Austin Williams - Widespread whore

I thought he was the kind of man who would help a girl in trouble."

Phineas Whitley was an educator, and if you happened to be assigned to his school.

Whitley was a curiously unattractive man from a physical standpoint. He was skinny and stooped and balding. He wore pince nez glasses perched on his too prominent nose, and his long, angular arms hung out of his too short sleeves. His trousers were never pressed, and there was clear evidence of his breakfast, or perhaps yesterday's lunch always present on his shirt front. He was particularly distinguished by his exceedingly long and dirty fingernails.

Mr. Whitley's detractors said he was a dirty, sodden incompetent son of a bitch who wasn't fit to shovel shit out of a pigpen with a decent pig watching. His defenders, anxious to let their own college degrees shine, said the man was traveling an esthetic plane far removed from the understanding of mere taxpayer.

Girls held him in awe because of his tender reading of such poetic giants as Robert Service. The guys said he was as queer as a three-dollar bill, and

nobody in his right mind would take a piss with old Phineas in the head. He would peer over those gooney glasses and try to steal a peek at any prick he could find dangling over a urinal. He was not known to have lapped up on any specific dick, but the graffiti in the washrooms proclaimed without reservation or apology that "Whitley sucks!"

Tuesday's mother, however, was above such knowledge. Sucking, to her, was something a babe might do at its mother's breast. She had never considered the possibility of taking a rigid cock down her own throat.

"Listen, Tuesday," she always said. "Mr. Whitley is a gentleman… gentle but strong… a man of God. Thanks be to God that he is there leading you. I know he isn't much to look at, but he is a man of great heart."

As the days lengthened into weeks after her encounter with Howard and his gang, gradually Tuesday came to consider the possibility that she might discuss her problem with Mr. Whitley.

But how to confess? Family, friends, and the pastor of her church were eliminated. None of them could understand. They would, she knew, judge rather than guide and direct.

Finally, after many sleepless nights while she battled with an almost overpowering desire to stroke the fuzzy surface of her cunt to arouse once again that precious feeling, she decided that she would take up her problem with Mr. Whitley. Gentle soul, patron of poets, lover, artists, psychologist, leader of people.

Seeing Mr. Whitley was no trouble. His office

door was, he said, always open to any troubled student.

"Ah, yes, Tuesday," Mr. Whitley said, picking his nose delicately with his little finger, and then carefully examining the product of his effort before flicking it accurately into the wastebasket "What can I do to help you?" He coughed a glop of mucus from his sinus and spit loudly into a piece of paper which he balled up and tossed, again with surprising accuracy, into the trash can.

"Mr. Whitley, you're gonna think I'm awful," she began…"

"Tut, tut!" he said, his myopic eyes wandering up her bare thighs and stealing a covert glance at the brief expanse of panties which he glimpsed as she crossed her legs. "I'm sure you have done nothing of any serious nature."

"But I have," she said, "and I'm just sick over it. I can't even sleep at night!"

He coughed and spat again into a piece of paper. Whatever he had managed to hawk up that time was of considerable interest as he held it sideways to get a better light on it, and thereby exposed it to Tuesday. She averted her eyes and felt a tightening in her throat. God, she prayed, don't let me be sick!

"Well, why don't you tell me about it?" he asked, after he had again hit the waste basket.

"I've done the very worst thing you can think of," she said, "…and, a… well, I did it with a guy!"

"Yes sir. You know I uh.. well I let some

guys… uh… well you know!"

He was seized by such a violent fit of coughing that his glasses fell off his nose, and when he finally brought up the offending matter, he rose from his seat and spat loudly and directly into the trash. "No," she asked, "I'm not certain I do know. Tell me more."

"We got naked," she said boldly, "and they did it to me."

"Well, there were five of them the last time."

His eyebrows ran back over his head. "The last time? How about the first time?"

"Then it was only one… Bobo!"

"Bobo Wilder?" The eyes rose again. Goddamnit, he thought, here she's had the Wilder cock, and I've been trailing him into the john for two years trying just to catch a glimpse of his dick. Damn! "Uh, did Bobo hurt you much?"

"Yes sir! He broke my heart. That's how I got up with the other five."

"No… no! I don't mean did he hurt your feelings. I mean, did he hurt you when… uh…when he did it to you?"

"Hurt some, but once he got it in, oh, I tell you it was good!"

Whitley's droopy dick began to assert itself in his pants. He had at one time or another, probably sucked twenty dicks in his career as a teacher and principal, but he had never fucked one of the girls.

Girls didn't do too much for him, but this one might and her ass was the right shape, and she turned him

on just talking about that luscious Bobo Wilder! Whew! God, he was getting carried away.

"Come around here, Tuesday, and let me talk to you closer."

Obediently, Tuesday uncrossed her legs, again showing him a flash of white nylon crotch and rose to move around to the executive side of his desk. She leaned her buttocks against the desk within easy reach of his hands which Whitley was having problems keeping controlled in his lap. As she neared him, she noted that on the left side of his nose there grew a monstrous mole, out of which grew two bristly hairs. Tuesday was fascinated.

He pushed his cock down in his lap.

"Hummmm! Let me see now. You have had…uh…well…intercourse with Bobo Wilder and then later with… how many? Five other guys?"

"That's right. The five were all at once, too."

"How could that be?"

She explained to him in detail the way Howard, Andy, Bernie, Tony and Phil had fucked her.

Whitley became excited, and his hands trembled in his lap. His cock was hard, and his throat was dry as desert dust. When she reached the part of her story where the guys changed positions, Whitley advanced a tentative hand that slid up her left leg until his fingers disappeared under her miniskirt.

Tuesday noticed, of course, but since it Was Mr. Whitley, she did not make any objection. She

thought he was merely trying to put her at ease.

However, when his hand reached the bottom of her panties, and he began to insert his finger in the elastic, Tuesday shifted about uncomfortably.

"Here, Tuesday," he said, reaching for her with his free hand. "Come and sit on my lap while we talk. Heaven knows, you have had a terrible experience."

The sympathetic words had a magic effect on Tuesday. He did understand. In gratitude, she not only flung herself in his lap, but she wrapped her arms about his neck, and buried her embarrassed face in the hollow of his shoulder. What's more, she sat firmly on his fully erected cock, and caused sweat to break out on his face.

"I just knew you would understand," she said.

"Of course," he murmured, allowing his hand again to reach up and probe under the tight leg opening of her panties. "I wonder if you would be good enough to remove your panties? I would like to look to see if there has been any damage done to your private parts."

"Oh, no, there hasn't been."

"Perhaps not," he insisted smoothly, "but I would like to see to make sure. You don't want to take a chance of being disfigured or ruined for life."