The Girl Who Cried Wolf 01bycbsummers©
This is the story of a teacher seducing his student... SLOWLY.
In other words, readers who want instant action should look elsewhere. But if you like character development, scene setting, dialogue and delayed gratification, then this is your story!
I wrote this with a new writing partner, a sweet young British girl named Lisa. She wrote Fern's entries, and I wrote Donaldson's. Then we edited each other's work to make it as good as possible. We hope you enjoy the results!
Fiona Windsor sits front row centre. Right at the foot of my desk. She's a lovely, blue eyed girl, with strawberry blonde hair, which she wears tucked behind her delicate little ears. She doesn't wear makeup, but she doesn't need it. Her lips are naturally red, and her cheeks are vividly rosy. Not that any of the girls wear makeup. It isn't permitted here at Bitterburn Academy. Fiona's family comes from royalty, but apparently they neglected to teach her proper posture, because whenever she's concentrating on a test, she bends her ankles outward, and turns her feet inward, until her shiny black shoes are turned sole to sole. Surely this can't be good for her ankles. I suppose I should correct her posture. But I don't. Why? Because this unladylike position forces her knees wide apart. Good lord. What pretty legs she has. I try not to look, but my eyes wander up the inside of her creamy young thighs, until they are peering into the mysterious and shadowy depths under her tartan skirt. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her bright white panties, and a thrill goes up my spine and stiffens my cock.
I have to force myself not to stare. What if one of the girls saw me looking? What if they saw my dirty thoughts? Oh, god, if any of the girls knew what I was thinking about them, they'd never see me the same way again. They wouldn't giggle and smile at me. They wouldn't call me "Dear old Donny". They wouldn't bring me little presents for Christmas. No. They'd report me to their parents, and then my life would be over. Even the hint of impropriety would be cause for dismissal from such a prestigious school as Bitterburn. But... It's so difficult to look away from such beauty. Such freshness. Such perfection.
Tale Shakawe, who sits in the third row of my Western Literature class, is a beautiful African girl with dark brown skin and long black hair which she wears in elaborate cornrows. She has glittering mahogany eyes, full lips, and the most massive set of tits in the school, and that's including the old matrons who work in the kitchen. Tale is only sixteen, so I can just imagine how gigantic her knockers will be before she graduates. I can't wait to see how she develops. Each footfall causes her huge breasts to bounce, wriggle, and dance inside her bright white shirt, but she doesn't seem to notice or care. There are no boys around to gawk and make her feel awkward; otherwise she might invest in a more confining bra. But I wish she would, because then I wouldn't be obsessed with the idea of ripping her shirt off, and yanking her bra down, and wrapping my lips around her big, fat, dark nipples. I have to force myself to look away from her gargantuan udders. Mustn't be caught staring. Her father is the ambassador of Botswana, don't you know. If she caught me gawping, it would start an international incident.
Girls girls girls. All around me. Ranging from 11 to 18. Tempting. Tasty. Untouchable. And I sit amid them year after year, like a thirsty castaway surrounded by an ocean of undrinkable water. Maddening. Marvellous. They're so bubbly, giggly, perfumed and young. So innocent, trusting and untutored. And they look up at me with their wide, gleaming eyes, their sweet young lips, which are slightly parted, and they listen with rapt attention to my lectures, mesmerized by my deep voice, educated air, and personable disposition. But sometimes I see among those innocent eyes flickering flames of puberty-induced desire. They admire me. They love me. They trust me. But some of them are thinking other things. Some of them are having wicked thoughts about me. I just know it.
