David Crane - Scandal school

Skip hauled his balls out, automatically. Once, leaving his balls in his pants, he had got them caught in his zipper during the frenzy of his climax. It had been some job to extricate them. Now, bloated and laden with spunk, they were bunched in a tight knot at the base of his stout shaft.

He opened his eyes to a slit, looking at Miss Bridewell.

She, her own eyes slitted, was looking at his prick.

Tentatively, Skip wrapped his right hand around the root of his cock. He gave it a gentle experimental tug.

The knob flared like the head of a hooded cobra coiling back to strike, seminal venom dripping from a fangless tip.

"Do a good job now, Skip," she whispered. "I want you to milk out every last drop!"

Her words affected him so greatly that he had a muscle spasm. His bones seemed to lock, and his hand, as he took a second pull, slipped off his cock.

His cock was bucking and snorting, demanding attention.

"Oh, you're still nervous, I see," said Miss Bridewell. She sighed. "Well, I can see that there's nothing I can do but help you do it, Skip."

His eyes opened wide. "You? You mean…"

She smiled, nodding. She reached out and, without the slightest hesitation, wrapped her delicate hand around the root of his big bloated rod. He almost fainted at the touch. Waves of fire coursed through him, burning the fabric of his body and searing his mind with white-hot flashes. That hand, the hand he had so often seen holding chalk against a blackboard… that very same hand was holding his pecker!

She pumped him once, slowly, her fist fitted snugly around his thick stalk. Holding him drawn back at the base, so that his knob seemed to be straining as if to burst away from the shaft, she paused and said, "You mustn't think there is anything prurient in what I'm doing, Skip. I'm merely clearing your mind of base thoughts so that you will be able to concentrate on your school work. You do understand that, don't you?"

Skip didn't know what prurient meant, but he got the idea. He nodded, his teeth grating together and his pecker throbbing in her fist.

Then Miss Bridewell set to work on his pecker with a vengeance. She push-pulled up and down the stalk, loosening her fist so that she merely skimmed over him for a few strokes, then tightening it into a snug collar and hauling his foreskin up and down. She watched what she was doing, her head lowered and tilting from side to side, fascinated by the situation, studying his reaction as if this were a scholarly pursuit, a difficult and arcane problem she sought to solve. But there was nothing scholarly about the look that had transfigured her countenance now. Her face was a mask of lust. Her eyes were narrow, sparking with lust, and her lips were parted. Her tongue glided across her lower lip, soft and pink and moist.

Reaching out with her free hand, she cupped his swollen balls and squeezed gently, as if she were trying to force the cum from his nuts with the pressure. Aiding her right hand, she rolled his balls to drag his ejaculation out like a suction pump. She was working on him with a steady rhythm, designed to bring him to the peak with the least effort. Her thumb criss-crossed over the sensitive area where the cock merged with the head as her hand pulled to the top. She pushed down firmly, dragging his foreskin back so that his cockhead bulged out, naked and glowing. The head of his dick was so hot it seemed incandescent. The tip felt as if it were smoking. Skip felt sure that if they were in a dark room, his knob would glow like a lightbulb.

A drop of preliminary fluid seeped from his piss slit and dripped from the bulbous knob.

Miss Bridewell was lashing her tongue back and forth across her lower lip in a veritable frenzy.

She said, "Do you… have… a… handkerchief… Skip?" Each word was punctuated by a push-pull on his cock.

Another heavy glob of spunk oozed out and slid down his knob, leaving a slimy track on his glowing flesh. As she pumped, the glob dropped off and fell, sluggish as quicksilver, onto her knee. He understood her concern. She was worried about where to deposit his creamy load. But he had no handkerchief. He always jerked off into the toilet or the sink. He shook his head, his jaws clenched and his loins knotted.

"I'll… have… to… use…" she grated the words out, pumping his pecker fluidly as she spoke, "… my panties…"

He stared at her through misty, glazed eyes.

Miss Bridewell, neat and fastidious as she was, did not want errant jism all over the room. She opened her legs wide. She was still seated on the edge of the desk, and now she was aiming the head of his cock towards her cunt like the nozzle of a firehose. His cock tried to get at her cunt. Like a dog pointing at a nestling quail, Skip's pecker pointed at Miss Bridewell's furry pussy. He could feel it drag on his loins as it sought in vain to rip free and fly like an arrow into her wet pussy. He groaned. Her hand pumped up and down, faster now, and she realized that his orgasm was rapidly approaching. His cock strained and throbbed. It had the scent of cunt, and it was seething for the feel of it, desperately trying to bury its burning length in her soft cunt.

A few more spurts of creamy cum slipped from his slit, coating the knob with a filmy layer of jism and running down the head onto the shaft. A thick ribbon of cum welled up against her index finger, then flowed onto her knuckles. Another streamer of spunk eluded her hand and ran onto his balls. Seeing this, the fastidious teacher drew his cockhead closer to her crotch and opened her nylon-sheathed legs even wider.

The crotchpiece of her black bikini panties had been slurped right up into her slit now, and her cunt was completely revealed, the pink lips unfurled like the pedals of a moist and fleshy flower. A frothy trickle of cunt juice ran along her slot, matching the cum that was soaking his cock head and her hand.

Skip stared at her crotch, looking past the head of his cock as if that swollen knob were a gun sight, along which he was taking aim. Vaguely, he wondered why her cunt was creaming, since she was only doing this for his health and well-being. Then he began to snort and shake.

He howled like a tormented spirit, shaking like a man possessed and seeking to cast off the demon that possessed him – the spectra that had taken over his loins. He knew that he was very very close to the point when that possessive demon would be exorcised, torn from his body in a great fluid deluge.

"Come," she whispered. "Come, come, come…"

Suddenly his pecker erupted. The jism hissed from his cock as if that rod were a valve through which his semen had escaped, deflating his whole body as he shot his stuffing out.

His first creamy jet spurted out and struck the inside of her lean thigh, just at the point where her nylon stocking ended and soft, naked flesh began. It ricocheted up her thigh and welled up in her crotch. A broad swath, like the track of a snail, glistened up her leg.

His second spurt, more accurate, shot directly into her crotch and broke into separate nuggets of spunk like a wave against a rocky coast.

She sighed. She continued to pump his dick steadily, aiming it to hose her hot crotch with the cum as if she sought to smother her own raging fire with the blanket of his foamy jism. She arched her back and pushed her belly up, and her skirt rode higher. His third great spurt hit her belly and ran back down into her crotch in three separate streams.

Drained and hollow, Skip went limp.

Miss Bridewell, nothing if not thorough, continued to pump his cock until she was sure that she had milked out every last precious drop. She was sighing with contentment, and a satisfied smile turned her face to radiant joy.

His cock had started to soften in her hand. She drew her fist up, tight on his shaft, gathering up the spunk that glistened on his shaft and knob. Then she brought her hand to her crotch and wiped the cream onto her panties. His cock was still slimy. She grasped it again and, dragging him to her, wiped his knob up and down along her cuntlips until she was satisfied that she had cleaned him satisfactorily.