The Education And Corruption Of Joseph Potter Chapter Three
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The Education And Corruption Of Joseph Potter - Chapter 2 free porn video
The weeks that followed Mrs Conway’s birthday party were a blur. Mandy hadn’t been slow at voicing her appraisal of me; the reviews were out and favourable. Soon it seemed that everyone wanted a piece of young Joey Potter.
This brought new challenges. As much as I enjoyed the attentions of the female half of the school, to the male side, I became a target as they were jealous of my newfound fame.
It was a few months later, that I was to realise that not only did I really have something different from the other boys at school, but just how far my reputation had spread. It was also where all the trouble began.
It was a bitterly cold, wet day in mid-February. The final whistle had just blown, ending a school football match which, at the risk of sounding big-headed, I had dominated. Everything had gone right for me; I scored four goals and basically controlled the game.
After the match, as we marched off the quagmire of a pitch in search of a hot shower, our PE teacher, Mr Edwards, called me over and told me that two scouts wanted to speak to me.
This wasn’t particularly unusual as scouts had been chasing me since I was nine years old, but my dad’s position hadn't changed. He wanted me to get a good education and then we could look at all my options.
Anyway, by the time we had finished talking and had watched both the scouts and my teacher scamper off towards the school car park, the light was fading, and I was on my own. It had crossed my mind to jump on my bike and go home to shower, but by the time I trudged off the muddy playing fields and into the warmth of the now-deserted changing room to collect my stuff, I decided to take advantage of the school’s much superior showers on my own.
I had been in the showers for about ten minutes, letting the hot water restore my body when I heard the creak of the changing room door. The possibility of a devious guest made me smile inside as I wondered who the eager spy could be. On the other hand, it was probably just the old caretaker; he often turned up with his mop and bucket after the school had closed.
It wasn’t until I left the shower cubicle with my green Wimbledon towel wrapped around my waist, that I was confronted by my French teacher, Mrs Harrison. She stood frozen between the door and the lockers on the far side of the changing room like a rabbit caught in the headlights, unsure whether to stay or go.
I guess I should have been surprised by her presence, but I wasn’t; confused maybe but not shaken at all. I had had enough propositions from girls over the last few months to recognise the signs and had a pretty good idea why she was here, and what she wanted, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. If she wanted what I guessed she wanted, she was going to have to ask like all the others.
Mrs Harrison is in her mid-thirties; the long dark auburn hair that she mostly wore up in a messy bun curtained her delicate pale complexion, broken only by a pair of round turtle-shell-rimmed glasses. Her husband was some ‘upper-class bigwig sponger,’ as my dad called him.
She always stood out from the other teachers somehow, the way she presented herself and the way she dressed. My curiosity would be pricked by her habit of randomly throwing a French phrase into conversation, catching us off guard and making me wonder what exactly it was that she had said. Even the eccentric black French cigarettes that she smoked, with their unfamiliar, almost exotic scent appeared otherworldly to us all somehow.
Most of all, our attention was grabbed by the tight trousers, skirts and dresses that she wore, cut to accentuate her impressive figure. I would guess that she was around 5’ 8”, about the same as my sister, but that’s where the similarities ended. To me, everything about Mrs Harrison screamed sex, from the subtle shudder from her bust to her remarkable, and much-talked-about backside.
The focus of debate centred around the puzzling issue of whether or not she wore knickers. Our attention was drawn to the subject of panty lines after overhearing a group of girls talking. And before long it seemed that the whole class were intrigued, as dozens of bulging teenage eyeballs fruitlessly searched for evidence.
She hadn’t said a word to me since I had left the showers, staring down at the rusty-red changing room tiles, her eyes only occasionally raising to look at me. It was painful to watch, and it was plainly obvious to me why she was here; why else would she be alone with a half-naked pupil, in the boys’ changing rooms, after school? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was an innocent explanation. But I doubted it.
The thought crossed my mind to put her out of her misery, and just drop the towel and show her what she had come for, but something inside stopped me. Why should I make it easy for her; cruel, I know, but she was going to have to spell it out for me.
Eventually, she sighed and dejectedly looked up at me, her expression reminding me of a child who has been caught out doing something naughty.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked. It was a leading question I admit, and I almost regretted it. Her eyes narrowed as she looked across at me and straightened her back defiantly.
“You really are an arrogant so-and-so, aren’t you?” she hissed.
“I’ve been called worse,” I snapped back, receiving a wry smile from her in return; she paused briefly before stepping towards me.
“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”
“Ask what, Miss?” I replied, all the time my smile remaining in place. She must have wanted to slap my stupid face.
