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David Crane: Scandal school

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David Crane Scandal school

Scandal school: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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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.

"There," she said. "Doesn't that feel better?"

He nodded, too spent to speak.

"Now, Skip… I'm going to assign you a bit of extra homework," she said.

Skip blinked, not following this sudden shift back to a teacher-pupil relationship, and wondering why she had such a funny smile on her face.

"I want you to jerk off twice tonight," she said.

His jaw gaped.

"And so that I am sure you completed the assignment, I want you to bring the spunk to school in a jar," she told him.

I don't believe this, thought Skip. "Yes, Miss Bridewell," he said.

"Very well. You are dismissed."

Skip staggered from the classroom.

Miss Bridewell smiled. She rubbed her crotch, shivering as her fingertips brushed across her fiery, tingling clit.

She was thinking: so John Tremont had a hard-on too, did he? She stored that knowledge away in the textbook of her scholastic mind. Someday she would have to help John clear his mind so that he could dwell on split infinitives.

She wondered if John's potent young prick was as big and full of spunk as Skip's.

Her hand caressed her cunt slowly and lovingly. But then, with an effort, she drew her hand away. Her pussy was seething, but she didn't want to waste her climax on her own hand at the moment.

She was thinking about Red Miller, the football coach.

How could he tell the boys such a silly thing? she wondered. But then, Miller was not an intelligent man. He was fit, athletic and attractive, but not overly gifted in the brain department. It was possible that he really believed that nonsense.

If so, did he practice what he preached? The thought caused her pussy to flood with cunt juice.

Red Miller was the school's physical education instructor, as well as the football coach. It was a small school, and the Board of Education saved money by having him do a double job. That meant that Coach Miller was in training year round, except for summer vacation. That, in turn, meant that if he followed his own teachings, he would be not be pulling his pudding with any regularity at all. He wasn't married, either. All in all, it seemed likely that Coach Miller must have a huge load of cum stored up in his trim, athletic loins.

Miss Bridewell smiled dreamily. She had a duty to pay Coach Miller a visit – a duty to all the football players who were suffering agonies of abstinence due to his faulty teachings.

Miss Bridewell had every intention of showing Coach Miller the error of his ways.

CHAPTER TWO

Despite his awkward posture – stooped and clutching his books in front of his belly – John Tremont was greatly relieved that he had escaped from Miss Bridewell's class with his hard-on unsighted. Little did John know the rewards of discovery, for which he would have been more than willing to undergo any embarrassment. He hurried down the hall, looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame with his stooped posture. He went into the lavatory where, in the confines of a cubicle, he only had to pump his dick twice before he shot a great cloud of jism against the stainless steel partition. He felt instantly relieved. He tucked his cock away and went to his History class.

Skip was late.

Poor old Skip, thought John, never for a moment dreaming that Skip was, at that moment, getting a handjob from the English teacher. Miss Bridewell must be giving him hell for being insolent. Gee, maybe she noticed that he had a hard-on! Boy, oh boy! Was Skip ever in trouble! Maybe she would hit it with a ruler. John cringed at that thought, but it caused his prick to jerk a little bit.

The History teacher – a gaunt, tallish fellow given to wearing tweedy suits and hairy neckties – stood before the class, hands clasped behind his back. His name was Carlswell, and he liked to imagine himself a professor at Oxford. This did not make him a bad teacher, however. In fact, it enlivened his class, for he liked to spice History with more learned topics, weaving mythology and philosophy in with dry threads of facts, names and dates. Now, he cleared his throat, and was about to begin speaking.

Skip hurried in, flushed and sweating but, strangely enough, beaming joyfully.

Carlswell frowned, blat said nothing. Skip was a football player and, as such, had a certain leeway declared by the school board. Carlswell did not agree with his favoritism, but then he despised football. He did claim to adore cricket, however – a game of which he had heard, but never seen played. He waited until Skip was seated before he began.

Skip's desk was next to John's. John raised his eyebrows, and Skip winked at him.

"What happened?" John mouthed.

"You'd never believe me," said Skip, smug and secretive.

Carlswell fumed. It was bad enough that the loutish lad was late for class, now he was disrupting it by talking.

Carlswell said, "Mister Cartwright!"

Skip sat to attention. But he said, "Yeah?" It was a minor gesture of… defiance?

Cheeky young pup, thought the tweedy teacher. He would never be tolerated in an English public school. Carlswell had never been to England, but he was pretty sure of that.

He said, "I trust you did your assigned reading?"

"Oh, sure. Most of it."

"Then what can you tell the class about Helen of Troy?"

"Errr… she was some old Greek girl…"

Having come to the limit of his knowledge on the subject, Skip faltered. Carlswell smirked, pleased that the youth had shown his ignorance.

And John Tremont, who was much brighter than Skip and who had done his homework, found his mind flowing along an altered stream of consciousness. His balls and cock had not been satiated by his fast and furtive handjob in the lavatory – it generally took John at least three successive wanks before he could get his mind off sex – and now he thought: Helen of Troy… sexy… ran off with Paris… must have been a terrible slut, cuckolding her husband like that… Probably put out for all those old Greeks.

A Puritan streak vied with prurience in his thoughts, the two struggling for a moment as each sought to direct his opinions. Prurience won out.

Probably having it away with Achilles, even… must have had a huge cunt if she could let him pack his old Hero's dick up it. Only his heel wasn't vulnerable… I'll bet that's bullshit… I'll bet his mother held him by the cock when she dipped I him in the River Styx… maybe not, though… And what about Hercules? Was he around at that time? Half-god, he was… boy! Think of the whopper he must have had, being half-god! Golly! They say he strangled a serpent in his cradle, I'll bet that's bullshit… I'll bet they found him choking his old trouser snake!

John giggled at the thought.

"What's so funny, MISTER Tremont?" Carlswell demanded.

"N-nothing, sir!" John said.

Thinking about Helen of Troy had done the job. John had a great big hard-on again.

"Stand up, MISTER Tremont!" snapped Carlswell.

And John stood, his erection revealed in writhing three dimensions for all to see.

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