By Gregg Dean( JULY 99)
Everyone knows your parents stopped having sex years ago.
As soon as your family was complete your parents stopped that form of unpleasantness.
No one can, or likes to imagine their parents in passionate congress, so therefore the truth is our parents don't do it.
Neither do school teachers. Teachers are odd in all respects and I apologise now if you are one.
There's nothing personal I hope you know.
Maybe I just didn't understand the education systems as a whole.
Everyone hates school. Pupils hate school, teachers hate school.
In fact teachers hate the pupils.
Teachers are a species beyond my comprehension. Sartorially challenged, (where do you buy jackets with patches on the elbows?) sufferers of terminal dandruff and full time owners of cars even Noddy wouldn't drive.
One teacher particularly comes to mind here. Mr. Bent, our P.E. instructor.
After a lot of digging we found out his first name was Willy and from then on we made his life a misery in the sadistic way that only children can.
"Shut up you little pricks," he would say, "if I wasn't here teaching you little bastards, I could be fishing."
By way of retaliation Hamilton and I used the words "prick" and "bastard" with abandon around the school, eventually blaming it on Mr. Bent who got himself a week's suspension.
Hamilton reckoned it was Bent's own fault.
"You can't go around using fucking language like that.
The bastard had it coming."
I reckoned we had set him up and I felt bad about it.
Not only that, I knew he would wreak his revenge using subtle and commanding ways peculiar to teachers. I decided to handle the situation by brown-nosing my way out and when Mr. Bent returned to duty, I stole a packet of his favourite brand of cigarettes and took them down to the gym.
The door to the gym was locked - well almost.
After pushing twice, the latched popped back and the door swung open. Inside, I heard Mr. Bent working out.
Obviously dedicated to his body, he kept himself in good shape in his own time.
I was impressed and this compounded my feelings of guilt.
I couldn't see him immediately. Then I heard the sound of Mrs. Cooper the deputy head.
She too was down here exercising as she was clearly out of breath.
I found them both in the gym store room on the mats. Mr. Bent and Mrs. Cooper were entirely naked and she was bent forward over the vaulting horse, her pendulous tits hanging over the front. Mr. Bent's hand was playing free with the biggest muff I'd ever seen outside of Red Square on a cold day.
Every now and then, she would urge him to "do it to me" and he would line up his erect baton with her passage, though how he ever saw where he was going to push it with all that hair in the way was a mystery to me.
I tugged at my crotch as my little man had responded to the sight.
"Cone on," panted our deputy head, "shove it in hard."
Mr. Bent obliged, pushing his rod all the way home. Mrs. Coopers mammaries swung magnificently at each stroke, and she cried out in passion.
"There," growled the PE teacher. "what do you think of that you hot bitch-puppy?"
"Yes, again, again."
As he thrust in carefully measured strokes, he manoeuvred his hand to cup her swinging breasts, playing with the large brown nipples between his fingers.
She moaned, covering his hand with hand with her own and pushing them to her chest.
He suddenly broke from the arrangement to get down on his knees.
Parting her copious pubic rug, he lapped at her moist pussy, and she writhed in ecstasy, tittties swinging around out of control.
"What's going on here, Gregg?"
I turned round in alarm to see Hamilton, whispering at my shoulder.
He had evidently followed me down to the gym.
"See for yourself." I whispered.
We watched in fascination as our very own deputy head, stood legs apart, hanging over a vaulting horse while our P.E. instructor, sucked on her clit.
While my mouth was dry with excitement and the keen thrill of a voyeurism, Hamilton allowed himself a low chuckle.
"Well, well. Mr. Bent and Mrs. Cooper, in the gym, with a vaulting horse."
He made it sound more like Cluedo.
"Your nose, Bill. Push your nose in." she urged.
I turned to face Hamilton and he grimaced.
"Did she say she wants his konk up her cunt?" I asked Hamilton.
"Perhaps she's used to fucking aardvarks," he replied.
