High School Yearbook

The origin of this story are the opening vignettes: Bree waking up from a sexy dream and Bianca walking the hallway of her high school. After that it was a question of finding a way to tie them together. There are several ideas for a second chapter bumping around the inside my skull, but I'm not in which direction to go. If you have any thoughts on the subject please feel free to share them.

I am starting a new mother-son story which I expect will see the light of day several months from now.

I hope all are doing well during the current crisis. May this story provide a momentary distraction.

As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * * *

Bree's clit was throbbing.

It was the same dream she'd had the night before, and the night before that, but more graphic, more intense, more arousing. The young man holding her clitoris between his teeth sucked on it, drawing more and more blood into her most sensitive place. He dragged the flat of his warm thick tongue over it, flicked it with the tip of that tongue like an unrelenting Gatling gun. His tongue kept shifting, trying something new, returning to something wonderful, moving from spot-to-spot. It knew what she needed.

He touched his finger to her vagina, played with its swollen lips. Although he could have jammed his finger into her -- she'd never been so wet -- he moved it inside incrementally, slowly, half a inch at a time, caressing exploring the inner walls of her sex. Pleasure pulsed through her.

When he found her g-spot he dragged the fingertip over it in a come hither motion, massaged it, pampered it. She gibbered her delight and her g-spot -- it'd never been this big -- merged with her clitoris. All the time his tongue continued its assault on her clit, slapping and plundering her sex.

Her cunt was on fire. She was going to come like she'd never come before.

And then she'd woken up. It took a second -- she heard her husband's snores -- to orient herself before she was ready to accept it wasn't real. However, real or not, the hand she pressed to her wet sex confirmed the dream's power. She glanced at the clock beside her bed -- crap, it was three in the morning.

She looked at her husband, considered waking him up, but she recalled the last time she'd done that. Two weeks ago she'd used her mouth on him, but the resulting erection lasted five thrusts (she knew, she counted) before he came inside her, his dick far too sensitive to continue. She'd felt his shame, had felt it over the past months as his sex drive deteriorated and he had ever more trouble achieving, then maintaining an erection. No, she'd not embarrass him tonight.

She got out of bed, closed the bathroom door, turned on the shower, climbed inside. She imagined the young man's mouth, squeezed her breast, twisted her nipple, worked her clit. When it came the orgasm was hard and strong and delicious and she swallowed her groans so as not to disturb her husband.

Feeling rejuvenated, electric and alive, she toweled herself off, took extra care with her short fiery red hair and make-up, then, as she studied her naked self in the mirror, her mind returned to the first difficult months of her marriage.

Bryan, her soon to be stepson, had not been happy when, after a six day courtship, his father announced he was going to marry this total stranger. Things got worse when Bryan met Andrea his future stepsister, the Belle of the Ball, the girl who dated the quarterback but was too cool to be a cheerleader, the girl who, when she deigned to notice her studious stepbrother, treated him mixed contempt and disdain. And while Bryan was never overtly hostile to her or Andrea -- he was too smart to risk setting off his volatile father -- he was aloof, refusing to fully participate in his new family, holding himself as an outsider, an observer.

Then, three months ago, she'd started having trouble falling and staying asleep. She mentioned it to the family over breakfast and a few days later Bryan said he'd done some research and suggested a white-noise machine. She said no -- she didn't trust the kid -- but as the problem intensified she revisited the idea, checked it out on the internet, decided it could do no harm. When the package arrived Bryan, the family geek, volunteered to program and set it up for her.

It worked. She slept eight hours that night, every night since, felt better, looked better -- her eyes and skin seemed to glow. Brimming with energy she got herself to the gym and lost ten pounds, regaining her college 112 pounds spread over her slender 34-24-35 five foot seven inches and "B" breasts. Even better, it was the beginning of a new relationship with her stepson. Treating him like an adult, always taking the extra step for him, making every effort to show him courtesy, kindness, and respect, she came to appreciate his determination, sense of responsibility, wisdom, air of intelligence and command.

