Misty Andersen and Tamara Brewer had shared homeroom together every semester since they had arrived at Monroe Middle School as sixth graders, two-and-a-half years past. Despite this fact, they barely knew each other, and throughout their tenure together, they had had little in common beyond the fact that both of their last names started with letters at the beginning of the alphabet - the sole basis of their common homeroom assignment. Through all of sixth, all of seventh, and now most of eighth grade, the girls had spent each and every school day in completely separate worlds.

This day seemed, on the surface, to be no exception. Misty Anderson wore her cheerleading uniform; there was to be no game that day, but a mandatory "School Spirit Pep Rally" assembly was scheduled for the fifth period. Few of the boys in the classroom were able to keep their eyes from straying repeatedly to the popular little cutie, with her blonde ponytail, her apple cheeks, her sparkling blue eyes...not to mention her healthy, prematurely large breasts, full B-cups at least -- almost Cs --, which pressed deliciously through the fourteen-year-old's tight cheer-sweater. Her long legs, bared from sock-top to pleated skirt-hem, were smooth and luscious. As Misty sat in the second desk of the first file, she was well aware that she was, as always, the center of attention and devotion. With a smug satisfaction, she also realized that come the pep rally assembly, the entire boy population of the school -- not to mention most of the adult male teachers - would be devouring her beauty as she cheered and pranced with the squad before them.

Tamara Brewer, on the other hand, was not the sort of girl who craved - or received - much attention from others. Not that she wasn't attractive, mind you; with her huge, dark eyes, her bob-cropped brown hair, and her svelte, reed-like -- but unmistakably maturing -- body, she was in her own way a delightful specimen of adolescent beauty. But unlike Misty, Tamara was a quiet, unassuming, and intellectual girl. Not surprisingly, considering her temperament, she had selected a seat at the very back of her file. Even now, as she wiled away the mandatory half-hour study period pretending to read her book, "Memoirs of a Geisha," the young girl drew barely a glance, except, perhaps, from the somewhat nerdy Timmy Abner, likewise sitting in the back seat, a few files to her right. Tamara persistently wore baggy, grungy clothes - not dirty, mind you, but styled to that carefully crafted teenage angst and "don't give a damn" look so important for the "emo" set to present.

Two girls, worlds apart...but today, they had something very striking - and entirely coincidental - in common.

Both Misty Anderson and Tamara Brewer had a problem with their grades. Not, of course, the same problem - Tamara was practically a straight-A student, while Misty was barely getting by. But their problems, if not identical, were highly analogous.

It was late in the second semester of eighth grade. Next fall, both girls would be matriculating at the local high school, and both had distinct aspirations.

Misty, of course, fully intended to make the freshman cheerleading squad. And frankly, she was a shoe-in. Not only was she adorable, sexy, and an accomplished gymnast, but her older sister would be a senior cheerleader next year, and had promised to make sure she made the roster. However, there was one problem. She was currently on track to get a "D" in science class. While this was certainly no impediment to her moving on to high school, to be eligible to participate in extracurricular activities, a student could not have had any "D's" or "F's" the previous semester, even back at silly old middle school.

So today was the day that Misty planned to get Mr. Davis, the science teacher, to convert that "D" into a "C," or better. She was quite confident in her chances of succeeding.

Tamara, on the other hand, had very good grades in everything - except gym. With her lithe and flexible body, she might have done well in the required activities, but to do that, she would have had to participate. Tamara had an unacceptably large number of "No Dress" days next to her name on the attendance roster. Somehow, she had too often "forgotten" to bring her gym clothes on the days she had P.E. Those students who failed to dress for gym spent the hour in the library reading, and this "consequence" was actually a big incentive to a girl like Tamara. So now she was facing a "C" in the class, which was, of course, fine for getting into high school, but unacceptable if she wanted to qualify for the "Honors Track" program. Tamara found school unchallenging and boring enough as it was -- she dreaded the possibility of getting stuck in the even more tedious "Standard Track."

So today was the day that Tamara planned to convince Coach Fellows to erase a few of those "No Dress" marks from his grade book, and give her a "B". She, in contrast to her classmate, wasn't at all confident of success.

The day passed quickly for Misty - she always got a thrill from performing in front of a crowd, especially for the whole school during a pep rally, inciting lust and adoration. This was no conceit -- it was true that every male, from the least-mature sixth-grader to the sixty-year-old principal, had been leering at her athletic young body throughout the performance. After a couple more classes, still abuzz from the rally, school let out. Misty made her way across the school to the science department.

Tamara, however, felt the day was endless, with the frightening prospect of her outrageous plan looming before her. She mulled silently throughout the pep-rally, not even able to muster her usual cynicism. Two classes -- an eternity each -- later, and she made her way through the emptying day-end hallways towards the P.E. office.

The girls, heading in opposite directions, passed each other. They did not acknowledge one another, because they weren't friends -- nor enemies. Either would have been shocked to know that the other was on mission nearly identical to her own. Their respective destinations were camouflaged, in any case, by the flow of numerous other junior-high students grabbing their jackets, slamming their lockers, and heading for the exits.

-o0o-

Misty strode into Mr. Davis' science lab like she owned the place. In a sense she did - if the ability to distract boys from their assigned experiments conveyed property rights. However, if completing one's own work was the measure, then Misty's proprietary flair was surely misplaced.

She wasn't worried about succeeding in her mission. Mr. Davis was a nerdy old guy, thirty-five at least, and Misty figured he'd never even kissed a cheerleader in his life. Misty, on the other hand, had plenty of experience. She had had lots of boyfriends already - initially, the most popular boys in middle school, and more recently high school boys. She'd started her sexual explorations by giving handjobs to eighth graders, and had since worked her way up to sucking sophomore cock. She'd snuck out to attend high school parties with her seventeen-year-old sister, and had once found herself in a rec-room with six boys, all of whom she ended up orally servicing; she'd later learned that one of those boys was actually in college! She loved the sense of power it gave her, to have so many boys acting like total fools, just 'cause she was so hot, all under her control.

She'd never had sex, though - that is, she'd never been fucked. She was saving that, not of course for marriage, but for some special occasion. Like for her first steady "real" high school boyfriend, next year, who she just knew would be someone popular, most likely a senior, with a cool car. She figured letting him be the first would help her lock him down.

Today, she knew she wouldn't need to fuck anybody in order to get her way.

"Why Misty, what brings you to the science lab after school? I don't suppose you want to re-do your color wheel experiment, do you? You could sure use the extra points." While he said this, Misty watched his eyes scan her tight sweater, hungrily taking in the vision of her prominent breasts. This was a reaction Misty took for granted when approaching any boy or man.

"Mr. Davis, I did come to talk to you about my grade. Basically, I need it to be higher."

"Well, like I said, you might be able to re-do an experiment or two. Frankly, there are only a few weeks left in the semester, and you have a "D" right now. It would be difficult to get that grade up...are you sure you want to do all that work? After all, I haven't seen much diligence from you up to this point."

To his credit, Mr. Davis tried to say all this while looking Misty in the face, but the experienced tease resolved that problem by hopping up on a lab table and crossing one smooth, delectable, and bare thigh over the other. Her pleated skirt slid further up to expose more flesh as she did this, and the effect was predictable: the poor teacher could not maintain his discipline, but glanced down to drink in the inviting sight.

As usual, Misty was completely in control of the situation, and she knew it.

"Sorry, Mr. Davis, but I don't want to do any more of those yucky experiments."