Mr. Bent obliged with the nose bit, keeping his tongue working her clit.
We then watched as Mrs. Cooper sat back onto Mr. Bents lap, neatly slotting his cock in her muff.
It became obvious that our rutting educators had never in their wildest dreams considered getting caught, as they were remained completely oblivious to our presence.
Mr. Bent's hand went round between Mrs. Cooper's legs, to play with her prominent clit.
"Is she gonna suck him, d'you reckon?" hissed Hamilton, a fan of the blow-job. I wasn't much worried.
This was good enough entertainment for me. As far as my education was concerned, if these two were quite prepared to give us a practical lesson, I'd be happy to sit the exam at a later date.
Visions of me having to take Veronica Smith from behind in order to graduate appealed to my adolescent horniness.
"Bill," said the deputy head huskily, "Bill, I'm coming. Fuck me harder, I'm coming."
Her hips moved vigorously on his lap, one of his hands playing with her tits while the other ran moist circles over her clitoris.
Her breathing came harder and harder and her hip movements became more urgent.
"Yes, fuck me Bill. "She repeated. "Go on, fuck, fuck."
Her breathing came in sharp intakes, ragged with small cries of ecstasy.
Her hands moved behind her, gripping his sides, digging in her nails.
Then she came. It was the first time I had ever seen a woman come.
She released her breath and uttered one long groan, falling forward in a single throe of pleasure.
She remained still for a long time.
"Is she gonna suck him now?" asked Hamilton again.
"Shhhhh!" I hissed.
By way of an answer Mrs. Cooper removed herself from Bent's stiff member rubbing it between her hands.
Bent lay back and moaned.
She moved her mouth down to the helmet of his cock.
Her tongue played lightly with the end, and Bill writhed on the gym mats. Suddenly she stopped.
"Shit, Bill. We're being watched." She ran to her discarded clothes and placed them over her naked bits.
"What are you two doing here?" Mr. Bent demanded angrily.
"The gym's out of bounds during lunch-time".
"You'll find yourselves on report if you don't leave immediately," added Mrs. Cooper, recovering somewhat.
I was no good in this kind of situation.
No matter how wrong they were, I knew I was guilty of blatant voyeurism whilst completely out of bounds.
I hung my head, shamed-faced.
Hamilton on the other hand was made of different stuff.
Even at fourteen he had an innate grasp of one-up-manship.
"I came to tell Mrs. Cooper that her husband is on the phone, what shall I say you're doing?" he said simply.
It was a magical moment.
The silence was profound.
The tension in the air, tangible, as the balance of power shifted second by second.
They were both lost for words. We all knew Hamilton was lying.
My jaw dropped in admiration at his inventiveness and sheer nerve.
"Look boys," said Mr. Bent standing up, his member now at half mast and swinging round like a ship's boom, "we had better all keep this quiet. I mean we could all get into trouble here."
Mrs. Cooper nodded.
I was about to agree and leave when Hamilton pressed home his advantage.
"I'm sorry, but we weren't the ones on the job. I'm not sure how we could get into trouble."
Mr. Bent's face contorted with anger.
"Look you little pricks. I've had enough or this. I'm going fucking fishing".
He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his car keys.
Summoning up as much dignity as a man with his dick in a semi erect state can, he left the gym, walked naked to his car and was never seen again.
Mrs. Cooper, unable to suffer cat calls of "hot bitch-puppy" from elusive pupils, left to become a sex therapist.
This small scandal died away and sex in school life was almost exclusively extra-curricular.
I do remember one sweet moment during a school swimming lesson when Christine X (she's now in government) slid aside the leg of her bikini pants, whilst hanging onto the edge of the pool.
I came up behind her, she took my hard cock in her hand and guided it into her pussy.
I remember coming.
The strangeness of the situation added to the erotic moment and I thrashed around in ecstasy to the extent where a life guard came over thinking I was drowning.
