Unknown: High School Scandals

Squirting the thick, rich come into her pulsating vagina, he filled the narrow, tight hole with the stuff. Dallas clenched her ass, wiggled his cock once more into the foamy tissues, and felt another burst of semen rise from his balls. He couldn’t seem to stop coming, and it was good, so good that his breath rasped in his throat and his body vibrated from head to toe.

“Ah yes, darling,” she breathed. “Oh there, there-so far-out, so groovy. I can feel the head of your prick twitching, feel all that nice, hot semen in my pussy. You’re fabulous, teacher-just fantastic!”

He said throatily, “You’re pretty fantastic yourself, Kathy Collins. In fact, you’re the finest lay I ever had.”

She lifted her upper body, squeezing back into his lap, holding his cock prisoner within her cunt. Turning her head, site looked back over one shoulder.

“Am I really, Dallas? Am I really a better fuck that even those groovy Vietnamese chicks?”

He backed gently out of her, rolling her to one side as he did so; his prick left her vagina with a wet plopping noise. “Better than anyone,” he said.

She lay on her side, staring up at him, and said, “That’s nice.”

His eyes ranged the room, moving from face to face, and Dallas tried to keep his voice non-committal, to hold it even as he wrapped up the lesson for the day. His class had been more attentive than he could remember.

And there was Kathy Collins, looking trim and delicious in a snug pantsuit that accentuated every nubile curve of her body. The outfit was a pale lavender, offset by the scintillating color of her hair and the deeper shading of her eyes. Dallas looked away, and found his interest trapped briefly by the black velvet face of Angel Matthews, held by the sloe and softly liquid eyes of the girl.

Hesitating he cleared his throat and walked around the speaker’s stand he favored. Today’s lecture had been on Shakespeare, and they had listened, really listened. But now a hand went up-Angel Matthews.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Bradburn.” Her voice was liquid, too-a honeyed and sultry tone poem. “Can we study modern poets, too? I mean, Shakespeare is okay, I guess, but some of us dig more relevant poets.”

“Like?” he prompted.

“Rod McKuen, maybe.”

Dallas said, “Ah yes; Listen To The Warm.”

Her eyebrows went up. “You know him.”

“Fresh and articulate,” he said, watching Kathy now, seeing approval mirrored in her eyes. “A fine poet, and I see no reason we can’t study him, compare him to the Bard. If any students have more of his books…”

“I have, Mr. Bradburn.” It was the football player. Eric Fairmont rarely spoke up in class. “Want me to bring it tomorrow?”

Dallas nodded and grinned at them as the bell rang. They piled out of the room talking animatedly, and two hung back. They complemented each other perfectly, he thought-red-haired Cathy and ebony Angel.

Kathy said, “That was great, teacher. I mean opening up the class to Rod McKuen. Some of the parents think he’s dirty.”

Angel said softly, “I don’t.”

A quick thought flashed through Dallas’s head: he saw the girl, the black girl, stripped down, her ripening young body agleam with special oils, her nipples standing out like two dark raisins, and her pubic mound shining…

Kathy said swiftly, “See you this evening. Your place.”

They were gone before he could form a protest. Damn, he thought; if he kept meeting the girl, he was as much as laying his head on the chopping block.

Every time he saw her, each long screwing session they spent together, increased his odds of being caught. But the very thought of her naked and writhing made him shove all the logical considerations aside.

It dawned on him that Kathy had made the date while Angel was standing by, and the black girl had heard it. Was Kathy flipping out? Or was she just showing off her conquest to her friend? That was a dangerous move for the girl to make, and there was no way for him to stop it-unless he simply broke it off, the entire torrid affair.

Dallas wasn’t certain he could do that; not yet, anyway. He gathered his books and left the classroom. Early in the day he’d gotten a notice from the principal to report to the gym after class, where he “might be of some use in assisting the coach.” The harassment had begun, true to Kingston’s threat; extra jobs would pile up; time consuming duties that were supposed to make him angry enough to resign would eat away at his free hours.

Moving down the hallway and turning for the gym, Dallas wondered why he didn’t quit, why he didn’t tell Kingston to shove his job up his ass. He hadn’t spent a lot of money since the divorce, and he had a few bucks saved. Out on the coast, things were looser, and by now he might be able to find a pretty good place at a junior college.

It was just the idea, damnit. Who the hell were the yingyangs on the school board; who the hell was old Kingston, to dictate the length of Dallas Bardburn’s hair, and to proscribe a cleanly shaven upper lip?

It had been just a whim, to start growing the halt Maybe he wanted to feel more individual, or perhaps he’d reached the point where he’d stopped feeling sorry for himself and was ready to become part of the real world again Whatever the cause, Dallas was prepared to stand by the result screw ‘em all, he thought.

Especially Kathy Collins? Grinning, he shook his head and sloughed off the down mood, thinking how damned lucky he was, fucking a gorgeous little chick like Kathy. He flashed scene after scene of her humping beneath his driving prick, of her sleek, small body twisting in his arms, her hard tits sliding across the hair of his sweaty chest. And there was the head she had given him, the softly pulling lips wrapped so hungrily around his aching cockhead.

Dallas turned into the gym, and walked across the polished floor of the basketball court. That was a mistake, because the coach met him as he passed under the basket.

“What the hell!” Coach Parnell snorted. “You don’t walk on that floor in street shoes, man. Damn it-look at those rubber marks.”

Dallas said, “Sorry; I didn’t think…”

“Yeah, you didn’t think.” Roger Parnell was a tall, lean man who carried only the hint of a pot belly beneath his sweatshirt. His head was shaven, and his nose had been broken.

Dallas tried again. “I never played basketball. Well, Mr. Kingston said be here, and I’m here.”

Parnell made an abrupt, beckoning motion with one hand and turned away. Dallas followed the other man into the dressing rooms. A couple of football players were just trotting out, and one of them said, “Hi, Mr. Bradburn.”

Parnell jerked a thumb at a bench. “Have a seat. You’re popular with the kids, huh? How come, man? You say you never played basketball, and I happen to know you’ve never been on a football field, either. How come you’re so in with the kids-because you try to look like ‘em?”

His books were on the bench beside him. Dallas said, “If you have a job for me to do, tell me what it is. Otherwise, fuck you.”

Rubbing a hand over his bent nose, Parnell said, “Yeah; a real wise ass. It figured.” Reaching down, the coach grabbed the end of the wooden bench and jerked it up.

Dallas hit the floor hard, with a jar that hurt.

But when he landed, he bounced, and came up lunging. His head caught the man in the belly and hurled him back to slam into the metal wall lockers. When Parnell staggered to one side off balance, Dallas hit him with a sharp left hook, then chopped his right fist into the base of the man’s corded neck.

The coach went down, landed on his ass with his feet stuck out, then fell over onto one side and kicked weakly.