Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 18

In the after-echoes of what was a colossal orgasm, all other sensations dimmed. I faintly felt myself lowered to the ground, and I lay there, my chest heaving with the deep breaths that followed great exertion, my arms up to either side of my head, fingertips resting in my wide-strewn, fine black hair, legs akimbo, my crotch a mess of slick reproductive juices.

I slowly regained perception of the world outside my trembling body, and realized that both teachers were standing at my feet, phones out and pointed at me, their dicks slowly softening and shrinking. “May we?” asked the headmaster, as if he were a tourist asking to take the picture of a local dressed in quaint regional costume.

Smiling absently, I nodded slightly. “You’ve earned it,” I murmured.

After a couple more minutes, I recovered my strength and sat up, looking for my clothing. The two men who had so recently ravished me were calmly donning their trousers, but I took pride in the fact that only I would know the reason for their cheery smiles. I too reclothed myself, and regretfully wiped my smooth crotch down with some tissues from a box the headteacher conveniently supplied.

Without another word, I made my way to the door, trying to straighten out my walk: as much as it would have been more comfortable, I did not want to raise questions by emerging from the office bow-legged.

As I opened the door, I heard a filing cabinet open. “This, Mr Adams, is form A7, a Student-Teacher Meeting Report. You will fill it out precisely as follows…”

~#~

It was not long after that, that I started receiving regular additional tuition from Dr McPhail at his home. And I do mean actual tuition, not just sex-visits. Although… well, let me explain it fully.

I would arrive at his home (where he lives alone) a short while after school. Sometimes I would still be wearing school uniform, sometimes normal clothes, but either way, nobody would be able to tell from my mode of dress that anything was out of the ordinary. I would knock on the door, he would let me in without much preamble, and I turned around in the hallway while he closed the door again.

Then we were in each other’s arms, tongues wrestling, saliva mixing, hands fumbling fervently at buttons and zips. He lifted me up, or backed me up, to the kitchen table, where he laid me down, face up or face down. Then he entered me.

The fucking that followed was generally short but hard. He ploughed my pussy (or occasionally my ass) with energy and enthusiasm, like a man starved of sex for months on end, and my whole body shook from the force of it. When he climaxed, usually inside me, I came with him, and we both crumpled to the table for a couple of minutes, gasping from the strenuous exercise.

Once I had my breath back, I stripped off any remaining clothes (after the first couple of times, I did it without instruction), placed them neatly in my bag, pulled a notebook out from it, and sat down at the table on a smooth plastic chair. From that moment until the time came to leave, I did not wear a thread of clothing. Then he began to lecture.

That continued for the rest of the evening. A perfectly ordinary tutoring session, except the student was completely naked. Oh, and once every half-an-hour to 45 minutes, he would move over to my side, pull his engorged dick out, and start jacking off.

Sometimes I would turn my face and take him in my mouth, or replace his hand with mine and jerk his cock myself. However, there were also times when I just carried on writing, maybe just leaning back a little, seemingly oblivious, until the warm white goo struck my face or chest. He seemed to like that: this sexy little teenage goddess in his own home, blissfully unaware of the rampant erotic beast mere inches away, like an illicit peep show but upgraded from a crappy 1990s portable TV to a huge 4K widescreen home cinema.

Usually, he carried on talking about the subject of the lesson even while he pleasured himself, or I pleasured him, and I did my best to keep up the note-taking with my other hand or without seeing the paper. Only right near the end, he would break off and groan ecstatically, “Yes, oh, little Rachel. Beautiful Rachel! Oh God, yes, my girl. Oh, little Rachel! AAAH!” and his penis pulsed, his ejaculate anointing the beautiful little girl’s pale skin.

Then he would wipe his softening dick off on my shoulder or cheek, sometimes pat me on the head, zip himself up and carry straight on where he had left off lecturing. The only indication he would give of what had just happened would be to stop me if I did anything whatsoever to clean myself up. If a significant-sized gobbet of semen fell from my face onto the book, I was allowed to lick it up and then take a tissue to dab the damp spot, but otherwise I sat there, eyes on my work, while his seed slowly cooled and slid down my face, tits and belly, pooling on the chair, my vagina lips resting on a growing puddle. There the semen mixed with the stuff leaking from my pussy – both his deposit at the conclusion of that first rampant rutting and the considerable juices of my own constant arousal. If some of it hit my eye, or slid down there from my forehead or eyebrow, then so be it, I would have to work one-eyed until it cleared, although I think he went to at least some effort not to completely blind me with his next load, aiming it instead at my neck or chest.

