Miss Davenport's Prom Night

So, on this particular Tuesday morning in April, toward the end of third period to be exact, I was kneeling astride a phys ed teacher and football coach, Lance Lightsaber (better known as "Jumbo"), who was flat on his back behind a pile of Monday's dirty laundry in the back corner of the War Memorial High School weight training room. And I was about to do what I had gone there to do. And what he had been wanting to do all week.

But time out. Let me tell you a little about me first. Because, in the end, it really is all about me anyway. My name is Denise Davenport. I'm a high school English teacher, mostly for senior and AP English. Guys tend to notice me because of my long, thick, blond hair, my huge blue eyes and the fact that I have the kind of body they've only seen in their soggiest wet dream. Oh, and also because I always, and I mean always, dress in a way that screams, This is what I got. Now show me yours!!

If you want to know exactly how big a black cock slut I am, or precisely how gorgeous all men, but especially those of the Negro persuasion, find me, you might want to take a look at my little chronicle of the day I arrived here at War Memorial High. But suffice it to say that I have never met a black cock I didn't like, and damn few I didn't fuck. And I have certainly never met a black cock that didn't want to nestle snugly into my cute little tight, tender, wet, white pussy.

I'm writing this history of the night I went to the Prom for the same reason I wrote about what happened on my first day of school - because I enjoy it. And I enjoy it for two reasons, first because I like writing. I am an English teacher after all. But more importantly because I really, really get off on writing about sex, especially when I'm describing my own sexual exploits.

It's like my grandfather getting his own firewood for his wood stove. He used to say that the same wood warmed him up twice - once when he cut and split it, and again when he burned it. Well, I obviously enjoy fucking when I fuck. But then the same sex gets me hot all over again when I write about it. Am I sitting here and fingering myself to orgasm as I write? I'll leave you guessing about that. A girl has to have some secrets after all.

Anyway, as I was saying, on that particular Tuesday morning in April, I was kneeling astride Lance "Jumbo" Lightsaber, and we were hiding behind a pile of dirty laundry in a corner of the school's weight training room. And, despite my taste for dark meat, Jumbo was (and I'm sure still is) completely and totally Caucasian.

So, on that particular Tuesday morning, I slowly raised my hips, then paused dramatically. I was preparing to administer the coup de grace which would release us both from the enthralling, agonizing erotic tension which gripped us like the sweaty bear-hug of a half-crazed wrestler. I stared at him, my wild eyes and gasping mouth wide open in frenzied anticipation of the orgasmic tsunami which was about to sweep over us, freeing us, if only briefly, from our near-constant, intense sexual longings.

His eyes were squeezed tightly shut as he bit down hard on his lower lip in a sweet, gallant attempt to hold off his climax until I reached mine. However, it wasn't really his choice. I was in complete control.

My hot love sauce slid thickly down the long, fat shaft of his aching dick. My smoldering cunt squeezed the tip tightly as I waited for exactly the right moment to make my move, the moment when that erotic tension peaked and the impact and satisfaction of our orgasmic release would be maximized.

"Aaggggghhrrrrrrr," he growled, tossing his head back and forth like an enraged beast, and still I waited. Seconds passed and I squeezed the tip of his bloated cock while making small, slow circles with my hips, like an aircraft in a holding pattern.

"AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRR," he growled, more loudly.

"OoooooOOOOhhhhOOOOOO." I answered immediately, and drove my hips suddenly downward with all the force and velocity that desperation brings, stabbing myself repeatedly with his pulsing cock. He matched my pace, thrusting back with equal ardor and urgency, pumping me full of his steaming man juice. Orgasmic ecstasy rolled over us both in throbbing waves of acute pleasure, leaving us squealing and grunting, bucking and twitching until we were swept out upon calm sea of glowing satisfaction.

Oh, forgive me if my prose sometimes turns a little purple and my style just a tad florid. I love the English language nearly as much as I love sex. And I do have a tendency to get carried away - always by the erotic opportunities inherent in senior classes overcrowded with oversexed, oversized and overeager young black men and a school with a faculty of equally eager and well-equipped, mostly black, male colleagues. And sometimes I also get carried away by my enthusiastic attempts to record my adventures here.

