One School Day

by HAL

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, School, .

Desc: Sex Story: A reminiscence of a nearly true story about a young attractive student teacher at a boys' school

She shouldn’t really have been teaching us. We were a boy’s school in 1971, we were 6th formers, 17 and 18 year olds; so the student teacher was only 5 or so years older than we were. And she was a looker. A distinct distraction from the lesson, especially if the theoretical aspects of biology didn’t hold much interest. On the other hand she had done Environmental Science and our two teachers were a microbiologist from sometime before Hooke invented the microscope and a biochemist who thought everything bigger than a cell was of little interest. The ecology part of the syllabus suffered, and that was the part that I found most interesting.

So in the lessons, whilst I had to admit that she was a looker, I didn’t notice the stretch of her blouse over her breasts, the everso slight hint of cleavage as she bent over to look at your work, shape of her bottom as she stretched to write at the top of the board. Okay, so I DID notice, I just ignored it. OKAY! So I didn’t ignore it, but I did take more interest in the subject of ecology than the subject being observed. So did Jim and Michael (aiming to be doctors, needed good grades), Derek (if he wasn’t gay, he did a good impression – it was illegal or unacceptable then so he never said), Germaine (long term permanent girlfriend and so, so very in love with her – and rumoured to be getting his end away as often and as much as he liked). The rest? They looked and they talked about all they would do if they got the chance (and we all knew what they would do would be to run a mile), but of course they were never, ever, going to get the chance. Even a student teacher can generally do better than an impecunious, spotty (probably), inexperienced, pupil. Now reverse the sexes and I could see a good argument for a male student teacher being ready and willing to score with 6th form girls; actually it seemed to happen with depressing regularity.

The changing distribution of Aramices alveolus as the slope became damper towards the stream, that was interesting. More interesting than the in-depth discussion of how big her tits were.

“Definitely a D, maybe double DD”

“Double DD would be DDDD you plank. Nah, she’s got padding, she’s a C”

“Whaaa? You gotta be joking, them’s a D, easy”

“What you reckon Steve, you’s at the front ogling her all lesson?”

“What? Oh dunno, what’s it matter, you’ll never get to see them you pervs. She isn’t going to rip open her blouse and shout ‘come and squeeze me’ to a bunch of spotty pervs like you is she?”

That’s me; Steve. Steve the world famous ecologist – that was the aim. Still, nothing happens the way you plan it does it?

On top of being an apparently sexless geek I helped run the JCC (Junior Christian Club), schools still did stuff like that then. I wasn’t exceptionally religious, that evening I was the only leader there; sometimes there were more of us. On the day we are remembering I had just run it. The scrotty kids had all gone, I was tidying up, putting the books away, ‘admiring’ the doodles by James (every week a load of penises on the work sheet, then he’d swap it with someone else’s. He thought I didn’t know it was him), his Dad was the vicar of Dumfield so James was pretty well obliged to come; he definitely wasn’t religious material then. He’s a bishop now (I changed his name to protect his blushes). The school was empty by now except for the cleaners; teachers all zoomed off for the pub on a Friday. I took the back exit across the staff car park, only one car still there. Emily’s, I mean Miss Jameson’s, Citroen 2CV. A real statement – “I’m a lefty, Guardian reading, tree hugger”. But she was sitting in it, crying softly.

Perhaps the diplomatic thing would have been to politely ignore her, pretend not to notice and when on Monday she said “Didn’t I see you late on Friday leaving school?” you just reply “Did you? Oh yes I was a bit late leaving”

But I’m not diplomatic (see remark on newly birthed mother “why haven’t you lost weight now the baby’s out?”), never have been.

“Miss? Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, I didn’t see you Smith. Umm, yes, the car won’t start. It’s not been a good week”

I’m as expert at cars as my Mum was at cooking (you haven’t tasted bad cooking until you’ve tried her burnt fish fingers and rice surprise – the surprise is that the burnt fish fingers were hidden under a great mound of white rice) but I couldn’t say that. So I did a scientific breakdown.

“You’re sure it has petrol?”

