Summer Ch. 15 Gwen’s Story 3

Ana Dearmond

The affair quickly gathered pace. They met again the next day and within moments of arriving he was inside her; fingers, tongues, his penis, it didn’t matter; he filled her to capacity and then some, they were insatiable. They made love throughout that first day; and the next and the next.

She could not wait to be with him, the thought of his hands on her and his penis inside her filled her head, made her senses swim. She would run all the way to school every morning to be with him and he would always be waiting for her, smiling and already erect. They could not keep their hands off each other. They spilled out of the darkroom and into the classroom beyond. They would lock the door and draw the blinds even though the school was quiet and empty during the holidays yet there was always the chance of the occasional teacher or cleaner or pupil wandering around and discovery and disclosure was unthinkable for either of them.

She always seemed to be naked, he would have her naked within seconds of entering the room, he would strip her so fast it made her head swim. He kept her that way so she was accessible, so she was constantly available; and she loved it. Being constantly naked was incredibly liberating, being so constantly desired was flattering in the extreme and being so constantly and utterly used, debased, fucked, spread-eagled, cum upon, cum in, fingered and made to cum was enslaving and intoxicating beyond her wildest dreams,

He set up photo shoots, nothing was sacred, he photographed every part of her in every possible position, close ups, wide angle, in both black and white and colour. Sometimes he would set the timer so that he could appear in the photo with her; sometimes in the act of making love with his penis buried deep inside her, sometimes with her masturbating him, her small hand wrapped around his shaft, sometimes with his fingers deep inside her and sometimes just sitting together naked, his arm protectively around her shoulder or her waist, or possessively holding her breast, but always naked, and always with her sex, already moist and glistening, open and on view.

And she found she enjoyed the exhibitionism, opening her legs to the camera. She enjoyed being photographed naked, her nipples erect and her sex on view. She found the act of being photographed while he was inside her exciting in the extreme, wanton but at the same time incredibly liberating.

When they developed the photos together later in the afternoon, when they were satiated and resting, she would watch in wonder as image after image formed and hardened in the developer. Bathed in the deep red light and wearing nothing but a black rubberised apron she would look at the naked young woman staring back at her. The raw sexuality of the images stunned her, huge close-ups of her nipples, hard and erect, her wet and sleek vagina displayed on an immense scale, sometimes with his fingers inside her or holding her open to the camera, every hair, every fold of her sex clearly defined and she had stood transfixed, mesmerised, looking at the images of herself hanging on the line, drying slowly in the still, hot air. She had not known that such images were possible; it had never crossed her mind, and while she stood there, stunned, she had felt him behind her, opening the strings of her apron, his hands moving slowly around the front to cup her breasts.

She stared at the images in front of her, aware that he was touching the inside of her ankles with his feet, getting her to open her legs before slowly pressing her forward, bending her over. Her apron had hung loose at the front as he had taken her from behind, slipping easily inside her, pressing fully home as his fingers reached around to pull on her hanging nipples, a favourite position of his.

She had stared at the pictures as he moved inside her, the liquid feeling of his shaft merging with the images in her head; the sensuality of the whole combining in a climax that caused her to cry out and collapse, head on arms once again as he emptied his seed deep inside her. She had watched as he had reached past her, his seed slowly sleeping from her and picked the pictures out of the developer and dropped them into the next tank, fixing the images forever.

She grew to love them, all the images of her body, posed and open, sitting in the darkroom, at her desk in the science lab, laid out across Mr Keitel’s big desk in the classroom, some bending forward and some looking back, some with her leaning forward, others laying back; images of her breasts, some dry, some wet, some with his sperm running down and over them, some almost wet enough to touch on the print, sometimes with his penis in shot, some with his sperm just jetting at the point of climax; she loved them all and would study them intently, marvelling in the freedom and the secrets they each represented, each one a story, each one a fragment of her burgeoning sexuality and of their secret life together.

