Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, Masturbation, .

Desc: Sex Story: Teacher in the sand


No relation to the same-named sci-fi classic by Frank Herbert. Read it.

Here's a re-write of an earlier version. Not that much of the plot's different ... Well, you decide.

"Know what you're doing?"

Actually I'd little more than a general idea, but when Ms. Rennick said that going barefoot made her feet sore, I'd volunteered. It's not that often (never, actually) that your teacher says she needs a foot-rub.

"More or less," my truthful reply.

"Well, you're doing okay. Feels good actually. Higher."

"Sure, Ms. Rennick."

Finding Ms. Rennick and Ms. Barton here on vacation was a total surprise. I hadn't expected to run into anybody from home. I'd figured I'd just hang out, work on my tan, maybe meet some cute girls. Not lounge around the campsite with my folks, for sure.

And here were two of my teachers!

"Chris! What are you doing here?" Ms. Barton had laughed when we ran into each other on the path. "Holly -- Ms. Rennick, I mean -- and I are camping here, too." The way she beamed, it was like Ms. Barton thought I was some sort of old-time friend. She was one of my favorite teachers, though. I'd heard her cheering in the stands when I made the three-pointer in the semifinals with Stanfield. We lost by 18, but it could have been 21.

"We'll have to get together," she suggested, which I figured to be a nicety. What would we do? Make a campfire and let her explain about carbon? I hardly even knew Ms. Rennick. I'd had her for English and liked that, but she was sort of strict about punctuation and made us read Shakespeare.

"Whatcha doing now?" Ms. Barton asked as we parted.

And not a half-hour later she and Ms. Rennick found me on the nature trail. "Let's get a move on, Chris. This place has a million things to see," Ms. Barton decided like this was summer school.

Ms. Rennick gave me a wink. I guess not all teachers are that excited about biology, or whatever.

We only made it part way round the trail's loop, Ms. Barton pointing out the eco-things, before the she decided we should explore where the sea-grass stops and the pines begin, a biological zone change, as if anybody but a science teacher actually cared.

Ms. Rennick had seen my three-pointer, too, and asked me all about it.

We found a dune high enough to block the wind and spread out their beach towels. As the teachers had their suits on under their clothes, we could get a little tan. I didn't have my suit with me, but as I was already burned a little bit anyway, my shorts and tee-shirt were fine. I'd on my John Stockton shirt, the best ball handler ever.

Ms. Rennick produced some carrots and we shared two 7-Ups.

Ms. Barton's swimsuit was a bikini, violet, not one of those nothings in Sports Illustrated, but still pretty nice for a teacher as flat as a pancake. Less than a handful, more than a mouthful, as they say, but maybe that depends on how big your mouth is.

Her areola showed through the nylon, but that didn't surprise me. She's pretty foxy for teacher. More than once I'd seen inside her bra in biology lab. Once when we were dissecting a bean I think she caught me looking, but she'd just sort of given a little smile and quit bending over.

Ms. Rennick, on the other hand, had the bigger breasts. Her suit showed less, but still more than I'd seen in English. Hers was a navy blue two-piece, not totally a bag. Her top had fat straps, an over the shoulder boulder holder, we'd call it.

They laid their towels side-by-side, Ms. Barton claiming one edge and Ms. Rennick, the opposite. I was somewhat surprised to the middle, but I guess they didn't care. The three of us lay on our stomachs, my shoulders almost touching theirs, even. It's kind of neat, touching your teachers' shoulders.

It turned out that both teachers knew something about basketball. Not really the rules or anything, but pretty good for teachers. Ms. Barton had been a cheerleader and Ms. Rennick was in the band. Who was in what didn't surprise me, not that you should go by stereotypes.

But after about three minutes of tanning, Ms. Barton needed to run back to their campsite and took her towel with her. "Be right back, she promised, but maybe not for a while. Chris, you make sure Holly doesn't get burned, okay?"

I kind of liked how she called Ms. Rennick, "Holly," like I'd know her by her first name, too. Plus it was kind of neat being told to watch out for a teacher.

Ms. Rennick agreed that it would be great to have someone around. Some women don't like to be alone in a place like this, so I said, sure.

"I'll bet Chris can massage that knot out," suggested Ms. Barton.

