David Crane - Scandal school

John Tremont had a hard-on.

Most of the time, since he enjoyed having a hard cock and positively devoted himself to the pleasures of masturbation, John was not at all displeased to find himself with a rampant pecker throbbing lustily in his pants.

This was not one of those times.

For one thing, John was in English class.

For another, it was almost time for the bell to ring, dismissing the class. That was going to pose a serious problem for John. He knew that when he stood up, his hard cock was going to be on display in magnificent bas-relief, delineated through the material of his jeans and, no doubt, writhing like a coiled spring behind his fly, blind to all but its own selfish desires and not giving a damn how much it mortified John.

He willed it to diminish and soften; it swelled and hardened. He commanded it to droop; it rose. He tried to force the purest of thoughts to fill his mind; spurning purity, his dick thundered away madly, as if trying to break out of the confines of his trousers by sheer force. His prick was a willful sort of beast, much in need of obedience training, but to what obedience school did you send a pecker? Someday, surely, some girl or woman would tame the rascal – but that was in the future. John was still a virgin, with no immediate hopes of terminating that unfavorable condition.

Nor did there seem any hope of terminating the rock-hard condition of his dick, at the moment.

There were girls in his English class! How could they help but notice his bulging crotch if he had to stand up? Whatever would they think of him? Consider him a vile sexual pervert? Worse – might they laugh at his predicament? It was most distressing for the youth, and he thought about all the girls in the classroom in order to subdue his erection, threatening it with exposure, as it were. But thinking of girls wasn't a good idea at all, and it worked in quite the reverse of John's intentions.

Girls! Girls with tits! Girls with firm asses! Girls with… CUNTS!

John's eyes rolled as he gazed around the room.

He saw Belinda, whose blouse was open at the top buttons, revealing the beginnings of her mysterious cleavage.

He saw Joanne, whose ass was as round and firm as an apple.

He saw Donna, with her sleek, trim thighs which, reputedly, had been known to open willingly for football players.

He saw Anne, the cheerleader, who displayed her panties when she leaped into the air.

He saw… be gulped… he gasped. His eyes blurred, then refocused. His tongue ran across his dry lips and his fists clenched at his sides. His teeth rammed together, his lungs labored for breath. He could not believe what he was seeing!

There were few things that did not give young John Tremont a hard cock. Sometimes, quite naturally, he got hard while looking at pictures of scantily clad girls in magazines, and sometimes he got hard thinking lewd thoughts, often combining the two. These hard-ons were perfectly explainable. But at other times, he got a prick up for no apparent reason at all – like when he had been standing in his pew in church, being pious, or because his fevered mind had extended the most tenuous connections between the commonplace and the erotic. Thus, if he were to notice a nubile young woman handling a stick transmission, his dork immediately blossomed just as though her hands were shifting the gears of his own potent loins.

Playing poker, he always got a hard-on if he held the queen in his hand, for not only was the queen female but, being double-headed, it reminded him of mystical practice known as "sixty-nining". If he held two queens… well, John had perfected a poker face, but it did him no good at all when, by creaming his jeans, he revealed the contents of his hand to all: let it be universally known that at least two queens were snuggled together in his hand! John had even been known to get a hard-on the dentist's office, when it occurred too him that the phallic drill was often inserted into female mouths.

But of the things that had hardened his cock over the last couple of years, none had astonished him so greatly as the sight before his eyes at that very moment.

John was gazing at the teacher's crotch…

Miss Amanda Bridewell, the English teacher, was twenty-six years old. That alone made her seem absolutely grown-up to John, an impression enhanced by the fact that she wore, while teaching, a severe hairstyle – her luxurious brown locks drawn back in a tight bun – and no discernable make-up. Not married, she was considered an old maid or, at best, well on the road to spinsterdom. Therefore, John had never favored Miss Bridewell with impure thoughts or fantasies.

Thus, it was even more astounding when he found himself looking at her crotch.

Miss Bridewell in her innocence and devotion to teaching, perched herself on the edge of her desk as she made some salient point. She had crossed her legs. Her skirt had ridden up her nylon-sheathed thighs and, lo and behold, John had a clear view of her crotch. Her panties, he saw to his amazement.

John gulped. His Adam's apple leaped up and down in his throat as if, like his dick, it were erecting itself. Not only were the panties black, but the crotch band was narrow… so narrow that it had somehow gotten sucked up into her crack!

John could see a hairy cunt lip on either side of the slender band of nylon.

It was John's first sighting of a cunt. His dick pounded against his fly, his loins swirled in a maelstrom of lust, his head spun dizzily.

He gripped the edge of his desk for support and shook his head to clear it. He tried to look away from Miss Bridewell's crotch, but his eyes were drawn back there as surely as iron is drawn to a magnet. His cock tried to point at her carnal pole as if it were the needle of a compass, to boot.

He heard Skip Cartwright giggle.

John forced his eyes sideways towards Skip's desk. Skip too had seen Miss Bridewell's crotch but, unlike John, he had not been overwhelmed. He was smirking. When he saw John look at him, Skip winked, pointed at the teacher with his thumb, then pointed down at his crotch with his index finger.

John saw that Skip too had an erection.

John was pleased that be was not alone in his affliction, that at least one other boy would have to walk bent over, books carried like a shield before his loins as he left the classroom. But unlike John, Skip was not ashamed of having a hard-on. He seemed amused by it. He was smirking and grinning, and made no effort to hide the lump in his pants.

John envied his self-confidence.

Skip was a big, broad-shouldered boy. The fullback on the junior varsity team, and he was much in demand by the local girls. He was self-possessed and somewhat vain. John figured that came from playing football, which, as everyone knew, built red-blooded Americans. But John had not gone out for football because he had been forewarned that Red Miller, the coach, was death on masturbator's. Miller had a theory that pulling one's pudding sapped one's athletic vitality as much as smoking ruined the lungs, and drinking, the stamina. Weighing the two against each other – the benefits of being on the football squad versus the joys of jacking off – John had opted for the latter. He had never regretted his decision.

Now be wondered what Skip was going to do with that big hard-on, if he could not jerk it off.

But Skip seemed unconcerned with that problem, as he leered at Miss Bridewell's pussy.

Suddenly, John was aware of a dead silence in the classroom. He glanced around. Everyone was looking at him. He looked at the teacher, struggling to keep his eyes on her face, and realized that she had addressed him.