"Well, then, I don't see how you can - gulp...er...um -- change your grade." The interruption occurred, and was heroically overcome, when Misty uncrossed her legs, lifted her right foot up to rest on the tabletop, and scooted it in against her bottom. Her left leg continued to dangle off the lab table, and the result was that her cheer skirt splayed wide open, baring her sweet fourteen-year-old inner thighs completely. They led his eyes to her displayed crotch, where blue satin cheer-panties pressed tightly against her young vulva. Misty wore nothing underneath these panties -- which was against regulations, of course -- so the seam of the smooth material split her juvenile pudenda exquisitely, as she knew very well, right along her inviting crease.

"Are you sure you can't see any other way? Like, maybe you can think of something you'd like to experiment with, that could maybe improve my scores?"

Poor Mr. Davis gulped again.

Tamara hesitated at the open door. Sitting at his desk in the P.E. office, still unaware of her presence, was Coach Fellows, apparently reviewing the very grade book the thirteen-year-old honor student had come to discuss with him. At forty years old, with a smattering of steely gray at his temples, the Coach was the one teacher at Monroe Middle School who intimidated the otherwise successful student. He seemed completely unimpressed with her academics, although he had awarded her an "A" in seventh-grade Health class. But Tamara wasn't here to discuss Health class. Timidly, she knocked on the open door to get the coach's attention.

"Huh? Oh, it's you...Brewer, right? What can I do for you? Did you get lost? This is the gym, you know...a part of the school you seem to avoid."

"Um, yeah...that's what I wanted to see you about. I know I have a lot of 'No Dresses'..."

"You sure do, let's see...Brewer...Brewer...yes, fourteen -- FOURTEEN -- a full fourteen "NDs" this semester. You're only allowed five. So your 'B' - the 'freebie B' I give everybody who at least shows up -- is reduced to a 'C', if you care." Tamara quailed under the pressure of his stern eyes boring into her own.

"Um, yeah, I know, and I'm sorry about all that, Coach. But, you see, I want to get into the Honors Track at high school this fall, and I can't do that if I have any 'Cs'. Is there any way we could maybe just forget about some of those 'NDs'?"

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you 'forgot' your gym clothes so many times. I can't see how I can help you - it wouldn't be fair to the other kids."

"Well, um, what if I got out of my street clothes right now for you?"

He looked up sharply, his brows beetling down even more frighteningly, if that was possible. "What do you mean? You want to take extra credit gym classes?"

Tamara had rehearsed her next line over and over in her mind all day, but now she could barely get it out; what had seemed so clever in planning, now seemed absurd in reality.

"Um... not exactly... I am willing to change out of my street clothes...," she pulled her loose top suddenly up over her head, to stand before the watchful authority figure with nothing but her tiny white bra to shield her upper body, "...but I forgot my gym clothes again. I hope you don't mind?" This last came out much more quickly, and a lot less coolly, than she had intended.

To her dismay, Coach Fellows just stared at her, straight in the eye, apparently not in the slightest bit enticed to even glance at her nearly bare chest. The studious eighth grader was about to run away, top in hand, when he finally broke his silence with a growl.

"We'll see about that. Shut and lock that door, and then come over here, Brewer."

"Oh, Misty," gasped the thirty-five-year-old science teacher. "You have no idea how tempting you are." Of course, the fourteen-year-old cheerleader knew exactly how tempting she was. That was the point.

"I just can't do this...I mean, what you're suggesting...it just isn't right."

"Why not, Mr. Davis? I give you what you want; you give me what I want."

"But...but...you're a student...an eighth grader...we can't...."

Misty laughed, merrily, and it seemed to Mr. Davis that her laugh was only a little bit directed at him.

"It's not like I'm gonna let you fuck me or anything, Mr. Davis! I was figuring there's a thing or two you'd like to see...maybe touch...and maybe give a "C" for the "seeing," get it?"

Mr. Davis tried to protest, but the accomplished flirt easily silenced him by simply skinning her cheer panties out from under her sweet little rump and sliding them down her thighs. The science teacher was speechless throughout this process, and became even more stupefied when the manipulative cheerleader pulled her right foot back up into position on the table and back up against her tush, spreading her now naked crotch deliciously before her prey.

Misty knew men liked her body. And she knew men were obsessed with pussies in particular. She even suspected that her pussy, like the rest of her, was probably quite lovely, at least for a girl her age. But she was, after all, still only fourteen, and relatively inexperienced. So although she understood much, she didn't understand everything.

For example, if there was any part of her plan she feared was weak, it was the appearance of her pussy. Not the pussy itself, mind you, but its hair...or more correctly, the lack thereof.

Misty knew she had only a light dusting of downy hair along her fat outer labia. She knew she had only the faintest patch - a mere fluff, really -- of true-to-life pubic hairs, surmounting her young slit. These were so fine and sparse - and so light in color, just like her pony-tailed mane - that even this patch was not especially visible. In these observable particulars, the young tease was completely correct in her assessments. But where she was in error - in fact, categorically and diametrically at odds with the real truth -- was in her conclusions concerning a grown man's likely reaction to her nearly- hairless state.

You see, Misty had always enjoyed the attentions of boys - and men - precisely because she was, in so many ways, an early bloomer. Her breasts had begun to sprout and become noticeable in the fifth grade, and by the seventh, she was already a "B-cup"; today, they were pushing a "C-cup." Her young pelvis had widened, if not to womanly proportions, then at least to some ratio altogether unchildlike, at around twelve. And her rear-end, with its ample, rounded shelf, was, like the rest of her bodily attributes, an early arriver, especially in comparison to her just-now developing classmates. In fact, with the single exception of her tardily arriving pubic and underarm hair, Misty was, at fourteen, completely finished with puberty.

So it is understandable that, based on this particular history, Misty would believe that her girlish pudenda, unadorned with the marks of maturity that the rest of her body so generously displayed, would not be so appealing to a full grown man like Mr. Davis, at least not as appealing as a more hirsute specimen might be. This belief represented the only element in Misty's entire agenda that troubled her otherwise ironclad confidence.

Of course, what she didn't appreciate, bless her little eighth-grade heart, as she sat before her teacher with her young vulva spread to his avid view, was that despite her presumptions, her very immaturity was absolutely enthralling to a man.

Consider first "a man" in the generic sense, of "Everyman." Most men, whether or not they admit it in our hypersensitive and politically correct culture, love youth. "Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed" is the joke that men tell each other at the sight of a cute little thing, and then invariably they nervously laugh and hope that the others don't realize that in their own heart-of-hearts, they really do think that this is true. So, even the hypothetical "average man" would, contrary to Misty's naive belief, delight in her young crotch, its forbidden nature, and its still-developing beauty.

But now consider "a man" in the sense of this particular man, Mr. Davis, who day-in and day-out attended to the educational needs of healthy young children, aged anywhere from eleven to fourteen. A particular man who had happily watched their young bodies -- the female bodies, that is -- commence, accelerate through, and often complete puberty before his very eyes, year after year, class after class. A particular man who, on an almost nightly basis, was wont to masturbate in the safety of his bachelor apartment, imagining the charms of one or another of his young charges. A particular man who, with a frequency that would have surprised even her self-absorbed ego, masturbated specifically to thoughts of Misty herself. And a particular man who, in envisioning Misty's heretofore hidden flower, had never decorated it, in his mind's eye, with a single hair more than she in fact now presented to him, so unexpectedly, at 3:15 on a Tuesday afternoon in the Monroe Middle School science lab.

