Introducing Miss DriscollChapter 7
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Two weeks had passed since Miss Driscoll’s sex education assembly and, like most of her 14 year old classmates, Molly had thought of little else.
For them, it had been a period of illumination. The girls, none of whom had previously admitted to masturbating, would now openly swap tips and experiences, giggling in the corridors as they regaled stories of their first orgasm, what they were thinking of and, in one case, which family member had caught them making innovative use of an electric toothbrush.
The boys, most of whom were already well atuned to acting on their desires, now had something other than the Internet to provide them with what they called ‘source material’. All of them wanted to be with their beautiful English teacher, and all had imagined her slender naked body in all manners of scenarios. But now they had seen the real thing their appetite had grown stronger still (Miss Driscoll’s Year 9 classes were, just like their older counterparts, now constantly interrupted by wolf whistles and sordid requests).
For Molly though, the experience had not satisfied her growing sexual frustration. If anything, it had made it worse. The young, pretty blonde had, like everyone else, developed a nightly ritual of touching herself. But unlike everyone else, she had not come close to giving herself her first orgasm.
She had memorised every instruction, and had tried everything she could think of. It felt good, of course, but it was to no avail. Whatever she was doing simply wasn’t enough.
Her request of her teacher, made immediately after the assembly, had fallen on deaf ears. Miss Driscoll and the Headteacher, Mr Peddigrew, had been commended by the national educational establishment for eradicating the school’s chronic teenage pregnancy problem. Everyone knew how it had been achieved. The girls, now instructed in the act of self love, were more interested in pleasuring themselves than chasing after boys. Meanwhile, the boys had a more mature focus for their lust, and for many a realistic chance of bringing their fantasies into reality. Teaching Molly to entertain the men and boys of St Augustine’s was in nobody’s interests - and certainly not Miss Driscoll’s, whose interest in male pupils was widely known to be more than just educational.
Nevertheless, the 28 year old teacher had been more than tempted by the request. Molly after all would not have been the first girl she had instructed, and in the past two weeks she had noticed her 14 year old would-be protege had become more explicitly sexual. She was the only girl who had not begun wearing tights as the late summer weather began to cool, her long white legs exposed further by her navy blue school uniform skirt, which seemed to get shorter with every passing day. Her striped school tie was no longer tied neatly, and was now so loose that the knot sat provocatively below the top three buttons of her white blouse that were permanently undone, giving just enough hint of her steadily emerging breasts.
The third class of the day seemed to take longer than usual, hardly aided by the huge clock that hung above the whiteboard which seemed to taunt the pupils, many of whom would glance upwards every few seconds with an unrealistic expectation that the minute hand might have speeded up a little.
Mr Jenkinson’s history lessons were somewhat infamous for their lack of imagination. At 68 he was the oldest teacher at St Augustine’s and no one quite knew why he had not yet retired. He was perhaps the only teacher left in the country who insisted on using an overhead projector, which beamed his decades-old teaching notes onto a large screen that was stained yellow, as if to suggest it was itself an historical artefact. Suffice to say his description of the industrial revolution was unlikely to inspire a new generation of historians or engineers.
On the face of it, Mr Jenkinson did not approve of the Headteacher’s progressive approach to education, and he would mutter loudly under his breath when Miss Driscoll passed him in the corridor. He had indeed once lodged a formal complaint after witnessing two year 11’s leaving the boy’s toilets, followed by Miss Driscoll whose semen-covered breasts were still exposed as she reentered the corridor (Mr Peddigrew quickly dismissed the charge).
Molly had been making notes, but already she couldn’t remember who Isambard Kingdom Brunel was and she had only written his name down 30 seconds previously.
She glanced at her phone. No messages. She was still very much the new girl at school and, aside from a few conversations about makeup and some reality TV show everyone seemed to be watching, she had not yet made any real friends. Her long, lonely lunchtimes were spent largely trying to get a glimpse of the muscular sixth form boys, whilst pretending to be in a rush so as to not admit to any observer that she had no where to go.
Her mind turned to the assembly. Two boys had sat directly behind her, sniggering through the demonstration - both of whom had taken full advantage of the opportunity to masturbate as Miss Driscoll performed breathlessly for them.
‘I wonder what their cocks looked like’, she thought. ‘What would they feel like? Would they ever want me as much as they do her?’
She knew she was reasonably pretty, her dimples, clear skin, slim frame and flowing strawberry blonde hair ticked many boxes. But she was no Miss Driscoll, and none of the boys seemed to take the slightest bit of interest in her.
She glanced down at her phone again, opened up the browser and was reminded of her own ‘source material’ from the previous night - a photograph taken from a charity calendar published by a local rugby team. The men, rugged with unkempt beards, strong jaw lines, muscular physiques and deep black chest hair, seemed to stare back at her. With just the right amount of imagination she could believe they wanted her too. Unlike the other girls at school, her fingers had not brought her the satisfaction she craved, and she in her increasing desperation was willing to try anything to experience her first orgasm.
“EXCUSE ME!”
Mr Jenkinson had appeared directly behind her. Molly hadn’t noticed him wandering the classroom, her fellow pupils now silently copying from textbooks. He snatched the phone from her hands, took one look and ordered her out of the classroom. She hadn’t even realised that her skirt had ridden up to the top of her thighs and her right hand was now hidden from view inside her underwear.
She had never been in trouble before. There was that time in her previous school when she had been told off for passing a note to a boy but the humiliation of being sent from the classroom and being forced to stand alone in the corridor like a prisoner waiting for a mugshot was painful beyond belief.
To the left and the right, the empty corridor seemed to go on for miles. She could just about hear classes underway in the adjacent rooms and, in the distance, could see the school secretary scuttling about her business.
She rested the back of her head against the wall, her long blonde hair getting entangled in the staples holding examples of good homework vertically on the notice board. ‘This is so embarrassing’, she thought. She was so obsessed with reaching her first orgasm that she was now involuntarily touching herself in public places.
Mr Jenkinson joined her in the corridor shortly afterwards.
At over 6 feet he was considerably taller than his pupil. She hadn’t noticed before his domineering figure; he may be an old man but he was still strong, and Molly couldn’t help wonder if he was a former rugby player, or perhaps ex-military like her father.
“Molly do you care to explain why you were more interested in the filth on your phone than my lesson?”
The answer seemed obvious to her but she had no words to offer him.
“I’m sick to the back teeth of children like you behaving in this way. School is for education. To give you a better life. One enriched by knowledge and opportunity...”
His attempt at an inspirational speech was just as dull as the lesson from which Molly had been removed, and it occurred to her that she much rather preferred Miss Driscoll’s interpretation of modern education than his.
But nevertheless, his display of dominance was, in its own way, attractive. His masculine demeanour seemed to enhance her primitive femininity.
The right side of her hip dropped subtly as she bent her knee, she pulled at a strand of her hair, curling it around her finger playfully as she looked into his ageing eyes. Mr Jenkinson couldn’t help notice, she had beautiful, deep, almost reddish blonde hair that shone even in the shadow his overbearing presence had created.
“I’m really sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.”
Every man, even one as old and dull as her history teacher, was susceptible to the flirtation of a young girl. The power of her innocence and nascent beauty was a gift she did not yet fully understand, but for the first time she was deliberately and manipulatively using it to her best advantage.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing young lady and it won’t work on me.”
But that wasn’t at all true. Mr Jenkinson had for some moments tried desperately to avoid looking beneath Molly’s face. He could see her blouse was unbuttoned, the top of her adolescent breasts pushed above a bra that already appeared a size too small.
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