Hamilton's sexual experience outweighed my own by some considerable amount.
He was confident, street-wise and better looking then me.
At sixteen he was up to fucking our French teacher both in and out of school hours, but the strangest even took place during an appeal for crisis aid.
It was decided that everyone in the school exercise their imagination in order to raise money for good causes.
Being rowdy and adolescent, we submitted a list of ideas which ran from a sponsored fart to a "see who can piss up highest up the wall" competition.
Actually the wall pissing competition had the additional bonus that Sheila Watts would probably win, and she was worth watching.
I remember Hamilton and me being treated to a special viewing of Sheila and her unusual technique.
"Poke your finger in just below the clit, pull back and there you go." She explained proudly as she ejected a golden stream from a standing start out of the window and into the staff car park below.
There was no getting away from the fact that outside of base invention, my colleagues and I suffered from poor imaginations. Mr. Shepherd, co-ordinator of the event came into the fifth-year common room.
"Now look everyone. We haven't as yet has any good ideas for raising cash. We need a good solid bit of sponsorship."
The sponsored dandruff collecting was discounted on the grounds that the teachers would win.
The nose pick-a-thon was also vetoed as was the sponsored mooning and sponsored swearing.
"You're bloody hopeless, the lot of you," said Shepherd in exasperation.
'No-knickers' Monica was in our common room at the time and raised her hand.
"I could organise a wank-a-thon, Sir." She offered sweetly. It was of course a joke and Mr. Shepherd's face went through a range of colours as he became apoplectic with fury.
"I don't think that's funny," he burst out and left the room, stopping at the door.
"I might also say that urinating over my car is even less funny and when I catch the boy who did it . . ." his voice trailed away, buried under the laughter.
Nevertheless, No-knickers' wank-a-thon event took place in secret and we lined up one evening after school, behind the pavilion, our money in one hand and cocks in the other.
Tom Casey, hidden from view, documented the event on video for posterity as each boy paid, came and went.
I turned to Hamilton in line behind me.
We had both lost our virginity to this young woman, and had had our share of experiences since.
During these episodes, Hamilton had always appeared cool and phlegmatic.
Even now while I stood erect and ready to burst, he was smoking a cigarette, reading a paperback novel.
When my turn arrived, No-knickers obligingly opened her legs so that I could grope her young pussy, expediting the event.
She placed he mouth over mine and pushed her tongue between my lips.
At the same moment I felt her hand close softly around my penis.
The three points of stimulus caused excitement to mount quickly as her hand worked my shaft with even strokes.
Her tongue played against the roof of my mouth, wrestled my own tongue and her lips slid against my own.
My fingers entered her moistness, one finger, two, three.
With my thumb, I stroked her clitoris in a combination of even strokes and tight circles.
I felt her hips move with mounting pleasure, and I climaxed, shooting my load onto a waiting tissue.
At that same moment I felt her come, her pussy contracting and relaxing on my fingers, deep inside her.
Afterward, I waited for Hamilton.
He had taken a quick head count, deftly calculating No-knickers' gross revenue.
"That'll keep a Sudanese family fed for six months." I said enthusiastically.
"It'll keep a Sudanese official in whores for a week, more like," he growled cynically.
We were all surprised as No-knickers almost tripled the expected income.
Mr. Shepherd didn't ask how she had come by the money when she handed it at a presentation.
The event was now by now an open secret. Besides, Tom Casey's video gave us a nice little account of Mr. Shepherd turning up furtively for the occasion, long after the boys had finished.
His eyes closed, knees buckling under the pleasure as No-knickers, grinning into the camera, massaged Mr. Shepherds stiff member.
Mr. Shepherd's contribution alone probably kept a Sudanese family fed for a year or more.
Hamilton reckoned it was enough for ten corrupt Sudanese officials to catch a fatal dose of the clap.
Even now I'm not sure which is the better outcome.
Gregg Dean 1999 Greggdean@hotmail.com
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