He stared, transfixed. He tried to speak, and then to stutter, but managed only to gasp. His pupils, now dilated to their greatest possible extent, drank in this vision -- this real, in-the-flesh vision - a vision that had so often, in a vastly inferior imaginary form, fueled his onanistic lusts.

Yes, Misty understood a great deal about the power a girl's body could project over a man's behavior, but in her one misplaced source of insecurity, she misunderstood completely; and this misapprehension caused her an inconvenience, at the very least. She had already won; all that remained was to declare victory, demand the grade revision, and head for home. However, mistaking her science teacher's devotional paralysis for a halfway negative response to her genital immaturity, she determined she must take a further step in order to close the deal.

Deciding in an instant, she slid off the table. This caused her skirt to drop over her crotch, hiding her sweet cuntlet and bringing a look of loss and pain to Mr. Davis' face, but not for long. Matter-of-factly, Misty dropped to her knees, began to unbuckle her teacher's trousers - which were already tenting out prodigiously, of course - and made her declaration.

"I'm going to suck you off, Mr. Davis. And then you're going to give me that 'C'."

Whatever confidence Tamara had coming in fled at that moment. Obediently, she shut the door and turned the latch. Then, still clutching her doffed top in both hands, she shuffled to the front of Coach Fellows' desk.

"C'mere. Around by me."

The thirteen-year-old honor student followed his commands with alacrity. Once beside him -- he had pushed his chair back from the desk and turned to face her approach - she froze, like a little bird, except for a slight tremble in her shoulders.

The coach looked her straight in the eye. He was a large man - meaning tall and muscular - so even seated, he barely had to incline his head to do this. After a good four-count, he snatched the top from her hands and tossed it aside.

"Well?"

"Huh?"

"Well, you said you were going to undress. What d'ya got?"

More than slightly taken aback, Tamara was confused for just a moment, and then understood. Reaching behind her back - a move that secretly delighted the forty-year-old coach, for it thrust her cupcake-endowed chest outward - she unfastened her A-cup bra and dropped it to the floor. For an instant, she almost moved to cover her nakedness, but remembering her mission, she lowered her hands to her sides.

"Well, this is a start, I suppose," he grunted, and immediately covered her juvenile titlets with his large, strong palms. Tamara was startled, but no longer shocked. As she had contemplated this course, the possibility that the Coach would demand more than just a look had certainly been considered, and accepted. In fact, the earnest thirteen-year-old, whose entire romantic experience consisted of kissing a boy for five minutes last summer at band camp, gasped at the touch, not in alarm but in pleasure.

She really had no idea what being felt-up was usually like, so when the coach shifted from mere cupping to kneading, and then from kneading to lightly pinching, and next from pinching to carefully twisting, the adolescent schoolgirl took it all in stride. Frankly, she enjoyed every bit of it, and was starting to think that her fears of Coach Fellows were completely baseless.

That is why, when the coach, holding a nipple firmly between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, pulled the supplicating pupil down to her kneel between his spread knees, she complied readily. He released her swollen nubbins, and she found herself staring into the P.E. teacher's crotch, covered, for the moment, by a pair of button-up athletic shorts.

"Brewer," he said, as he began to unbutton these shorts and reach inside, "if you want to start erasing 'No Dresses', you're going to have to make your case to the 'Referee.' Like most refs, he's kinda blind - got only one eye. And if you want him to hear you, you better put your mouth right up next to his head. Here he is...," with this, he fished out a cock - a large and hairy cock - and, not insignificantly, the first live adult cock Tamara had ever laid her eyes upon. "So, you got a case to make? Tell it to the 'Ref!"

Misty was somewhat surprised, since he obviously like science and stuff, that her teacher was so impressively endowed. The only cock she had ever held that she was sure, in this moment of recollection, had been larger, belonged to Tommy Gordon, a high school sophomore. Of course, although Mr. Davis did sport a larger-than-average member, it is important to remember that Misty's experiences, although reasonably numerous, had largely been limited to middle-school boys and high-school underclassmen.

As she weighed his manhood in her well-manicured little hands, she decided that Mr. Davis wasn't a complete loser, after all.

Now would be a good time to mention that despite Misty's demonstrated willingness to engage in oral sex with various boys and now her thirty-five-year-old teacher, she actually had a very low sex drive. Her drive was for status, attention, and adoration. Fooling around, offering up her gorgeous little body, was simply a means to those ends.

So, for example, when she had found herself, as has been already recounted, on her knees at a high school party, confronted with and mastering the challenge of blowing six boys in a row, she had enjoyed the experience, but not particularly for sexual reasons.

Sure, she was attracted to boys and men; and kissing, and petting, and so forth were pleasant sensations, but what really motivated her was demonstrating exactly how attracted these men and boys were to her.

Therefore, although she was impressed by the size of Mr. Davis' tool, this was more because she knew that boys thought prick size was important than of because of any particular erotic appeal for her. In her foolish, adolescent mind, she figured that if boys thought a big prick was better than a small prick, then that meant Mr. Davis was a bigger prize than she thought he was going to be, and therefore her accomplishment in bringing him into the flock of thankful Misty worshippers was that much more important to her.

So it was with this odd train of thought, rather than especial attraction, that the cheerleader took pleasure in noting the eight-inch length of her science teacher's by-now very hard cock. No matter what her body looked like, she still possessed the mind of a fourteen-year-old.

Therefore, with a great deal of self-satisfaction but only a limited sense of sexual arousal, the gorgeous little eighth-grader made an "O" with her lips and slipped them over the swelling, weeping knob of her anxious teacher's prick.

Tamara could hardly believe her eyes. As she knelt between her gym teacher's powerful thighs, her cute upturned face was practically shaded from the office's harsh fluorescent light by the swaying, upright rod of seemingly angry flesh, jutting as it was from the coach's spread open buttonfly.

Emerging from a nest of thick, dark pubic hair, interspersed with just a few wiry gray curls, the alien object thrust skyward like some anatomical Tower of Babel. At its base, where a few hairs sprouted along the first inch or so of the stalk, it seemed to the inexperienced thirteen-year-old's eyes to be as thick around as a pop can. In this estimate, she was quite correct. Further, it seemed to be as long, from base to tip, as her forearm from elbow to wrist. In this measurement, the young honor student perhaps overestimated. However, at nine-and-a-half inches of turgid manmeat, Coach Fellows' fuck-tackle might very well turn out to be the largest the young girl would ever handle, for the rest of her life. She couldn't know this at the time, of course, but rest assured, even without this foreknowledge, its size was sufficient to both frighten and impress the petite girl.

"Thwaap!" without warning, the coach took his prick in hand by the base and tapped it against the stunned schoolgirl's forehead. This startled her for a moment, and she finally broke her stare to look up past his genitals to seek out his face.

"Hey, I know it's a beauty, but if you want to make your case, you'd better start making nice with the 'Ref.' Why don't we see what you can do with your hands?"

Tamara was a bright girl, and although she had had very little experience in these matters, it wasn't as if she was clueless. She read the spicier sort of romance book -- avidly -- and had, on many occasions, masturbated herself to sleep dreaming of some tall, dark sheik whisking her away to his desert tent and ravishing her.

Her classmates -- and teachers -- would probably be quite surprised by how often the shy, quiet, and studious little cutie thought about boys -- correction, men -- and how aroused some of her reading and fantasies made her.