Bree's reverie was interrupted by the sound of her stepson coming down the stairs. The editor/manager of his high school yearbook, he'd been getting to school early each morning to work with the yearbook's faculty adviser. But before he'd leave, knowing how Bree loved her coffee in the morning, he'd set up the coffee maker for her. Now, deciding to thank him, she wrapped a towel around her naked body, turned off the light in the bathroom, and slipped by Edward, her comatose husband.

"Bryan, is that you."

He came around the corner of the kitchen, saw her, said, "You're up early."

"Yeah, woke up about forty-five minutes ago, couldn't get back to sleep. I want to thank you for making coffee. That's very sweet."

"You're welcome. Should I take a look at the white-noise machine, see if it needs adjustment."

Pinning the towel to her chest -- it had started to slip -- she approached him, said, "I'd appreciate that," kissed his cheek, wished him a good day, and then did something she'd never done before, kept her eyes on his butt as he headed for the garage. She knew she shouldn't. He was her stepson, he wasn't her type, too skinny, too nerdy, but still, it was a nice ass.

* * * * *

Bianca Richards heard the clop-clop of her blue 2 ½ pumps echo down the empty school hallway. She wished they were the 4 ½ inch spiked heels her lover preferred, wished her pantyhose had the seam running down the back her lover adored, but he was right. At school one erred on the side of the appropriate.

There was no false modesty to her: she checked herself in her office mirror, liked what she saw. Of Middle Eastern descent, her look was exotic: triangular face with a strong chin, full lips, dark smoldering eyes, thick wavy raven hair. And although she'd worked her body to curvy perfection, 110 toned pounds on a five feet six inch 25-32-35 figure and "C" breasts, wearing glasses, a white blouse, blue jacket, and calf length blue skirt, no one could accuse her of flaunting it. Of course, if they knew about the stockings, garters and straps, lacy bra and lack of panties she wore underneath things might be different. But, only he knew.

Deciding to emphasize her full lips she reached into her purse, choosing a red lip stick too dark for this early hour. But he'd like it and it would be gone before the rest of the student body arrived.

As she put the lipstick back in her purse she heard his footsteps in the hall. If the school board knew she'd provided him a key to the school, there'd be hell to pay. Then again, if the school board knew he had a key to her car and home, that she was fucking him, that her husband happily acquiesced to it all, there'd be hell to pay. What was one additional indiscretion?

She glanced in the mirror one last time. She'd never looked better. Part of it, she knew, was presentation. While she had always been careful about her appearance, over the last few months she'd become fanatical, and at the moment, make-up flawless, hair worn up, long nails painted a deep red, she could have been taken for a model. She'd also never worked harder at the gym, her skin and eyes, bright and alive, were healthier than ever, and she thought about sex all the time, of her lover, the way he fucked her, taking her to places she'd only dreamed of.

She'd never been so alive.

She slipped her leather belt off, draped it over the back of her chair, neatly folded and lay her skirt atop it, then saying, "Good morning darling," turned to the door, greeting her lover in stockings, garter, and heels.

He stopped. She loved the way he looked at her; the ways his eyes possessed her.

Slipping the glasses from her face, she nibbled on the end of a stem and said, "You like?"

"I do."

Placing her glasses on her desk, she strode across the room, steps slow, rotating her body for him, and said, "I know we have a lot to do for the yearbook, but I'm thinking we still have time for a quickie."

He smiled, placed a finger under her chin, moved her face to his, and his strong masterful tongue entered her mouth. She reached down, covered his penis with her hand, and with practiced skill undid the buttons on his jeans, slipped two fingers inside, ran their manicured surface on his erection.

When the kiss ended dropping to her knees she said, "I take it that's a yes. Y'know, you're not wearing any underwear."

"No, but neither are you. I guess great minds..."

"...think alike."

Bryan yanked his belt free and Bianca pulled his pants over his hips, smiled up at him, said, "God you're big," held his dick flat to his belly, licked up its underside, did so again, sucked one testicle, then the other, into her mouth, thoroughly bathing each with tongue and spit.

Letting the testicle escape his mouth with an audible pop she tilted him forward, flicked her tongue across his pisshole several times, stretched her jaw, moved him just inside her mouth, licked along the underside of his cock then clamped her lips on him just beyond the crown. Swinging her tongue around the cockhead, she moved forward, taking half of him in her mouth, moved back, repeated, pushing forward a little farther each time until his pubic hair tickled her nose. His dick embedded in her face, she placed his hand on the back of her head and coddled his hot heavy balls. He was ready; they were pulsating. And her? She was always ready.

