It’s after midnight and I’m writing this by torchlight under the covers of my bed, holding an ice pack between my legs. I can’t stop thinking about what happened after school today; hopefully writing this down will let me clear my mind and get some sleep. If anyone is reading, I don’t expect you to believe it, but I swear every word is true.

~~~

I’m in my final year at a posh boarding school in Sydney. It’s pretty cool in an old-world sort of way; as well as the normal business, science and humanities subjects, they include other electives that would be more at home in a Swiss finishing school, like deportment and etiquette. It’s supposed to prepare us to be tomorrow’s leaders of society – you’ll never get the CEO’s job if you serve him from the right instead of the left at a dinner party – or worse – you stand talking to his wife for half an hour with your slip showing. Hey, maybe there’s something to it; I know I could stand to be a bit more lady-like. Most of the time it’s pretty fun, but the teachers can be strict. Where other schools punish students for drugs and alcohol, our big problems are inappropriate language and bad posture.

The trouble started this morning at the end of 2nd period when my teacher discretely passed me a note as I walked out. Yellow card: bad news – “Please report to the Headmistress at lunch bell.” I knew what this was about: for academic problems you see the Headmaster and disciplinary issues go to the school marshal so I knew it wasn’t either of those. “Headmistress” is technically an Assistant Principal; it’s an honorary title that dates back to the last century when the school formed as a merger of an all-boys and an all-girls school. The headmaster is the boss of the combined school, so the Headmistress is reduced to perform one job that he can’t handle: girls’ uniform violations.

Let’s get this straight up-front: my summer school dress is a little bit short. I finished growing at age 11 and now stand a petite 4’11’’ and three-quarters. The Asian girls like to hang around me because it makes them look tall, but with my milky skin and blonde hair I stand out starkly against their tan skin and dark hair.

At just 40kg (88lbs), my new size XS summer school dress was new last year and I expected it to be my last before I left school. I had no boobs to speak of so in a desperate attempt to get boys to notice me, I took up the hem to a racy mid-thigh level.

It worked … kind of: I dated a boy named Brad for more than a month shortly after I turned eighteen. We had progressed from holding hands and stolen kisses to heavy petting and one awkward episode of dry humping. He left a note in my locker to sneak out of the senior girls’ dorm after lights-out. I could guess what that meant and to tell the truth I was equal parts excited and apprehensive.

~~~

Technically, I wasn’t a virgin any more: girls’ boarding houses have the highest density of vibrators and dildos in the known universe. They get handed down through the years and just seem to accumulate. I lost my maidenhead to a short, slim gold vibrator named Ernest. It is at least 30 years old and has an on-off switch instead of a touch-sensitive button. Ernest takes tiny little watch-batteries which have long since died and never been replaced; the newer vibes take AAAs and are much cheaper to run, so nobody has ever tried to buy him a new battery. Ernest is given to all of the new girls; he’s small and harmless – well, relatively harmless – but excellent for beginners because he makes you learn technique rather than relying on vibration or size.

I was excited to try sex with a real boy so out I snuck at the designated hour. Brad and I pashed and petted in the garden behind the gym for a while until we were both well and truly stiff with anticipation. He didn’t seem prepared to make the next move so I drew up my courage and took matters into my own hands … literally. I was underneath so I raised my hips and with one hand pulled down my soaking cotton panties. With the other I released his throbbing rod from the straining confines of his underpants.

I couldn’t see his dick but it felt wonderful in my inexperienced hand; a bit thicker and longer than Ernest of course, about 6” and a nice handful around the girth. I was relieved that he wasn’t too thick; I am so tiny and the bigger dildos that the netballers like just hurt me. Still, I do like some length and I didn’t think he was going to bottom out, but beggars can’t be choosers so I shouldn’t complain.

He raised himself up over me to make space and I started stroking his iron tool against my flat belly and down to the wispy blonde curls of my mons. I rubbed his cock back and forth against my skin and with each back-stroke moved it closer to my glistening labia. Finally, one downstroke brought the base of his dick into contact with my clit. Involuntarily, I arched my back and pushed down with my hand, ploughing the full length of his cock over my clitoris, along my burning wet labia and leaving his knob poised at my entrance.

It was too much for both of us. I gasped and tipped over the edge, shuddering as the orgasm washed over my body. His dick bucked in my hand and sprayed cum over my thighs. I was soaked, sticky and spent, but deeply unsatisfied. I wanted cock.

He was mortified. I don’t think he knew I had come and he probably thought he had blown it all himself (well, in one way, he had). He zipped up, apologised and raced away, and that was the end of Brad. For my part, the experience had spoiled boys for me. I was determined that my “real” first time would be with a man who knew how to handle himself and meanwhile I was going to practice controlling my own body to reward his skill.

~~~

At the end of last year I packed up all of my books and clothes in the boarding house store room and went home to Melbourne for Christmas. To my eternal gratitude, Santa brought me the present I had dreamed of for the last 6 years: boobs! I don’t know whether it was something in the water or just a last gasp of puberty, but in November I went home wearing a 6AA bra and returned to school – miraculously - an 8C. Now C-cup might not sound like a heck of a lot, but on my tiny body they look like double-Ds. I love them, and judging by the looks in class this year, I’m not the only one.

The fairy-tale turned into comedy last week when I returned to school for the new semester. It’s February so I unpacked my summer dress from storage. There’s an expanding panel at the back of the dress, so I could still button it up … just; the buttons gaped a little at the front when I breathed in. But the real problem was the length: my new rack just took more fabric to cover and caused the hem to ride two inches higher on my thighs. My over-locked hemline (oh why didn’t I just fold it under!) was now covering my panties by a meagre five inches. But that’s not the worst bit: sitting down gave me only two inches of coverage.

The other girls in the senior dorm enjoyed the joke and had fun teasing me in a good-natured way. Unfortunately none were good-natured enough to loan me a dress until I could get the money from Mum for a new one. Last night we played Truth or Dare and my best friend Trish dared me to go the whole day at school ‘commando’. That brings us to today: “No-Panties-Tuesday.”

The uniform shop will be open tomorrow and Mum came through with a money transfer on the weekend, so I just had to make it through this one day in the tiny dress with my pussy a few inches from exposure and then the nightmare would be over.

Apart from all the giggling in the back of class, it wasn’t actually that difficult to get through the day sans panties – I just kept my laptop bag on my lap (where else!) giving me a new artificial hemline all the way to my knees. Easy-peasey.

The yellow-card summons to see the Headmistress was a bump in the road, but it was just going to be about the hem and maybe the bust, not the panties (that would be a red card). Everything would be fixed tomorrow so I wasn’t really worried. I couldn’t get back into the dorm for panties until after school so when the lunch bell rang I walked off to the heads’ office suite casually holding my hem flat in case of a wind gust.

I handed the yellow card to the receptionist and she looked back up at me – and my dress - with a little smirk. She guessed what this was about too and was getting some small amusement from it.

She said, “Sorry Belinda, Mrs Bingham has gone home with the flu, can you come back tomorrow?” Even better: tomorrow I would come back in a nice, modest school dress and she would send me away without a word.

A deep voice from the next office, “Send her in, Miss Strachan. I can deal with this.”

Oh shit, the headmaster. I made silent, goggle-eyes at the receptionist and waved my hands in a warding-off gesture.

“But Mr Gallows, I don’t think….,” she began.

“Nonsense! I’m not busy and Mrs Bingham could be home all week. Send her in.”

She gave me a pitying smile. “Yes sir. In you go, Belinda.”

I could get through this. Deep breath … crap, button nearly popped … in I went.

