J Long - Three horny teachers

She learned that a square root was not the beginnings of a corn stalk that could grow oblong corn kernels.

She learned to grammatically split infinitives.

She learned that a man could speak with pebbles in his mouth and talk to the ocean at high noon.

She learned that it was improper grammar to use a preposition to end a sentence with.

Yeah, Frieda learned a lot about life, and a lot about English in particular. Which was why she had married Arnold Higgins, because he showed her so much of life. And which was why she was an English teacher at Thomas Dewey High School, teaching English as a foreign language to kids who were more interested in football as taught by one Arnold Higgins.

She had a nose in the middle of her face, with jaw lines that seemed to surround her cheeks so much so that her eyes were like a beautiful pig's. And she had enormous tits that didn't sewn to sag nor were they very big. After all, she loved to have her tits fucked, but not by just any prick of her own choosing.

Her hands reached out of their own accord. She reached his prick and gave it a couple of shoves. He moaned distressingly. The balls were heavy and big. She touched his balls, her hands coming into delicious contact with them, and as her left hand felt around and through his balls, her tight hand was busy at his head, before moving his hairy nipples and landed parachute-like on his fat navel to his big hulking cock.

"Fuck me!" she whispered throatily, using her voice. "Fuck me now!"

Then he fucked her. He creased her stomach so she was in a bent-over pretzel position and he gave his cock to her pussy from behind, wedging spade-like into her cunt.

Enough! Atrocious! Disgusting!

Who the hell could understand what the hell was happening in the first four paragraphs of The Coach Eats Out?

Frieda couldn't. The only sentence that had made sense to her was: "Fuck me!" Jesus! So this was why she was teaching English to her kids at Thomas Dewey – so they could understand trash like this!

It was terrible, a mockery of the English language. It was downright pornographic.

Frieda skipped to page forty-two of The Coach Eats Out.

His prick rose as if it did not have a conscience.

Huh?

It raised its mushroomed head and stared with its one eye at the cheerleader's eighteen-year-old, nearly hairless pussy.

What?

The cheerleader snorted in her breath. Her thighs clapped.

Snorting breaths? Clapping thighs? OH GOD, NO!

Coach waddled like a duck op his knees into the V of her unclapped thighs. He held his prick with his hand then, with a sadistic smile, his cockhead rubbed the door-like lips of her cunt. Her cunt was eager, because it puckered outward on itself.

Oh No! Jesus! No! Unclapping thighs and self-puckering cunt-lips!

The coach's cock moved itself back and forth in the large grip of his knuckled fingers. The cheerleader's cunt opened up involuntarily of its own accord much like a clam would do when it is put in the refrigerator and is allowed to die slowly.

NO! Self-moving cocks and dying clams! GOD! NO!

The coach ambled real close to the cunt that lay between the pretty cheerleader's bent thighs. He was ready, was she? She was because her thighs reached out and grabbed, then anchored around the waist of the two-hundred-and-eighty-year old man who breathed somewhat quietly. Her cunt wetted its lips with a smelly ooze that filled the room with the smell of rotten fish guts.

Frieda wanted to die! Die because of a fictitious cheerleader who had to lived a life with bent thighs and whose cunt smelled of rotten fish guts, yet was capable of wetting its own lips.

Coach, or Coach Rollins as the others named him, missed the first time. But he got to fuck her on the second spearing of the cheer-leader's breathless pussy, shoving under her cunt before it straightened out and gave her clit the rubbing it deserved. The cheerleader's thoughts were scrabbled with poisonous darts of ecstasy. She thought about how the cock, which was in her pussy very deep, was so much fun and better to fuck than the black cock that belonged on the hoary thighs of Mr. Johnson, whose only esteemed position at school was one of being a prolific English teacher. She laughed.

She laughed? Oh God! No!

Smirking her lips downward, she chanced to see the coach's ripe balls which lay beneath his cock like two baked walnuts that were covered with a slight furring of nebulous hair.

NO! Smirking her lips downward! Is that facially possible? And nebulous hair. NO! JESUS, NO!

The cheerleader could not see the spunk on the spewing lips of the coach's cock as it ejaculated involuntarily deep inside the twisting core of her womb. It felt happy. But because she could not see the spunk that spit out of his cock, the pretty, diminutive little cheerleader could have imagined what that semen appeared to be while it flooded her own pussy and started creaming around the outside edges of the skin where it could escape from his cock.

Somehow, some way, Frieda was starting to make sense of the nonsense in The Coach Eats Out. Somehow the author, a writer with the dubious name I.C. Cum, was getting to Frieda. Getting to her pussy and making it drool and cream and open up like a dead refrigerated clam.

"Oh, God! This is silly! I couldn't possibly… be… oh no!"

But Frieda was turned on by the Coach early out. She knew she was turned on because her cunt was soaking in the middle of a lot of cunt-juice while she envisioned a fictitious cock that had lips that spewed spunk because it was all very happy. Or horny. Or whatever.

No! It was impossible! Her cunt wasn't a clam, and her thighs weren't bent, and she didn't have the clap. No! Absolutely not!

But there was a tingly feeling in her cunt. And her nipples had it stiffened. And Frieda felt itchy in the crotch, like she had dandruff on the wrong set of hairs or something. Or whatever.

She scratched her cunt. Ooooohhhhh!

She tickled her cunt. Aaaaahhhh!

"Oh, Lord! I haven't done this since college. Oh, God!"

Frieda couldn't help it. Her cunt seemed to be burning up. Cum had put it on page fifty-two. Her cunt felt clammy as if the lips that dwelled near the opening to her twat had been fried and baked in a lusty oil.

GOD NO! Her pussy-lips felt just like that! Just like they had been fried and baked in lusty oil by I.C. Cum. They were burning up!

Frieda couldn't believe it! That asinine I. C. Cum had put the fuck-urge into her pussy. That dumb ass writer with his screwed-up images and stupid grammar was turning her on.

Frieda spread her legs very wide. She turned her eyes away from the book and looked between the V of her legs into the mirror opposite her.

No! No! No!

It was a clam! Her cunt was a clam that was puckering open on itself!

Oh God! Unbelievable! Those I. C. Cum images were stuck in her mind! No!

She needed something to distract her. Get her attention away from mixed metaphors and illogical sentences.

The phone rang. Thank God!

"Hello!" Frieda screamed.

"Jesus! You don't have to yell, Frieda!"

Frieda took a deep breath. "Oh, it's you, Bernice. I-I'm so glad you called."

"Hey! Is that any way to greet your best-buddy teacher? Oh, it's only you, Bernice. What the hell kind of greeting is that?"

"I-I'm sorry, Bernice. I… well, I was just caught up in a book and…"

"What kind of book?"

"Oh… uh… well, something for the kids to read."

"Oh."

"Oh what, Bernice?"

"Oh, just wondering if you thought about going to Vegas with me and Hazel. We're gonna have a great time."

"Well, I don't know yet, Bernice."

"What is the matter? Anyone gettin' in your way again?"

"No… well, yeah, he is. You know he'd never let me go with you girls to a place like Vegas."