She let him slip from her mouth, stood, pulled the pins from her hair, and shaking her head, straightening her long black tresses, leaned over her desk and looking at him over her shoulder said, "Bryan, you know how I love your dick. Fuck me, fuck your horny teacher."

Inserting a finger in her, confirming she was wet and ready, Bryan took hold of her hips and drove himself into her in a single solid thrust. Ninnying her delight with a high lascivious squeal, her body rocked forward and clasping the sides of her desk Bianca and pushed back, meeting his next thrust. They fucked, bodies slamming into each other with loud slaps. Bianca wondered why couldn't her husband fuck her like this, why wasn't his cock perfect like Bryan's, but she knew the answer. Her husband was sweet, but you can't expect one man to be everything.

Her mind turned inward, focusing on the cock plunging into her, filling her, stretching the walls of her cunt. His massive balls swung back and forth, slapping her clit at the end of each thrust. She reached between her legs, trapped her clitoris against her body with the pad of a perfectly manicured finger, rubbed it back and forth.

She came, came again, then a third time, each reverberating through her like the crack of a bull whip, but she knew another lurked deep inside, waiting for him to, needing him to....

As if reading her mind he grunted, tightened his grip on her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, and drove into her, rocking her onto her tip toes. His dick quivered and spasmed, and he was coming, spewing his thick essence into her. As he did she came, her body shuddering like a tin roof in the face of a hurricane's winds, until half-conscious she slumped forward. His cock slid out of her, juice and cum dribbled from her cunt onto the desk's polished surface.

Breathing heavily, mind scrambled, eyes closed, she lay there wallowing in her satiated body, every muscle perfectly at rest. Only he could make her feel this way.

A few minutes later her eyes drifted open. Her lover was sitting in her office chair, his massive dick dangling between his legs. She smiled, pushed the hair from her face, said, "You're a fricking god," and stood. Bryan did the same and they moved into each other's arms, kissed. She loved the feel of his body on hers, the way her breasts flattened on his chest, and nestling her head on his shoulder she said, "I guess it's time to get to work. I'll meet you in the yearbook office."

He said, "I'll see you there my darling," kissed her, left. Closing the office door -- because school policy prohibited closed door meetings between faculty and students she'd left it open -- she wiped herself clean, fixed her hair and make-up, put her skirt back on, dabbed a little perfume behind her ears, and went to join her lover in the yearbook office where, sitting at adjoining desks, they got to work. As they did Bianca detected the lingering smell of their lovemaking on her body and wondered, on most days, on some barely detectable level, did she smell of him? Perhaps that was why she was subject to more covetous looks from her students and fellow faculty members than ever.

* * * * *

As her stepson headed for school Bree poured herself a cup of coffee, returned to her bedroom, slipped by her still sleeping husband. She didn't need to be in court that day, didn't need to overtly trade on her good looks, and so selected a mid-calf green dress, attractive and comfortable. Bree, finishing dressing just about the time Bryan arrived at school, kissed her husband on the side of the head, whispered, "Time to get up dear," and turned off the white noise machine. The voices hidden in that noise, the voices that sang to her and her husband's subconscious minds night after night, ceased their song.

* * * * *

In the kitchen Bree poured herself a second cup of coffee, heard her husband get in the shower, started responding to e-mails, and as Bryan was poised to drive his cock into his voluptuous teacher from behind heard her daughter come down the stairs.

"Hey Mom."

Bree turned to the staircase. Her daughter's face, bags under blood shot eyes, told her everything she needed to know.

"Bad night's sleep again?"

"Yeah, got coffee? Black."

"Black? It must have been bad."

Andrea said, "If this goes on much longer I'll need sleeping pills."

Thinking of her own battle with sleeplessness, a sleeplessness that defeated every sleeping pill prescribed by her doctor, that defied everything until the white-nose machine, Bree said, "Have you considered the white box, it worked wonders for me."