But despite her active imagination, Tamara had never dreamed she'd be confronted so...presently...with the heretofore abstract object of her erotic thoughts. She had come to the P.E. office this afternoon expecting to strip, probably pose, and maybe let the coach fondle her a little bit. She'd certainly not expected to take any active role herself. Tentatively, she reached her slender hands towards the beast.

Gently, she reached around and grasped the shaft with both hands - one above the other, as if she was gripping a baseball bat -- and nearly let go when the monster jerked in obvious pleasure at her touch. Regaining control of herself, the sweet young teen lightly squeezed, and then stroked, the vibrant pole in her grasp.

This was the first penis she had ever touched in her life and, if possible, the sensation was even more thrilling than she had imagined it would be. The flesh was soft in one way, but underneath this surface it was steely hard, and yet alive. The warmth of the thing surprised her, and by this point her own young loins were heating up in sympathy. For a few moments, as she stroked and studied the organ, she completely forgot about her grades, her purpose, and even Coach Fellows himself. It was just her...and that COCK.

She certainly had no idea how positively sexy the view was from the other side. The coach looked down upon an adorable little dark-haired pixie, hanging onto his cock like a lifeline. Her petite, elfin face, gazing up from under his cock in an almost worshipful awe, served to exaggerate the size of his looming member by comparison, and to accentuate deliciously the forbidden discordance of their intergenerational liaison.

Not that Coach Fellows hadn't been here before. In his fifteen-year career at Monroe Middle School, many young girls -- six, to be exact -- and even one effeminately cute little sissyboy -- had found themselves in this position, either in pursuit of a better grade or compelled by simple animal attraction. Despite her opening assertion, that she sought a grade revision, the authentic adoration Tamara was affording his prick led the coach to believe that she had come to his office this afternoon for the latter reason as well.

Yes, Coach Fellows was very pleased with Tamara Brewer, both for coming to see him in this manner, and for so readily surrendering to his sexual power. Before this very moment, it had never occurred to him that perhaps the shy, brainiac honor student had an untapped sexual need, but then why not? He made a note to himself that he'd have to grade cute, academically-ambitious girls a little harder in the future, in hopes of encouraging more of them to follow in Tamara's footsteps, or rather in her knee steps.

Tamara, at this moment, could have no way of knowing how pleased he was with her, at least not based on the next thing she heard. "You gonna yank on that thing all day? The Ref expects to meet your mouth -- now."

Shaken from her strictly cock-cradling reverie, Tamara was startled into action. Standing more erect on her knees, she brought her mouth to the angry purple tip of her teacher's oversized penis. She noticed a clear bead of fluid emerging from the slit-hole at its end but, fearing further reproofs, she didn't hesitate, but bent her lips to it and planted a wet, full-lipped kiss directly on it.

She felt the penis -- and her coach's hips -- jerk at the contact, and she sensed the thick, muscular thighs on either side of her slight body tensing up. Thinking she had pleased him -- which she had -- she repeated the kiss. "This isn't so difficult," she thought, as she leaned in once more to plant a third juicy, fat-lipped smack on the swelling nut, but this time she was surprised to suddenly feel the coach's strong hand at the top of her head, preventing her from backing off after the kiss. Partially understanding, the honor student opened her lips again, in a full, wet fish mouth, and in so doing allowed the end of the rounded knob to wedge within them. She worked those lips, and applied some tongue, employing what little she remembered from her one French kissing experience; nonetheless, the pressure on top of her head did not relent.

More of the fat bullet head pressed inward, which forced her to open wider in order to accommodate it. Again, misinterpreting his purpose, she gamely tried to make mouth-love to the tip, but Coach Fellows continued to press down, now even more firmly. Soon, they passed the tipping point in the effort, for suddenly her mouth was filled to fleshy capacity and beyond, as the entire massive cockhead -- a veritable jawbreaker -- instantaneously slipped within her drooling oral cavity.

The fat head of her gym teacher's cock was so wide that her lips had been stretched uncomfortably as they were forced over its widest dimension. It was with some relief that, once the rude helmet had lodged itself completely within her eighth-grade mouth, her overstretched lips settled easily -- and more comfortably --behind its rim and around the only slightly smaller circumference of the cock shaft itself.

"Now," growled Coach Fellows, his stern voice masking his delight at the vision between his thighs, "you're finally talking to the Ref. Make your case a good one!"

As Misty's lip-glossed dicksucker settled down over the head and upper shaft of her science teacher's eager rod, she augmented the slick, firm grip of her full fourteen-year-old lips with a tip-teasing tongue swirl. Mr. Davis shuddered, and Misty snickered silently to herself.

"Boys are so easy," she thought, "and now I know that men are, too." She mused on the fact that, from her perspective, males were a cinch to manipulate. Want a gaggle of boys to follow you around the mall, so everyone can see how popular you are? Flash them a little panty, "on accident." Want to make a grown man stumble and fumble his words, right in the middle of a sentence? Push your tits out at him while he's talking. Want your science teacher to improve your grade? Just suck on his cock. "Gosh," she thought, "men are so foolish!"

By way of proof, she decided to tease Mr. Davis and test his reactions. First, she reached one hand up to cradle his hanging ballsack. Again, she had to admit, he was well-endowed for somebody so smart. With her other hand, which was already grasping his stalk, she began to pump gently. Both of these developments elicited helpless moans from her teacher.

Next, she applied a lesson her previous cocksucking experience had taught her. Still holding his member with both hands, and drawing her tightly pursed lips back along its length until impeded by the back ridge of his helmet, the luscious schoolgirl looked up coquettishly and opened her baby-blues all wide and "innocent", to find, of course, that Mr. Davis was staring right back. As she expected, meeting his eyes while she sucked on him caused the man to groan loudly, followed by a muttered "Sweet Jesus, Misty, you're fantastic!"

With a plop, Misty slid her mouth off the tip of his dick. "Do you like my technique, Mr. Davis?"

"Oh, Christ, you bet I do, Misty!"

"So you're fixing my grade? I get a 'C', right?"

"You're not stopping, are you?"

"No, silly!" she nipped at the tip of his prick, but otherwise kept it at a tantalizing distance from her wet mouth.

"Please..." he groaned through gritted teeth, "go back to what you were doing...."

"I will," the manipulative cheerleader responded, but then she put an exaggerated pout on her lips. This look, of course, would have been sexy on Misty's face to any man, any time, but at this moment, it was especially erotic to Mr. Davis, for her delicious lower lip dangled only an inch from his organ. "But Mr. Davis, I don't want a 'C.' I want a 'B'!"

"But...but Misty, I thought we agreed...or you said...you'd suck me for a 'C.' I can't give you a 'B'...too many teachers know your academic history...it would be too suspicious, okay? So c'mon ...please...you said you'd suck me for a 'C'."

Misty smiled up at him, from beneath his turgid cock, and laughed. Men were such slaves! "Don't worry, Mr. Davis, a promise is a promise. I'll suck you. But I was just thinking, maybe you want to see my tits while I suck you?"

"Oh, yes please! That would be very nice!"

"You want me to take my top off - and my bra off - and then suck you some more, Mr. Davis?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Then I want a 'B'. C'mon, I get some 'Bs', you know, so it wouldn't be that suspicious. So, what do you think? Want to give me a 'B' - a 'B' to see my boobies?" The pout returned, and patiently waited.

