If you haven't already read The Headmaster's Office, now might be a good time to do so. It provides the back story for Belinda and Mr Gallows; much of which is assumed in this story.
I feel like the spy who saved the world. The monumental improbability of the scheme that I pulled off this week will never be recognised except by the two people closest to me in the venture, and in many ways neither of them knows the entire story. To be sure, it is not as though I have gone completely unrewarded; indeed as I write I can feel a tingle of excitement spreading through my loins at the memory of what I did ... and what was done to me.
The first piece in the jigsaw fell into place on Tuesday evening. I was lying in the Sick Bay recovery cot with Mr Gallows – the Headmaster of our privileged Sydney boarding school – quietly basking in the afterglow of sex. We have been meeting after lights-out in Sick Bay a couple of times a week for about a month – we simply could not find another appropriate location for a schoolgirl and a headmaster to make love.
I was wearing last year's way-too-small and no-longer-appropriate-for-public-exhibition school dress, now a traditional lovemaking prop that enhances sex play for us both. Properly donned – if there can be such a thing with this dress – it is several sizes too small to comfortably contain my swelling 8C breasts and the hem line covers my panties by a scant few inches – if I'm wearing panties, that is – which tradition also dictates that I must not. On this occasion I was indeed sans panties yet again, with the dress – improperly donned, some might say - unbuttoned to my midriff and the hemline hiked up to my 20" waist.
That's not to suggest I was indecent, though. I was still wearing a red lace bra that was almost covering my nipples (a state of affairs that I blame squarely on Mr Gallows' insistent tongue) and my hairless pussy was modestly covered by his right hand. He was lost in his own thoughts playing a favourite game, where he probes at my entrance and tries to withdraw before I can trap his finger in my labia by flexing my powerful pelvic floor muscles. I play along, but his fascination is so focussed I'm beginning to wonder if he realises that I am watching him and I decide whether he wins or loses. Men!
Our lovemaking that night had been beautiful and slow. Every time he enters me is like the first, the thickness and contours of his 9" cock slowly filling and parting the tight confines of my vagina. He relishes the slowness too as the constricting grip and heat of my love canal holds him perpetually on the edge of orgasm.
Looking down at him I felt a pang of regret and wanting; once again only the first two thirds of his now flaccid member were coated with my juices. At 4'11" and three quarters, my petite size makes it impossible – well, virtually impossible – for me to accommodate his entire manhood. Reading my recollections of our first encounter (which I do a lot) I wonder if I will ever feel all of him inside me again. Here's what I wrote:
"The release triggered a second orgasm. Screaming again with the unbearable pleasure I hooked my heels behind his buttocks and pulled in with all my strength, forcing his manhood deeper inside to fill the space created by his explosive stream. With the exquisite pain of his pulsing knob driving up into me, a third crescendo rocked my body, this time my own gushing ejaculation mixing with his and washed over his balls, now pressed achingly against my incandescent labia."
Wow! Heady stuff, Belinda! I'm tingling again with the memory. Our sex is different now, sweet and sensual rather than animal and uncontrolled. Not that I'm complaining; that climax was not without a cost: I couldn't walk the following day and I begged off school complaining of stomach cramps (I didn't think 'bruised vagina' would work as well). At lunchtime – after seeing the absentee list – Mr Gallows sent me a sealed note hand-written on his office stationary:
"To whom it may concern, Belinda is unable to attend class because of the cataclysmic fucking I administered to her in my office. Sincerely, John Gallows, Headmaster."
I laughed so hard it hurt, but pretty much everything hurt that day. I still have it locked away in the secret drawer of my keepsake box.
Selfishly, I desperately want to feel him balls-deep inside me again, but I want it for him just as much. He never loses control with me; never drives deeper than the seven inches he knows I can handle. I so wish he could just abandon control as I had and pound his full length into me, not just once but again and again until he came deep inside me.
Thinking of others before myself (well, maybe thinking of myself a bit too) ... maybe I'm growing up?
