Chapter 1
Naked, relaxed, and happy, Mala Peters leaned back on her elbows on her king size bed and looked with loving eyes at her cunt, reflected in the tall mirror a few feet away. Of all her possessions, she loved this taffy-haired, wet-lipped pussy the most, for there was nothing she owned or ever expected to own which had given her so much pleasure.
Her strong, gracefully rounded thighs were opened wide so that she could see and admire every warm, juicily shining detail. Its rich, strong perfume swirled up to her nostrils, for it was already quite warm in the sunny, high-ceilinged bedroom. With a smile and a wink at her reflection, shivering in anticipation, she gently rubbed two fingers in the slick rosette of inner labia, picking up some of the clear juice they were distilling, and tasted it with gourmet delight.
She had long ago admitted, this rejecting every restrictive tenet of her family's austere life, that cunt was the most beautiful word she knew, that cunts were lovely and precious. She had no illusions she could very easily have become a Lesbian. Except for one delectable item.
Men's cocks.
For the present, Mala had to live without that delightful commodity. In her first few days at Oakdale High School, she had seen a score of attractive men who, she knew with unfailing instinct, would have liked nothing better than to shove their hard, bold, utterly lovely pricks into the softly sucking darkness of her cunt. And Mala, too, would have liked nothing better.
But female teachers who are blessed with opulent beauty like Mala's must not take chances. Oh, they are human, which meant that they fuck and love it, but they must be careful. Even with the assurances that Mala had from her contract, even with the benign power of Lew Jonas behind her, she was not about to press her luck, which had been wonderful so far.
She got up and went toward the impossibly luxurious bathroom with its sunken marble tub and enormous shower. It was big enough for half a dozen people. This house was also a part of her luck.
There were mirrors everywhere, it seemed. Her big, firm breasts, her soft, muscular belly, the sweet, strong curves of her thighs, even the darkly inviting crevice between her rounded ass-cheeks, all greeted her from the mirrors. Her body was beautiful. A gymnast's body. As a matter-of-fact, a world class gymnast's body. She had missed the Nineteen-Sixty Olympics team only because she had grimaced in pain as she did a walkover-split on the balance beam. A jealous older woman judge, left off the team for the first time in twelve years, had ignored form and skill and downgraded for "personality."
Well, that was a long time ago, when Mala had been sixteen. And it had been the third day of her period. "My fault," she had told herself wryly. She refused to blame her flaming little cunt.
That tall, strong, male track jock in the training village, whatever his name was, had found her at dusk the night before in the dark tunnel of the stadium. Her breasts were, even then, straining at the front of her training leotard; his big cock had been a marvelous sight to her youthful eyes. Considering that it was the second day of her period, she should have sucked him off, but he would have none of that, and fucked her with such force in the gathering dark of the tunnel that she felt twice as large in the throat of her cunt for the next twenty-four hours.
He had taken her condition lightly. "You're so cute, chickie; who gives a fuck that you're a wee bit bloody." he had quipped. Maybe the fact that he was from Kenya had given him a less esthetic approach to sex. Maybe it had given him that enormous cock, too.
In any case, in the midst of that walkover, with her legs opened the same as in a split, she had felt that her pussy was gaping open, that no tampon in the world could hold back the gush of dark blood and debris from her juvenile womb. And, when she descended, making the split so perfect that her soft young pussy actually seemed to mash flat against the beam, she had made the shamed face in expectation of the disgraceful blood that, she felt, would stain her practice tights.
A long time ago. What the hell. She was still world class, and a lot of people knew about the bitch who had kept "Little Mala" off the team. She had been one of the best in America, and everyone knew it in spite of that horrid decision. It wasn't why she had slacked off in her fiercely competitive drive for world fame. In that year, realizing how hot and loving she was, she could no longer face the nunlike devotion, the mule-like drudgery. Oh, she still competed for a while, still fought it out with the best. But no longer trying for the absolute top.
But people who knew gymnastics still knew Mala Peters. So that was part of her luck, too. That, and the sudden flare-up of championship-hot nuts that had struck the Oakdale High School Board after their boys and girls made it to the CIF finals.
Mala smiled at the warm glow between her cunt lips. So, okay, she'd be a virgin for a while. Until what she wanted so hotly fell in her lap. But she wouldn't be a repressed virgin. This gorgeous shower, with all those shower heads each separately adjustable from a mist-fine spray to a thin, caressing stream, would give any hot girl a world of hot ideas.