The thirty-five year old science teacher was in agony at this point, a wild look coming over his face in an earnest plea to see those sweet juglets and get that mouth back on his cock. He relented, just as Misty knew he would.

"Okay, Misty, if you take that top off - and your bra - and if you finish what you started with the sucking, I'll give you a 'B'."

"Oh, thanks, Mr. D!" she dropped her hands from his genitals - which remained, though unsupported, as erect and out-thrust as ever - and quickly pulled her cheer-sweater up over her head. The creamy, rounded tops of her precocious eighth-grade breasts rose from the immodest demi-cups of her white bra. Misty wasted no time, however, in reaching between them to unhook the straining fastener and let the lacy cups fall aside. She left the unhinged garment dangling from her shoulders, but her mammaries - unbound and unshielded -- now jutted out free and firm, a bona fide science experiment in gravity-defiance.

"Oh Misty, those are beautiful!" and they were -- round, firm, pink-nippled and, most importantly to the closet hebephile's mind, mounted on the perfect body of a fourteen-year-old girl.

Many had been the time when, under the pretext of assisting the un-ambitious student with a lab experiment, he'd looked down a button-topped shirt to get a glimpse of her cleavage. Many had been the night when, while pleasuring himself, the vision of her oversized sweater-muffins had filled his mind with ejaculation-enhancing imagery. But now, before his very eyes, in all their pristine, true-to-life glory, right there, displayed beneath his own lurching, spit-slick prick was a pair of adolescent breasts more perfect than any in all his imaginations.

The teen, sensing her advantage, cupped a breast in each hand, and stood up on her knees to tease their nippled tips across the end of his weeping prickhead. "Do you like them, Mr. Davis? Are these 'B'-grade boobies, do you think?"

"Oh, Misty, they're perfect."

"It doesn't bother you that I'm only fourteen, Mr. Davis? That I'm a student? Your student?" Misty pressed her ample tits inward with her hands, capturing the end of his dick between them.

"Oh....." he groaned, both in reaction to her erotic taunting and in response to the sensation of the cleavage encasing his now-smothered glans.

"So do I get that 'B'? Tell me 'yes', so I can get back to sucking on your naughty, yummy, teacher-cock."

"Yessss, honey, yessssss...you get a 'B'...."

True to her word, within a second Misty had settled back down on her heels and slurped the hyper-teased prick back within the friendly confines of her bubblegum-sweet mouth.

Tamara was beginning to wonder how anybody succeeded in sucking cock, for although she nursed enthusiastically on the massive head that was firmly -- and tightly -- ensconced within her junior-high mouth, and although her drool ran in rivulets down the tree-trunk shaft she held -- and pumped -- with both slender hands, she despaired of ever being capable of taking it in more deeply.

She had read accounts of oral sex, and of course had heard boys speaking rudely about it, so she had some idea of what "deep-throating" meant. She just couldn't imagine how anyone could physically manage it.

Of course, as has already been noted, Coach Fellows was so well-hung that she might never have to -- or ever get to -- try to solve such a challenging capacity problem again. He was hugely endowed, and she was naturally petite - not to mention only thirteen years old. Nonetheless, as the coach, his hands now gently holding either side of her head, pulled her back and forth ever so slightly along the end of his shaft, the poor thing actually suffered feelings of inadequacy because she was only able to handle a few millimeters' movement in each cycle.

Occasionally she gagged, and she felt moisture collecting at the corner of her eyes, but she continued to try her best. Perhaps this perseverance was due, in part, to that other moisture, which she felt collecting within her young honor-roll vagina, for she couldn't help but respond with submission and arousal to this masterful man as he seized his pleasure from her helpless person. Oooh, this was better than any of her late-night masturbatory fantasies, by far!

Tamara was an observant individual and, unlike her classmate Misty, she was quite accomplished in the science lab. Therefore, as this oral mating continued to the growing pleasure of educator and pupil alike, she first observed by accident, and then confirmed through intentional test, the nature of an interesting phenomenon.

Tamara noticed that whenever she turned her eyes upward from their focus on the massive blowpipe protruding from her mouth, and looked instead into her coach's face, there was a seemingly autonomic response. His cockhead seemed to swell instantly to even more unmanageable proportions, his hips jerked impulsively up into her face, and his hands pulled her head down into his lap a little more energetically; all this would, in turn, elicit yet another gag from the back of her overtaxed, underaged mouth.

From this observation, the intelligent and curious young scholar correctly surmised that the sight of her big brown, doe-like eyes, looking up into the face of a man whose penis she was in the act of sucking, was an especially erotic image. Believing this, she began to choose her moments, and then sweep her gaze up to meet his; sure enough, whenever she did this, she got a similar result.

This was fun for the first few times, but after an initial thrill at discovering that she had even this modicum of control over Coach Fellows' pleasure, she actually felt a twinge of imminent disappointment. Could it be that she was the one empowered during this act of submission? Was she in control?

She needn't have feared, for although Coach Fellows was immensely enjoying all the sights, sounds, and sensations of this novice cocksucker's efforts, he never once yielded the initiative to her.

Perhaps sensing her true needs, but most certainly sensing his own, the forty-year-old physical education instructor suddenly pulled his young charge's head backwards, again uncomfortably stretching her lips over his fat, now-exiting glans, until finally, with a sloppy plop, his shiny wet fuckcrown bounced freely in the air before the confused schoolgirl's eyes.

"I don't think you're trying hard enough. I'm going to have to do what I should have done the first time you 'forgot' your gym clothes. Would've done ya a world of good, Little Miss Priss.

"Get up...that's right... now, let's just unsnap these pants, and unzip...now, lay over my lap...that's right." Tamara felt the steel lever of her coach's lengthy prick torquing up into her bare belly as she settled in across it. She wasn't sure what he was up to, but she began to hope....

"Let's dispense with the rest of these street clothes." She felt his powerful right hand grasping the waistband of her unbuttoned pants, along with, she soon discovered, the waistband of her panties. With a powerful yank, the muscular man pulled both garments down her slender upper legs until they dangled ineffectually around her knees. A sweet little underaged rump was now exposed to the man's hungry eyes -- and to his eager palm.

"Thwaaaak!" that palm resounded, as it landed squarely across her upturned buttocks. Shame coursed through Tamara's body.

"Thwaaaak -Thwaaaak!", and two more blows hit home. She could feel the angry urgency of her punisher's penis driving up against her tummy. Now her shame was accompanied by a stinging pain and a hot flash across her flesh, for although the coach wasn't coming close to hitting her as hard as he could, these were far more forceful than mere love-pats.

"Thwaaaak!" Now the shame was unrelenting, for it had settled down and localized itself within her adolescent pelvis, and manifested itself in the slutty lubrication that welled up within -- and trickled from -- her highly aroused young vagina.

"Please...."

"Please what, Brewer?"

No answer. "Thwaaaak!"

"Please!"

"Please let you try to suck my cock better than you've managed so far?"

"OOOH, Coach, don't...." she trailed off.

"Thwaaaak!"

"Don't what, don't let you suck my cock?"

"Um, no...I mean..." again, she stopped mid-thought, or mid-lust.

"Thwaaaak!"

"Please stop spanking you?"

"Um, yeah."

"Thwaaaak!"

"'Um, no', is more like it, I think. You love this. This is what you came for." With that, he dropped a meaty hand down between her thighs and swept his thick fingertips along her sodden, hairless crease. The young girl moaned.