I find it particularly stimulating to try to reproduce the noises of sexual ecstasy, the OOOs and the AAAAHs and all the other ancient animal noises we make when we fornicate. I, myself, am a very loud fuck. I also have an incredible range. I can go from growling guttural to soprano shriek in a heartbeat. And I pride myself on also evoking an extremely high volume and completely inarticulate response from each and every one of my many partners. So I take real pleasure in reporting the vigor and the incoherence of our vocalizations. Think of it as a kind of boasting. Anyway, I try not to overdo it.

But as frenzied and out-of-control as my lovers and I may sometimes get, and as embellished as my English may occasionally become, the events I describe are always 100 percent true and factual - except, of course, when I include my fantasies, the exploits I think should have happened but didn't, and my contrived justifications for the things I really shouldn't have done, but did anyway. But other than that, every word is gospel truth.

So on that Tuesday morning in April, after floating contentedly for a few minutes on the aforesaid calm sea of glowing satisfaction conveniently located behind the pile of dirty laundry in the back corner of the school weight training room, I sat up a little and looked down at Jumbo Lightsaber, the head of the physical education department. "Wow," I said, in my eloquent, English teacher kind of way.

"Yeah, totally neurotic" he replied in his malaprop-ish, English-challenged phys ed teacher/football coach kind of way. But it wasn't the size of his intellect which attracted me to him in the first place.

"I think you mean 'erotic' Jumbo," I corrected. (A good English teacher is never off duty.)

"Probably," he grinned.

He was one of the few white men on the faculty at War Memorial, but I didn't hold that against him. His nickname was more than appropriate and, when it comes to well-endowed men, I'm definitely an equal opportunity kind of slut. I'll fuck the brains out of any good-looking, hung stud, regardless of race, creed, color, national origin or sexual preference. Well, maybe not regardless of sexual preference. They need to prefer sex, and they'd damn well better prefer it with me.

It's just that the pool of well-endowed, big, strong, sexy black men is so much larger that your odds are better if you go with the dark meat. But that doesn't mean that you turn up your nose at a macho, brawny guy sporting a big, tasty slab of white meat either.

I gave him a big tongue-probing kiss, then suddenly stood up. As I did, his shrinking prick popped out of my cunt and at least a quarter of a cup of his cum drooled out onto his bare stomach. When a man has a physique like Jumbo, I won't fuck him until he takes his shirt off. If he refuses, I rip it off him myself, which gets me so hot, I fuck him twice.

"Oh shit," he complained with some degree of real annoyance as he watched the sticky semen spread across his belly. "Why do you always do that?"

"I guess because it's the only way I've got to measure how much you really love me," I answered with a smirk.

"And how much do I?" he asked, having already forgiven me.

"Apparently a little less than half as much as Joey does," I replied, giving him my best comic look of reproach.

"Not fair!" he protested. "I'm 35 and that kid's - what? - 18? There's no way I could emasculate the way Joey does." he grumbled, his annoyance returning.

"Do you mean 'ejaculate', Jumbo?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Whatever," he shrugged. "But I think you're missing the real point here. We're teachers. We're not supposed to be fucking the students. It's against the law and it's against any code of teachers' ethics."

"I mean take Anjellika," he continued. "And the rest of the cheerleaders, too. They're always flirting with me during games, flipping their little skirts back and forth and showing me their frilly panties. They know I can see that their nipples are hard as anything under their tight little tops. And they come up to me all innocent and say, 'Is it true your nickname is "Jumbo", Coach Lightsaber?' And, 'Why do they call you that, Coach Lightsaber?' And they're even worse in gym class. I get so stiff it hurts, and, of course, it shows and then they start giggling and pointing." And then he demonstrated by giggling the cutest little falsetto giggle.

"I know they fuck their boyfriends. I've caught them doing it. And some of them fuck that janitor, what's his name? McKinnon? And I know they want to fuck me, too. And it's not because they're black. I love black women. You know I respect people of all colors of the rectum."

" 'Spectrum', Lance. 'All colors of the spectrum'," I interrupted.

"All the colors of the spectrum?" Lance asked, scowling his confusion.

"Yup," I assured him.

"No kidding?" he asked.

"No kidding," I assured him.

"But anyway," he continued, "Fucking those cheerleaders just wouldn't be right, and I won't do it. You, on the other hand....", he trailed off suggestively.

