David Crane - Scandal school

"I'm sorry," he stammered.

"Daydreaming, John?"

"Er… I… ahhh…"

She looked stern. "I asked you to define a split infinitive, young man," she said, looking right at him, completely unaware that her cunt was open to his gaze.

John, in point of fact, knew what a split infinitive was, and under normal circumstances could have responded correctly to the question. At the moment, however, his state of mind was such that his thoughts stuck at the first ward: split! Miss Bridewell had a split between her legs, and her panties were sucked right up into it!

He said nothing.

"I think a little extra homework is in order for you, young man," she said. She turned to Skip. "Can you tell me what a split infinitive is?" she asked.

Skip, being a football player, was not required to know very much, or even pretend that he was there for an education. "Hell, no," he said…

It brought a stunned silence, followed by giggles and gasp. Miss Bridewell's face darkened.

"You will stay after class," she said.

Skip balanced, wondering if he had gone too far. But he had an image to uphold, and he shrugged as if he couldn't care less. He'd scored two touchdowns last Saturday, so what the hell!

Then the bell rang.

Skip lounged in his seat, feet in the aisle, ankles crossed, looking nonchalant. Everyone else gathered their books and got up. John held his books in front of his crotch – and felt his dick beat against them like a hammer. He walked slightly bowlegged and tried to look natural. He was very glad that Skip had taken the pressure off him. Now he was anxious to get to the men's room where, secure in a cubicle, he could beat his cock to a frazzle.

When everyone but Skip had left, Miss Bridewell slid from her desk and crossed the room to the door. She closed it. Then she went back to her desk and, to Skip's amazement, sat on the edge in the same position, her crotch showing.

"Come here, Skip," she said.

Skip looked sullen. Now that he no longer had a crowd to play up to, he was sorry that he'd been so bold and gotten himself in trouble. He got up, looking hangdogged, and walked up to the front of the room.

He still had a hard-on, and he tried to conceal it by walking with a stoop, hands in his pockets. But that attitude struck, the teacher as insolent.

"Straighten up," she said.

Skip straightened, and squared his broad shoulders. His fat dick bulged undeniably in his pants.

"You were very inattentive in class, Skip," said Miss Bridewell. "Furthermore, you were insolent. I wonder just how I should deal with the situation."

"I don't know," he mumbled.

She stared at him. Then, to his chagrin, her gaze went slowly down from his face to his crotch. His face registered a look of helpless horror, but his pecker, oblivious to the possible ramifications of the situation, refused to budge an inch. If anything, it swelled more proudly as it basked under the school mistress' gaze, as though her vision was possessed of tactile properties, her eyes caressing him, fondling him from a distance.

Skip squirmed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. A deep blush crept up his neck and onto his face. Normally, he looked older than his ate, both physically and in character. He didn't know what to do. It was one thing to carry a pigskin through a line of defenders roughly his own age and size. It was a much different thing to carry a lump of phallic pork up to his English teacher's desk!

For a wild moment, falling back on what he knew he could manage, he was tempted to straight arm Miss Bridewell and dash out of the room as if he were galloping off on a broken field run, bent over his hard-on as though it were the football.

She gave a little start and stared at the squirming lump of cock in his pants.

Blushing furiously, Skip averted his eyes for a moment. Then he darted a quick glance at her face, wondering just what her reaction was going to be – how bad it would be, and how much trouble he was going to have over his injudicious hard-on. Would he be expelled from school? Banished from the football team? Sent in disgrace to a home for pubescent perverts?

He anticipated shock, followed by a black scowl on Miss Bridewell's face. He was surprised to see that neither of these expressions registered there. Instead, she looked… thoughtful.

Her lips moved, parting. Skip cringed, expecting her to scream.

But she did not cry out in horror. In fact, had he not known it was impossible, he would have thought it was a slight smile that turned her lips.

Her gaze rose to his face again.

Skip averted his eyes. He was red as a beet, and his usual self-assurance had deserted him. His only thought was: will it go easier on me if I squeal on John Tremont? If I tell her that he had a hard cock too? Or will I be scorned for a tattle-tale as well as a pervert?

Miss Bridewell said, "Why, Skip!"

He frowned, confused. She did not sound angry or shocked, she sounded concerned. A wild idea darted through his mind as he mentally clutched at straws. Miss Bridewell was not married. Perhaps she had never seen a hard dick! Was it too much to hope for? No, it seemed impossible, even plausible. His mind worked very logically now, as he desperately clung to this faint hope.

Miss Bridewell was a spinster, therefore, she had never had a legal look at a dick; Miss Bridewell was a school teacher, therefore, she would surely never have had an illicit look at a hard cock.

The conclusion was obvious: Miss Bridewell hadn't the faintest idea what the writhing beast within his trousers was!

That explained the concern in her voice!

The innocent old maid thought that Skip had some horrible growth in his pants, some tumor so virulent that it was growing right before her eyes!

Hope and relief surged up in the lad.

Then Miss Bridewell dashed his hopes.

"Why, Skip, you have an erection," said the teacher.

Skip sputtered. He stammered. He could get no words out, but that hardly mattered. For what words were there that could possibly explain the obvious?

"That explains it," said Miss Bridewell.

"M'am?" he said, eyes lowered.

"That explains why you were so inattentive in class… why you were insolent."

"Huh?" he said. How come she wasn't screaming at him?

He looked up again, noticing, in passing, that her crotch was still visible as she perched on the corner of the desk.

She said, "It's all clear to me now, you poor boy. How on Earth can you be expected to pay attention in class when you are tormented by natural pubescence? How could you ever concentrate on grammar when your loins were demanding all your awareness? You should have told me, Skip! Poor, brave youth."

Skip gaped at her. His big jaw hung open so far that his chin almost rested on his breastbone. He noticed that her mouth was doing funny things, twisting and working in some way he couldn't label. His mind had registered her words and made the proper connection, and he realized that she was not castigating him – far from it, she was sympathizing with him! But although he saw this clearly, it was so incredible that he couldn't believe it. Watching her lips work in that funny way, he still expected her to scream.

"You should have told me, poor tormented boy," she said.

"Huh? I mean… well, gee, Miss Bridewell, I couldn't of very well stood right up in class and said, 'I can't concentrate on account of I got a bone on… er… I mean, an erection, could I?'"

She smiled as if she found that amusing. "You should have asked to be excused," she said. "No one would have known the reason."

"Er… I."

"Yes. You should have gone to the lavatory and relieved yourself, instead of suffering in brave silence."

"Huh? Relieved myself? You mean…"

"Surely. I am not totally unaware of the need of a virile young mans need to masturbation."