~~~

Mr Gallows is really tall, about 6’4’’, reed slender and kind of cute for an old guy (he’s at least 35!). He has a rugged outdoorsy look: short and wavy dark-brown hair, deep tan and beard stubble, but with straight white teeth and dimples that look a bit sexy when he smiles. He might have escaped notice from the girls except for a curious tic: whenever he thought no one was watching he would reach down and adjust himself from the right to the left or back again. This is an endless source of amusement for teenage girls. We watch with mirrors when he stands at the back of assembly and take bets on how many times he does it before the bell. Geez dude, go buy some comfy shorts.

There’s no shortage of giggling and after-hours dreaming in the dorm about what he might be packing and without fail it always ends with a wild rendition of a Led Zepplin’s “Hangman”: a dozen teenage girls in nighties with air-guitars and hairbrush microphones, screaming like Robert Plant “Swingin’ on the Gallows Pole, Swingin’ on the Gallows Pole” and collapsing in gales of laughter. Sometimes I go back to my bed with Silver (after Long John, not the colour), an 18” double-ended dildo, still singing “Hangman” to myself and thinking about him.

“Shut the door, Belinda, shut the door.” The two heads shared an office and he was bent over Mrs Bingham’s desk searching for the counter-part of my yellow note that would tell him what he had so rashly volunteered to deal with.

He found it, held it up and started reading to himself. He still hadn’t looked up to see me yet, otherwise he probably could have saved some reading. “Aaaah … right … uh-huh … I see,” he mumbled as he read and then looked up, paused, and blinked a couple of times as his eyes wandered over the contours of my dress.

He cleared his throat after a pause that was a moment too long, “Won’t you sit down, Belinda?”

“Actually, I’m comfortable standing thank you Sir.”

“Yes, I see … ah … I mean, very well,” he stammered. He steeled himself visibly, drawing up his enormous height and putting on the stern Headmaster-face.

“Now it seems that one of our teaching staff has noticed that your dress is perhaps not in full accord with the school regulations,” he announced formally in an ominous tone.

“Yes Sir, but I …,” I started.

“Now I normally step out while Mrs Bingham deals with these cases,” he interrupted, “but I know the drill and I think we can probably sort this out ourselves without her help, don’t you think?”

“But tomorrow, Sir …,” I was starting to worry and tugging at my front hem to make it look longer in grim hope that this wasn’t going where I feared it would go.

He pressed on without listening. “Regulations are very clear, Belinda. Your hem line must be no more than 4 inches above the knee, measured from the floor at a kneel.”

My dress was higher than that even before the booby-fairy visited me. Now it was a subject waaaaay beyond doubt, but as he was saying it he reached back to his desk for a ruler. This was not looking good, but both my hands were now frantically tugging at my hem and pulling my dress even tighter over my breasts. I couldn’t utter a sound.

He came closer, towering over me with my head at the level of his elbow. “Please kneel on the carpet, Belinda, and we’ll take a measurement.”

How was this going to work?! If I kneel down one leg at a time the dress rides up and flashes my panties-less pussy. I paused for a moment, thinking. Carefully, I bent both knees at once – lowering myself slowly and keeping my hips straight to stop the cursed dress riding up. I got about half way down before the strain of the awkward position broke and I plopped forward onto my knees, hips in and back straight like a gymnast finishing a vault. Unfortunately, that’s where the comparison ended as I toppled forward with the momentum of the fall.

The only thing in front of me was Mr Gallows’ leg and I instinctively put out a hand to stop the fall. I got him open-handed on the upper thigh and as I pushed back to right myself, I felt the flesh beneath his suit pulse and heave beneath my fingers.

Oh. My. God.

I just grabbed the Headmaster’s cock. And it was halfway down his pants leg. This guy must be hung like a horse!

He leaped back like he had been stung by a bee, looked down at himself, then hurriedly turned around and retreated behind his desk with the chair pulled in tight.

In a moment he recovered serenely, “Perhaps over here would be better,” beckoning to the space beside him. But then realising he wouldn’t be able to reach me without pulling out from the desk and exposing what I now imagined must be a boner the size of a riding crop, he changed tack and cleared the leather-topped desk in front of him.

With colour rising in his face, he gestured to the desk, “Up here please Belinda.”

This was not going well. I still had tingles from the fleeting feel of his manhood in my hand. I was starting to get moist as I awkwardly stood up and I could feel the lips of my vagina sliding deliciously against each other making me wetter still.

Mr Gallows respectfully looked behind himself to study a painting on the wall for a moment and I nimbly hopped up onto the desk on my knees. The desk was antique and unfashionably low so even with him seated I was now only a head taller. My breathing had quickened - straining the buttons open a little over my bust – and my rock hard nipples now pressed though my bra against the taut fabric … right in his eye line.

He turned his head back around, copping an eyeful and I saw him visibly reel back and flush. He should have called an end to this charade long ago, but now it was a matter of pride and authority so he gamely pressed on, taking up his ruler.