“Are you going to make me pay, Joseph?” she asked, referring to a rumour, untrue as it happens, that I charged girls a pound to look at my cock. She walked past me and sat down on the slatted wooden benches. “Is it true?”
“Is what true, Miss?”
“Is it true that you charge your little fan club?” She smirked and licked her lips; she was playing the long game, and I liked it.
“Charge them for what?” I pressed, while raising the stakes by placing my hand on the loose knot that held the towel around my waist. Daring her to say it. Daring her to ask. She leaned back against the whitewashed brick wall.
“To see your penis.” A faint, pink blush coloured her pale cheeks.
“Do you think I would stoop that low?”
“Well, do you? Because that’s what I’ve heard.” She reached into her large shoulder bag and pulled out her black purse. Snapping it open, she offered me a one-pound coin that she held in her palm of her open hand.
“And how much do you think one pound will get you?”
“I don’t know, Joseph, what does it get me?” Her face beamed at the thought of cornering me.
“And what will you do if I show you?” I said, watching as her attention was diverted while my growing arousal risked spoiling the game, “what’s in it for me?”
“You get a pound of course,” she grinned, sensing that we were reaching the endgame, “isn’t that the deal?”
“You want to know if the rumours are true, don’t you, Miss?” The question hung in the air between us, and for a moment I thought it was over, as she anxiously shuffled in her seat. I tried to read her mind. She must surely be aware that if she left now, she ran the risk of me running my mouth off and exposing herself to scandal, risking becoming the talk of the playground, the classrooms and, of course, the staff room.
Perhaps she had just planned to sneak a peek at me in the showers and leave without me knowing, or maybe she thought that I would just reveal myself like some sideshow freak, but now the game was over.
“I was just curious,” she conceded, bowing her head. I stepped forward and reached out my hand to touch her smooth pale skin, half expecting her to bat my hand away in exasperation, but she just looked worried and defeated. Part of me wanted to release her, tell her that all this would remain just between the two of us.
But then, unexpectedly, her fingers lightly brushed the towelling as I traced a line with my thumb over her painted mouth. Judging her reaction, I pressed further, smearing her cherry red lipstick across her cheek. The expression she gave was one I had grown to know well, a restless, eager, impatience.
“You can take it off if you want,” I said, and there was a moment’s pause before she finally crossed the line. I guessed that she was evaluating the possible consequences of her actions. Although I was sixteen years old, we both knew that if this went any further, she would be breaking the law.
If she was to walk away right now, I wouldn’t have said a thing, as with all the questions I have been asked about by all the other girls. Their secret stays with me, but she, of course, wasn’t to know that.
It was at this moment that I was to learn an important life-lesson. Where desire is concerned, in the conflict between head and heart, the heart wins every time.
With slightly regretful hands, she reached out, her fingers tracing a line on my skin just below my belly button and along the top of the towel, gently tugging at the loose knot and watching as it parted like a curtain
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, drawing her hand up to her mouth as the towel dropped on to the cold, damp tiles at my feet. I’d seen that look before a number of times: wide-eyed wonder.
And it made me feel good, special. “Fuck. Well, Joseph, the rumours are certainly true.” She grinned as she stared at it disbelievingly. It’s strange the things that stay in your memory, but that was the first time that I had ever heard a teacher swear. I suppose on the grand scale of school rules that Mrs Harrison was to break that day, swearing was probably not at the top of the list, but it has always stayed with me.
We had passed the point where this was just show-and-tell, but suddenly I became aware that the woman sitting in front of me wasn’t some silly giggling schoolgirl unzipping my trousers behind the groundsman’s shed, but a thirtysomething, married woman. But it appears that it doesn't matter what age, job title or marital status the woman has; when confronted with a nine and a half thick inches of erection, they all act the same.
Mrs Harrison’s smeared, cherry red lip-sticked mouth opened and I received my very first blow job. I didn’t know this at the time of course, but most women cannot do what Mrs Harrison did that day.
It has been a great disappointment to me to discover that most women can’t take all of my cock into their mouth. In fact, sadly, my old schoolteacher is still the only woman to have achieved it. She possessed a rare and wonderful skill and she knew it.
Suddenly, the tables had turned, and the experienced teacher was again in control of her pupil. The sensation as she took my cock into her warm mouth, sucking me to the back of her throat and beyond was indescribable. She ran her tongue along its length, taking my balls into her mouth, while all the time, a soft moan emanated from the back of her throat, vibrating against my organ.
Lazily she rose from the creaking bench, shaking her long hair free and unlocking the top three buttons on her emerald green dress. Seductively she slowly disrobed, aware of the power that she held, revealing herself at her will, not mine.