She would find herself staring at the image of her beşevler escort face in a picture and smile into the face staring back at her. She was always surprised at how completely happy she looked. She was not a morose young woman but she usually hated having her photograph taken and suffered from the usual range of teenage angst’s with regards her own self image; but in all these pictures the most arresting thing for her was how she looked, naked, legs open to the world, no trace of embarrassment, just supremely happy, content, confident in her nakedness and in her own body. The pictures for her were a voyage through her own sexuality.

She could smile at the secret story in each image, what they had been doing either before or even during the photo shoot, why her sex was wet and her nipples erect or her breasts red. With each print, knowing its history, she would look for the finger marks on the inside of her thighs, the matted pubic hair or the trail of sperm and for the first time in her young life she felt completely happy.

After a while she began to pick up the camera herself and turn it on him. The pictures were not as professional as his, as crisp or as clear but they captured her view of their relationship, of their joint sexuality. Pictures of him erect, at the point of climax, or post coital and deflated, his penis still shining and wet with her juices and one that always made her laugh, with him pointing at his erect shaft, ‘meet John Thomas,’ he had said.

‘John Thomas?’ she had enquired confused, ‘You gave it a name?’

He looked at her lamely and shrugged, ‘From D.H. Lawrence, ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover,’ he explained and then he smiled as she looked blank, ‘It’s a man’s thing I guess,’ he said and burst out laughing, his penis bobbing wildly in front.

He had picked her up in arms and carried up to his desk at the front of the room, laying her down on it. He had made her cum with his fingers before climbing up onto the desk with her and making love to her until she had cried out. Each picture had a secret and she loved them all.

His desk in the science lab was huge. A fixed solid fronted wooden affair raised two steps above the classroom floor. High ground from where, during lessons, he could look down on the entire class and from where he could conduct his experiments so the whole class could watch. He had once blindfolded her and laid her out on that desk, conducting his own experiments on her, opening her kegs as wide as they could go while he pretended to point out the parts of her sex to the class. Touching her slowly, each touch creating an exquisite tension inside her, each touch complete with an explanation of what that particular part of her sex was called and what it was used for; her clitoris took a long time to explain and resulted in a number of restarts in the lesson. He measured the distance between her nipples with a cold steel ruler, measured her sex, measured her erect nipples, all the while writing the results up on the board behind him.

When she was literally writhing with excitement, he held her open with his fingers until her sex gaped. He then invited members of her imaginary class up to inspect her and he asked them what they thought of her laying there, open for them. Still holding her open he touched her brusquely with his other hand and he told her his fingers were theirs. He described what they were doing to her. He asked if anyone wanted to conduct the ‘final internal’ examination and she was sure she could hear chairs scrape on the hard wooden floor as more and more volunteers came forward to inspect her, to put their hands on her.

He called a name forward to carry out the final internal examination, a name she knew very well; and with her blindfold she could almost see him standing there looking down on her. Mr Keitel urged him on and she felt his fingers at the entrance to her sex. She almost exploded as he slipped his fingers into her and once she had started she could not stop. She writhed around on the large wooden desk, blindfold, held down, believing she could feel her classmates hands all over her, inside her. She gripped his hand between her thighs as climax after climax washed through her, calling out, stretching her legs wider in an attempt to let them all in; until she collapsed, limp and spent, his fingers still softly moving inside her. He had taken her picture then, naked, exhausted, wiping her own juices from the top of the desk. Every picture told a story.

The affair had progressed unabated into the following school year. They would meet whenever they could, during breaks and after school, carefully locking the classroom door and drawing the blinds. “Photography Club business” became their euphemism for sex. In the now familiar red glow of the darkroom he would quickly strip her skirt and knickers off and spread her legs wide, working his way up her thighs with his tongue. She would always shake as he opened her up with fingers, holding balgat escort his head as his tongue moved between her lips, his juices mixing with hers. She would wrap her legs around his shoulders as his tongue found her clitoris, pushing her dripping sex into his face. He was fast and efficient, making her cum quickly in the confined space and she would climax quietly, her body shaking, her fingers wrapped tightly in his hair.

