The lighting appears softer, the shadows like arms holding our well-worn desks. Ms. Barrett, the best teacher ever, arranges papers on her oversized wooden desk. Her pale blue blouse falls open to show the class her flawless skin over her massive heart. Long black hair cascades over thin shoulders, framing her wise face with smoky eyes and full dark red lips. The black leather skirt squeaks as her sheer black hose-covered legs shift and tap her flat black, high heels on the linoleum ground.

I almost bump into her desk as I walk past, “Good morning, Ms. Barrett.”

“Good morning, Sarah.”

Ms. Barrett’s voice sings in my ears. I bounce to my front seat and slip in.

I loved Friday’s lesson and slept great on Friday and Saturday, with the best on Sunday. Her agreement with the official scientific websites about how only real sperm can impregnate a woman comforted me. Some Christian sites have examples of girls and women getting pregnant from dreams. I hoped it wasn’t possible because I wasn’t pregnant. Yet. My recurring dreams of getting filled with cum grew over the weekend. The most vivid and fulfilling on Sunday.

I awoke this morning stuffed and almost unable to eat breakfast. Last night, I dreamed of laying on my bed, naked, my little, perky breasts jiggling with each breath, my small vagina leaking and making a puddle on the sheets.

Two penises appear, one white and one black. The unseen owners jerk them over my sweet, innocent face. My eyes widen while my body burns. The bright red head on the white one draws my gaze, while the black one, larger than my forearm, casts a shadow over my eyes.

Another massive black penis appears. With a thud, it lands on my forehead, causing my eyes to cross. A fourth penis, this one tan, with a dark brown head slimy with pre-cum, materializes beside my mouth. I open my pale pink lips as wide as possible to engulf the helmet tip. I wish I knew the taste.

Two more penises emerge, one for each hand. I stroke them. I imagine they are warm and hard, like a flexed arm muscle. They are so big my little, pink-finger-tipped hands barely fit around.

A penis begins to rub up and down my slit. Much like my fingers when I need to satisfy my urges. I want to observe the penis head pushing my vagina lips apart, but the enormous penis on my forehead weighs my head down. I move my legs up in the air, hoping the penis will slip inside me. It does, and an overwhelming sensation consumes me, just like my hairbrush does, but bigger and much warmer.

Two more penises rub on each foot. I time my sucking with the thrusting, knowing the nine strangers grow closer to cumming in and on me. Even now, my vagina tingles at the memory. I wish I could satisfy my urges again.

I close my eyes in the class, remembering the penis inside me came first, shooting cum deep. How awesome getting filled with cum must be. The penises on my feet spew, spraying my feet and legs with cum. Next, the fisted ones shoot burning hot sperm across my little breasts, coating them. Thicker than water, I imagine the cum slimes me like the pudding I have used on my breasts. Maybe cum tastes like vanilla pudding. The penis explodes, coating the inside of my mouth. In my dream, it tastes like vanilla pudding.

The penises jerking over my face shoot sticky cum across my cheeks and into my hair. Finally, the massive penis on my forehead erupts. A rope of cum travels the length of my body, landing between my little breasts, on my tight pale stomach, and into my sparse vagina hair. It pools in my belly button. The cum covers me, shining in the defused light of my dream.

I open my eyes wide, hoping no one heard my slight moan. Luckily, the other girls are too busy pulling out paper and pens while exchanging stories about the weekend. I again speculate about the taste of cum. Will it taste like warm vanilla pudding? Or does a stranger’s cum taste gross and toxic, as our lesson plans claim?

Mom must like the taste. She often has some on her chin while making breakfast, left over after Mom and Dad’s morning sex. Although, maybe she doesn’t and only sucks Dad off on special occasions because most days his cum leaks from her pussy.

This morning, while I sat at our eating island in the kitchen, Mom danced in Dad’s blue-striped dress shirt, bum cheeks appearing just below the shirt tails, humming while swirling his scrambled eggs. Sperm trickled down the inside of her leg.

I lick my lips. What does the little rivet taste like? As her husband, I bet Dad’s sperm tastes sweat to Mom. But what about for me, not his wife, but his daughter? Will it taste sweet to me?