"What knot?" wondered Ms. Rennick.

"You know, the one we talked about."

"You sure?"

"See you two later."

I wasn't a masseuse by any means, but nobody asked for my opinion.

I made designs in the sand. I like to draw. It wasn't like I had other plans for the afternoon, other than walking around looking for girls.

"Ever read Dune?" Ms. Rennick asked after a bit. "Frank Herbert. You'd like it. Land of sand."

I hadn't and she told me to look in the library.

And that's when I agreed to rub her feet. When I'd said okay, she'd maybe thought that meant I knew what I was doing. Well, there can't be that much to rubbing a foot, I told myself.

The thing was, in doing it here at the dunes, I had a total view of her behind. Nothing you'd not see on any woman in a swimsuit, of course, but a little different when she's been your teacher. It wasn't that you could see her butt, but the way a swimsuit fits, it's not like you can't, either.

"You play other sports?" Ms. Rennick wondered, providing me a heel.

I told her about soccer, how I'd been a forward, but basketball was where I was concentrating these days.

She agreed that was a good idea, to concentrate where're you're good.

"Thinking about college?"

I said I guessed so and she said I should.

I told her that maybe I'd study sports training and she though that would be a great idea.

She hadn't exactly said to go above her feet, but didn't seem to mind when I did. Her calves were pretty firm, more than I'd have thought, anyway, for an English teacher. She must walk a lot. It didn't take more than a minute to do them, as I didn't know the special pounds, or whatever they do in real massage.

"Doing fine," she let me know.

"You must exercise, right?" as I figured she'd like the compliment.

She must have because she laughed.

"Enough?" I asked, figuring it was.

"Got time for more?"

I did the backs of her knees. It was where skin dips in between tendons that got me more interested. The back of a leg's hardly some special place, of course, but the idea of being there got me thinking, "The knee bone connects to leg bone. The leg bone connects to the..." We learned the song at camp and everybody giggled about making out.

"Okay?" I wondered, thinking about the next bone, so to speak.

"Super!" Ms. Rennick judged, still silent about stopping.

I kneaded the lower part of her thighs, scooting up a bit to get there, my knee now against her calf, not on purpose, but suddenly conscious of the contact.

You'd not normally rub your teacher's leg, but we weren't at school or anything. I worked toward the inside of her thigh where she was softer and she rustled herself a little more into the sand and a little more against my knee.

"You doing okay?" I wondered, a little unsure about being were I was. Not that I was unsure about the location, that is, but that she'd catch on that I liked being there. It's one thing to put your hand on your girlfriend's leg at the movies; it's another to do it to a teacher.

"I guess you know your stuff," Ms. Rennick confirmed, flattening herself and to my surprise, parting her legs a little.

"We'll I'm no expert or anything." Not quite the truth, several girlfriends having told me otherwise, but it's not what you tell a teacher.

"But you've got the idea," she clarified.

That I did -- my own idea, anyway -- so I kept working. There was no reason to rush back to see what Mom was making for supper. It would be macaroni.

It was sort of fun to feel just below where Ms. Rennick's butt pouched up. She may have been an English teacher, but there wasn't much wrong with that part of her. Women like my mom get jelly-like unless they go to the gym.

"Know what?" Ms. Rennick asked,


"You can do my butt."

Her butt? Me? You can't touch a teacher's butt!

She read my mind. "Nobody's around, right?"

I looked. "No."

"Go ahead."

"You sure?" Ms. Rennick really didn't seem like somebody who'd let me. Ms. Barton's butt, on the other hand, was one we all had designs on, at least in our heads. Once I bumped her butt when she was showing me how to use the microscope. If she noticed, she was pretty cool in how she just kept talking.

"Positive," Ms. Rennick brought me back to the present, wiggling a tad to show me where.

I hardly touched, just one hand. She really was soft underneath her suit. When I pushed to test how soft, like with Ms. Barton, I was pretty careful to make it seem accidental.

"I don't mind, Chris. We're not at school."


I didn't mind, either, to put it mildly, now pushing down enough to dent the flesh. I'd want to remember everything!

"That's better," she deemed.

I did it again and moved my palm in little circles.

This too she didn't seem to mind.

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

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Story tagged with:
Consensual / Masturbation /