When he was sure she had finished he would roll over onto his back and watch as she undid his pants and pulled him clear. Pulling his pants down she would feverishly straddle his legs before taking him in her hand. She was already an expert at making him cum and she milked him a couple of times with long steady strokes to get him ready. She knew what he loved and often would bend down and take him in her mouth, swallowing him whole. He always groaned as her lips worked his shaft, her tongue swirling around his soft bulbous head. She was a natural and she was doing what she loved. This was their secret world, their secret act.

The first time she had performed oral sex on him she had taken him out of her mouth before he came and she had climbed up his legs before inserting him inside her before riding him to his climax. “I tasted it,” she had said by way of explanation later, “and I liked it, I’ll make you come in my mouth next time;” and she had, she learned to ‘suck him off’ as he called it and she swallowed his sperm without pause. Another in the growing list of secret acts.

As their affair grew so did their daring and more than once they were once almost caught. One, a quick fumble outside the classroom in a corridor between classes, was a case in point. She had been sent on an errand by another teacher and he was on his way to the staffroom. He had seen her coming and waited, grabbing her from behind as she hurried past, dragging her into the darkened recess below some concrete stairs.

He was already erect as he had pushed her to her knees and unbuttoning his pants he had pulled himself free. Gwen gasped as he quickly fed himself into her mouth, her lips closing automatically around his shaft. She had gagged slightly as he quickly pushed himself further in. Holding the back of her head he urged her lips to do their work.

“We’ll be caught,” she said around his shaft, her mouth already dutifully working on him. “We can’t do it here!” she had said but he held her firm, his hand holding her head in position.

“Just do it,” he whispered, “make me cum”; and she did, her mouth sliding up and down on him until she could feel him beginning to tense. Despite the danger she could feel herself getting wet, she could feel it between her legs; the situation and the sudden sex soaking into her knickers.

That’s when they heard the footsteps on the stairs above their heads, adult, solid footsteps. She recognized the voice of the headmaster and the woman he was talking to, Mrs. Phillips the geography teacher.

She tried to stand up but he held her in position, his rigid penis deep in her mouth still looking for fulfilment. The couple halted just above their heads, carrying on their conversation in hushed tones. Releasing Gwen he pushed her back further into the scant cover of the recess. The voices continued floating down from above. If either of them had leaned over the handrail they would have been discovered. Not daring to breathe Gwen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked down. She almost burst out laughing as Mr. Keitel stood there, his red, wet, shaft standing proudly before him. With a look she urged him to put it away but Mr. Keitel simply smiled,

Grabbing her by her shoulders he turned her around until she was facing the wall behind. The move took her by surprise and she did not guess what he was going to do until she felt him reach beneath her skirt and taking hold of her knickers he quickly eased them down over her hips. She tried to stop him but she was afraid of making a noise and he quickly manoeuvred them down to her ankles. The voices above them continued to talk in hushed staccato whispers. There was obviously some crisis afoot and a decision was being sought just a few feet above their heads.

As if oblivious to the danger the headmaster posed, or possibly because of it, Mr Keitel was brooking no resistance. Pushing her up against the wall he pulled her blouse out the waistband of her skirt and pushed it high up her back. She struggled silently as she felt him unsnap her bra. Spinning her around to face him he swiftly unbuttoned her white school shirt and pulled up her bra. She tried to cover her naked breasts but he pushed her hands away. Pushing his trousers and pants down to his knees he sat down on the small bench below the multilayered coats and pulled her close to him.

Raising her skirt he pulled her forward onto his lap, until she was sitting astride his legs facing him. With his hands on her hips he manoeuvred her until she could feel the batıkent escort tip of his penis push its way gently between the folds of her already wet lips. She gasped as he settled her down and with a small thrust his rigid shaft, he entered her smoothly and to the hilt. She stifled a cry grasping him by the shoulders of his old tweed jacket as he pulled her completely down onto him, firmly embedding himself inside her.