The thought made her clitoris throb. Her vagina, its lips unstuck by Mala's short walk from the bedroom, issued a warm, teasing little trickle of hot cunt nectar that oozed its way ticklishly down the inside of her thigh.
She looked over her array of creams and lotions, all of them from the Mardon line. Those devils! Mala grinned. No wonder their cosmetics had gripped women's imagination. Sure, many of the jars and bottles were of standard design, but these were special, shaped and stoppered to resemble what else, to interest a woman like Mala?-men's cocks. Rounded, soft plastic bottles, with caps sculpted like every cockhead that ever throbbed out sperm in hot, milky ropes.
Mala took the C-Creme. It wasn't the largest bottle. Who needs something big when one's lovely, loving pussy is so tight?
She turned on first one shower head, then another. Three solid walls on the big shower, one huge glass door. Three rows of those marvelous, must-be-costly, adjustable fountains.
Middle row adjusted to a cone of spray, warm but not hot, just right for the suddenly enlarged, aching nipples of her hard titties. Ooooh! Ooooh God! What a feeling!
She squeezed the C-Creme bottle, holding it upside down. There was a hole in the soft, round cap; a drop of thick goo came out, then another, and Mala tasted it. Those Mardon people were simply crazy, that had to be it; sex crazy, cunt crazy, cock crazy. The stuff tasted like cum-juice, smelt like the rankly beautiful humidity under a man's foreskin.
Her breasts were almost alive under the hard, sweet caress of those spray nozzles. Her mouth was suddenly flooded with saliva at the synthetic cock flavor of the lotion.
For just a split second, she hated herself for masturbating, but that was horseshit, a hangover from the harsh puritanism of her childhood. God gave me this cunt to use, to enjoy, in any way that I can, she thought.
She spread her gorgeous legs wide apart, then bent her knees, so that the hairy pads which primly closed her from the air and dust-but not from fingers, tongues, or cocks-came open. She felt the warm trickle from the shower aimed at her titties. It was coming down from the back as well as from the soft overhang of her breasts, such a neat, friendly dab of sensation around her ass-hole. If she had time, she would fill that responsive, clutching orifice with the small bottle with the soft mushroom head, the one with the long, flexible plastic neck and the bulbous shape that allowed her to shove it deep into her bowels without any fear of losing it.
She groaned as she inserted the cock-shaped head just inside the quivering rim of muscle at the glowing entrance to her cunt. It seemed too large, and she knew that her period was going to be a few days early. When she was irregular on the early side, the inner lining of her vagina, the heart of her cunt, the "kissing muscles" at the entry, all swelled up and became vastly more sensitive.
She was getting too confused by all this bullshit with the nozzles and sprays, with all this false-cock business with the creme bottles, there was a pounding in her heart, in her abdomen, a writhing in her guts, a sense of herself eating herself in the softly slipping muscles inside her cunt.
Her vision blurred with sudden need, and she dropped the bottle on the wet floor, made a cone of three fingers, and jammed it skillfully, accurately, tenderly into her most vital area, into her itching, shrieking, sucking pussy, her wet thumb cleverly turned so that its soft cushion of meat just touched her bursting clitoris.
It was a therapy, that and nothing more. But it was so badly needed, that Mala loved herself for the act, for the very lack of finesse that came from hunger. All right, she promised herself. We needed that. But we wont be having to whack ourselves off much longer.
"This God damned shower's enough to undermine any gal's morals," she said aloud, hugging her soap-slippery body, now that the highly necessary sex explosion had rumbled and roared through her body, laughing in her sense of release.
Back in the bedroom, she looked at her clock and whistled. Almost nine, but no problem. The neat little TR-3 in the drive was part of the marvelous new job, just like this incredible guest house on the Jonas estate. Breakfast would be waiting in the big house, almost a twisting, tree lined block away, and the sporty little two-seater would whisk her there, and then on to school, in a few minutes.
Running a comb through her short, sleek cap of golden hair that gave her the appearance of a Fifteenth Century page boy in a burnished helmet she peeled back her sensuous, naturally red lips to inspect her perfect teeth, gave her unconfined breasts a pat where they stretched her white blouse in a straight line from nipple to nipple, and straightened her fitted mini-skirt. "They'd better not put me in the front row at that faculty meeting," she muttered with a grin, "or Max Virden will cream his shorts!"
