Teacher Training Pt2 by scouting4girls

A literotic sexstories: Teacher Training Pt2 by scouting4girls ,

The schoolboy’s grip on his sexy young teacher tightens.

Chloe Hunt stood before the stern looking headmaster, Mr Mason with her recent conduct under scrutiny and a career that hung in the balance. “If there’s one thing you can’t do in schools nowadays, Miss Hunt, it’s striking the pupils,” he pointed out exasperatedly, as if she needed reminding.Chloe stood shamefaced, her life an abject mess. Humble mumbled apologies went unheeded. “Come closer, Miss Hunt,” Mason beckoned.

Hands behind back like a naughty schoolgirl, Chloe shuffled forward to stand face to face with the head, though he remained seated. A towering presence in the mould of a typical 1950’s authoritarian, Mason was able to recall with fondness the days when corporal punishment was encouraged. In these more liberal modern times, however, any such indiscretion was a punishable offence in itself. Chloe knew it too, her momentary lapse unforgivable. “It’s a shame, for you’re a good teacher, popular with students and teachers alike,” Mason eulogised, like he was reading her obituary.

The words cut like a scalpel. “Is there anything I can do to keep my job?” she pleaded.

She was clutching at straws, knowing full well that the moment the snotty-nosed brat she’d gently backhanded squealed to his parents, her career was finished. But she loved teaching and had to cling to something. “Is there anything you can do to help, Mr Mason?” she appealed with doe eyed innocence.

Mason sighed long and hard. “Oh I think it’s too late for that, don’t you, Miss Hunt?”

Chloe’s eyes filled with tears. “There must be something you can do to help me, Sir.”

The old headmaster rubbed at his chin. “You want me to pull a few strings to get you off the hook, yes, Miss Hunt?”

Chloe’s spirits took a leap. He seemed to be coming round to her way of thinking, assisted no doubt by her personable demeanour and pretty persuasion. She’d been able to twist men around her little finger from an early age. Undoubtedly it was the blonde thing that men couldn’t resist. Chloe nodded enthusiastically as he proceeded to lecture her on how he kept a tight ship at the school, how he couldn’t tolerate teachers taking the law into their own hands…blah, blah, blah…

As he lectured endlessly, Chloe felt like she was drowning in a sea of words, not really hearing and only rousing when the tirade ended. “Sorry Sir?” she queried, thinking she must have heard him incorrectly.

“I said come and bend yourself over my knee, Miss Hunt and let’s get this over with.”

Chloe’s eyed bulged like a goldfish’s. He had spoken those words, it wasn’t a trick of her ears. It was unthinkable, yet she found herself compliantly obeying. Mason’s lap provided a firm platform, ably supporting her flat belly, toes stretched for support on the wooden floor one side, palms flat the other side. She could feel the old man’s eyes boring into her bum and thighs, surveying each aesthetic curve. A tiny whimper slipped from her pursed lips as she waited in heightened anticipation.

A huge hand took hold of her thigh, sliding the tiny skirt up and over the peachiest butt imaginable. Chloe shivered all over, breath held tight. Sure thumbs hooked inside the waistbands of her panties, shifting the flimsy garment down slowly to rest on the backs of her knees. As she awaited her fate, Chloe wondered how many other girls had been in this position before, back in the days when such things were allowable – or more recently perhaps. Maybe this was what the old pervert had wanted all along.

She sighed forlornly as the warm air of the study brushed over the moistness of her pussy and down the crack of her arse. Mason’s hand clenched and unclenched on the thigh then moved up and down, appraising the beautiful piece of legwoek. “You know what happens to naughty little girls,” mused Mr Mason, breaking the spell in a dreamlike voice.

Though it was a rhetorical question, Chloe felt compelled to answer. “Yes Sir, they get punished Sir.”

She flinched as the headmaster’s warm hands reached her hips, elevating them so that the sweet young arse plumped up. Chloe held her breath in growing expectation, a distant tingle deep in her loins. Then it happened, taking her by surprise. His hand moved away, hovering. Chloe closed her eyes. SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!

“Ow-eeeeeee,” she cried, biting her bottom lip. “Ow, ow, ow.”

The cries were followed by a rapid inhalation of air. From her prone position she could picture the satisfaction on the old man’s face. And in a strange way it was on hers too. For in spite of the numb discomfort in the rose-blushed arsecheeks, the overwhelming feeling was of arousal. It was so intense that her pussy had leaked a sticky deposit on the headmaster’s grey slacks…

—

The pretty teacher cried out loud, jolting up in bed as the horrible dream replayed in a troubled mind beset with kinky musings. Thighs rubbing together, her soaking wet pussy from the erotic dream had found its way into reality, her newly bald cuntlips soaked with juice. “Oh my God,” she whispered, chest rising and plunging beneath the duvet.