He paused to allow her to become accustomed to his length inside her, to settle herself down, to accept the intrusion; and as she felt him fill her she leaned forward to rest her head on his shoulder, slowly relaxing into the situation, accepting their shared fate, accepting her inability to do otherwise.

The conversation above them was growing animated and she could hear the Headmaster tapping out his points with something hard on the banister above. Mrs. Phillips was arguing strongly in denial but Gwen was having difficulty in caring somehow, the penis buried deep within her was demanding her attention, draining her of her fear of discovery. Mr. Keitel pushed her blouse back from her breasts and his fingers fastened upon her sensitive nipple, alternately pulling and rolling it until she wanted to cry out. He cupped her breast, holding the whole in the palm of his hand, moulding it, squeezing it just as he knew she liked him to.

His shaft was rigid inside her and she began to squirm on it, raising herself a fraction so that she could settle back onto it, trying to create the friction in her sex that would take her to orgasm. Using both hands he mauled her breasts, forcing her to lean back to give him room. Looking up she could see the toe of the headmaster’s sensible brogues peering out from the landing above.

He squeezed her sensitive nipples and palmed her breasts until she began to whimper. He stilled the sound with a kiss, a hand on her shoulder drawing her close. She kissed him back hungrily until she eventually ran out of air and broke off. He laughed quietly against her ear and pushed her blouse back off her shoulders so that he could he could kiss and bite and neck and shoulders. She let him do what he wanted, he could strip her naked now, she didn’t care who found them; she just wanted this to continue. He held her bunched blouse at the back, pulling her arms and shoulders back, thrusting her chest forward. His lips fastened on to her nipple, suckling, nipping, forcing her hips to grind down onto him, her juices flowing.

Exasperated the Headmaster moved a few steps down the staircase before turning and quickly walking back up to where Mrs. Phillips still stood. His voice was low and angry and in her mind Gwen could almost see his face, red and fierce, as he launched back into his argument.

Mr. Keitel released her arms and she threw them around his neck, hanging on as thought she could fall off his lap, as if she were not pinned there by the penis lodged deep within her sex. She buried her head into his shoulder and pushed down hard on the rigid shaft that was embedded deep inside her. Leaning closer Mr. Keitel whispered “are you ready?” in to her ear and she nodded furiously.

With his hands on her waist to keep her positioned she almost screamed as he suddenly thrust himself upwards, only a small motion but she was so excited that it seemed to split her open. He pushed again and she bit into the coarse material of his jacket to keep from making a sound. His hips began to rock steadily, a circular motion that caused her to rise up on his shaft a little before falling back down, an exquisite motion that bumped the head of his penis against the top of her sex.

She moaned into his shoulder and he pushed her head back from his shoulder, folding one hand firmly across her mouth trying to guarantee her silence. His other hand went around her waist and drew her hips into him, pulling her hard down. She shook her head trying to free her mouth but he held her firmly. With his arm round her waist behind her he held her in position while he began to drive into her with short, sharp thrusts of his hips.

She could feel her breasts bounce with every thrust and her erect nipples rubbed against the coarse material of his jacket, inflaming them, driving her higher. With her mouth covered she breathed heavily through her nose like a horse winded in a long chase and the bench moaned quietly beneath them but the argument above them had intensified and covered the growing noise they were making.

He was working her now, thrusting upwards with his hips while his arm around her waist pulled her forward and down onto him. She hung on to his shoulder, trying to brace herself against each increasingly savage thrust. She could feel her climax rising from between her legs, constricting her chest, rasping in her throat. She pulled at his hair forcing his head back and she bit his hand as he continued to thrust hard up into her.

Then she came, driving herself down onto his shaft, pressing her groin on to his to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure from the climax. She shook her head as she felt him strain upwards, pumping his seed up into the welcoming darkness of her womb. They clung to each other, hands gripping tightly like shipwrecked sailors to a rock until the first desperate shuddering storms were over.

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