Britta Collier, whose mother runs an international shipping concern, is a flirtatious little brunette. When she first began batting her big brown eyes at me, I barely noticed, but lately it's become so obvious that I've reported it to the headmistress. I can't have Mrs. Dollarhyde thinking that I encourage that sort of thing. "I assure you, I'd never dream of taking advantage of a student." But that's a lie. I do dream of it. Daily. Hourly. I dream of it every time Britta flutters her long, dark eyelashes at me. Every time she casually pets her long brown ponytails against her ample bosom. Every time she slowly licks her full, rosy lips. Every time she casually touches my hand as she hands me her test papers. Oh, Britta, that naughty little tease. She knows what she's doing. She wants something that I can never give her. But I dream about it nonetheless. I dream that one day she lingers after class, until the last girl leaves, and the heavy, windowless oak door rumbles shut, and we are all alone. She flirtatiously hands me her test, touching my fingertips ever so lightly, pretending it's an accident, but batting her chocolate brown eyes at me, and flirtatiously fingering her long brown ponytail with those delicate little hands. Enough is enough! I suddenly grab her narrow, delicate wrist, spin her around and bend her forward over the top of my desk with one hand, while flipping her tartan skirt upward with the other revealing her white cotton panties. She screams, "What are you doing, Professor Donaldson?", but I'm already yanking her panties down, then running my hand across the powdery soft, perfectly round orbs of her buttocks, which have that same flawless Mediterranean skin as her exquisite face. She struggles helplessly under my insistent hand and whimpers, "I'll tell my mother!" But I say, "Tell her what, you little flirt? You've been begging for this since you were eleven, and now I'm going to give it to you." Then I my raging cock free.
I suspect that Britta is not a virgin, but I doubt she's ever been fucked with a cock as big as mine: nine and a half inches, the last time I measured it. My cousins used to joke I should go into porn. But instead I went into education, like a fool. And now my cock goes unsucked, unfucked, unseen by the entire world, ever since that awful day thirteen years ago when my wife found out that I'm infertile. I was always too big for her, and when she realised that we'd never have a child, she completely lost interest in intercourse.
But in my dream I'm not asking Britta. I just put the fat head of my John Thomas to her her rosy quim, and shove it rudely inside. She squeals in pain and perhaps a bit of pleasure as well, as I begin to fuck her. She struggles to escape but I grip her long dark-brown ponytail and hold her fast as I plumb her tight teen depths. Soon I'm huffing and puffing, and she's shedding bitter tears onto the ungraded papers scattered across the top of my desk. I imagine myself fucking her long and hard, squeezing her olive-hued ass so firmly that I leave hand-shaped bruises on her tender flesh. I'm over eager, to be sure. But it's been so long. So long since the last time I felt a tight young pussy stretched around my throbbing flesh. So long, so long, so long. And though she struggles in vain to get away, she can't help but feel pleasure from my impressive girth and tireless thrusting. She begins to squeal with an unwanted orgasm. I grunt, "Ah, you like that, don't you, you little tart?" She whimpers, "Yes sir, professor Donaldson" and I feel her tight teen pussy clenching and quivering around my cock. Then I explode deep inside her young cunny, roaring an evil roar.
What a disgusting fantasy. I'd never lay a finger on a student, even if they are technically adults, like Britta. I love my girls. They're far from home, and look to me as a father figure, and I happily fill that role, and have done for many many years. I may be sexually frustrated, but only a lunatic would throw his life away for something as transient as a fuck with a student. It's against the law for a teacher to have sexual congress with a student her age. They'd sack me and probably toss me in prison, and when I got out, I'd never be allowed to teach again, and be forever branded a 'sex offender'. No thank you very much.
I'm only thinking these dark thoughts about the girls because of my meeting an hour ago. The Headmistress, Mrs. Dollarhyde, called me into her office, where she introduced me to Lord and Lady Clabberton from Sheffield. The Lord shook my hand with perfunctory condescension, and more than a little hostility, but his wife tried to make up for his rudeness by being felicitous, to the point of desperation.
The headmistress said, "The Lord and Lady's daughter will be transferring to Bitterburn over the weekend, and I've told them that I'm going to assign our best man to help her. That would be you, of course. You're to function both as her primary counsellor, as well as her personal tutor. She was supposed to graduate last year, but she failed her A-levels, so you need to whip her into shape so she can graduate this year, and hopefully qualify for university."
This was a bit of a surprise; Students are usually required to pass rigid academic screening tests in order to get into Bitterburn in the first place. No doubt the Clabbertons had used their royal connections to pull strings in their daughter's favour, but it was still highly unorthodox.
"I'm afraid," said the headmistress, her cheerful tone growing darker, "this might be a bit more difficult assignment than you're used to, professor Donaldson."