Remembering how the quiet, strongly built principal had flushed when they had shaken hands some months ago when she had visited the school district at Lew Jonas's personal invitation, Mala had grounds for her wicked little flight of imagination.
Of course, being recommended by Lew Jonas meant a lot. He was president of the school board, and rich! That kind of money means power. And Lew Jonas knew how to use it, how to be fair and considerate, too, but still powerful.
"We really want you down in Oakdale, Miss Peters, and what we offer will prove it," he had said in his best chairman-of-the-board voice, and then, seeing the flicker of amusement in her eyes, and remembering that, no matter how big he might be in his world of finance, she had been and still was just as big in her own world, he had begun to laugh.
"I'm going to call you Mala," he had said. "And you call me Lew. I honestly think we may be associated for a long time, and I'm not a miss and mister kind of guy."
Later, after he had detailed his presentation, she had to admit that he had covered everything of importance. Almost.
"You've got tenure here in the L.A. school system," he had ticked off. "So, all right, we give you a five-year contract. Non-cancelable. Really non-cancelable. You could, pardon the expression, screw the principal on the fifty-yard line between halves at our Homecoming game and not be fired. That's tenure, right? And the Teachers Union, they transfer seniority, pension rights, everything. You lose none of that.
"Now, the money. As a C-Eleven, or the L.A. equivalent, you draw fourteen thousand plus a few odd dollars. With us, to start, it's twelve-five. But I've fixed that. You not only head up the Phys Ed department, you're going to coach. That's an extra five thou, plus a lot of fringe benefits, plus a fat expense account. As a famous amateur, I'm sure you know how to get the most from an expense account."
But with all of it, even his promise of free rent in his guest house "it's big and old and comfortable and all yours for as long as you like," he had said-and a new Triumph as a bonus, she hadn't been able to make up her mind.
"At least come down and visit," he had said, calm as you please, no high pressure. And she had gone with him right then and there, having nothing else to do at the time. And she very much wanted to be with him, alone in the bedroomy privacy of his big Continental, to see whether or not he meant to tie her warm body into the invisible fine print between the lines of that unbelievable contract. Because that was one thing she wouldn't do with her pussy.
"I expect to give away a million dollars worth of fucking before I hang it up," she had once said to a mixed group at a feel-good party, with two guys feeling her up at the same time in the dark room, and one of them trying to get his cock under her arm, against her breast at the same time. "But I wouldn't sell a smell of it for a million dollars!" And she hadn't been kidding.
She had said the same thing time and time again. Being an amateur and a friend of the mighty, she had been given many valuable gifts. A lot in Westwood, in 1959, when she had won the gold at the Nationals. It was worth a lot of money. And she hadn't even let the guy so much as touch her ass, although later, because he had been so sweet, she had given him a blow job that had made him her friend and financial adviser for life. And other things, too, nice things. And no fucking for them, not ever.
And Lew, on that first visit to look Oakdale over, had been a pleasant little surprise.
She had not worn any panties, and the blower from his car's ventilating system had really gotten between her legs, its circulating air swirling her thick, gorgeously raunchy cunt-perfume throughout the car. It was even faintly embarrassing to her, it was so thick. like I hadn't washed Little Juicy all day, she thought.
And Lew had chatted easily, looking at her without self-consciousness, telling her about himself, and his work, and his hobbies, one of which was being involved with education. "If I ever stopped to figure my time on an average amount earned per year," he had said with a smile, "I couldn't afford it, but maybe the contribution I make is worth it. If I sign you, it will be. We really have the kids to win a championship. I wouldn't lie to you."
And then, a few miles before they came to the Oakdale-Athena off ramp, he had looked squarely at her for a second and said: "I'm no eunuch, and I'm not keeping my dirty mind anesthetized to throw you off guard, Mala. You're a lovely piece of goods, my dear, and I'm as much a man as you ever met. But I've got a wife I value above my fun, and if things go right, you're going to be a part of my family."
Nothing tense, nothing harried, just plain, easy talk, and her respect for him filled her mind.