He stood the 12” ruler on the desk in front of me and I swear the top of it barely made it up to my hemline. I quickly moved my knees apart a little to bring the hem closer to the desk, but I was still easily double the regulation four inches. And now – how did this happen? - I was kneeling splay-legged with barely a thin sheath of cotton separating my dripping, bare vagina from the face of a guy whose enormous cock I had just groped through his suit pants. This could not be happening.

Disbelief became denial. I knew the rear hem was a bit lower because my new, improved C-cups – now standing proud like cherries on big scoops of ice-cream - had only really caused the front to ride up.

“But Sir, I blurted, Mrs Bingham measures the rear hem.” I have no idea where I was going with this; I could hardly duck-walk around on my knees and anyway, there is no way the rear hem was anything like four inches from the desk. Not that I even cared! I was getting a new dress tomorrow!

Before I could work out how to back-pedal this desperate ploy, he reached around and stood the ruler behind my butt, then realising he couldn’t see it from his higher angle, he scootched down and – incredibly - reached between my open thighs to swap hands on the ruler.

His face was now just inches from my aching crotch, surely he could smell me, but maybe he had a touch of Mrs Bingham’s flu. He twisted his wrist a little to get a better look at the ruler, which he was amazingly still watching, bringing his cuff-link into contact with my throbbing twat. The cuff-link was cold and my engorged lips felt like they could melt it to scrap in a few seconds. I let out a tiny moan of pleasure and he quickly startled from his study of the ruler; dropping it and withdrawing his hand, sliding that wonderful cuff-link through my open slit, making me shiver with pleasure.

He looked up at me, my eyes almost closed and biting my lower lip. Then he looked down at his hand, the cuff now dark and moist from my juices.

He paused in a silence that seemed to stretch out forever and then slowly, incredibly, smiled and brought his wrist to his mouth to lick my juices from the cuff-link.

Gaining composure and still staring straight into my eyes, he slowly reached between my thighs again. “I’m fairly sure, Belinda, that this dress is in violation of our school regulations.” He picked up the ruler and smacked it lightly against my bottom setting off more shivers of pleasure. “But I’m not absolutely certain. Shall I measure again?”

“Yes please, Sir,” I whispered.

“Very well.” And then, with infinite gentleness, he raised his hand higher. This time the knuckle of his thumb nestled in the pleasure center between my thighs. He added some light pressure, opening me up even further. “Yes, I can see the problem now. My thumb was in the way of the ruler and blocked my view. Shall I move it out of the way?”

“Yes, yes.”

He straightened his thumb and positioned the tip at my dripping entrance. Then slowly, gently, and in one continuous movement he pushed into me. The pleasure was excruciating. Stroking his thumb in and out, he picked up an increasing rhythm and said “Belinda, you realise that Miss Strachan is still in the outer office.”

“Yes, Sir,” I was starting to build up to a climax, which I knew had to be silent.

“I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” I whispered.

“There are a great many things that you can learn about becoming a woman that even this school does not teach in the syllabus. Even so, I am very well versed and would be pleased to tutor you. Would you like that?”

My eyes were now squeezed tightly shut as he increased the pace and pressure of my very first thumb-fuck. “Oh, God yes,” I whispered. I was seconds away.

“Excellent. Please come see me here after school for your first – no, second - lesson. Don’t bother returning to the dorm to get changed. You can come just the way you are.” As he said this last sentence, he thrust his thumb deeply in to the last joint and pushed back against my G-spot, using the giant open hand to grasp my inner thigh for leverage. My orgasm exploded outwards from my G-spot and I was coming like an out-of-control freight train. I bucked my hips against him, but he held me with the one hand on my thigh and the other pressed against my belly. Biting my lip harder to avoid crying out, explosions racked my tiny body as I writhed beneath his powerful grasp.

I sagged forward, spent, and went to kiss him softly on the lips. He slid his hand out and pushed gently backwards. I could see his pants and they now looked like a circus tent.

“But what about you?” I asked.

“I can wait,” he whispered, “but I think I might be stuck behind this desk for a while. Come see me when Miss Strachan leaves.”

I climbed down from the desk, straightened myself up as best I could manage and then escaped quickly through the outer office. I cleaned up and cooled down some more in the toilets before meeting the other girls in the cafeteria. I must have done a reasonable job because nobody commented.

“How’s No-Panty-Tuesday, B’lin? ,” Trish giggled. “Any sightings, yet?”