Jumbo may not be the brightest bulb, but he has all the Boy Scout virtues, including integrity and decency, and I adore the hell out of him for that.

Actually, there's nothing not to like about Jumbo, except the way he mangles the English language. The first time I met him, my "slut sense" went off like a desperate alarm clock which has just realized that it overslept by an hour or so. And that was before I discovered his ethical virtues.

(Oh yeah, my slut sense, let me tell you about that. It's a little gift, a sixth sense I have, like Spiderman's "spider sense", except it's located in my clit and goes off whenever I'm in the presence of a well-endowed stud, even if I haven't had a chance to check out his equipment yet.)

"I used to agree with you, Lance" I said, getting a little serious. I mostly call him "Jumbo" when we're fucking, or flirting or just screwing around, "Lance" when I'm being formal or want him to know I'm angry or being sincere.

The issue of sex with students was something I had actually agonized over when I first arrived at the school - but not for very long. Being cooped up in a little classroom with fifteen or so big, strong, black, randy, pheromone-spewing 18-year old guys had the little girl between my legs singing and dancing and demanding attention all day long. And how about brushing against dozens of them passing through the crowded school corridors? And having a couple of hundred of them turn to stare at me and make comments under their breath whenever I walk through the lunch room? Fact is, at this school, my panties are soaking wet all day, every day.

"At the schools before, and for a very short time, when I first came here, I swore I would never fuck a student," I continued. "Then, when I got here, I gave in, but felt guilty about it at first. Joey, however, taught me not to feel guilty. I would still never fuck a child, but he's no child. He's 18. And he's a smart, responsible and mature 18, too. And so is Anjellika - and a lot of the other cheerleaders. Besides, I'll bet you were 18 once. I know I was and I had sex with every male teacher in my high school. They loved it; I loved it; and no one got hurt, except for maybe a couple of fat, ugly, bitch wives.

"If you never fucked any of your teachers, I'm sure you wanted to. Think back to when you were a teenager. Think of the sexiest teacher you ever had."

"Miss Gorney," he sighed. "Our personal health teacher. We all called her 'Miss Horny', because that's what she did to us. She was incredibly voluminous."

"The word you want is probably 'voluptuous'," I interrupted gently.

"Yeah, voluptuous," he continued. "She had the biggest tits and the longest legs and she wore those tight, low-cut v-neck sweaters. I could get hard just thinking about her. In fact, I used to fantasize about her when I was beating off. Then, one day she caught me doing it behind the gym, and it took me a good 10 seconds to realize it was really her, not part of my fantasy, so I just kept on masticating."

"You probably mean 'masturbating'," I said.

"Probably," he replied. "Anyway, point is, I had such a crush on her."

"Okay," I said. "Would it have been so terrible if, when she caught you out there behind the gym, she gave you a blow job, or fucked your brains out, and then maybe met you back there to do it again the week after that? Wouldn't that have been exactly what you wanted? Wouldn't you have learned something from it? And if she said, 'Hey Lance, enough with the nutrient-dense diet and adolescent-appropriate value structure. I'm going to teach you a little something about real women and grown-up relationships,' weren't you mature enough to know that she was like a developmental guide for you, and that she wasn't going to marry you or be your girlfriend forever? And wouldn't you have been grateful to her for the rest of your life? Wouldn't that be a memory you would still cherish?"

"Well, if you put it that way..." His voice trailed off as he once more graphically imagined doing with Miss Gorney all the things he had fantasized about 17 years before.

"Well, that's all I'm doing with Joey," I said, mostly meaning it. "A little volunteer, after-class, extra-credit instructional assistance."

"I don't know," he drawled slowly (the same speed at which he thinks). "I guess I see what you're saying, but maybe we'll just have to agree to disagree."

"No one I'd rather disagree with," I replied, noticing that he hadn't wiped the cum off his stomach yet.

"Let me take care of that for you," I cooed, and began to sensuously lick the syrupy seed off his 6-pack abs. As I did, I could see his shriveled dick begin to twitch and bloat. I worked my way down to it and turned to face his feet, then swung my leg over his head, aiming my stiffening clit for his talented lips and tongue. Within seconds his big cock was down my throat and quickly getting bigger.