"Your sweet little pussy is loving this, isn't it Brewer?"

" Yes, coach."

"Thwaaaak!"

"Good. Now, do you want me to teach you how to properly serve my prick with your mouth?"

"Uh-huh." Her head, suspended halfway to the floor as she lay draped across the man's lap, bobbed in agreement.

"Thwaaaak!"

"That's 'yes, coach.' Now, let's be more specific. Do you want me to force you to properly serve my prick with your mouth?"

" Yes, coach."

"Thwaaaak!"

"Good girl, that's better. I'll give you what you're begging for, as a favor. But first, time to count our reps. I've given you eleven swats. How old are you, Brewer?"

"Thirteen, Coach." She felt the stiff cock poking at her navel lurch as she said this.

"Alright, then I'll give you two more reps, a Baker's dozen: thirteen reps for a thirteen-year-old girl."

"Thwaaaak-Thwaaaak!"

"There you go. Now stand up, and face the desk."

The adorable, moppet-like honor student did as she was told, and ruefully rubbed her stinging red bottom before the coach's gleeful eyes while taking the prescribed position before the desk. The pants and panties slid from her knees down to her ankles, but Coach Fellows made no indication that he wanted her to remove them completely. So instead of stepping free of them, she waited, obediently.

She saw the Coach's hairy right arm reach past her, to open a drawer and pull out a coiled jump rope, the sort with polished wooden handles. For a few seconds, the eighth-grader quailed, and her belly did flip-flops, as she imagined that her Coach might slide one of those jump rope handles into her virginal sheath. This thought only caused more lubrication to drool out of her quivering, untried cuntmouth.

However, she soon comprehended his actual purpose, for instead the man gathered her wrists behind her back and deftly tied them together. Once he finished this task, she felt the two wooden handles drop against her spank-reddened bottom and hang there.

Tamara tried the restraint, and was pleased to find that he had secured her wrists quite soundly. She couldn't budge them within the knots. Again, her belly tingled, and again, her pussy wept.

"Turn around, and get back on your knees."

He helped her down with a strong hand under each armpit. She was again on her knees, and again facing that monster prick, swaying with unflagging strength before her eyes. With her arms tied back, and sitting on her heels in such a defenseless posture, the penis seemed even larger, and more threatening.

"Now, there's a time and a place for a handjob, and that's just fine that you want to hold and handle my prick. But as your coach, I have to tell you, you need to try harder with that mouth of yours. You were leaving way too much of my cock to cool off in the breeze. Your hands were just providing you with an excuse.

"I call that 'cheater-dick', when a girl uses her hands to get away with using too little mouth. So now I've taken those hands out of the game. I'm going to force you to please me properly, just as you know you want me to."

The coach took her head in both hands, and Tamara eagerly opened wide. She was proud of herself, for she got her lips over the head easily this time, and as he pulled her face down into and over his prick, she felt it go in further than ever before her gag reflex made her choke around the still-advancing intruder.

"Sluuuurp!" Once more, Misty momentarily removed her science teacher's lust-reddened penis from her practiced mouth. It shone with her spit, and quivered on a hair-trigger. Despite its admittedly impressive girth and length, the cheerleader had managed on this last insertion cycle to take him deeply enough to tickle her cute button nose with her teacher's pubic hair.

Naturally, Misty took pride in her ability, but she was even more satisfied with the obvious helplessness her ministrations had produced in Mr. Davis. The man was practically a simpering mess, now sitting back on a lab stool, his trousers and boxers around his ankles, his face nearly vacant in its lust. He stared back down at the gorgeous eighth grader, kneeling before him in a pleated cheerleading skirt, socks, saddle shoes, dangling bra, and nothing else.

The poor man - if any man can be described in terms the least bit pitying when he is being so gloriously serviced -- knew full well that beneath that skirt was nothing but a gorgeous, naked ass and an un-pantied, virtually hairless fourteen-year-old cunt. That junior-high honeypot was out of the picture now, both literally and figuratively, so the devoted educator instead feasted his glazed eyes on the astonishing prospect of the young schoolgirl's bared breasts and lovely face.

Teasingly, she lip-nibbled at the tip of his purpling knob, and then made a point out of her pink little tongue, to poke and slide through his tiny winking slit. It responded with yet a further flow of clear, oily pre-cum.

"So Mr. Davis, what do you think of my talents?"

He moaned; she nipped.

"How do you like having a little eighth-grade, co-ed cocksucker?"

If there was anything for Mr. Davis to be proud of in this whole sordid episode -- other than, of course, the fact that he was getting blown by such a gorgeous young girl -- it would have to be the fact that he didn't blast his cum all over her upturned face the instant she asked such an erotic question.

She kissed his tip again, and teased him further. "I bet I suck cock better than a high school girl....what do you think, Mr. D?"

She lifted his shaft, pushing it vertical, and nuzzled her face into his hairy scrotum. What he thought, naturally, was that the fact that she was fourteen was alone enough to make her attentions better than those of any high-school girl.

He actually thought he might muster the control to reply to this last, but before he could, Misty emerged from nosing about his ballsack to slide her full, pouty lips once more over his corona and down his straining shaft.

She bobbed up and down, slowly, luxuriantly, and the man gasped for what had to be the hundredth time. After a minute or so, she again pulled off.

"Do you want to come in my mouth, Mr. Davis?"

He could only nod.

"Well, if you come in my mouth, you have to give me an 'A'."

At this impossible suggestion, the man finally marshaled the strength to respond.

"I can't Misty, you know that. You never get 'As', and the other students know what your test grades have been. Please don't make me do that."

"I'm not making you, Mr. D --," she paused to nibble provocatively "You can cum on my tits, and give me a 'B.' I know you like my tits, so that will be okay, won't it?"

She looked up as poutingly and coquettishly as she could manage. The man nodded his assent, and she made as though she was going to swallow his manhood again, but stopped herself and looked back up into his face.

"But it's up to you to pull out. When you want to cum, you just pull out and squirt all over my nice titties, okay? 'Cause if you don't, and you cum in my mouth, well that means you decided to give me an 'A'. And I know you can't do that." She smiled archly, and then resumed her interrupted motion, slurping his cock back into her talented mouth and throat.

Young Tamara hadn't shed a single tear during her spanking under the firm hand of her gym teacher. Granted, the powerful man had hardly been using his full strength as he struck her gorgeous little upturned bottom, but make no mistake, each of her thirteen swats had stung and hurt the young eighth-grader.

Despite this pain, the bookish girl had managed to keep her tears in check. He had taken her, repeatedly, to the verge of tear-duct overflow, and her sniffling responses to some of his challenges as he spanked her had provided ample evidence of the girl's physical distress. Nonetheless, she had managed to keep her cheeks - in contrast to her gushing little vagina - nearly dry throughout.

Now, however, the tears flowed profusely. She was not crying, however, due to the lingering pain in her red-spanked bottom. That well-chastised derriere rested, naked under her jump-rope-bound wrists, upon the heels of her Chuck Taylor tennis shoes, and still glowed with the incarnadine evidence of its recent corporal punishment. But although the soreness of that mild bruising might very well return later to remind the girl of that particular aspect of the day's shameful submission, at the moment she had forgotten about it completely.

Instead, the tears flowed under the impetus of a far greater imposition - the almost continuous gag-spasm wracking her struggling throat, as it desperately tried - and failed - to relax around the imbedded intrusion of Coach Fellows' unmercifully large cock.