“No,” I mused, “No sightings.” I smiled cryptically and they looked at each other, confused.

~~~

The afternoon passed in a blur. I don’t remember much about it and had almost forgotten that I was flashing my pussy every time I sat down. I don’t think anyone saw; I’m pretty sure there would have been a commotion – not that I would have noticed.

My mind was swimming with three competing thoughts. One would follow the other and then they would cycle back to the beginning again, over and over.

One: did he mean what I think he meant? Was I really just a few short hours away from my first fuck with a man? Or did he mean that my behaviour was slutty and unladylike and I needed extra tuition?

Two: If we were going to fuck – and I was pretty sure we would - I was almost bursting to make it happen. I wanted to know what a real cock felt like inside me. I knew from Brad and my one grope of Mr Gallows that a cock is not like a dildo; it pulses and throbs with a mind of its own. I was used to complete control of whatever was in my pussy but on this I would have none at all. He would have control of one end and God alone would control what happened at the other end. I was trying to imagine what it would be like and just couldn’t.

Three: And this one would come along hot on the heels of thought number two: how big is he? He must be long, otherwise I wouldn’t have felt it down his thigh. Long is good. I took 18” double-ended Silver home for the holidays and now I can take a little over 7 inches without any pain. Mr Gallows was surely bigger than 7,” but I thought he would be gentle with me. My greatest worry was I had no idea how thick it would be. Like I said before, I don’t like the thick dildos. I’m so small and so tight it takes me half the night just to get it in and I’m kind of over it by then. What if he couldn’t even get it in? What happens then? I think I would just die.

The end of the day finally came and I made some excuse to separate from the girls returning to the boarding house. I waited behind a tree in the car park outside the office. I could see in from my vantage point so I knew Miss Strachan was still there. After what felt like an eternity, she came out swinging her key, got into her car and drove away. A few seconds later the door opened and I saw Mr Gallows. He looked left and right but didn’t see me, then turned and closed the door again. What now?

I saw the venetian blinds flip closed, first in the outer office and then in the Heads’ office. Surely this was my cue. I looked around myself to make sure the coast was clear and then sprinted across the car park and into the outer office, locking the door behind me.

“Come in, Belinda. I’m glad you’re here,” I heard through his doorway. His voice sounded calm and confident. I’m pretty sure mine wouldn’t be so I said nothing but walked tentatively over to the open door.

He was behind his desk like before, but pulled even closer in than earlier so all I could see was his slim upper body down to his stomach.

“Now Belinda, I believe we were discussing your clothing earlier.”

All of a sudden I had the dreadful fear that my first recurring thought would come true; he would blame me for what happened at lunchtime and this would be correction for my sluttiness. I put a hand down to block the view between my thighs and sat opposite, pulling my chair in to hide my embarrassing hemline.

“I’d like to discuss your school dress first.”

Shit. He we go. “Sir, I can explain,” I started quickly, “I just came back from holidays and I’d grown … um … I mean .. my shape is a bit different and I didn’t have money for the Uniform shop and then my Mum finally sent me some but now the shop is closed until Wednesday and ….” I was babbling and I felt my face burning with shame, for my dress and for what happened at lunchtime, which must have been my fault.

I looked up at him and stopped. He was leaning back with one hand to his mouth covering a big grin. I’ve been had.

Then I noticed something strange: pants hanging on the back of Mrs Bingham’s chair. He followed my gaze but kept covering the smile.

“Sir,” I looked back at him, “do you mind if I check something?”

“Please go ahead.”

I pushed my chair back and ducked under the table. For a moment I was frozen; I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t move. Under the desk he was completely naked and holding his semi-erect penis in one open hand. I just gaped, my jaw hanging open. It was the most beautiful thing I think I have ever seen. It lay fully over his open palm with at least the same length again hanging over the front. It had to be at least 9.”

Recurring thought number one flew from my mind. I was in all kinds of trouble but none of it was the disciplinary kind. Likewise, recurring thought number three: his love handle wasn’t as long as Silver, but it looked exactly as thick: a nice tight fit.

That left recurring thought number two ricocheting around my brain, faster and faster, making me dizzy: I want to touch it I want to hold it I want to press it between my tits I want to kiss it I want it in my mouth I want it in my cunt I want to feel it plough into me I want to feel it explode deep inside me I want it to fill me up, fill me up until I spill over …

I don’t know how long I stayed down there staring, but when I came back up he hadn’t moved.

“Sir?” I croaked, trying to regain some control.

“Yes?”

“About my dress. I will have a new one tomorrow. This one is going in the bin.”

“That would be a shame, Belinda.” He had taken the hand from his face and was smiling openly now.

“And my panties …” I began.

“You do own some, don’t you?”

I flushed again to the roots of my blonde hair. “Yes, Sir.” I looked down at my bare legs, all too aware of my naked pussy barely covered by the thin cotton.

“Best you wear them at school then, don’t you think?” He was trying not to laugh.

“Yes, Sir,” I replied, relieved.

“But please feel free to come to me in whatever makes you comfortable.”

I blushed again, but said nothing. What happens next?

“Just one more clothing-related issue,” he said getting serious again, “is your brassiere.”

Sweet lord Jesus, is he really going to keep talking about clothing or get to the fucking? He knows I’ve seen his cock in his hand. He knows that I know what we’re both here for so how about we skip the whole Headmaster/schoolgirl crap and start filling me up with that monster cock.

Well, that’s what I thought. What I said was “Yes, Sir? What about it?” I quickly checked myself; my bra wasn’t even visible. I hope he’s not doing a Brad on me, I thought. If he chickens out, I don’t think I could take control. I was too nervous about that python he was stroking under the desk.

“Come closer and I’ll show you,” he beckoned to the desktop.

Oh! This was progress. I don’t know what he’s doing but he’s playing some kind of game with me. This isn’t about my bra, it’s about foreplay. Two can play at that game!

I pushed back my chair and – unlike earlier today – I climbed onto the desk slowly, one leg at a time. As low as the desk was it was still mid-thigh for me, so I hooked one knee out to the side and held there for a moment - half way up – holding his gaze with my own eyes.

I was giving him a front row seat to the show of his life. My earlier anxiety had melted and my juices had started flowing again while staring at his cock. As I held my knee on the desktop with my thighs spread apart, I could feel my labia open like a flower. Oh, he was good. His eyes stayed locked on mine, but I thought I saw a little twitch in the corner of one.

Not good enough! Still not moving my body, I contracted my powerful pelvic floor muscles, winking at him with my pussy. I could feel my lips pull in tight and close with the pressure I was applying. I held it for a silent two-count and then released, opening up again.

It was enough. His eyes twitched down for the barest moment and then quickly back to mine. His adam’s-apple bobbed as he swallowed and his ears reddened just a little.

