The headmaster, Mr. Fuller, did not understand Emma Newell, the girl currently standing before his desk and staring down at him with her large, innocent blue eyes.
That was wrong for a start. Over six years in a Catholic girls’ secondary school should have filled any normal person with guilt, yet her flawless face showed not a trace. This, despite the trails of drying cum splattered all over it, with more gelatinous lumps dangling like obscene jewellery from her chin, earlobes, and pigtails.
Even without the teachings of the Church, societal decency should compel an eighteen-year-old to hide her breasts from a fifty-five-year-old man, but he had to tell her to do up her shirt. Not that it did much, what with the top three buttons torn off, and the thin white cotton near-transparent from semen and sweat doing little to hide her erect nipples. Where her bra was, God only knew — probably taken as a trophy by one of the boys she had been entertaining, along with her knickers. The worst part was, her general appearance had caused such stirrings in his pants that he had to remain seated to conceal the bulge, thus undermining his authority over her.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he thought back over the past half hour.
He had been taking his evening stroll by the church when he heard a disturbance and went to investigate. On discovering that the cause of the noise in the graveyard was the entire Year Twelve rugby team from the boys’ grammar school on the other side of town, cheering on two teammates spit-roasting one of his pupils, he had reacted in horror and assumed the worst.
That is, right up until her mouth was vacated by its phallic occupant, and she had yelled indignantly at the crowd of retreating naked teenage male posteriors, “Hey! You promised me two loads each! I still want the remaining five, and I charge interest!”
Did she make any show of embarrassment, shame, or even gratitude once she saw that it was her headmaster who had caused the flight of her defilers?
No. Not Emma.
Emma merely lounged back on her hands, torn shirt gaping open and legs spread, exposing her young pussy with pearls of white cum clinging to the curls. He had watched, transfixed, as a bubble emerged from her puffy nether lips and popped, followed by an off-white rivulet of more trickling down over her winking star to the tombstone she was sat upon.
“Oh, hi, Mr Fuller!” she had greeted him, as if they were bumping into each other at a jumble sale. “Would you like a turn? They’ve left a bit of a mess, I’m afraid, but you know boys — they never tidy up after themselves.”
Needless to say, he had not taken up her offer. Now she stood in his office, dripping dollops of teenage lust onto the carpet, and he had to make a decision.
“What should I do with you, Emma?” he asked, exasperated.
“Perhaps anal, Sir?” she replied sweetly. “We haven’t done that in a while, and I think the boys found my cunt more novel, so it’s still quite tight tonight—”
“No, Emma!”
He put his hands over his face. What was it with this girl? The perfect student, as far as grades went, although she did insist on asking awkward questions. Fairly popular, although she did have a tendency to sleep with her friends’ boyfriends. And her friends themselves. Given her intelligence, she had no reason to blackmail her teachers, yet he was certain she had slept with at least half — and only a fifth of the faculty were male.
On the one hand, he should expel her. Such consistently indecent behaviour on school grounds risked destroying the reputation of St. Lucy’s Academy for Girls. On the other hand, she was every headmaster’s guilty wet dream: a shameless whore, more interested in the act of fucking itself than the power it gave her. And yes, he had had his moment of weakness. Moments. Fine, thirty-two, that he remembered, if he didn’t count fingering her at the Christmas concert last year — he’d been drunk and she was the only one to cum, so it was hardly fair to include that.
“Sit,” he ordered, finally. “No, on the plastic chair.”
“Is that my punishment? An uncomfy chair?”
“No, I just don’t want you punishing my armchair. I’m already going to have to spend half an hour cleaning the carpet; I don’t want to spend the night scrubbing the furniture too.
“Now, when did you last go to confession?”
“Seventeen months ago.”
“Seventeen months?! How have you let it go so long?”
“I was banned, Sir. Remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. After the incident with Father Kelly. Good God, girl, the man was eighty-two!”
“How is he doing? I liked him.”
“Far too much, clearly! I hear he’s doing fine, living on some island in Ireland under an assumed name with two other priests who had difficulty, er, keeping their vows.”
“Which island? I could visit.”
“I am not telling you which island!”
He drummed his fingers on the wood, his wedding ring giving an extra loud tap on the third beat.
“What do you want to do, career-wise? Flight attendant? Nurse? High class esc—”
“Engineer,” she interrupted. “I thought about becoming a mathematics professor, but I think the variety of potential fucks from an engineering job will make up for the narrower range of sexy maths problems.”
“Sexy maths problems?”
“Well, they turn me on.”
I really don’t understand this girl.
“I believe you got an offer from Cambridge. How would they view an expulsion?”
“You won’t expel me. I’m too good a fuck.”
Fuck.
“I can’t allow you to continue to drag the school’s reputation into the gutter! The governors are starting to talk—”
“I could fuck them, would that help?”
“You can’t solve every problem by fucking!”
“Why not?”
Covering his face with his hands, Mr Fuller forced himself not to shout.
“I think it’s time we tried some external intervention again.”
Emma snorted. “Really? Bring out the big nuns?” The headmaster raised an eyebrow. “What? Dads don’t have a monopoly on shit jokes, you know.”
“Clearly. And yes, I’m suggesting nuns. I know you’re not going to take any vows, but we have to be seen to be doing something to guide you back to God for appearance’s sake. The problem will be in finding an order that hasn’t already blacklisted you.”
Pulling a Rolodex across the desk, he began flicking through, muttering to himself.
“No. No. Definitely not! No. Hmm maybe... no actually, the Mother Superior told me that I was never to contact her until you graduate and the school grounds have been exorcised… No, no, and no.”
In frustration, he flicked the card spinner so hard that it skidded a few inches across his desk, and a black card fell out. He picked it up.
“Oh. This lot might do. I’ve not heard of them before but, with luck, that means they haven’t heard of you.”
Emma took the card and turned it this way and that.
“Order of... Lilies? I can’t read this writing. Are you sure they’re nuns and not a power metal band?”
She handed it back.
“Positive. Father Gorman gave that card to me. The indecipherable writing symbolises the ineffable or something. Can you at least meet with them? It’s only three more months before your final exams, then you can go off and be a university whore or whatever you wish off school grounds.”
The girl stared at him, mulling it over.
“Fine. I’ll meet your nuns. I’ll even try not to convert them to lesbian atheism like the last two. One condition.”
He sighed.
“Oh, very well,” he said, standing and unbuckling his belt.
~oOo~
“Emma? Emma!” Mr Herbert’s voice startled her out of her daydream and brought her attention back to her maths teacher.
“Yes, Sir?” she finally responded, and with slow deliberation pulled her right hand from her knickers. His eyes widened in impotent rage as he watched her lick her glistening juice from each finger, reminding him how those lips felt on his cock, until he brought himself back to reality.
“The problem on the board,” he said, talking over the giggles of her classmates. “Did you find the solution galloping over the fields out there?”
“No,” she answered, and glanced at the whiteboard. “X equals forty-three.”
“What? That’s just a guess! And a wrong guess.”
“No, if I was guessing I would have said forty-two.”
He’d been her teacher for four years, and every term he had a complicated problem to solve to which the answer was always forty-two. He thought he was so clever and that none of the students had guessed, but she had worked it out even before last year when she had gone to his house. A signed first edition of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in a glass cabinet in his study kept distracting her while she gyrated on his dick.