Turning her back to me, I watched as the zip crept lower, displaying tantalising fragments of what lay beneath. First the tiny freckles on her skin, the white strap of her bra, and then, as the zip continued its descent, a black tattoo of a butterfly on her lower back. Finally, as the zip reached journey’s end, she revealed the sheer white thong that deftly parted her buttocks, answering the classroom mystery.
When she was hanging her dress on the metal peg behind me, the familiar sweet scent of her perfume filled my senses as I allowed myself a moment to try and understand what was happening. She stood before me with her hands on her hips, allowing my eyes to wash over her before she gradually slid her white cotton bra over her shoulders, reached behind to unclasp it, before letting it fall to the ground.
Even to this day, I don’t think I’ve seen anything to compare to that first view of Mrs Harrison’s magnificent bare breasts; I was agog.
Now with my full attention, she forced home her advantage by teasing me in exactly the same way that I had done earlier.
“Now what are you going to do for me, Joseph?” she asked, hitching her fingers into the waistband of her skimpy white thong. My cock twitched by way of reply, the compulsion to finish myself was almost overwhelming, my balls were starting to ache such was my desire for release.
I noticed her look down at my predicament, aware that my cock was basically a ticking time bomb, liable to go off at any second.
She raised her gaze, grimaced and gave a small sigh which I took to be one of disappointment. Kneeling on the uncomfortable, bobbled changing room tiles, she took my cock in her hand and oh so slowly began to wank me.
“You want to cum, don’t you, Joseph?”
“Mmmm yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Mmmm yes, Miss.”
“You will have to learn to control yourself,” she advised, “it will come with age, you’ll see.” Her thumb stroked the sensitive gland on the underside of my cock as she spoke, her eyes never leaving mine.
“You have a gift, Joseph Potter, don’t ever forget it,” she began, all the time her slow strokes on my cock sending tiny waves washing over me, “it’s going to make you very, very popular indeed. How many girls have you fucked with this?”
“Mmmm,” I was getting close.
“It doesn’t matter, I want you to understand that when you’re with me, your cock is mine. I’ll let you do whatever you want to me; you can use me any way you want. It’ll be our little secret, do you understand?”
I was so close it hurt. I could feel the rush of blood course though me, engorging my cock.
“Where do you want to cum?”
“Over your tits,” I moaned.
“Over these?” she said, taunting me by running my cock over her full breasts, my pre-cum leaving a shiny trail of fluid over her soft pale skin and around the pink areola.
“Yes,” I replied, feeling the tell-tale tingle in my buttocks.
“Do you want to send me home to my husband smelling of your cum?” she said, continuing to torture me with her slow tease, “do you want him to know that I’ve had the cock of a younger man, twice his size in my mouth? Shall I tell him?”
My mind was scrabbled as she murmured, “Je veux sentir ta grosse bitte en moi.”
“What?”
“Not today, maybe, but soon,” she purred, placing my cock between her two large, soft globes, my hips instinctively beginning to buck, driving my cock up between them as she squeezed them together
“Cum for me, mon adorable garçon, cum over my big tits. I want you to cover me.”
And I did. I was powerless.
The first spit landed under her chin, the creamy liquid dribbling down over her skin before she took me into her hand and controlled the direction, aiming the spray over her chest. Her eyes were closed with a satisfied half-smile playing across her lips, as my warm sperm continued to rain down over her now cum-splattered breasts, making me wonder what exactly was going through her mind.
As she opened her eyes, the smile remained as she rubbed her two sticky hands together and examined the gooey slime that covered her breasts.
“You are a messy boy, aren’t you?” she cooed, while collecting some of the dripping substance on her index finger and bringing it to her mouth, allowing her tongue to lick the fluid from her lips, “at least I’m in the right place,” she noted, her face beaming as she collected my towel from the floor and made her way towards the showers, leaving me sitting naked on the uncomfortable wooden bench.
As the showers hissed into life, I spied on her stepping out of her thong, her wonderfully shaped bottom pointing in my direction. Every move was deliberate and most definitely for my benefit, and I drank in every inch of her. I watched as she let the hot water cascade down over her shoulders, lathering the soap over her chest and between her breasts, destroying any evidence of our actions.
All too soon she had dressed and had reapplied her makeup. And I watched as she checked herself in the mirror before turning to leave. It was as if nothing had happened between us, the student-teacher boundaries restored.
“This is between you and me. I hope that I can trust you,” she said, pausing in the doorway.
Then she moved towards me, her cream-coloured high-heeled shoes echoing around the empty changing room and kissed me. She kissed me full on the lips and then withdrew, staring into my eyes, trying to read my thoughts and intentions. Then she smiled.
“Next time I’ll find somewhere a lot more comfortable.”
And so I entered a new world. And the most wonderfully strange, carefree and debauched time of my life.
Liesl
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