Satisfied, I finished climbing onto the desk, kneeling in front of him but sitting back on my heels as I smoothed my tiny school dress over my thighs. The show over’s, Bud. Your move.

“Show me your bra, please Belinda.”

Well, since you said please, I thought naughtily. I popped the first four buttons of my dress and slipped one shoulder out displaying the strap and one cup of my simple, white underwear.

“Oh my goodness, where the hell did you get that?” he asked with eyebrows narrowing.

“K-Mart,” I responded, a bit indignant. Until last Christmas I had barely needed a bra. I bought the cheapest ones I could and saved the clothing budget my Mum provided to buy shoes. When my bust magically filled out, it never occurred to me to do any different. I just traded up from AA to C cups.

He reached forward with his left hand and slid it gently beneath the cotton covering my right breast, brushing his palm deliciously across the nipple and lifted it out. He squeezed gently, feeling its fullness press back against his grasp. Leaning forward, he kissed the nipple and took it between his lips. Applying a firm suction, he flicked his tongue over the tip, sending little electric shocks through my breast as the areola hardened under his expert treatment.

I gasped with pleasure and leaned into his touch. “Harder. Bite it,” I whispered.

Then all of a sudden he moved away and that wonderful building pleasure deflated like a balloon. What the hell?

He popped my aching breast back into my K-Mart bra and buttoned me back up. I was confused and excited at the same time. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing would come out.

“There. See what I mean?” he said.

“Huh?” I looked down at my breasts. The left one was smooth and rounded but the right clearly showed the outline of my nipple, which was standing erect and pointing straight at the villain who had made it that way.

“You nearly took my eyes out with those at lunchtime. The same thing happens when you are cold,” he explained. The classrooms in the old wing aren’t heated and I can tell you from experience it’s pretty damned hard to teach when all the girls in class are looking up you with their high-beams on. Get a properly padded bra. Something with decorative banding will help to spread the pressure.”

“Point taken. Thank you.” Looks like I was going to be dipping into the shoe-fund. “Any more sartorial advice, Sir? My sandals, perhaps?” I asked playfully.

Quick as a shot: “No. I think we can move on to grooming. Your hair …,” he paused.

I reached up and felt my honey-blonde locks. I had it cut in a sensible but stylish pixie-cut, swept to the side at the front. I thought it was pretty cool and a little bit sexy in a boyish way.

“What wrong with it?” I asked, a little bit hurt.

“Oh! Uh, nothing. It’s quite beautiful. I’m not being clear. How to put this….?” He paused, not sure how to proceed. “How’s this: it is un-gentlemanly to be seen picking hairs from between one’s teeth” he said reaching into the drawer beside his desk, “so a lady must careful to ensure that he is never exposed to that risk.”

With that last sentence he brought out a pump-pack of clear shaving gel and a disposable razor.

Oh my! My former excitement returned in full force and a smile spread across my face. “Is that for me? Will you do it?”

He smiled and nodded. “Of course, it would be uncivil of me not to, since I brought it up.”

Throwing the last scraps of modesty to the winds, I swung my legs out from beneath me and – scooting forward until my bottom was on the edge of the desk - I popped my ankles up onto his shoulders and leaned back on my elbows to watch his reaction.

He brought both hands up between my thighs and gently pushed them wider apart. My dress fell back to reveal the soft, blonde wisps covering my pussy and he pushed the hem further back to expose my flat belly, which was fluttering nervously beneath his touch.

He pumped a small amount of gel onto his fingers and massaged it gently through the short curls, taking care not to touch my open lips or the pink clitoris poking shyly out beneath its hood.

“Now what was that I thought I saw when you climbed onto the desk?” he asked.

“This?” I asked, flexing my pelvic floor again and winking at him.

“Extraordinary!” he whispered, his eyes boggling.

I knew it was a pretty unique trick. None of the other girls in the senior dorm can do it. We play a game called “Stalactites”: you stand with feet apart and a vibrator (switched off) in your pussy, the other girls hang weights from the end. The girl who can carry the most weight before the vibrator slips out, wins.

I have never lost and now nobody will play against me. Most girls can’t even hold the weight of the vibrator. They try thicker dildos and bent G-spot vibes, but nothing helps. My tiny frame makes my pussy incredibly tight, so even soaking wet I can hold the weight of the vibrator without flexing.

My secret is pelvic floor exercises. My little brother is eight years younger than me and after he was born my Mum suffered incontinence. She got me to help remind her to do pelvic floor exercises and it was fun to do them with her. It’s not kinky or anything; you just flex, hold, relax and repeat. You can do them watching TV, brushing your hair, whenever.

I still do them now without even thinking. Six hours of class every day provides ample opportunity. My pelvic floor is so strong I can pick up a coin standing on its end with my pussy lips.

Mr Gallows placed a finger at my wet entrance, sending another shiver through me. “Again,” he said.

I did it again, closing over his finger tip and squeezing it. He pulled out with slick plop of suction and I released again, smiling up at him. He reached under the table to adjust himself and took a hitching breath, looking up at the ceiling. “Lord, have mercy.”

When he was back in control, he set to work with the razor -gently but thoroughly - until my mound and outer labia were completely smooth.

Putting the razor in the bin and reaching forward he cupped my tiny bottom in his hands and lifted me to his mouth, softly tonguing my slit. He tilted his head to the side and licked more roughly and insistently across my open lips as I felt a ball of heat gather in the pit of my belly. He kept up this assault, occasionally dipping his tongue into me, varying the speed, depth and pressure until my breathing was coming in ragged gasps. I tilted my head back and even with my eyes tightly closed tears leaked out the corners and ran down my face.

Suddenly he shifted attention up to my clitoris, sucking and flicking it with his tongue. I felt the orgasm rise and fill my body with a buzzing heat. It built up slowly and then powerfully washed over me like a tidal wave carrying me away and tumbling my body over and over until I didn’t know which way was up.

Mr Gallows leaned back in his chair and delicately licked my juices from his lips. I recovered quickly and - still desperately wanted to feel his cock inside me – I sat up and slid forward off the desk straddling his lap.

“Whoa! Slow down. Who’s in charge of this lesson?” he admonished.

“You are, Sir,” I said primly but still started removing his tie and unbuttoning his business shirt. Did I say he was reed slender? Oh, but I was sooo wrong. He does have a wiry frame, but it is covered with thick layers of ropy muscle. I ran my hands up from his six pack stomach, across his bulging pecs and pushed the shirt back over his shoulders exposing hard trapezoids. Most guys with a bod this hot would pack it into a tight, slim-fit shirt that showed off their shape. I was surprised he kept his hidden behind loose clothes, but I guess a man in charge of several hundred impressionable young minds needs to set a standard. And what a standard he was setting so far!

