David Crane: Scandal school

Skip was no longer blushing beet red. Now he was as white as a sheet. He was also, due to the aggressive nature of this unlikely conversation, getting harder and hotter and hotter, until he felt dangerously close to creaming his pants.

His hand moved towards his crotch, a habitual movement which he arrested in the nick of time.

"But, gee… I mean… gosh."

"Oh, you needn't be ashamed of it, Skip, you silly boy. It's a normal thing, a natural thing. Everyone masturbates, it's nothing to be shy about."

EVERYONE, she said. Not every boy, but everyone!

That implied that girls did, too. Maybe even Miss Bridewell did!

Skip staggered with lust. He felt weak, as if every bit of his vitality had seeped into his raging dick. He stole another glance at her crotch.

Unaware of this, in her innocence, Miss Bridewell shifted on the corner of the desk. Her thighs parted a bit farther. Her thighs were trim and sleek, and her panties, he saw, seemed to be damp. The crotchband was being dragged right up her snatch now, with a soft, hairy lip exposed on either side.

Skip staggered again. His thighs were watery, his knees elastic – the only thing hard about him was his pecker, which was hard as stone.

"Now, don't be bashful, Skip. I'm concerned with your welfare and well-being. I've always believed there should be more sex education in this school, you know. Now, tell me… how many times do you masturbate every week?"

"I… I never do!" he gasped.

"Skip…"

"Honest, Miss Bridewell. Never! Well… not during football season, anyhow."

"Don't try to deceive me. I… Skip, to put you more at your ease, I shall tell you that… I masturbate with great regularity, myself."

She lowered her eyes demurely. "I masturbate every Saturday night, and usually on Wednesday afternoons and sometimes in between. There! Now that I have told you, you can tell me without shame."

She had tried to put the youth more at ease, good teacher that she was, but she merely caused his cock to balloon even farther, and he felt dazzled and dazed.

Miss Bridewell reached up casually, as if unaware of what she was doing. She plucked a pin from her hair. The severe knot unraveled mystically, a Gordian knot solved, and her dark tresses fell over her face.

Skip was astounded. Why, Miss Bridewell is pretty! he thought.

She was waiting for him to speak. He was still too ashamed to talk about pulling his pork. Instead, with some half-hearted thought of sharing the blame for his disgrace, he said, "The reason I got a boner on in class is… the way you were sitting on the edge of your desk…"

She looked surprised. "Oh?" she said, eyebrows lifting.

"Yeah. I could… see… your…" he faltered, about to say "crotch". Instead, he said. "Your panties."

As he said it, he winced, anticipating anger.

But Miss Bridewell laughed. "Oh my! I didn't realize that. I shall have to be more careful in the future."

"Yeah!" he said. Encouraged by her reaction, he said, "Wasn't just me, neither."

"Either," she said.

"Yeah, me either. John Tremont had a boner, too."

She laughed again. Her soft hair fell in a dark cascade over her checks. She looked much more human than a school teacher was supposed to be.

Well, she was. She even jerked off! he thought, then wondered if there was a more specialized term to use for when a woman did it. He couldn't picture her jerking her clit up and down like a dick. In fact, Skip had no idea how women masturbated. He'd always thought that only whores or tramps did that, usually with frankfurters or bananas.

She had not, he noticed, shifted her position following his revelation.

"I'm still waiting," she said. "I really feel I must know the frequency of your self release."

Skip saw there was nothing to do but answer. He hung his head and said, "Well, during the summer and spring, I usually pull myself off twice a day. More, sometimes, if I been looking at dirty pictures. But during the football season I never so much as touch it. Honest!"

She frowned. "I don't understand," she said.

"Well, Coach says that jacking off saps your strength. He's hell on wankers."

Her lips drew into a tight, prim line. "I think that is very irresponsible of Coach Miller," she said, shaking bet head. "Why, he could cause all sorts of psychological problems with that groundless advice. Even impotence. I shall have to have a word with him…"

Skip gulped.

"Don't worry. I won't mention you."

"It ain't true?" he asked, thinking with regret of the pleasurable pud pulling he had dutifully neglected.

"Certainly not. Masturbating is natural and healthy."

"Golly," he said.

"It's the normal outlet for a boy… until he has a girlfriend or a wife."

"Coach says that sex is bad, even with a wife. He says that boxers go to training camps to avoid women…"

"Well, that proves how silly his theory is," said this excellent school mistress. "What about Joe Namath?"

"Gee… I never thought about him. You think maybe that's why his knees got all buggered up? Too much sex?"

"Of course not, silly. Sex keeps you fit."

"I don't know… Coach says."

"He's a silly man, and he's led you astray. All he is worried about is winning football games, Skip. I, on the other hand, am more concerned with brains than brawn. And your brain cannot function when it doesn't get enough blood, when so much blood is diverted to your penis… when thoughts of sex drive other things from your mind. I…"

Miss Bridewell smiled strangely, "I shall deal with Coach Miller. In the meantime, I want you to promise me that you will masturbate at least once every day, preferably before you come to class."

What could the lad do? He nodded his agreement.

"A boy cannot learn with a hard-on," she said. That sounded so much more naughty than erection that he staggered again. He leaned backwards. He seemed to be supported by his cock, a sort of cantilever thrusting out to counterbalance his shoulders.

"And now, just to make sure that you do it, Skip, I want you to masturbate right here."

"Oh my God!" he squealed.

"I simply must set my mind at rest on this, Skip. I shall not be satisfied until I've seen you relieve yourself."

"I can't do that… not with you watching, Miss Bridewell… I'll do it in the bathroom, honest."

"No, I want to make sure that you do, Skip. This is very important to me. There are things far more important than split infinitives, you see."

She smiled that Skip didn't dare disobey her. He knew she was demanding this for his own good. And theft gradually, he began to get the idea that it might not be unpleasant to pull his pork in front of Miss Bridewell. It might even be exciting. He was nervous, and his belly was doing flip-flops, but he braced himself. He closed his eyes, unable to look at her.

He unzipped his fly.

His dick rushed out of its own accord, dragging his white cotton underpants out with it. Swathed in white, it looked like the ghost of a cock.

Miss Bridewell's eyes narrowed and her lips parted.

Skip hooked his fingers under the elastic and pulled his underpants away from his cock. It raged out, freed at last, standing like a banner before his loins… like the figurehead of a ship, made buoyant by semen. Miss Bridewell gazed at his pecker. She was smiling with her lips, but her eyes were bright with some emotion that was not humor.

His cock, like the rest of his football player's body, was well developed and, like his athlete's frame, got plenty of work-out and exercise. The pulling of pork was much more enjoyable than doing push-ups. Now, standing proud and free, his pecker throbbed. The big, triangular cockhead was flushed a dark purple, and the thick vein that ran up the shaft was writhing and pulsating. The cleft was parted promisingly.