David Crane - Scandal school

Then Coach Miller walked in.

Naked and sporting a dick like a totem pole, he came into the misty shower room to cleanse himself after his coupling with the oversexed English teacher who moonlighted with techniques of the French persuasion. He was whistling a happy tune as he stood under the hot spray and began to soap his massive chest and belly. The coach was not thinking very clearly yet. He still felt as if Miss Bridewell had sucked his brains out along with his spunk, and although he noticed that the showers were all going full blast, he figured there must be a reason for it and that he had simply forgotten it in his euphoric state. He worked up a great lather on his belly and then began to soap his gigantic cock and balls.

Skip and Sarah stood very quietly in the corner. Skip still had her hand on his dick, but it was frozen there in fright now. Although his cock remained hard, it felt like an icicle in her fist. "What shall we do?" she mouthed, Skip rolled his eyes, helpless in his horror. "Maybe he won't see us," she whispered.

It seemed possible. The mist was heavy and the coach was busy soaping his cock, which was twitching a bit as he rubbed the slippery soap into it.

Then he turned and gazed right at them.

Skip began to hum the high school anthem and rubbed his hand under his arm as if he were soaping his armpit. Sarah began to rub his dick against her belly as if it were an elongated bar of Lifebuoy. She kept her cunt turned away from the coach and let him see her flat chest.

Coach Miller nodded, recognizing his fullback. He couldn't see who the other lad was, but the boy was too slender for football, so that didn't matter. Coach Miller admired cleanliness in a lad and was pleased to see that his fullback took extra showers during the day.

He let the spray rinse the suds from his body and cock and walked out. Skip and Sarah breathed a shared sigh of relief. Then Coach Miller stuck his head back in.

"No grab-ass in there, fellas," said the coach.

John Tremont felt like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Everyone in History class had noticed his hard-on, including the teacher, of whose manliness John was not too certain, and John was filled with shame. He could not stop blushing. He didn't dare look at anyone and, just to add insult to injury, his prick would not go down. As if that willful hunk of meat were mocking him and defying convention, it remained arrogantly upright, pulsating within his trousers.

He had not gone to his next class, for he was too embarrassed to walk into the room with his shame in bas relief for all to see. Now he was wondering how to subdue the iron-willed pecker.

He thought about taking a cold shower. Ann Landers recommended cold showers for incontinent symptoms, he knew, but he had found that they never worked very well. It was perfectly natural in the shower to soap oneself, and a well lathered dick just screamed to be whacked off.

He thought of cutting the rest of his classes and going home, but couldn't figure out how to walk through the streets with a great boner jutting out before him.

Finally, he decided that there was nothing for it. He was simply going to have to pound his meat to a limp lump, to beat the arrogant sod to a frazzle, to pump the living beejezus out of it until it begged for mercy.

It was not only the only solution to his erectile problem, but the most satisfying one.

Eager to take revenge on the dark that had mortified him, John wondered where he could perform the vendetta. There were various possibilities, for John had been a Meat Beater Supreme for some time, and with his meat beater's eye, he had ever been on the lookout for proper wankeries.

The library, be figured, was the best bet. Lurking in safety among the dusty shelves, be could pound the pork to his heart's content without fear of interruption. Holding his books tight to his turbulent loins, be waddled on to the library.

The librarian was thirty-five years old, with platinum blonde hair that came from a bottle and forty-two inch tits that came from her torso like cannon shells. Her name was Irma Cambridge and she liked her job, liked being surrounded by books. She could not ready very well, and seldom tried, but despite that – or because of it – she liked to be surrounded by weighty, learned volumes and scholarly tomes. It made her feel intelligent. She figured that plenty of knowledge would seep, as if by osmosis, into her platinum head – eventually, anyway. Up until that point in her life, however, Irma had found that the only thing that ever seemed to seep into her head was jism, of which she drank in abundance during the course of her social life.

The was not a very efficient librarian and had not mastered the card catalogue system, but in one limited field she was an authority: Irma had read every sex manual in the library. She had created her own card system as well, one just had nothing to do with books and of which Dewey had never dreamed, but which, in its own way, was a great breakthrough in the cataloguing of her collection.

It was a Cock Catalogue.

Irma was busily bringing her catalogue up to date when John Tremont came in, with books in front of his crotch. Irma had had a busy night the day before, and it had, taken her all morning to get the required data down on the two-by-four cards that she used. Now she was filing them in the shoebox which housed her unique system. It was a decimal system in that the number printed at the top of the card referred, in inches and fractions thereof, to the length and circumference of the cock in question. Length was given first, being the most important to her way of thinking, and it was by that digit that the card was filed. That went in the top left hand corner.

In the top right hand corner she listed the circumference as measured around the widest point of the knob. Next – if she happened to know it – came the name of the gentleman attached to the cock being classified, and that was followed by a brief and accurate description of the cock's general appearance and delineation, i.e. hastate, saggitate, ovoid, etc., followed by mention of any unusual attributes such as scars, blemishes, warts, or birthmarks. At the bottom she listed the intangible qualities: taste, texture and aroma. She graded the balls according to cubic displacement.

It was a good system, accurate and infallible. Irma always carded a tape measure with her when she went out to socialize, and she thought she had a pretty good cross-section of the local men in her box, as well as a goodly number from neighboring cities.

But Irma cared nothing for men.

In that regard she could be thought of as frigid, for she sought no romance, no love, no affection. Nor did she care if a man was tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or ugly. Those were mailers of no significance.

With Irma, the cock was the thing.

The night before, she had jotted down the salient details of seven new cocks, and she was quite pleased with the new additions. She was just fitting the final one into its proper slot when John came into the library. She scarcely noticed him; she was giving the card a final check to make sure it was correct.

The card, neatly printed, read:

7.52 inches x 6.23 inches

JOHN DOE

Cunneal crown

Tubular shaft

Heavily veined

Circumcised

A slightly, shapely cock without any disturbing marks

Taste: saline

Texture: velvet

Aroma: faintly spicy

Cubic displacement of balls: 8 ounces

Irma slipped the card into the file, smiling as she recalled how surprised John Doe – what a funny name – had been when she dipped his balls in a bowl of water to measure the overflow and deduce the displacement. But it had to be done, and now that he was on file, she would recognize that cock anywhere. It would stand out in a crowd, identifiable even if it sprouted from a field of peckers. No two cocks were alike, Irma knew.