He folded his huge hands around my narrow waist and lifted me neatly off him as he stood up, pushing the chair backwards as he set me down on my feet. The strength! He handled me like I weighed nothing. At 6’4” he towered over me, his hips at about the level of my rib-cage. His cock was now fully erect, pointing north and resting against the taut uniform stretched across my breasts. It was my first close-up look and – if anything – it was even more beautiful than before. About 9” I guessed, with a slight downward curve, it came up past his belly button and the circumcised knob floated an inch or so above my breasts; close enough to lean down and kiss.

I tried to do just this, but he stopped me and began unbuttoning my dress. He pushed it back over my shoulders and it slipped to the floor around my ankles. I reached back and released my bra, sending it to the floor as well.

Now we were both naked, standing close but not touching except where his hard tool rested between my swelling breasts. He slid his hands up my sides and pressed them together. About the size of oranges since my miraculous growth spurt, they bulged around his tool and forward, the nipples pressing lightly into his hard stomach.

Pivoting his hips back and down, he tried to slide his cock through my cleavage but there was too much friction and the skin just bunched up covering his knob like a foreskin. I grabbed the shaving gel and pumped a few squirts into the gap he had just vacated. He pushed back up, this time gliding smoothly all the way through.

Tall as he was, still only the last three inches of that magnificent wand could reach my tits so I popped my bottom back down on the desk to give him some more access. The next time he pushed forward his entire length plunged through my cleavage, five inches of it clearing the top and touching me on the mouth. I had the barest moment to catch a drop of pre-cum on my tongue before he slid away again. How to describe the taste? Salty? Sweet? Exquisite!

Kneading my breasts as he fucked them, he took a dozen more teasingly slow strokes but never gave me time to get my mouth around his knob. This would have to change. Hold on tight, I’m going down!

I stood back up and turned us around 180 degrees, giving me access to the office chair. Sitting brought my eye line down to his navel with the head of his rod dancing in front of my waiting lips.

Unbelievably –given what had happened so far – I still hadn’t wrapped my hands around his cock. I did so now, very softly just behind the knob.

“You won’t break it, you know,” he said. “No fingernails and no teeth. Anything else goes.”

I squeezed a little and the angry tip swelled. I jumped back a bit, thinking he was about to blow all over my face, but he encouraged me to go on. Gaining confidence, I gave it a harder test-squeeze and his knob throbbed even bigger. I couldn’t believe my eyes; I had no idea they did that. Wanting to know where the boundaries were, I increased the pressure until my knuckles turned white; watching his face for signs of pain but there was only pleasure.

I tried stroking downwards, but I had to release all of the pressure because of the friction. I reached for the gel again, but he stopped me and moved my hand all the way down to the base. “Start there and try again,” he advised.

This time when I stroked back towards the tip, the skin came with me, sliding over the hardness beneath like silk sheets over steel. It was amazing. All of the bumps and contours were beneath the skin and I could feel them running across my palm, yet my hand stayed in contact with the same handful of skin. This was so not like a dildo.

He reached down for my other hand and cupped it around his balls. “Remember how I said ‘anything goes’? Well, not there it doesn’t. Gently does it with those guys.” I didn’t think he meant ‘do nothing’, but I wasn’t exactly sure what I should do with them. Rub them? Juggle them? I gave them a gentle squeeze and he nodded. Right choice! Good one, Belinda, I congratulated myself.

I leaned forward and licked around his knob as I stroked, relishing the taste of the salty pre-cum that I milked from the tip. I opened wide and took the head into my mouth, running my tongue around the ridge of his knob and wondering if I should be doing anything else. He was looking down at me, enjoying watching me explore, but I could tell that I wasn’t progressing him along.

I moved him deeper into my mouth, my jaws yawning around his thick shaft. His knob was nearly at the back of my throat, when he stopped me, holding my head still with his hands.

“No. Felatio is not about swallowing,” he instructed. “There’s nothing sexy about a girl gagging on a dick. There’s too much there and it’s just not possible to get it all down. Take a mouthful and alternate pressure, suction and movement.”

Oh, was he in for a surprise. Another game the girls play is Deep Throat. By now you probably think all dorm girls are sluts, but most of us are technical virgins; we just love to explore our own sexuality. Deep Throat is not a complex game: you spray a blob of whipped cream onto the shaft of a dildo and then try to lick it off … but the tip must not leave your mouth. The further away you put the cream, the further into your mouth the dildo goes.

I lost badly on my first few goes and nearly blew chunks all over the bed, but I practiced controlling my gag reflex and now it is practically non-existent. My personal best using – you guessed it – Long John Silver the famous double-ended donger – is 13 inches straight down my throat. I held it there for 5 seconds licking off the cream and brought it all back out in one smooth action.

I did appreciate Mr Gallows fellatio lesion, I was very much a beginner. But boy was I going to teach him a lesson too.

So I took the suggested mouthful and applied pressure with my tongue. Then sucking hard I pulled him all the way out except for the knob and sucked him back in again. That seemed to work. He was running his fingers through my hair and I could feel his hands shaking a little. I wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and gently massaged his balls with the other, all the while sucking and releasing, stroking him in and out of my mouth.

I could hear his breathing quicken and he tightened his hold on my head. The muscles of his legs were standing out and I could tell he was trying to prolong is orgasm. Here we go! I let go of his shaft and reached behind with one hand to grab his buttocks. Then, before he could stop me I took a deep breath, moved his knob to the back of my throat and swallowed, pulling him towards me. All nine inches slid cleanly through my lips and down my throat, helped along by the natural downward curve of his cock.

With my mouth now pressed hard against his body, I snaked out my tongue, bringing his balls closer with the hand cupping them, I licked them mercilessly while I swallowed, closing my throat down hard over his bulging knob.

“Oh Holy Christ,” he yelled. His hands locked on my head, pressing even harder against me as I felt his balls contract beneath my fingers and tongue. Then with one gigantic throb he unloaded into me. I could feel the cum streaming though the underside of his cock down the length of my tongue as what felt like a gallon emptied straight into my stomach without even having to swallow.

I pushed away, inch after gorgeous inch sliding out between my lips. The tip cleared my throat and I inhaled deeply though my nose as the final five inches slid across my tongue leaving a trail of cream nothing like what we use in the dorm. I kept the end between my lips, sucking deeply and milking the final drops as the last spasms pulsed though his balls.

When he was empty I lay back in chair and smiled up at him standing between my open knees, gaping at me with a stunned expression. I rubbed my wanton slit and beckoned to him: “Now me,” I demanded.

His shock turned to confusion. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. Then his face darkened in concern. “Have you never been with a man?”

I shook my head, “Uh, Uh.”

