Egg - Britslut's Slutty Stories

Britslut’s

Slutty Stories

Egg

I think all the girls in my group had a crush on Miss Brookes, our history teacher. I know I did. She was in her 40s, with blonde hair (dyed, as her roots showed sometimes), a pretty face with piercing blue eyes, and a superbly proportioned body that she took every opportunity to showing off. Not that she was tarty, mind – far from, it, she was always elegant and well-dressed. But her outfits – usually either tailored jackets and above the knee skirts, or close-fitting tops and skin-hugging pants that revealed the outlines of her bra and skimpy panties – left little to the imagination.

At 14, I wasn’t sure if I was lesbian or straight, in fact I wasn’t even sure what the words meant. But I know I worshipped Miss Brookes as the epitome of femininity. My heart beat faster when she came into the room, and when she looked at or spoke to me I blushed and pressed my legs together. Her lessons were usually just before the lunchtime break, and a group of us got into the habit of staying after the bell to chat to her, clustering round her desk, talking about what we were learning (for she was an inspiring and enthusiastic teacher) and chatting about life in general. She didn’t seem to mind, although she was reticent about revealing any details of her private life. I didn’t know, for instance, whether she was married or had kids (she responded to Mrs, Ms or Miss), or where she lived, or anything. I imagined her in a beautiful house with large well-kept gardens, and a handsome young husband who would attend to her every need – I wasn’t yet too sure what all those needs might be.

We used to vie with each other to get closest to her, run little errands, and be the last to leave, as the call of lunch or toilet took us. One day I had noticed that she seemed preoccupied during the lesson, sometimes gazing into space with a dreamy expression on her strong-featured, pretty face, sometimes giving a little wince as if she had indigestion or back-ache. I wanted to ask her about it, to hold her hand and soothe away the pain. After the lesson we gathered round her desk, as usual, but she seemed tired and rested her arms on the desk, occasionally squirming in her seat. Period pains, I guessed, having experienced increasingly bad ones myself.

Eventually she shooed us all out of the classroom. I hung back, boldly, until the others had left.

‘Is everything all right, Miss?’ I asked. ‘Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?’

She gave me a lop-sided grin. ‘No, I’m not in pain. Thanks for looking after me, though.’

She stood up. She had on a tight blue sweater which matched her eyes and showed her nipples (quite a common occurrence) and a pair of linen pants which clung to her hips and bottom as if they had been painted on. I found my eyes drawn to the bulge of her mons – a word I had just learned. Suddenly she bet over and grabbed the edge of the desk, gasping and grunting, her body trembling, eyes closed.

I went to hold her arm, afraid she was about to fall over, trying to remember the few things I had learned in first-aid class. Miss Brookes straightened up and I saw that there was a wet stain in the crotch of her pants. My mouth fell open.

‘Don’t worry, I haven’t peed myself,’ she said, breathing deeply. ‘Sorry about this.’

‘What ...’ I gulped.

Before she could say any more another convulsion seemed to hit her. She squeezed her thighs together and her hips jerked.

‘It’s no good,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Lock the door, will you?’

I did so, coming back to her as she rested her bottom against the desk, the wetness in her crotch now spreading. Her body was shaking again.

‘You’ll have to help me,’ she said, clumsily kicking off her shoes. ‘I need to get these pants off.’ The woman supported herself on the desk while I fumbled with the front button of her pants, my fingers trembling at the touch of her warm skin. I pulled the tight garment down over her hips and helped her get her feet out of it. She was wearing tight, white cotton panties which had gone almost transparent with the wetness. Every detail of her slit was visible to my astonished eyes. She struggled to slip them off, but had to stop as another convulsion swept over her. Boldly I hooked my fingers into the waistband and dragged them down her legs.

To my amazement (the whole episode was amazing when I look back), her mons was completely bare. Her pussy lips were full and swollen and absolutely naked. The warm musky smell of her juices (similar to mine, I discovered) filled my nostrils. And to cap it all, she had a tattoo on her mound, where it would have been hidden by hair if she hadn’t shaved. It said ‘SEX TOY’. My jaw felt like it had hit the floor.