“I’m blonde, but I’m not dumb blonde” She smiled after that, phew!

“Okay, just checking. Does it turn over?”


“The engine, does it turn over?”

She tried the key and we got a sort of cough and then nothing. Now that, I knew may be the result of it not starting, people just keep trying. “Oh, it hasn’t started after go number 17, I’ll try it again.” IT AIN’T GONNA START!

I opened the bonnet and peered in. Dad used to have an old Rover with a crank handle for when the battery was dead, I remember him winding it up a hill once after it had refused to bump start down it. This car should have had a crank handle but Miss Jameson just looked blank when I asked; when I looked in the boot there were some tools in the back including a handle. I tried a couple of turns and realised this was not looking good. Inspiration! The spark plugs! I headed back to the boot.

“I’m impressed with the tools you carry Miss.”

“It’s my brother’s car, that’s part of the problem. If it’s fu-- I mean if it’s broken then he’ll blame me. He just loaned it to me for this placement ... And since school is over you can call me Emily, back to Miss Jameson on Monday though. And you are?”

“Steve” Being an old-style Grammar School we were all called by our surnames by the teachers. There are three Smiths and two Browns in our class; hours of fun.

I took out a spark plug and smelt it. “Well it smells of petrol so that shows the petrol is getting through”

“That’s good isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it probably also means the engine is flooded.” She looked concerned, no doubt imagining the cylinders full of petrol. “It just means that because it hasn’t started the spark plugs have got wet with petrol condensing on them. Petrol” I said, warming to having an attentive and apparently appreciative audience “doesn’t conduct, so no spark”

I took the others out and we wandered over to the school laboratories. Ah! The 1970s, before Health and Safety gone mad, when labs were left unlocked and Bunsen burners were left out. I lit a burner and held each spark plug in the flame. Emily again looked a little concerned, but was content to assume that I, a 17 year old Grammar School boy with a GCE in Latin and no practical training in life, knew what I was doing. She obviously didn’t know us very well. Still, so far, watching Dad maintain a string of old cars had obviously rubbed something off onto me and I was still in my comfort zone (I don’t think we had them then actually, they were issued in the 1990s) I carried them back in my handkerchief as they were still hot. Thank goodness it was clean, no snots or anything, at least it was until I put the oily plugs in it.

“Won’t your mother be cross?”

“Don’t worry” I’d already thought I’d throw it away to save the inevitable long explanation required, with Dad checking the technical details (“Did you check the overhead diaphragm convolvulator? Or was it only the 1965 model that had that?”) and Mum asking pointless things like “So why was a woman in the car park?” She never listens much. “By the way, you went to Southampton didn’t you?” She nodded. “I’d appreciate a chat sometime about their course. I want to do Ecology or Environmental Science”

“Okay, sure. I noticed you concentrating a lot. I’m glad it was for the subject” Obviously she meant “and not just staring at my boobs and arse like the other Neanderthals”

I gingerly put them in with an occasional “ouch” as they really were hot. I hoped they weren’t too hot. Then the moment of truth, I swung the starting handle and ... Nothing. Try again, and once more and “rrrrruuummph, bubble, bubble bubble” The 2CV sounds like no other car (and like no car should sound like that to be honest), we had something that sounded like a lawnmower with barely more power.

“Oh well done Steve! You’re brilliant”

“My pleasure Miss, I mean Emily” The trouble with first names is they are more personal. I started to see the bird behind the teacher if you get my drift. I began to realise that all the things Dave and Jackson (always his surname, I wonder why? Maybe his first name was embarrassing, like Francis or Xavier or something) had been saying weren’t just theoretical observations. The breasts they lusted after were real, tangible, wobbly, soft. I could feel a stir in my loins. Unfortunately Emily was jumping up and down for joy and that really didn’t help.

“I was meant to be going for a drink with the teachers, but I guess it’s too late now. Umm” She looked at me “I don’t suppose I could buy you a drink to say thank you? We could talk about the course if you like”

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
mt/Fa / Consensual / Heterosexual / School /