“Oh my God! But you’re not a virgin, I know that from lunchtime,” he said with genuine concern. “My dear, you need to give it time. I can’t just make it pop back up again.”

I looked down at his cock, which was now softening and drooping. How could I not know this? I felt a little embarrassed and as deflated as he looked. I wanted that magnificent cock in my pussy and now I couldn’t even jam it in with a shoe-horn. Would I never get the fucking I so richly deserved?

My disappointment must have showed on my face. “It’s going to be all right” he soothed me. “Give me 20 minutes, 30 tops.” He lifted me effortlessly onto the low credenza beside his desk so that we were standing face to face again. “We just need something else to amuse us while we wait,” he said gently kissing my pouting lips.

Reassured, I open my mouth to kiss him back, tilting my head to the side. His rough 5 O’clock shadow scraped against my cheek. Ouch! Beard burn! Not on my watch, mister!

“You just nominated yourself for my twenty minutes of amusement, Sir,” I said with a smile and reached once again for the shaving gel and a fresh razor.

“Whoa! No way!” he held me at bay. Tomorrow’s a school day and I can’t come to work looking like Freddy Krueger!” Seeing my frown at a 1980’s pop-culture reference (I had to Google it - a rare miss for me – I love the classics), he explained “Hideous scarring. Bad look.”

“Bullshit,” I retorted. “Feel my legs and tell me I don’t know how to shave. Besides: fair’s fair. You shaved me!”

He face started to soften as he ran his hands down my taut thighs and smooth calves, then back up again, moving on to mould my tiny round bottom, narrow waist and heavy breasts.

“I don’t shave my tits and arse,” I said flatly. “You’re stalling,” giving him a forceful stare that I never thought I could muster for any member of the faculty, let alone the Headmaster.

“You’re right,” he sighed, moving close to kiss me softly. “Trust is very important, especially for us. You trust me, don’t you?”

I looked down between us. “Given the damage you could do with that thing – and where I’m planning to put it when I get some wood back into it – I’d say I’m a fraction ahead on trust points, wouldn’t you?”

“You make a strong argument. Do you do Debate?” I ignored this and pumped some more gel into my hands then massaged it into his stubble. Despite my confident insistence, I could see that his face had a lot more angles and contours than my legs. I started slowly on what seemed like an easy bit: his sideburns and cheeks.

He had both hands on the rise of my hips where they narrow in to my 20” waist and was closely watching my bobbing breasts as I worked on his beard. I was just moving on to his chin when I felt a light touch on my bottom: right in the middle where my thighs meet and distractingly close to my vagina. It was his penis; semi-erect and bobbing up and down between my open legs. With each strong flex it stood up straight, almost at its full 9 inches again it was long enough for the tip to scrape the underside of my bottom while I was standing on the credenza. Hmm, he was ahead of schedule, I’ll take that as a compliment. I paused for a moment and then continued shaving. The touch came again in the same place, twice this time with a couple of seconds between. His mouth was still but he was smiling with his eyes. I looked threateningly back at him.

“That’s very distracting,” I admonished, brandishing the razor. “If you don’t find something else to do with it while I finish this, you could get cut.”

“He reached down and grabbed his stiffening rod. Bending slightly for clearance, he pulled it forward and nestled the tip just inside the moist lips of my vagina. As he straightened up again, his knob pressed insistently at my entrance without pushing inside.

My resolve started to melt away and I nearly surrendered the little role-reversal game we had been playing, wanting desperately to just unlock my knees and impale myself on his gigantic weapon. He moved his hands back onto my hips and looked into my eyes questioningly. I recognised this as another gambit in the game – testing my resolve to delayed gratification, which was swiftly running out.

I steeled myself again and took up my assumed role. “Really? I have a razor to your throat and you’re going to leave ‘It’ there?”

“Yep,” he grinned merrily, flexing his shaft and making the knob bulge, opening my hole by an imperceptible margin.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I growled back at him, tightening my pelvic floor. My inner lips closed tightly over his knob and squeezed until it slid back from whence it came.

He gasped with the friction and pressure and then croaked “Yes, Ma’am.”

My legs felt like jelly but I wasn’t going to let him see how close I was to giving it away. I moved in until my nose was directly in front of his and my nipples brushed his chest. “Yes, Ma’am, what?” I demanded.

He straightened his shoulders and looked at me seriously. “Yes, Ma’am. I am going to leave my cock in your hole. Just for the moment Ma’am, until you can find a better use for it..”

I giggled involuntarily, breaking the mock tension. “Very well,” I smiled, and went back to work with the razor. Each time I stopped to clean the blade and it was safely away from his face, he would flex his cock, to which I would respond by bearing down on my pelvic wall, crushing it in retaliation. With each exchange he gradually reattained his full length and hardness - veins bulging - he opened me up and pressed into me bit by tiny bit.

By the time I finished shaving his face, his entire knob was inside me and technically, I suppose, we were fucking. My heart was racing as the time had finally arrived; the moment I had dreamed of ever since the disaster with Brad: my first cock. I didn’t know what to do next, but since I had gone through so much to remove his stubble I kissed him, gently at first and then more insistently as I moved into his embrace, wrapping my arms around his neck and crushing my breasts into his heavily muscled chest.

He broke our kiss and breathed into my ear, “Quid pro quo, Belinda. Do you trust me not to hurt you?”

“Yes. Yes.” I gasped, struggling for breath. “Just please be gentle.” I was really frightened now and a few tears were welling in my eyes. It was as though I could feel the gravitational pull of his cock, the inch inside me and the eight below that. The base of his massive rod was so far away; I imagined it driving up into me, knowing it would reach nearly to my ribs and also knowing that was impossible.

Holding tight he stepped back, pulling my feet off the credenza. I locked my arms and legs around him in panic, his knob still inside me. “Christ, what are doing?” I cried “Don’t let me fall!” I was sobbing openly now and pressing my face into his neck.

“Shhhh. Shhhh,” he soothed. “Trust me. I promise I won’t hurt you.” I stopped sobbing but the tears were still coming as I clung to him. He arranged his massive hands around my ribs, thumbs just beneath my breasts. He lifted me a little. “I’ve got you,” he said gently. “Now let go slowly and I will hold you, I promise.”

I unlocked my ankles from behind is back and allowed my legs to drop either side his cock. I felt him take up the extra weight with his hands. Sniffing back the last of the tears, I pulled my head back and looked up into his solemn eyes. “Go ahead,” ne nodded, “Let yourself go.”

I opened my arms, releasing him as he took my full weight in his hands. I thought it would hurt, but it was actually really snug and comfortable – kind of like being suspended in a sky-diving harness.

I was now suspended in mid air nearly a foot and half off the floor, the first of nine inches of iron hard cock pushing into my desperate vagina … and utterly helpless to do anything about it.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and craned my neck forward to kiss him again, but he held me tantalizingly out of reach. I smiled; it’s going to be like that, is it? Okay, you’re in charge again. What now?

