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