"Well, the girl has a bit of a troubled past. Your psychiatric training will definitely come in handy."
"Really?" I was starting to get nervous.
Lady Clabberton blushed and said, with cringing embarrassment, "I'm afraid our little Fern... erm... how shall I put this... she has a bit of a problem telling the difference between reality and fantasy..."
Lord Clabberton growled, "She's a bloody liar, you mean." Lady Clabberton looked down in shame, but she didn't correct him.
The headmistress broke the silence. "Apparently young Fern has developed a problem with compulsive lying. It got her expelled from St. Mary's. In fact, she caused a bit of a scandal."
Lady Clabberton began to weep, "She's such a sweet girl. Really she is. She just doesn't think ahead. She doesn't consider the consequences of the things she says. But she's got a good soul. A good heart."
Lord Clabberton gruffed, "She's a bloody liar, that one. Told us all year that she was the best student in her class, but then she failed her A-level exams."
Lady Clabberton added, "Not all four, dear. She did well in dance. Lovely dancer, our Fern."
The Lord snorted dismissively, "Dance. I only let her take that because I thought she was doing so well in her real subjects. But she failed Psychology, Biology and English Literature. How hard is it to read a few books? Her only explanation was that she was so upset by her pregnancy that she couldn't concentrate on her studies."
"She's pregnant?" I asked with surprise.
"Certainly not!" said Lady Clabberton with a gasp.
Her husband interrupted, "But we didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that some little shite had knocked up my darling girl. She was only seventeen at the time! I was bloody pissed, but she said it wasn't her fault. The boy forced himself on her. I demanded she tell me who this little bastard was, and eventually she pointed her finger at... ,well; let's just say that the boy's father is very highly placed. VERY highly placed. But I called the police anyway. Scandal be damned. I can't have people thinking they can get away with embarrassing me like that. They arrested the boy, to my everlasting shame, and then they took Fern in for a medical examination. I guess they should have done that first, because, wouldn't you know, she was still a virgin! The little liar had made the whole thing up!"
Lady Clabberton was sobbing now. "She's... just not that considerate. Her head's always in the clouds."
Lord Clabberton slammed his fist on the nearest table, boiling over with rage, "Bloody liar needs to be yanked out of those clouds and brought down to the bloody ground! I should never have believed her in the first place. She's always been a bloody liar. Fairies in the gardens and ghosts in the attic. Can't trust a word that comes out of her mouth!"
The headmistress interjected, "Well, you see, Professor, a tricky situation, but I trust you'll be up to the task. We've agreed that Fern will drop dance, to remove the unnecessary distraction." Then she turned to the parents, "She really only needs to pass three of her A-levels to qualify for University, and Professor Donaldson is our top man for things like this. He teaches English Literature, and has a degree in Psychology. And he's certainly qualified to help her with her Biology homework. Oh, he's worked wonders on many of our most difficult students in the past. He'll crack that whip and bring Fern's grades up to snuff. No worries."
I was flattered, but something about all of this made me nervous. What if Fern made up lies about me? But Lord Clabberton saw the doubt in my eyes, and knew immediately what I was thinking. "Don't worry, Professor. If she makes up any whoppers about you, I won't believe her. In fact, I'd be surprised if she didn't lie about you just to get out of studying. The girl has always been lazy. A lazy liar is what she is. She'll say anything to get out of hard work. You have my permission to do whatever you need to do to whip her into shape!" To drive the point home, he stood and clasped my hand again, and squeezed it so hard I thought he was going to crush my bones.
The headmistress and Lady Clabberton both parroted his sentiments, absolving me in advance for any wild tales that Fern might spin about me, so my concerns were assuaged, and I agreed to accept the assignment. But something else worries me now.
They've given me an awful lot of power over their girl. An awful lot of power.
But I'd never dream of abusing their trust.
I hate my parents so goddamn much! Guess what. They're sending me to a poxy new all girls school, yet again. So I bent the truth a little and got kicked out of St Mary's. It wasn't my fault! I think I have dyslexia, or some other disability that makes me unable to concentrate in class. Therefore it ISN'T MY FAULT! Right? I only said I was pregnant because I figured I'd get a little sympathy. Fat chance, it turns out. But yes, i really think i have dyslexia. Look, right there I used two small i's instead of capitalizing them. Maybe i should see a doctor or something. Ooo, see there, I just did it again!