She saw the guest house. It was fantastic. She had known some very substantial people throughout the world. So she knew something about luxury, real luxury, not tin-plate bullshit. And this was very, very nice, by any standards.
Not a big house. One huge bedroom, a comfortable sitting room, a kitchen. "You'll eat with us, of course," Lew had said. "But a kitchen's nice for snacks or drinks."
Of course it was furnished with antiques. Mala was impressed. Must be twenty thousand invested here, she thought. Not that such things would make up her mind for her, but it helped. And that bathroom! Unbelievable! That pink marble, the imported labor, the ornate fixtures, the complex plumbing, probably added up to more than she made in a year. A lovely bonus.
Martha Jonas was sweet, too. Mala couldn't really see her as a sexpot, no matter what Lew had said. She seemed too quiet to be full of sex-fire, but she was quality all the way.
But none of it, nor all of it, was really enough to sway her completely. After all, her pals were in Los Angeles. And it was an exciting place to live, that huge, threatening, dirty metropolis that seemed to swell and heave with a toxic life of its own, like the undulations of a brooding manta ray.
No, not the money, not the contract, not the darling guest house nor the shining little TR-3. "It's like a jeweled watch," Lew had said. "Almost old enough to be a classic, and I spent more having it restored than a new one costs today!" It was all lovely, but it wasn't enough.
She was almost ready to leave. "Take the Triumph," Lew had said. "Next time I drive up to L.A., I'll bring my son Jerry along and he can drive it back here." And that was when Jerry Jonas came into the room, and that was when Mala Peters made up her mind.
He was absolutely beautiful. Almost six feet of him, at fifteen. Not gawky, like so many tall adolescents, but as graceful as a panther. Tanned skin, dark brown eyes, brown curly hair, shining white teeth. And a smile for Mala.
"I sure hope Dad's persuaded you to come down here, Miss Peters," he had said. "I'm on the gym team, and we've got a lot of talent, at least I think so. But we just don't seem to have the motivation. And you could sure motivate me!"
He had blushed a deep red, and Mala, too smart to let the boy's statement seem to be the deciding factor, nevertheless made up her mind at that moment. And all the way home, in the little sports car which Lew had insisted she take, she had been licking her lips, swallowing spit, clearing her throat, and fighting a hotly consuming desire which burned in her cunt.
Now she was in Oakdale, the five-year contract signed, most of her possessions in the guest house, and next Monday was the first day of school. Today and tomorrow would be orientation for teachers and students, assignment of classes and individual scheduling, and then-the week end!
"Yes, the weekend. That was a real milestone for Mala.
Because, before this week end was over, she was going to fuck young Jerry Jonas. Fuck him and suck him and teach him to do the same for her.
She shivered from a sharp bite of lust deep in side her flowing twat, and laughed at her schoolgirl reaction. "Take it easy," she admonished her mirrored image. "We've got lots of time."
In a sudden wish to be part of the community to fit in with the faculty at Oakdale High, she drew on a pair of ultra sheer pantyhose. She hated all things restrictive. One of her pet detestations was clothing her legs and loins with this nylon fakery. She had almost considered asking Lew Jonas to include in her contract that she did not have to wear such damned nonsensical coverings of her most integral parts. "After all," she muttered, "I can't expect everyone to have the same feeling for my ass as I have."
The thought tickled her, and she was still giggling when she parked the Triumph and went in to breakfast. She felt great. In fact, it was hard to believe that things could be any better.
But she had another pleasant surprise.
"We've got to impose on you, Mala," Lew said. "Martha's dad has an operation coming up. It's elective surgery, but he wants to have it a week from today. So we thought we'd drive back; it's a pretty time of the year, once you get past the desert."
She kept her face impassive, but her heart was racing.
"What do you want from me?" she asked with a smile. "Well, we can't take Jerry out of school. There's Mrs. Charles to look after the house, and Mister Charles has to stay on to look after the grounds. And Esperanza to help Mrs. Charles. But we want someone closer to him in age and, uh, inclinations to more or less take charge of our boy."
He had draped an arm over Jerry's shoulders, and the boy was eyeing Mala eagerly.
Mala managed to smile, managed to use her voice, although her tongue felt as thick and hard as if she were in the very last throes of a monumental orgasm.
"Of course," she said. "You mustn't even think of it as an imposition. Jerry and I'll find a lot of things to do, right, Jerry?"