David Crane - Scandal school

"I still don't understand what you were doing in the boys' shower room," John said.

"Sucking and fucking," said Sarah.

"Oh," said John.

That explains it!

Skip Cartwright had never been very conscientious about doing his homework, but that evening he was very dutiful about it. He had decided to help prove his grades, at least in Miss Bridewell's English class, and he intended to ask her if she would give him a bit of extra tutoring. He knew she would be more agreeable to this if he were to do a thorough job on his special assignment. And he knew it wouldn't be hard to do either, for all he had to do was think about Miss Bridewell and Sarah – the two most exciting events of his sexual life that had happened in the very same day – and wallop! Up would come his dick.

Skip waited until his mother and father were watching television, then sneaked into the kitchen and found an empty peanut butter jar that seemed suitable. He took the jar up to his bedroom and took his pecker out. The neck of the jar was too wide to fuck, he noticed regretfully. It probably would have been better to screw a full jar of peanut butter, churning the old dork right down into the creamy substance, but for the moment the empty jar would do as a homework container. He placed it on his desk and stood over it, the head of his dick aimed at the neck of the jar. He wasn't hard yet, but a few deft flicks of the wrist soon put that matter to rights.

With his cock hard and ready, he paused to consider what he would think about while he wanked.

He had already screwed Sarah in both cunt and mouth and so, for human nature is fickle, he decided to imagine what it would be like to fuck Miss Bridewell.

He didn't think that was an idle fancy, either. From the way she had behaved with Coach Miller, it was evident that she was keen on sex to such an extent that, had she been a coed instead of a teacher, she would have been known as a pig. He began to push-pull the pork. He battered away on the wand, his face contorting into a grimace, eyes slitting and lips curling until he looked like a demented Chinaman.

He wondered if Miss Bridewell wanted his fluid assignment for dark and mysterious purposes of her own… like, say, to drink it from the jar, or to use it as a condiment for a barbecue. That thought made him more excited than ever. He began to pant and shake. His thighs banged against the edge of the desk, causing the empty jar to rattle. Abandoned to his homework, he drove his fist up and down firmly. The jar was rocking and chattering just as if it were a cunt, eager for his spillage.

He was making a lot of noise.

Skip's mother and father were watching Charlie's Angels on television, and his father had a big hard-on, as he always did when he watched those nubile angels cavort. His mother didn't like the program but she put up with it because she knew that she would get a good old fucking out of it later. Her husband might be imagining that she was one of the Angels, but what the hell. She didn't give a damn what he was thinking about as long as he put the old dork to her.

She always imagined that he was Burt Lancaster, herself.

Then a dog food ad came on and, not being a canine freak, his dick subsided somewhat. That was when they heard the rattling and crashing from Skip's room.

"What on Earth can he be up to?" his mother wondered.

Skip's father had been a football, player. He said, "Must be doing calisthenics. From the rhythm of it, I'd think he was jerkin' off, but that can't be during football season. It saps the vitality, you know."

His wife nodded. She knew. She had first met her husband-to-be during the season and – despite her advances, he had refrained from all sexual contact until after the season was over. The night after the final game of the year, he finally put the dick to her. She had been looking forward to it for ages but – unfortunately – so had he. His cum had been in storage under such pressure for so long that he blew the whole load out on the very first stroke and passed out from the effort, leaving her unsatisfied and afloat in a sea of spunk. He had also knocked her up. He married her, dutifully, and his sexual performance had not improved much since that first frantic explosion that released his seasonal spunk from bondage. Except after watching Charlie's Angels.

Now the dog food ad finished. Cock hardening again, he watched the next segment of the show, his eyes bulging out as asses and tits romped through unlikely circumstances.

Then a deodorant ad came on.

The crashing and thumping upstairs had subsided for a few minutes. Skip had blown a slimy wad in the jar and was pulling his pudding gently to get it hard again. He inspected the jarred spunk and had erotic thoughts about what Miss Bridewell would use it for. He wondered if she might reheat it on the stove and pour it up her cunt with a funnel. That was a joyous thought. His dick snapped to attention and, directing the muzzle at the jar, he started to whack away with all the intensity of an axeman.

Downstairs, his father turned a baleful eye towards the ceiling. A shard of plaster drifted loose, and white flakes came down like snow. He got up, adjusting his pecker to a comfortable angle, and said, "I think I'd better see what Skip is up to up there."

"That's a good idea," his wife said, not caring, knowing she would get nothing before the program was finished.

Skip's father went up the carpeted stairs and down the hall. He looked into Skip's room.

A few minutes later, he came down again. The program had stared again, and he watched the sexy girls cavort. Then a douche ad came on.

"Caught the lad fuckin' the peanut butter," he said.

"Is that a fact?"

"Aye-yuh."

"Well, better than fucking women."

"There's that."

The douche ad finished. The Angels performed. Skip's father observed with interest. Another ad came on.

"Funny thing," he said. "The jar was empty."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Seems sort, of perverted, fuckin' an empty jar. Hope the lad don't have tendencies."

The Angels came on. It was the conclusion, and the bad men were foiled. It ended.

"During football season, too," said Skip's father as he got up from his chair and hauled his pecker out.

"Well, times change, dear… maybe recent thought is that vitality isn't sapped that way."

"Could be," he said as he mounted his wife where she sat, slipping the meat up her slippery cunt. He managed three and half strokes before he came.

"Some things don't change," she sighed. "Said it was his homework," said Skip's father. "What's that, dear?" she asked, wiping at spunk from her crotch with a lace doily.

"Said he had to jack off for English class."

"Times do surely change."

"Aye-yuh."

He was wondering if he had ought to have a word with Skip's English teacher. She seemed a progressive sort. He wondered if she might care to watch Charlie's Angels with him.

"Must be a funny school," he said.

"Haven't you any homework, John?" asked John Tremont's mother.

"I'm not gonna do it for a while," he said. "Why is that, dear?"

"I don't want my grades to be too good. I'm afraid I might skip a grade, and it's such a good school and I wouldn't want to do that."

"Must be a fine school," she agreed.

Without any homework to do, John was restless and bored and impatient for the morrow to dawn. He wondered what new thrills awaited him, now that his virginity had been lost.

Sarah Wimpole knocked on the door.

"Hi, John," she said. "Skip can't come out tonight. He was too much homework to do for Miss Bridewell. So I thought maybe you could come out and play, on account of we're sort of friendly now."

John got his coat. They walked to the school. Halfway there she slipped her hand into his.