It may sound disgusting to you, degrading even. Covered in this white slime that was cooling on my skin, matting my hair, dripping off my tits or into the corners of my mouth, even smelling kinda funny. I can see why you would be horrified at the prospect of it happening to you… but right then and there, that wasn’t the way I saw it at all. To me, every cumshot seemed like the ultimate compliment, the most visceral, direct way a man could show the powerful, erotic effect I had on him. As he approached climax, he would praise my beauty, my perfection. His masturbation was almost like an act of worship, and his semen an offering to the goddess. In that private environment, separated from the world and its preordained values, who wouldn’t want to wear that as a badge of honour?

Besides, there was something about the smooth, slick feel of it on my skin that I rather liked too. As it cooled, I got goosebumps, contrasting greatly with the latest warm blast. That smell, that taste… My senses were all being stimulated at once.

And maybe he was dominating me, but that was fine too. I had enough experience as a top-dog to my little schoolboy bitches that changing positions and being the sub was a nice change. When he took charge, I could relax into his power, the irresistible force of a personality who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it. I could set aside the burden of having a say: he wanted to see a sexy seventeen-year-old schoolgirl covered in his jizz, and in his house, that meant that it would happen. That was all there was to it.

When I think about it, his sex drive was incredible, to cum 7 or 8 times in one evening. Even separated by a recovery period, his balls must have been working on overdrive to generate that much semen. It’s strange to think of such a seemingly upstanding figure of respect secretly being a rampant sex monster, and I can only wonder how he coped before settling on this scheme. One thing is certain: I was not the first pretty young girl he brought discreetly into his life to satiate his carnal needs.

The tutoring was, I have to say, incredibly beneficial to my studies, setting aside the sexual element. Dr McPhail’s background is in humanities, so that was the most common focus, but he had decades of experience as a teacher, and knew how to apply his knowledge to other subjects. I learnt physics through the history of science, the work of Newton and Hooke and Boyle, and historical context improved my work on English literature essays and art projects. I learnt the sinister economic realities of the mining industry, grounded in the workings of mining and ore-processing chemistry. The carbon and nitrogen cycles, which I had struggled to follow in science classes, made much more sense in the context of physical geography. I was free to ask questions whenever I wished about the work, and his answers were always patient, pertinent, informative and illuminating. I was spending a lot of my free time fucking, yet my grades were only going up, and it seemed to me that I had Dr McPhail to thank for that.

At the end of the evening, he would remove my notebook, signalling that we were done. Then I lay on my back on the table, and he penetrated me again. This time, it was slower, more studied. He would stare in wonder at me as his hips moved back and forth like a pendulum, and his hands smeared his cum around my body, massaging sperm slowly into my face, neck, shoulders, chest (oh yes, especially there), belly, crotch and thighs. I sometimes felt as if he were trying to get an even coating, as if he could thereby envelop me in an embrace all the larger with his ejaculate as a part of his body by proxy.

Or maybe he just loved the tactility of it, the smoothness of young skin under his fingers, lubricated to even greater smoothness. In this position, I got the most direct look at him of the entire evening, and saw the naked bliss and joy he took in fucking me this way, and indeed every other way. It never took me a great effort to distance myself from my partners, to keep the separation between even the most exciting, passionate sex and romantic attachment, but looking at the pure happiness I was bringing to him as we orgasmed once more together, I think I might have come as close I ever did to falling in love, if only for a few moments.

I realized once that there was something deeply metaphorical about what he was doing here, and I mentioned this to him. If sperm was symbolic of the creative, procreative act, the very stuff of inheritance and passing on your life force to a new generation, then he was focusing his energies on his students rather than any children of his own. It also cast this dedication to education as more of a selfish act than the customary perception of selflessness.

He smiled and complimented me on my insight, and pointed out that there were precedents for this line of thinking. We discussed Freud, Jung and Nabokov in terms of the psychiatric underpinnings, and also the philosophical implications. We covered ancient Greek philosophy, including some of its more lurid figures. In some ways, that conversation was as stimulating intellectually as any of the sexual acts were physically, and I came away with my head buzzing with new ideas and concepts I couldn’t wait to consider.

#

At the end of it all, with his spend inside me and on me, I took myself off to the shower. Often, he would join me, but he would almost never bring himself off yet again. Instead, he kneeled in front of me, tonguing my twat as the water cascaded down my body, washing all the semen, sweat and other filth down onto his upraised face.

Finally, I would dress again and leave quietly, only a bit of dampness in my hair suggesting that anything more unusual than an extra study session had occurred…

To Be Continued...