Practical Education

It’s freshman orientation week, and I’m a thousand miles from home. My parents are driving home, after a tearful parting yesterday. I’ve never been on my own.

My roommate, Tessa, is local — she could walk to her house in twenty minutes. She doesn’t feel displaced and disoriented like I do. She knows all the streets, the shops, the hot spots, where to get the best fro-yo. She has a boyfriend — they’ve been together a couple of years.

I’ve never had a boyfriend. Or sex. Or a hot kiss.

Tessa and what’s-his-name are in the bottom bunk; I’m in the top. The only light is from streetlights, through the window.

I can hear them having sex. I know what it involves. I know what an erect penis looks like. I know about how the vagina stretches and lubricates. I know about orgasms… from high school Anatomy, anyway. I can’t quite picture all of the components coming together.

There’s a mirror over my dresser. If I squinch up at one end of my bunk, with my head near the edge, I can see a little bit into Tessa’s bed. I can see shapes in the dim light, and movement, and match the sights with their sounds. I’m flushed, hot, trembling. I’m ashamed of spying, but not enough to stop.

That was last night. This morning, the first thing Tessa said to me was, “For fuck’s sake, next time just get a chair and some popcorn, I don’t want you falling off the bed.” I tried, through my embarrassment, to apologize, but she waved it off and gave me a hug on her way to the bathroom.

I don’t think I want any popcorn.

— Frenulum

Making the Grade

The lockdown, an absurd, panic-driven over-reaction to inaccurate computer models, false reporting, and pseudo-expert predictions, funneled through petty, power-hungry bureaucrats, meant that my classes for the rest of the year would be teleconferenced. Warrantless house arrest will do that.

The software showed me a thumbnail of each student. What the girls saw was the video feed from the one who was talking, plus a constant image of me.

I could write a dissertation on “Bedrooms of Teenage Girls: From Decor to Disaster.” Some of them dressed nicely and sat at a desk; some lounged on their beds with tousled hair and rumpled sweats, balancing a laptop on a pillow or a lap.

I was leading a Biology class, when I noticed that one student, Melanie, had muted her microphone. Sometimes a student does that by accident, occasionally it’s to make sure that her video is never the one being sent to the class. I fired off a quick IM to make sure she knew about it.

Melanie was at the bottom of the class, hovering dangerously over the failing grade. If she was distancing herself on purpose, it wouldn’t be surprising.

Midway through the class, a movement caught my eye; I could see in her thumbnail that Melanie was holding up a handwritten sign. I clicked it to give me a full-scale view.

“Would a C cup get me a C?” said the sign.

Before I could puzzle it out, Melanie dropped the sign. She was topless.

I forced my attention back to the class, trying not to sound unsettled, but couldn’t resist glance after glance as Melanie played with her lovely breasts. She lifted them, squeezed them together, stroked them; she licked her fingers and played with her nipples until they stood stiff and proud.

I was losing my train of thought. I told everyone to take a ten minute break. “Be back at 10:40.” Some girls took off, for a snack or a bathroom. About half went straight to their phones, probably calling each other. A few stayed looking toward their webcams, presumably surfing other sites.

Melanie cupped her breasts as if to offer them, and raised a questioning eyebrow. Nothing in my teaching career had prepared me for this; I didn’t know how to respond.

She held up another sign: “How about Butt for a B?”

Then she bent over, back to the camera, and slid her shorts and panties down. Her bottom was fetching indeed, but my eyes were on her pussy, peeking out between spread legs. She reached behind to play with her ass cheeks, which had the effect of revealing her private places in greater detail. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even as my brain was screaming warnings. I couldn’t stop my cock from responding either. When she gave herself a few spanks, it grew full and hard.

With three minutes left in the break, Melanie sat back down and lifted up her last sign. “An A would be the best. Have to save my cherry but…”

She lowered the sign and slowly, deliberately, sensuously, ran her tongue around her lips, her mouth in a wide O. Not at all ambiguous.

My resolve crumbled. I sent an IM with my home address, and seconds later Melanie vanished from the conference.

It was so wrong, in so many ways. But my pulse was racing and my cock was hard and… well, nobody can spend a career teaching high school girls without ever having a single fantasy.

I finished the Biology class, somehow, although now I don’t remember a bit of it. I just remember one thought, surfacing again and again as I listened for the doorbell.

Sure, Melanie, I’ll let you suck my cock. But in my gradebook…

A is for Anal.

— Frenulum

Perfect Storm

After a harsh winter, the first week of truly springlike weather was irresistible. We drove to a local park to take a walk around the lake, but even without the scenery, being out in warm sun and gentle breezes would have been a sufficient treat.

On the way, the sunny sky clouded over, but we hardly noticed. As usual in light traffic, I had one hand on the wheel while the other toyed with her pussy. Moaning is my favorite music.

We parked and headed for the paved path that winds around the lake. The first drops of rain fell when we were a quarter of the way around. We were both surprised: the morning forecast was for sun. We kept walking, hand in hand. My mother used to say, “You aren’t made of sugar and you won’t melt.” But everyone else in the park was hurrying toward their cars.

By the half-way point, the rain had become a downpour, the skies were dark, and the wind had picked up. Going back would be just as far as going on, so we continued. Her sundress, thoroughly soaked, clung to her body like a coat of paint. She wore nothing beneath.

The first bright flash of lightning stopped us in our tracks, and we counted seconds until thunder rolled. Five miles or so away.

In a deserted park, in a thunderstorm, we looked at each other in perfect understanding. We had imagined the scene countless times.

I looked around for a good spot. A rocky formation about fifty yards off the path looked ideal. Holding hands, we ran toward it, laughing in the storm.

Behind the rocks, away from the path, she sank to her knees, heedless of the wet ground, and tugged my pants down. With all the eagerness of a fantasy realized, she began to suck.

Lightning flashed, brighter now, and thunder roared, closer.

Rain washed her face. Her eyes remained upturned, looking at me and conveying love, lust, worship, gratitude, and hunger. Hunger for praise, hunger for cum. She put her hands on my ass and plunged my cock deep into her throat, again and again. The tears that filled her eyes from choking were indistinguishable from the steady rivulets of rain.

The excitement of fantasy-come-true had its effect on me as well. When the moment came, I pulled myself out of her throat, past her busy tongue, and aimed for her face.

Liquid praise erupted, splashing and spraying on her beautiful face. She raised both hands and scrubbed it into her skin, mixing in the raindrops. She scooped some into her mouth, and smiled with delight.

I helped her up. I took a careful look around the park, confirming that we had it to ourselves. I told her so, and she peeled her sodden sundress off. I fished a leash from my pocket and clipped it to her collar.

We completed our circuit of the park as the storm raged, coming within a couple of miles. Rain cascaded from her erect nipples like miniature waterfalls. The lightning, mirrored in her eyes, made her sapphire irises sparkle like gems.

When we got back to the car, I started it, turned on the heated seats, and cranked up the thermostat. She fingered her pussy, and in only moments was begging me with her eyes.

“Cum,” I said, so of course she did.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

I put the car in gear, and we headed home.

One more check mark on our list.

— Frenulum