Miss Brookes spread her legs and reached down to grab a string that I saw dangling from her pussy. Oh gross, I thought, she’s going to pull her tampon out. Had she got toxic shock syndrome? (We had done that in sex-ed lessons.) I suddenly felt out of my depth.

But she had to support herself as yet another spasm caused her to slump back against the desk. She groaned as if in agony. ‘Pull it out, Lisbeth, please!’

I grasped the string – it was slippery with her juices – and pulled. Nothing happened. I pulled harder, and saw her pussy lips start to bulge. She told me to go on, pull harder. Her lips opened and thinned and protruded amazingly, and suddenly an white object the size and shape of a hen’s egg popped out and landed in my hand. It was warm and wet and hard and it buzzed and vibrated!

The teacher straightened up and took the egg from me, twisting something to shut off the buzzing. ‘Thank God that’s out,’ she said. ‘I thought I could handle it ...’

She looked at me, my face bright red and my mouth wide open. ‘I’m sorry, Lisbeth. You shouldn’t have seen this. I suppose I owe you an explanation.’

I just stared at her, finding my gaze returning to her naked pussy and the tattoo.

‘I had a bet with my boyfriend. I lost. The forfeit was to wear this thing all day. It’s radio-controlled – he has the remote, he can adjust the intensity. The swine promised to only turn it up when I wasn’t in a lesson. I thought I could cope with it, but when it’s buzzing away inside you all the time, and then he turned it up to maximum ... well, I just lost it.’

‘What do you mean?’ I had an inkling, having rubbed myself in bed until my body experienced some very delightful little convulsions.

‘I had an orgasm, Lisbeth. Quite a few, in fact. And I get very wet when I come. You’ve done sex-ed, haven’t you?’

I nodded.

‘Oh well, these are just games adults play. I’m sure you’ll do the same one day. By the way, you mustn’t mention this to anyone, not even your closest friend. OK?’

‘I promise,’ I said, then felt that she owed me something in return. ‘Did your boyfriend do the tattoo?’ I asked.

‘Eh? Oh no, I’ve had that since I was ... well, for a long time.’

‘So you didn’t do the forfeit? Will he be cross?’

She laughed. ‘Depends if I tell him. No ... we have an agreement, we’re always absolutely honest with each other.’

‘So what will he do?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll think of some way to punish me!’ She grinned, obviously not too worried about the punishment. I realised that I had a lot to learn about grown-ups.

‘But now I’ve got a problem,’ she went on. ‘My pants are soaked and I don’t have a change of clothes. You don’t have anything I could wear do you?’

I thought frantically. Where could I find some spare clothes for Miss Brookes’ lower half? I could hardly ask one of the other teachers, or girls. Ah, it came to me.

‘I’ve got a gym skirt. In my locker.’

‘Hmm, it might fit me. Could you fetch it for me please?’

I scooted off, leaving my teacher naked from the waist down. In a minute I was back bearing the item, and knocked on the door, saying ‘It’s me.’

Miss Brookes let me in. She pulled on the brown pleated skirt and made a face. It was incredibly short on her, revealing most of her long shapely legs.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got some spare panties, have you?’ I shook my head.

‘Oh well, I’ll just have to keep my legs crossed. I’ll say I spilt coffee on my slacks.’ She looked at me, not as teacher to kid, but as one adult to another, and grinned. To my intense surprise I found myself leaning towards her and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

‘You’re a good girl, Lisbeth,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘Now, remember, not a word of this to anyone. It’s our secret.’

And it stayed so, until now. I’ve changed her name, of course. It was a pivotal moment in my life, I think. I looked at grown-ups in a different way, wondering what secrets they hid under their clothes, and even inside their bodies. And I felt very close to my history teacher from then on. Every so often, when no-one was looking, she would catch my eye and give me a sly grin. I wondered if sometimes, on those occasions, the egg was back in.

home

last modified 4 September 2005