It had been relatively easy, at first. When she had first opened her mouth, kneeling and bound, to accept the forty-year old gym teacher's penis for her second attempt, now with the benefit of a stern admonishment and sound spanking to guide her efforts, she had been delighted to find that she could take the whole massive head without choking. And when the coach had pressed forward, he must have slid almost another full inch inwards before she had gagged, and the man had backed off.

Even when he had immediately pressed forward again, and again elicited a gagging response, she was pretty sure that she had successfully received him even more deeply than before, and her satisfaction with the achievement vastly outweighed her discomfort.

But the coach had continued, repeatedly penetrating, each thrust pushing her soft palate to the point of involuntary reflex, before backing off. He continued, without kindness or apparent concern, to drive that pleasure-seeking dragon deeper into her resisting gullet. Even on his out-strokes, she had barely been able to get a breath in edge-wise, what with all the choking, and gasping, and cock in the way. Therefore, the tears, so admirably restrained under the firm attentions of a manly hand, at last burst forth under this relentless oral assault.

As the man yanked her head back and forth along the pinion of his penis, the poor girl was actually afraid. She was afraid she might suffocate; she was afraid, in fact, that he might somehow tear out the back of her throat. But most of all, she was afraid that she would ultimately fail to accommodate enough of Coach Fellows' prick to please him, and that he would therefore be ultimately unsatisfied.

She needn't have worried, of course. Coach Fellows would not allow her to suffocate - not completely, at least. He knew what he was doing, and had learned in the last twenty-five years or so how to use his weapon without causing irretrievable asphyxiation. By the same token, he wasn't likely to injure the poor girl, although she might have a sore throat for the next few days. And least of all did she need to worry about satisfying Coach Fellows. He would make sure that happened.

He was pleased that the petite little cutie put up no resistance - beyond the fact that she was bound, she was also obviously trying her hardest, with each in-stroke, not to expel but rather to receive more of his mighty cock. He knew she couldn't help her throat's autonomic defense, but she did manage to keep the rest of her body yielding and compliant.

Her torso remained as limp as a rag doll as he dragged her adorable, weeping face along the length of his delving shaft. Her constricting, choking throat-gate tickled his glans each time he reached her limit; the cool breeze across his saliva-soaked member as she desperately inhaled on each out-stroke was a delightful counterpoint. He noticed that she was managing to accept more and more depth as his efforts continued, and being the motivating coach that he was, he decided he would push this young "athlete" to the finish line on this, her very first outing.

After one particularly deep thrust, he pulled out until only his head lay within her moist orifice, her aching jaws gamely stretching to prevent her teeth from scraping him unduly. He allowed her gulping breaths to catch up on her oxygen debt - one, two, three, and then BAM, on her fourth intake, the poor girl discovered she was inhaling cock instead of air. Her gag reflex on this occasion was untimely and inadequate, for the combined powers of her labored air-sucking and his selfish hip-thrusting drove the offending organ for the first time well past the soft palate and into her throat proper. When her throat did get a chance to respond, its ineffectual, jangling protest only served to tighten it deliciously around his shaft, clamping down behind the ridge of his deep-seated knob.

At this unprecedented intrusion, the bound moppet did try to fight her way off the cock, if only because she had no idea, at that point, where her next breath -- if any -- might come from. Her body reacted as it would to drowning - and she was drowning, in a sense - drowning in cockflesh. The flailing of her wee body, and the spasmodic clutching of her objecting throat muscles, only served to further delight and please the mighty cock -- and the mighty cocksman who wielded it.

Tamara's tear-flooded eyes grew wide in fear and desperation, and the coach luxuriated in this exquisite pleasure for ten or twelve seconds - which seemed more like minutes to the poor darling, of course -- before he retreated back out of her pharynx and rested his glans upon her tongue, his firm grasp on her head preventing any attempt to fully eject his member from its playground. In relief, and in great gasping, panting breaths, the sweet honor student wheedled life-giving air over, under, and around the now over-heated cockhead still barbarically occupying her tiny oral entrance.

"Not bad, Brewer, we'll make a varsity player out of you yet. Now, that is real cocksucking, and now that I know you can do it, I'm not going to accept anything less than your best. Don't worry, I won't let you suffocate. And don't worry, I won't stop fucking your face until you complete the exercise. So, here we go again, another set...and Brewer, I understand it's easier if you stick your tongue forward as far as you can when I drive in, and swallow before you gag. Now here goes...."

They proceeded to "exercise" in earnest.

So, now, after six or seven "sets", each one eventually culminating in a deep, domineering implantation of oversized cock within underaged throat, Tamara was no longer afraid that she was going to die while waiting for her face-fucker to partially withdraw and allow her to imperfectly re-catch her breath.

And the coaching points really did seem to help; sticking her tongue forward flattened it in back, which made it easier to take him down for another "set"; so did swallowing at just the right instant, as it repressed most of her gag reflex.

These adjustments, after the initial shock had been dispelled, allowed the thirteen-year-old to concentrate more fully on the thick meat clogging her neck each time her coach pressed forward. As he soaked within her for ten or more seconds on every cycle, the thrill of the scene - and the humiliation of it all -- began to once again work its magic on her naughty little ooze-groove. Tamara had a powerful need to finger her swollen clit as she served the man's thick cock, but of course, the jump-rope binding her wrists behind her back prevented any such relief.

And, of course, the tears still flowed. It was with relief, despair and disappointment that Tamara finally heard her P.E. teacher proclaim that he was about to cum, and felt him yank her head further into his lap, in turn driving his already imbedded manhood still deeper within her helpless body. She knew, from her reading, that "cumming" signaled the end of her ordeal. Her throat was more than ready to see this end, of course, but her pubescent cunt would have preferred the abuse to continue all night. With conflicting needs, she waited for the finale.

And waited.

Ten seconds passed, and the strong man forced her face more firmly into his sweaty crotch, grinding his unfair penis deeper and deeper into her rudely stretched esophagus.

She waited. Twenty seconds passed. He had never kept it in this long before! Did he forget about her breathing?

Thirty seconds passed, and for the first time in several minutes, the cute bookworm started to panic. She lost the measure of control she had gained over her instincts, and her tormented throat began to clamp down and flutter spasmodically in its own natural panic, as her nervous system signaled impending suffocation. She felt the muscles within her slender neck frantically try to swallow, to vomit, to spit, to do anything that might alter the dire status quo. She struggled uselessly to free her hands.

And then she heard, through the buzz of her oxygen-deprived senses and her hysterical alarm, Coach Fellows mutter, as though through gritted teeth, "Thaaaat's iiiiiit!"

At that instant, in a science lab on the other side of Monroe Middle School, Misty Andersen felt the pedagogic penis within her mouth and upper throat expand, and knew that, just as she expected, her thirty-five-year-old science teacher would be unable to control himself; submitting to her sexual powers, he would indeed cum directly into her sucking schoolgirl mouth.

"Oh Misty, you're wonderful...beautiful...oh yes...." The educator groaned as his overwrought prick finally erupted within her moist mouth, and Misty, no novice when it came to cumloads, was nevertheless surprised by Mr. Davis's enormous offering. Six-seven-eight spurts at least, each as sizeable as the last, shot into the back of her throat. For the first time. Misty sort of gagged, and had an impulse to spit out both cock and cum. However, she was more concerned that her mission succeed in its entirety; having "tricked" her middle school science teacher into cumming in her mouth, she didn't want to lose a drop of his semen, for fear that she'd lose her "deal"for an "A" on a technicality.