His chin was pressed firmly against my pubic tattoo, a small, lacy red heart inscribed with the words "INSERT COCK(S) BELOW." He was trying to say something, but my pussy was jammed so hard against his mouth that he was a little hard to understand. He might have been saying, "Five minutes 'til the bell rings," but then again, it could have been, "I think I'm suffocating."

I let his prick slide out of my throat and started tugging on it with both hands.

"Plenty of time for me," I said, "But you might want to hurry up a bit." Then I re-filled my mouth with his thick love muscle and sucked as hard as I could.

We both came again in less than two minutes.

As we were dressing hurriedly, he suddenly stopped and, out of nowhere, asked, "Go to the Prom with me?"

I was so surprised I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. I said, "The Prom? You mean that big party that all the seniors go to and the girls get all dressed up like teenage hookers and they dance for a little while and then go to someone's house where the parents get them drunk and let them have an all-night orgy? That Prom?"

"I guess that's one way to describe it," he said.

I still wasn't sure he was serious, but I decided to play along. "How romantic," I crooned. "I haven't been asked to a Prom since my senior year of high school, when six guys asked me, and I went with all six of them."

"I'd really like you to come," he said. "Vice Principal Harwood, Maggie Dryden and I are the faculty chaperones, and we can bring dates. Harwood is bringing his wife, obviously. I assume Maggie's bringing Constance. And I'd like you to come with me. I know you think Maggie is a little prunish, but we don't have to hang out with her."

" 'Prudish', Jumbo," I said. "I think you meant that Maggie is 'prudish'. But you know what? At her age and with her wrinkles, maybe 'prunish' works, too."

Lance scowled a little.

"Okay," I continued. "You're asking me to the Prom. That is sweet," I smiled. "I'd love to, of course. But I'll have to check my calendar to be sure."

My real issue was that I was fucking "Jellyroll" Harwood a couple of times a week, and I didn't know if his wife suspected, or whether there might be some risk of confrontation. I've had some nasty scenes with some angry wives over the years, and survived them all. But from what I had heard, Camille Harwood was a big, strong, athletic lady, with a very serious attachment to her husband. And I didn't want this to be the year my luck ran out.

So the next time I found myself pulling my panties back on in the Vice Principal's office, I told Jelly about Jumbo's invitation and asked about his wife. He assured me that she didn't have a clue what he was up to with me, and that, anyway, she had never killed or even seriously maimed another woman. So five minutes later, I accepted Jumbo's offer.

A few days later, I realized that the Prom might offer a special opportunity to broaden Lance Lightsaber's world view and to enlarge his repertoire of educational techniques. So I asked Anjellika to stay a little after class.

The truce between me and Anjellika was still pretty tense and somewhat tentative. Anjellica, you see, is Joey Jurgensen's girlfriend. Joey is the biggest stud in the senior class. Anjellica and I were both fucking Joey several times a week, she much more often than I. While I didn't particularly mind sharing, she wasn't thrilled with it. I think she might even be in love with him.

But still, over the course of the school year, Anjellika and I had developed a special relationship, and in a strange way, we saw each other as kindred spirits - two gorgeous sluts with sharp minds and hearts of gold - or something like that. And our relationship had progressed from the spiteful hatred of bitter rivals, to a cautious truce and even to some degree of mutual admiration.

So we hatched our little plot and made our Prom plans that day. But little did I know that Anjellika, that conniving, double-crossing, bitch-after-my-own-heart, also had her own little scheme.

The two of us spent the next week shopping for Prom dresses together. Some girls like to wear long, flowing gowns to the Prom. But not at War Memorial High School, and not Anjellica, and certainly not yours truly. We looked online at websites like trampwear.com and nymphoflirt.net and we went to dozens of stores. By the time we were done, we knew we would have the two most spectacularly sexy outfits of the evening.

My Prom frock was covered in bright, shiny purple sequins from the waist up. It was strapless and sleeveless and cut so low that it showed the tops of my areolae. And there was a heart-shaped cut-out in front which extended from the bottoms of my breasts to 2 inches below my navel.The skirt was multi-layered, puffy, hot pink chiffon, sort of like a tutu, and so short that it didn't even try to cover the bottom of my ass cheeks. My 7-inch stiletto platform pumps matched the purple of the bodice. And I finished it off with opera gloves which were the same pink as my skirt and seamed, fishnet stockings which stopped a few inches below my hemline.