J Long - Three horny teachers

Vivianne Kringle's cunt had a definite odor and a distinguishable taste. Probably because she was only a freshman girl on the pep squad, she sweated a little more and practiced spreading her cunt-lips because she was the only girl on the pep squad who could do a back-flip while holding onto her ankles. Which was probably the reason why she had been the only freshman girl to make the pep squad.

"oooohhhh! Arnie! I'm cccooommmiiinnnggg!"

Arnie tasted his wife's cunt-juice as she was coming.

Shit, Frieda's cunt-ooze wasn't mushy, nor did it have a heavy flow. Not like Penny Krakow's pussy when it was in the middle of an orgasm.

Shit, Penny Krakow was not only the most popular pom-pom girl but she had the most popular pussy far the boys to eat.

Locker-room rumor had it that Penny's pussy flowed so heavy that the boys often wondered if they were eating her cunt on her off days.

"Aaaaiiheeee! Oh God! Arnie! Stop! Please stop licking my pussy!"

For once in his life, Arnie listened to his wife.

He stopped eating her pussy.

He stood up, looked down.

God, her cunt was glistening readily. Like those fraternity hazing days when a piece of liver would be tied to a string and the pledges were ordered to swallow it. Yeah, you guessed it, they'd always yank on the string after it had been in the pledge's belly for a couple of minutes.

But anyway that's what Frieda's pussy looked like right now. Like slices of raw red liver that were covered with frothy spit. Only it didn't have a string on it. Because if it did have a string on it, that would have meant Frieda was on her off day, and Arnie would not have eaten her pussy like he had just finished doing.

Arnie licked his lips.

"There, that'll teach you! What's for dinner?"

Bernice Hudson was a respectable, normal lesbian.

The girls at Thomas Dewey respected her as both a coach and as a lesbian.

Bernice's psychiatrist, Ms. Cantrell, had reassured Bernice that her hunger for pussy was a normal hunger. Dr. Cantrell had told her in psychological mumbo-jumbo that her condition was commonly known as "Vaginal Deficiency". Like vitamins – or lack of such.

It was a common, normal malady found in sexual psychopaths, socially maladjusted individuals, a few rapists, the Mandan Indian tribe, and the majority of lesbians.

The disease was first founded by a poet who lived in the times of Archimedes and Ajax, when people believed that Atlantis existed. The poet's name was Sappho. Sappho had no first name or last name, just Sappho. Because in those days people only had one name – like Socrates, or Homer, or Diogenes. Which is why people of today, when confronted by something confusing always mutter: "It's Greek to me."

Like most poets, Sappho was unhappy.

Dr. Cantrell was very familiar with the works of Sappho. She had once cruised the Mediterranean in the hopes of finding Sappho's island – the legendary Lasbot.

Dr. Cantrell and her thirty-four associates were an impressive sight.

They enjoyed the Mediterranean sunshine, and her associates found that working braless was practical and economical and suitable for the occasion. And on the first night, they also discovered that working panty-less was just as comfortable as letting their titties go free.

On the second night, however, the thirty-four comely associates with their free-swinging titties and bushy pussies found out that Dr. Cantrell, once she had ditched her pith helmet and safari jacket and her Marine leggings, was a woman!

Of course, Bernice had known from the beginning that Dr. Cantrell was a woman.

It was on her first visit to Dr. Cantrell.

It was the first time Bernice had ever been on a shrink's couch.

It was the first time that Bernice had ever been asked to strip naked and lie down on a shrink's couch with the shrink taking notes on the condition of her cunt and doing Rorschach ink-blot tests by dabbing indigo on Bernice's tits and pressing them against a blank piece of paper.

After a hundred talks with Dr. Cantrell, Bernice was convinced that she was a normal lesbian.

Not a butchy-type lesbian – the kind that sat in the baritone section of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir gazing upon the cute sopranos.

Not the swishy-type lezzie – the kind that bumped titties with other girls in a crowded elevator, then dropped her purse and came up with her head snagged under some secretary's mini-skirt.

Not a regretful-type lezzie – the kind that went out with guys, ate pizza with them, then went home and finger-fucked themselves while looking at dog-eared pages of Playboy, or Jaguar, or Coronet.

Not the Ms.-type lesbian – the kind that loved to rip bras off innocent co-eds in the name of liberty and the pursuit of happiness, then throw them on roaring bonfires and jump up and down, titty-to-titty with other cohorts, chanting: "Sisters unite!"

No, Bernice was a normal lesbian. She dated other lesbians. Bought candy and flowers for the ones she dated frequently. Like Yvonne Mandell, Dr. Mandell's adopted daughter.

What happened to be head song leader and who could do some amazing splits and jumps and twirls with or without the hindrance of bikini panties.

Now, Yvonne was sitting in Bernice's coaching office. Sitting beneath two huge portraits – one of Susan B. Anthony and the other of Lucretia Mon.

Ms. Anthony looked very stem in her suffragette doily cap.

Ms. Mon looked very capricious in her red and white bloomers.

Ms. Mandell looked like the most edible piece of pussy on the Thomas Dewey campus.

Bernice put down her whistle, took off her warm-up jacket. Propped her Congress tennies on the set of field-hockey plays that littered her desk.

"Yvonne, I don't know what to do about you. I've seen you making eyes at all the kids, especially that curly-haired prick – what's his name again?"

"Y-You mean – Marshall Even?"

"Yeah, that prick! Look, do you want me to tell your mother about who you been fooling around with?"

"Oh, no! Please, Coach Hudson! Please don't do that! If she finds out I've been going out with boys, she'll kill me! She might even send me back to the orphanage!"

"What?! You've been going out with that prick, too!?"

Yvonne gulped. Oh, God! She had made another boo-boo. The tint boo-boo, of course, was when she had been in back of the tool shed with Marshall Even. They had been in back of the tool shed because they were going to fuck each other and they had the decency to do it while out of sight of the other students in their respective seventh period gym classes.

And that was when Coach Hudson had gone back to the tool shed. Because that's where they also stored the field-hockey sticks. Bernice had heard them through the paper-thin walls. And she had been outraged.

"What the hell is going on back there?" Bernice scampered out and around to the back of the tool shed.

She had turned crimson. The sight was too shocking to be true!

Yvonne Mandell was holding… holding that nasty-looking thing! That disgusting prick was in her hands! And something was drooling from the tip of that snake… spit! It was spit! Not pre-cum!

That fucking Yvonne had put her lips on the prick!

"You little fucker! Get away from her! Get that thing back in your fucking pants! And keep it there before I cut it off!"

Naturally fear, was on Marshall's face – it was quite evident. His mouth opened to make mock protest, sweat dribbled off his forehead; then he cowered, withdrew, shrank – just like his prick.

He stuffed his cock back into the pouch of his jock, pulled up his gym shorts and said: "See ya, Yvonne."

Yvonne wanted to wave good-bye, but her arm now arrested by something that felt more like a shackle than a human grip.