As he collapsed back onto the stool from which he had momentarily arisen in the throes of his climax, muttering "yes, yes, oh yes" over and over again, Misty managed to swallow the heavy, salty load: down her throat and into her flat cheerleader belly.

Tamara felt as though she were nothing but tightly bound wrists, throbbing clit, and submissive throat sleeve as the faculty fuckmeat within her gullet began to pump out its load. Perhaps it was oxygen-deprivation, but she thought she could feel, burst after burst, an even-thicker ring of cockmeat repeatedly rolling down the length of the already impossibly fat stake upon which she was impaled. It would start at the base, where her lips stretched obscenely around the hairy lower extreme of her coach's unjust girth. It rolled over her tongue, from front to back, in repeated, climactic shock waves. It pressed through her constricting pharynx, unhindered; and it culminated in the balloon-like expansion of his well-seated corona, which the intelligent young student was pretty sure had to be at least halfway to her stomach. She imagined, correctly, that each such shockwave escorted the transmission and eruption of a sizeable packet of her master's ropey white semen directly into her belly.

She assumed, also correctly, that testicles the size of those currently pressed against her cute little chin might produce quite a bit of semen. Nine or ten shots - perhaps an astonishing ten or eleven cc's in all -- coursed through the gym teacher's penis and into the young schoolgirl's tummy without ever touching tongue or taste bud. Tamara's first taste of fresh semen would have to wait.

Coach Fellows completed his selfish pleasure taking, and allowed the last oozing driblets of his clearly very virile seed to belch out of his cockhead and slither down the lower half of the poor girl's alimentary canal. Tamara's lack of oxygen, aggravated by the displacement of too much blood to her throbbing clitoris and pubis, caused her to finally pass out, still helplessly fixated, like a mounted butterfly, by the oversized pin jammed into her throat.

Mr. Davis was babbling.

"That was fantastic, Misty! You're really good at that, you know!"

"I know. That's why you're giving me an 'A' in science class." She was already re-fastening her dangling bra, pulling its lacy cups over her glorious young breasts and snapping its fastener between them.

"Er, yes, of course. I'd give you an "A' for that blowjob even if you didn't insist. You were wonderful!"

"I'm glad you liked it, Mr. Davis. Sometimes a girl is just naturally good at everything a man might want." She was pulling her sweater down over her head.

"I'll say...I'll say...hey, do you think we could do this again sometime, Misty?"

"Now why would I do that, Mr. Davis? I already got my 'A'?" She finished gliding her arms through the sweater sleeves, and began to glance around in search of her cheer-panties.

"Um, yeah, well I thought ...well, I could pay you?"

"Pay me!?" Misty stopped in her tracks, authentically angry. "What do you think I am, some kind of whore?" The irony, of course, was lost on the habitually under-achieving student.

"No, no, I'm sorry...it's just that...it's just that, you're so beautiful. And I like you so much. I didn't mean to make you angry, Misty..."

Mollified, the self-idolizing eighth-grader discovered the blue satin garment, dangling just where it had landed when she'd tossed it: on a quiescent Bunsen burner. She spread the sexy panties and prepared to step into them.

"Um, Misty?"

She paused. "Yes, Mr. D?"

"Can I have those?"

"These? These cheer-panties? This is one of only two pairs I own."

"Please? I'll give you an 'A-plus' if I can just keep them. Can I?"

The accomplished tease handed them over and, having scored the maximum number of possible points in her little game, she saw no reason to remain a minute longer. She sashayed out of the science lab, her pleated blue-and-white cheer-skirt jauntily bouncing across what only she -- and her ball-drained science teacher -- knew to be a perfectly pantiless ass.

Tamara's blackout lasted only a few seconds, but that was enough time for Coach Fellows to extract his slimy, sated fuckhose from her abused throat and mouth, to lay her prone torso across the desk, and to spread her dangling young thighs in order to inspect her adolescent vulva with his thick, meaty fingers.

As she came to, her shame was heightened by her first, instinctual reaction, which was to moan with genital need and to attempt, as best she could in this compromising and still-bound posture, to impale herself vaginally on the stiff fingers she sensed behind the lightly teasing fingertips cavorting around the entrance to her mating channel.

"Not bad, Brewer," Coach Fellows growled. "Not bad at all for a beginner. And I see your little hymen is still intact. Maybe we'll take care of that for you next time."

Next time! The shocked pupil gasped, and quailed, for she thought at the very worst she'd have to humiliate herself but once to clear her gym teacher's grade book. The prospect of another session made her despair - and it made her swollen clit lurch in delight.

"Yep, you now have only thirteen "No Dresses" in my book. You succeeded in removing one with extra credit. That means if you want to get into that high school honors program, you have only eight more NDs to clear. Should be enough time before the school year is over.

"Tomorrow's no good - got a Little League game to ump. But come by Thursday after school, and you can get to work on clearing another. Meanwhile, here's a little something for you, a little reward for working so hard today...."

With that, he grasped the thirteen-year old's clit-pearl between a powerful thumb and forefinger, and squeezed. Tamara saw stars. Tamara came, gloriously. Tamara passed out a second time.

-o0o-

The girls headed back through now-empty hallways to their respective lockers at about the same time, each to grab her jacket against a late-spring chill before heading home. Coming as they were from opposite ends of the school, and heading in opposite directions, they passed each other, both still completely ignorant as to how similar -- and how different -- their after-school activities had been.

Misty might have noticed how disheveled the exhausted, man-handled, and throat-fucked Tamara was as she practically staggered down the hallway, but as usual, Misty was more interested in what she herself looked like. Also as usual, as she conducted a mental inventory of her self-image, she found that she liked what she saw.

Tamara, on the other hand, might have noticed an even greater-than-usual self-satisfaction in Misty's gait, pleased as she was in demonstrating the power of her wiles to subject even a grown man like Mr. Davis to her will. Of course, Misty didn't care about the "A-plus" per se, for even a "C" would have been sufficient to qualify her for her foregone position on the high school cheerleading squad. But the "A-plus" was further evidence of her extraordinary ability to manipulate males with her sex appeal.

Misty would enjoy no lasting, pleasant recollections of the afternoon's events, other than the fact that she had gotten what she wanted, and that she was now destined for her rightful place in the social hierarchy of Madison High School next fall. She wondered if she could manipulate her father into buying her a new designer purse as a reward for her "A -plus." Of course she could!

Tamara, on the other hand, would relive the day's events -- not to mention the events of her numerous and varied future submissions to her masterful gym teacher -- for years to come. They would figure prominently throughout her life as a major category within her rich store of masturbatory mind-fodder. In fact, as the girls approached each other that afternoon, the industrious thirteen-year old was already feeling a twinge in her crotch, and knew that she would be excusing herself for bed early this evening, in order to strum her high-strung clitoris to at least a half-dozen more schoolgirl orgasms.

So ironically, the two eighth grade girls -- one precociously sexy in a that All-American, blonde-and-blue way, the other cute and dark, in that moody, sexy waif-like way -- who on all other days had so little in common...who after almost three whole years sharing a common homeroom, had barely ever spoken to each other...but who on this day shared so much in common - similar problems, similar solutions, and similar successes, not to mention similar portions of adult male sperm percolating in each of their respective tummies...nonetheless, on this day, as on all other days, they passed each other with barely an acknowledging nod.

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