They'd been through this. When Andrea first complained about sleeplessness Bryan had suggested it, but Andrea dismissed him with her usual contempt. Unfazed, Bryan had responded with a nonchalant, "If you change your mind let me know." He never brought it up again, but Bree had as Andrea's problem worsened.

Andrea, her voice lacking the conviction it'd shown up to this time, said, "I don't know Mom, I'd hate to let King Nerd think I need him for something, but yeah, I need something. Much more of this and I'll have competition for best looking girl in school."

Bree, her tone sharp, said, "Andrea don't talk about your brother like that, he is sweet and smart and always willing to help. You should try to be nice to him."

A bit annoyed -- until recently her mother had invariably taken her side when she criticized her stepbrother -- Andrea swallowed her, "Whatever," and said, "Yes Mama."

* * * * *

Hearing the hallways start to fill with students Bianca marked the progress of her work, closed her computer, and turned to Bryan. "We got a lot accomplished today."

"Yes we did. Same time tomorrow?"

"I'll be here. How about tonight, my place?"

He opened his phone, checked his schedule, frowned. "Chess Club meeting after school, calculus test tomorrow, it will have to be a quickie around 8:00."

"Perfect, I'll let my husband know you're coming over. I'll be waiting upstairs. There's some new lingerie I'm dying to model for you."

As Bryan said, "I'm looking forward to itl," his phone pinged. He glanced down and Bianca, seeing the concentration on his face, said, "What is it my darling?"

"It's from my stepmom. It seems my wicked stepsister finally decided a white-noise machine may help her sleep. She wants me to order one."

Recalling how she'd seen Andrea disrespect her stepbrother around school, how she'd heard her belittle him behind his back, Bianca said, "Are you sure your stepsister deserves your help?"

"Maybe not, but one should err on the side of kindness. How is your white-noise machine working?"

Smiling, "Wonderfully. My husband and I have never slept better."

* * * * *

The family ensconced before the television downstairs, Bryan carefully measured his stepsister's bedroom. It had been his once, but when Bree and Andrea moved in he'd been kicked out, his father siding with Bree when she said her daughter needed the room's oversized closet for her clothes. Finishing the measurements he turned to his stepsister's expensive sound system, deleting the program which, for the past month, emitted a low rumble several times each night which, although indecipherable to the human ear, woke his stepsister up. He then tied the white noise-machine into the sound system, knowing the latter's superior sonic properties would intensify the machine's efficacy.

Buried in the white noise were layer after layer of intricate interwoven voices. It had taken Bryan months to create. Sampled from the greatest choral music ever recorded, modeled on the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, the voices sang in endlessly evolving juxtaposition: sang in monophony, sang in heterophony, sang in polyphony, sang in harmony, sang in counterpoint and rounder, sang in intersecting tempos, in different temporal modes, in fugues and variations. The effect was relaxing, seductive, hypnotic, and overwhelming.

The voices were not dictators. They did not command or instruct. Instead the voices sang of a night of deep uninterrupted sleep and the result: renewed vigor and energy.

For women the voices sang of an ever flourishing sex drive, one that was intensifying, becoming more daring, more inclusive.

For men, sadly, the voices sang of an aging sex drive, inadequate for the beautiful women in their lives.

The voices praised Bryan, his wisdom, intelligence, judgment. The voices sang of his attractiveness, his desirability, his quiet strength, his magnetism. The voices sang of his skill as a lover, of the inadequacy of any other man.

The voices sang of a wonderful world, a world without restrictions, where one's libido reigned free.

As they had with Bree and her husband, as they had with Bianca and hers, these voices poured their song into Andrea's mind each night.

That first night, for the first time in weeks, Andrea slept well.

* * * * *

For Bree the dreams sharpened. And while she still couldn't see her lover's face, she knew who it was. Bryan was doing those wonderful things to her. At first when she woke up she refused to masturbate. She knew it was only a dream, knew no harm could come from it, but still Bryan, no matter how wonderful and attractive, was her stepson.

But it was hard, for the burn between her legs burned all day long and then one morning she didn't want to resist anymore and brought herself off in the shower. It was wonderful.

And that night, for the first time she saw the face of the lover in her dream. It was Bryan.