Author: Marcus van Heller (not the real one)

About: One of the rarest of the later van Hellers, possibly only a TC edition. It's the story of the physical and emotional wanderings of a 16-year-old girl, and the many, many partners she meets along the way.

Excerpt:

So there she was: sixteen years old and too tall, too smart, with horn-rimmed glasses and hair that was so long she had to wear it in a bun, legs so lengthy that her skirts were always too short, and tits so oversized that the other girls teased her about them while the boys on the train platforms pinched and laughed at them. Even her parents weren't helpful, always accusing her of exhibitionism and never caring about anything except that she get good grades. Her life was miserable.

Only Mr. Hentworth, her English teacher, was at all sympathetic with her problems. And that was why, as a sort of reward for his fidelity, after returning from Easter vacation in her junior year she would sneak into his office—sometimes it was the men's room, sometimes a phone booth, sometimes even under a stairwell—and suck his cock. He liked that. At first that was Marcy's primary motivation. But before too long she began to realize how much she also liked it. And that was the start of a whole change in her outlook toward life.

It was a Thursday afternoon in April, in the telephone booth just outside the girl's gym, that she first articulated her new-found philosophy. Mr. Hentworth was holding the dead telephone to his ear, as though in conversation should anyone pass by, while, crouched below the level of the wooden lower half of the booth's door. Marcy was gleefully gurgling and gobbling away at his quivering-hard penis.

“I see... absolutely no point,” she slurped between mouthfuls, “in one's denying oneself any... ummmmm... of the... uh... mmm... available experiences life has to offer.” Then for a few extended seconds the only sound in the booth was the smacking of the young girl's lips on her teacher's prick. Then a pause. “Do you?” she finally asked.

“Oh no!” Mr. Hentworth half-shouted, his voice at least an octave higher than normal.

“Ummmm... good...” she purred. And his knees sagged a bit and his cock stood a little more upright while she stopped the heavy sucking for a while and switched to some gentler play.

Marcy had developed expert technique in the past few weeks, a fact she was demonstrating presently to her mentor. His long, narrow white cock poked at once arrogantly (after all, they were in a telephone booth) and a bit diffidently (as might be expected of a scholarly penis) out of the grey woolen folds of his pleated, baggy trousers. Still, it was in its own way a handsome prick—and the only one Marcy had ever seriously encountered. She did like it. The pinkish mushroom head reminded her of a crown of sorts, a crown for her shining white prince. Thinking this, and remembering that Oscar Wilde had once said of his “three despots” that it was the Prince who “tyrannized over the body,” she giggled at the aptness of the metaphor and sent a tremor of unexpected emotion to each and every one of Mr. Hentworth's nerve endings. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and resumed her work.

Gripping the soft rosy head between thumb and forefinger, Marcy bent her head to one side and slowly dragged her dry tongue down the delicate seam running along the cock's underside. Mr. Hentworth groaned into the telephone. Retaining her two-finger grip on the top of his prick, Marcy, with her other hand, lifted her teacher's heavy, dangling scrotum from out of his pants and gazed lovingly at it lolling so peacefully in her palm. Too tempted to resist, she took the fragile, wrinkled sack in her warm young mouth and hummed softly to herself. At the same time she began rubbing her fingertips gently up and down along the body of the erect and rigid member rising up above her lowered head. Playfully her tongue poked at the little balls inside the pouch, and then she started puckering her lips as though she had just eaten a lemon, and began sucking long, deep draughts of air into her scrotum-filled mouth. And her fingers, tiny but strong, wrapped tighter about the long white tube of sex and began a firm squeezing and a rapid pumping up and down on the darling thing. “Ummmmm...” she hummed, “ummmmmmm...” And she could sense that he was going to come. His cock was flexing in her hand and she could feel the excited veins pulsating as though they were ready to burst; and in her mouth she felt the loose-skinned pouch contract slightly and the little knotted gonads withdraw a bit. Yes, he would come soon, she thought. God, how she wished every minute of her life could be so filled with sensation. “Yes...” she muttered absently to herself, then suddenly tilting her face upwards so that her eyes met Mr. Hentworth's —whose eyes were threatening to roll back into his head—she mumbled to him through her scrotum-stuffed mouth. “Correct me if I'm wrong,” she began very seriously, her fingers now flying up and down the explosive cock, “but I believe it was the English writer Norman Douglas who said, 'Has any man ever attained to inner harmony by pondering the experience of others? Not since the world began!'“ Here her mouth snapped dramatically shut, forcing a little gurgling cry from Mr. Hentworth. “'He must pass through the fire.' It was Douglas, wasn't it?”

“I believe it was,” her teacher grunted with an air of finality into the wrong end of the telephone.

“Mmmmmmm... yes...” she said, taking her mouth from his testicles and sliding it warmly down over his fiery rod. “I think that's my motto... from now on.” She bobbed her head rapidly up and down then, her lips tightly clamped around the circumference of the cock. Her fingers reached up to grasp the wet scrotum and, in time to the increasing tempo of her diving head, they jiggled and juggled the balls around happily.