I feel kind of bad for Joshua, but he deserved to be arrested, even if he didn't actually rape me! I don't care who his father is, he's a fucking creep. He was happy to do my homework all year, so long as I let him squeeze my tits from time to time. He even promised to break into the school's computer system and get me the answers to my A-levels. Sure, it was my idea, but if he hadn't promised that, I probably would have studied harder. But then, just a few days before the end of term, Joshua got me alone in his room and whipped out his skeevy little cock and told me to suck it. I said, 'as if', and he said I better do it, or he'd burn those cheat sheets. Fucking wanker! I guess I should have gone ahead and done it, but I'm not a whore. And his cock looked so ugly and crooked. It smelled funny too.
So instead, I made up that brilliant pregnancy story, and everyone bought it. I figured that I'd just wait a few days and pretend to have a miscarriage. But then Dad came back from his business trip and went totally mental, and forced me to tell him who the father was. He wouldn't let me stay silent. He just kept yelling at me and calling me a 'bloody whore' again and again. So I said I was raped. I only did it so he'd stop being so mean to me. It worked, sort of, but only for a minute. Dad demanded to know who the rapist was. Well, what could I do? I had to name someone, so I named Joshua. He sort of raped me, right? Mentally raped me. Used me and manipulated me and ruined me. That's rape, in my book. And then everything started spinning out of control. They arrested Joshua. Just what he deserved. But then they found out I wasn't actually preggers after all. My hymen was a dead giveaway I guess.
So it was all over, and I finally told the whole truth. But, get this: nobody believed me. They thought I was just spinning more lies about sweet, innocent, angelic Joshua. Fucking morons!
Anyway, I was in my room last night, dancing to Ed Sheeran's new album, and even though it was on loud, I could still hear my parents talking, well, shouting, downstairs. So I decided to turn it off and have a listen. Once again they were talking about me. My so called 'father' was shouting about me being a 'compulsive liar who only cares about herself', and my mum was sobbing, as usual. Whenever my parents are arguing my dad is the one who is always shouting and my mum is the one who is always crying. I don't know why she is still with him. He treats her with very little respect, like she's his slave. She deserves someone better than that faggot.
I woke up this afternoon to an empty house and a note saying, "Good morning sweetie. Sorry your father and I couldn't be here when you woke up, but we had to attend an appointment with the headmistress of your new school, as it is very important. I've made you some pancakes and left them in the microwave, just heat them up for a minute or so, and you know where the syrup is. We'll be home about 5pm, as your father has a few errands to run while we're out. We both love you lots, my sweet angel, see you soon. Love mummy xxx"
Fuck the pancakes! The first thought that popped into my mind was sex! I was home alone, for at least 4 and half more hours. And seeing as how they're packing me off to that fucking pussy factory tomorrow, I figured this might be my last chance to lose my virginity! I decided to invite Michael around, the hot son of my father's accountant. I'd only ever seen him once, but I managed to get his number, and I bet he has a huge dick! I had it all planned out. First he would come around and knock on the door, where I would greet him politely and tell him to rest on the sofa while I finished getting ready. Then I would go to my room and slip on something a bit more comfortable, like a pair of hot pants and a tight tank top, without any underwear. After that I'd head back into the living room and do a sexy dance for him, while stripping naked. But then I decided I was too impatient to bother with that. Instead, without any hesitation I'd climb on top of him, straddle him, and start kissing him. He wouldn't be able to resist, I know how hard the sight of me would make him. And before I knew it I'd be lying on my back, naked, while he was eating out my pussy, getting it ready to be fucked hard by his huge Mediterranean cock. The thought of this made me so horny, so I went into the bathroom to brush my hair and my teeth and to use the toilet before making a phone call to Michael. But that's when I realised my period had started. I was so pissed off! Instead I headed down stairs, ate my breakfast, called my BFF Kirsty for an hour or so and I've been watching TV ever since.