Allowing a brief moment to let her mind un-fog, she fought to disassociate dream from reality. For once in her life, however, the girl’s dreams were somewhat less bizarre than reality, the events of the previous day with Kevin Manning reverberating in a troubled mind. Hard to believe, but this time yesterday, upon waking, her life had been following a normal, dare she admit boring, path. In twenty-four hours everything had been turned on its head by the evil young blackmailer.

Finally composing, she rose from the bed, immediately sensing a numb pain between her legs, courtesy of ex-boyfriend Jack’s brutal assault. Tiptoeing to the bathroom she surveyed the smattering of small brown bruises that littered her inner thighs and hips. After a soothing shower, she heard the mobile phone bleep. The text message read simply: It’s a hot day, dress appropriately, see you at school, K.

Chloe whimpered inwardly. It was beginning again already. Riffling through the line of hanging garments she searched for something suitable to please Kevin, hand drawn magnetically to the skirt she’d last sported as a carefree teenager. Peach in colour, it was terrifyingly tiny and she shivered at the prospect, wrestling with a better nature. A sheer cream blouse, almost see through, caught her attention and she wondered whether panties and bra were allowable under the terms of Kevin’s contract. Locating a little frilly white set in the drawer, the teacher was prepared to face the consequences if she was mistaken. Her highest heels, normally reserved for clubbing, completed the look, an appearance that screamed ‘slut’.

The walk to school was an awkward one, not just the awkward clicky heels that produced a totter, but also on account of a paranoic belief that all eyes were on her. It ranged from the parents dropping off the really young ones at infant school, to the pubescent teens who doubtless harboured outrageous wank fantasies of her, to the older ones who issued lecherous grins, and her bemused fellow teachers who didn’t know quite what to make of this bizarre transition from librarian one day to hooker the next.

One consolation was that her first two classes were with eleven and twelve-year olds that still regarded her as an authority figure rather than a sex object. A few gave her odd looks but she could brush it off easily. Miraculously, lunchtime came around uneventfully, though she did ensure to keep an eye open for Kevin Manning. As the morning wore on, she noticed kids pass and giggle, whispering stuff, but brushed it off.

As it transpired, he’d spent the morning sitting an exam, out of harm’s way. Consequently, her early optimism for a ceasefire was misplaced as the headmaster summoned her to his study after lunch. What have I done now? She thought. Oh God, he wasn’t going to pull her up on these clothes, was he? Chloe trudged along to the office with the previous night’s dream playing heavily on her mind. Surely he wouldn’t spank her, would he?

“Miss Hunt…” Mr Mason intoned with authority, and Chloe found herself almost in tears just at hearing her name. “Miss Hunt…I know you’re fairly new at this school but you mustn’t let the children take advantage of you.”

Take advantage of her? What did he mean? She could feel her cheeks blush profusely and her underarms moisten with the sweat of fear. Oh gosh, he hadn’t found about Kevin, had he? Within seconds Chloe’s cheeks were radiating a deep beetroot hue. “Your blouse, Miss Hunt,” Mason clarified.

Chloe’s eyebrows elevated and her mouth formed a round tunnel. It was a revealing blouse but broke no rules as far as she was aware. “My blouse, Sir?”

“The back of your blouse, Miss Hunt.”

Twisting to try to see, Chloe’s fingers groped at the buttons.

“Not here, Miss Hunt,” he boomed, the words turning Chloe’s cheeks even more bloodshot, if that were possible.

Excusing herself with a dainty curtsey, the pretty blonde trotted off to the staff toilet, heels click-clicking on the way. Ensuring she was alone, hastily the blouse was removed. Her cute little breasts were held in place by what amounted to a band of lace around the centre, a couple of daringly cut half cups and two spaghetti straps. Chloe’s face clouded as the cause of the headmaster’s irritation was revealed in the mirror. Some little swine had inked a swastika on the back. She hadn’t felt a thing and had no idea how long she’d been walking around like that on her back. It figured now what the passing kids found amusing, the embarrassment prompting a flood of tears.

Before she’d really given the matter nearly enough thought, the hot tap was steaming and the blouse was being doused in its cascade, the fabric rubbed against itself vigorously as she strove to remove the offending symbol. Regrettably, the stain merely blotted and ran, ingrained in the thread. The best she could do was to make it look less like a swastika and more like a shapeless blob of diluted blue. Yet now, not only did she have a stained blouse but a soaking wet one. Suddenly the realisation dawned that the hand dryer was painfully slow and ineffective, little better than one’s own breath. As if to compound the situation, the bell droned to signal the start of the next lesson.