The next night, the second jigsaw piece – seemingly unconnected to the first – fell into place and my plan was born.
The senior girls' dorm is only very lightly supervised and – if I'm honest – we exploit their trust a little. Once dinner is eaten and homework is done we have the evening to ourselves because the staff are all busy mothering the junior girls.
Mr Gallows would have a fit if he ever found out what we get up to – at the very least he would demand videos. We spend half of our time talking about boys (most of us have never actually slept with a boy) and the other half exploring our sexuality with the collection of vibrators and dildos bequeathed to the dorm by senior girls over the years.
On Wednesday we played Reverse Tug of War. I sat it out and watched frustratedly hoping for Stalactites. Reverse Tug of War is played between two girls using my favourite dildo Silver – a double-ended 18" rubber shaft. An elastic band is tied around the middle and – well, you get it – first to the middle wins. Fully stretched, my pussy is only 7 inches deep so the best I can ever hope for is a draw.
Sometimes I challenge my best friend, Trish. She's six feet tall, athletic, small breasts, long auburn hair and pale Gaelic skin. She's one of the few girls who can reliably take a full half of Silver without pain. I can't beat her, but I enjoy getting her about 8 inches deep then gripping Silver with my secret muscles and fucking him back and forth inside her before I let her win. It makes for a good show and gives the new girls the courage to give it a try.
That night's game will go down in dorm history; stories will still be told about it when my grand-daughter enrols in the school. Trish challenged my new room-mate, Rupali. Rupali is 6'1" tall and built like an underwear model: long, shapely legs, slim hips, a very narrow waist and full breasts that defy gravity. She has coffee-and-cream skin and gorgeous cascades of long black hair, cut into bangs at the front to frame her high cheekbones.
New to the school this year, she joined Trish on the Girls 1st netball team playing Goal Shooter (Trish plays Goal Keeper so they are at opposite ends of the court and have little interaction – until now). I went along to the game on Monday night to support Trish, but couldn't take my eyes off Rupali. And I wasn't the only one; a group of boys had learned of her selection and filled the front row of the bleachers in the gym. The netball uniform is an old-fashioned, box-pleat skirt in the school colours over a high-cut, sleeveless, black lycra leotard. Since netball skirts are so short and players do a lot of jumping and pivoting, the girls choose to add a modest pair of black lycra athletic shorts. The black ones aren't sold in the uniform shop and – this being her first game – Rupali didn't have any so she played in just the leotard and skirt.
The boys were spread right out along the front row as the game started – presumably to get the best angle on the girls' legs – cheering and yelling and completely oblivious to the rules. A few minutes in, a long, fast pass from our Centre came flying into the goal circle; Rupali leaped straight up at full-stretch to take the ball, her pleated skirt ballooning out to display her long, bare thighs all the way up to the hip and the narrow strip of lycra stretched tightly across the mound of her pudenda. I shocked myself by gasping a little even though I see her in her underwear every morning.
The front row fell into a shocked silence and then – as Rupali made the goal – there was a frantic jostling for position as all of the boys at the defensive end raced for the spare seats in the second and third rows in attack. I went down at half-time to tell her the fan-club was in her honour; she was flattered but not embarrassed and I was surprised to see a lot more twirling and jumping from her in the second half. Mynx!
If those boys could see her now - red satin nightie, panties off, lubricating herself and her end of Silver – they would have a coronary. Despite our auto-erotic games in the dorm, I have always thought of myself as very much heterosexual, so I was surprised and a little shocked at the warm tingle of excitement I felt watching the girls getting into position. They sat on the floor facing each other, long, shapely legs scissored together, each with one head of the 18" Silver nestled in their vagina. I caught myself studying Rupali more closely than I should have been and felt a flush of shame mixed with excitement. Her pubic hair was trimmed short and shaved into the shape of a small apostrophe above her sex. Her outer labia were completely shaved and now spread wide around Silver's girth, showing pink glimpses of her inner womanhood at the edges.
.... There is more of this story ...