Ever so slowly he raised me up until the tip of his cock slipped out, but still held in the entrance, enveloped by my open lips. Without pause he lowered me down again, giving just the one inch back. Repeating these tiny movements he started to build up the tempo. In spite of my desperation for more of him, I felt a baking heat build up inside my love canal.

On the next downward stroke, he dropped me three inches instead of just one. The feeling was like a micro-orgasm. His cock – cool on the surface from exposure to the air – hit the molten core of my womanhood like ice meeting fire. It set of ripples of contraction down my vaginal walls, clamping down on his rigid member with involuntarily spasms. He drew a gasping breath and quickly lifted me away, holding me still with just the tip of his penis inside and straining with the effort to suppress his mounting orgasm.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I will be,” he answered through clenched teeth. “My God, I’ve never felt anything so hot … or so tight!” he marvelled. “I almost have to push you down onto me.”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’m just a small package.” Reaching down to grip his shaft nestled between my thighs I leaned in to whisper in his ear “and this is a ‘good thing’. Good things cum in small packages. Do it!”

Getting his rhythm back, he lowered and lifted my body, fucking me slowly with just the tip again, but giving me three inches every few strokes. Once we were both used to the pressure and friction he maintained that depth for a dozen slow strokes. Oh Christ! Every nerve-ending in my body was tingling. I threw my head back and moaned with pleasure as my breasts thrust out and up, bouncing before his downturned face.

I pleaded with him, “Please, Sir, I want some more.” I didn’t realise the literary reference at the time – it was completely accidental – but he laughed, breaking the tension.

“Dickens! And Oliver Twist not even on our reading list. Well done, Belinda.” Then he looked at me with a sparkle, “Do you have any other quotes pursuant to the situation? Something from Led Zeppelin, perhaps.”

Sprung! My initial reaction was panic. We’re in trouble for singing about the Headmaster. Then reality kicked in and I remembered I was floating in mid-air impaled on the first third of the Headmasters nine inch cock.

“But how…?” I began, confused.

“The senior girls’ dorm is directly above the staff lounge. I was in there grabbing a few hours sleep after I stayed late to prepare for the final assembly last year,” he explained.

A little chagrined, I started singing in my light, musical soprano, watching for his reaction “Hangman, hangman, upon your face a smile, Pray tell me that I'm free to ride, Ride for many mile.”

Then he joined in. “Your brother brought me silver, Your sister warmed my soul, But now I laugh and pull so hard And see you swinging on the Gallows Pole.”

We laughed together. “Literature classics, rock ‘n’ roll,” he said. “Any more surprises?”

We had both been teetering on the edge of orgasm and I recognised this for what it was: a way to prolong the pleasure that neither of us wanted to end. But I was also close to the breaking point with tears of frustration and need welling in my eyes. I sung again, softly and in tune at first, “I want it all, I want it all” and then building up to a husky growl that I hoped was reminiscent of Freddie Mercury, “I want it all, and I want it now!”

He shot back “You can’t handle it all,” in an eerie Jack Nicholson impersonation.

It was too much for me and the tears came again. I embraced him and buried my face in his neck. Whispering to mask the emotion in my voice, I told him “I know I can’t. I want all of you and I know I can’t have it. But I want you deep inside me; as deep as you can go, and I don’t want to stop again. Please.”

“Shhhh,” he soothed. “That’s what I want too. Loosen your arms.” I let go; he continued to bear my weight effortlessly in his hands. “Tell me when I get there,” he said, lowering me oh-so-deliciously-slowly onto his cock, pausing as spasms of pure pleasure rippled through my sex.

“More,” I panted. “… a little more,” and then as he touched the rear wall of my vagina, “right there! I can take a little more, but you’ll have to stretch me.” He had about six inches inside me now and started gently probing in and out at my depths, working against the resistance. There was a little pain, but mostly it was just an intense pleasure of fullness that I have never experienced with a dildo. I felt down at our nexus with my hand and realised with disappointment that there was still almost two inches to go, but I was full and the pain was starting to override the pleasure.

“Stop,” I breathed. “I can’t … please finish me, I can’t take any more though.”

At my command, he raised me up almost to the point of exit and swept me breathlessly back down, seven inches of iron plunging straight up into my core. Again and again, pleasure exploding in my vagina with the glorious friction and never once passing the point of pain where I had stopped him earlier.

This time I felt the orgasm begin in my thighs, spilling from my loins down my legs, up into my tummy and the depths of my vagina, all spinning and burning together in a ball of naked flame. Then with the speed of a gasoline fire, that ball of energy ripped though my body, expelling a scream of lust and desire from my lungs.

My body lost all control; my back arched and my legs clamped together like a vice over the base of his cock; the entire nine inches now trapped in my flesh so completely that it felt as though it was all inside me.

Thrumming like a teakettle now as my climax convulsed out of control, I held him - helpless to move in the grip of my vagina and crushing thighs - just as he held me helpless in his powerful hands. His body rocked back, muscles bursting from his arms, chest and shoulders as his own orgasm followed mine. I felt his cock yield a little to my pressure as his climax commenced and then a moment later it bucked and throbbed and jetted load after load of cum deep inside me, filling me with pressure until I thought I would burst before it washed back over his cock and poured down my thighs.

The release triggered a second orgasm. Screaming again with the unbearable pleasure I hooked my heels behind his buttocks and pulled in with all my strength, forcing his manhood deeper inside to fill the space created by his explosive stream. With the exquisite pain of his pulsing knob driving up into me, a third crescendo rocked my body, this time my own gushing ejaculation mixing with his and washed over his balls, now pressed achingly against my incandescent labia.

As the euphoria and adrenalin drained away, discomfort returned and I slid gladly away, his strong hands lowering me softly to the floor. I took his cock into my mouth – softening but still pumping weakly. I gently massaged his balls and stroked his length, sucking away the final drops of cum oozing from the throbbing tip and savouring them on my tongue.

Mr Gallows fell back into the office chair, exhausted, rippling muscles covered in sheen of sweat. I straddled him and rose up to kiss mouth, his neck, his earlobes, and whispered my thanks in hitching sobs of pleasure. He leaned the chair back and held me there in the silence, my breasts pressed against his chest, our tummies touching and exchanging heat as the rest of our bodies cooled.

“I stand corrected,” he whispered, “you could handle it all.”

I smiled against his shoulder. “Yes, but I’m going to pay for it. I may not be able to walk upright tomorrow.”

“I can give you a sick pass if you like,” he offered.

“And what would it say? Belinda is unable to attend class because of the cataclysmic fucking I administered to her in my office? Thanks, but I’ll make do.”

After a while, “This should never have happened,” he said uncertainly. “But I am so thankful it did. Do you think we’ll do it again?”

“Never like this; but that won’t stop me trying.”

~~~ END ~~~