing spurt after spurt, overflowing.

When it was over, after Mr. Phelps had pulled out, wiped himself and passed me the hanky, I asked, "Has-has Brent, the Roysters, found another-another tutor for-for Lonny?"

His gaze met mine. I looked hastily away; busied myself wiping the gook from my cunthole.

For a moment, the principal watched me with a speculative eye. Then, climbing into his shorts and pants, he countered, "Are you offering your, ah-your services?"

I knew what he wanted to hear: knew what returning to the big house meant. I hadn't really considered it before asking the question. I was two people, it seemed-the girl who wanted to teach, and the other, wanton sexpot, who wanted only to fuck. But now, I reasoned, now that it was out in the open, there was no sense being coy. I had three choices: Cousin Steve, whom I loved, but who was anxious to make me something I wasn't; the substitute post at Community High, with Mr. Phelps to contend with; the Roysters, where I'd live comfortably, have my fill of sex, be paid well and, in time, perhaps save enough money, and get to know myself well enough, to go somewhere far away and really become a teacher.

"Well?" prompted Mr. Phelps, fastening his belt. "Are we to, ah-to assume you are now offering--shall we say 'your specialized tutorage service'?"

"If-if Brent will have me," I said.