I enjoyed Mom’s dance around the kitchen, putting the coffee on, buttering the toast, and pouring orange juice for herself. My morning mood improves with her energy and enthusiasm.

“What’s the plan for today?” she asked as she spun on the spot.

Her long brown hair swirled while her firm breasts bounced under the cotton shirt. I want to go braless like she does in the morning. I bet men like slightly visible nipples through thin shirt material, and they’d give me their cum. Maybe that happens to Dad with Mom every morning. The shirt rises, and her dark-haired, wet vagina appears, holding the favor of cum.

I moisten my lips, “School, then a hike. Martha wants to show me a tree house she found,” I tell her as I crunch mouthfuls of cereal. Maybe cum tastes more like milk. Both are white.

“OK, have fun, Dear.” Mom kisses my forehead, then leaves to bring breakfast to Dad in the bedroom.

Mom’s breath smells of citrus and calcium with a slight chemical metal. She only smells that way after drinking Dad’s cum. Maybe if I kiss her on the lips, I will get to taste it. Then I will know what cum tastes like. But Mom left with Dad’s breakfast, and I can only sit and ponder.

I have read online what people say cum tastes like. Bitter, sweet, salty, bland, overpowering, gross, toxic, nutritious, and the divine nectar of God. How can I figure it out? I wish cum came online like takeout. The idea of opening Uber Eats and ordering a sperm drink makes me giggle. How does someone explain to Mom and Dad that charge on their credit card? Mom might not care. She does love sperm. Dad will act supportive but firmly against doing wrong.

Will he let me taste his? No, only Mom. I have listened to her moaning and groaning in the bedroom. They claim they are exercising or wrestling, but I know the truth. I hope one day to have a husband who will have sex with me three or four times a day, morning and night.

Martha disturbs my memory, “Hey, Sarah. What question are you going to ask today?” Martha’s my best friend. Her bright red hair, which she dyes, bounces as she sits beside me. So wild and intelligent.

“What question?” I envy her mature makeup, bright red lipstick, and dark green eyeshadow.

“Didn’t you hear? We get to ask Ms. Prude one question. Anonymously, like on Friday.”

I cringe at her calling Ms. Barrett a prude. Martha may know more than Ms. Barrett, but I hope to teach and care like Ms. Barrett one day.

“How do you know?” How does she always know everything?

“I have my sources,” she whispers and licks my ear.

“Gross.” I turn away and frantically rub the saliva off. Why does she always tease me?

Yesterday, during her hug goodbye, she grabbed my butt and squeezed. I had to push her away to get her to let go. She wanted to kiss me goodbye, but I refused and left.

“Attention Class. Take out a piece of paper. Like last week, you may ask one question. You do not have to put your name on the paper. You have five minutes.”

Wow, Martha always knows. I squirm in my seat, hoping to ask a good question. But what? What does cum taste like? But does Ms. Barrett know? She isn’t married. And how can someone describe it? I can never find the right words to describe a taste.

“Ms. Barrett, will you answer all our questions? Cause last week you didn’t answer mine.” Once again, ‘Blonde Isabella’ does not raise her hand and shouts a question. Dad says it’s because she’s blonde, while brunettes, like Martha and me, have more control, and ‘Brunette Isabella’ never shouts out in class.

“Isabella, raise your hand,” Ms. Barrett correctly informs the girl. She gives her second and third chances, while other teachers have wrapped her knuckles for less.

‘Blonde Isabella’s’ small, yellow-tipped hand shoots up while her tiny, button nose wrinkles and pink, glossy lips flatten.

“Yes, Isabella, what’s your question?” Ms. Barrett calmly asks the impatient girl.

“Ms. Barrett, I asked last week if a younger brother could get someone pregnant.” Isabella hates her younger brother, doesn’t she? Wait, if he shot his cum inside her, maybe I can convince him to let me have some. While not his sister, Martha tells me I look prettier.

“Yes, a younger brother, which I hope did not happen, can get you pregnant if he ejaculates inside your vagina,” Ms. Barrett explains again. Dad says you have to tell a blonde multiple times.

“But my brother’s a dog, and you said dogs can’t get me pregnant, and they both shoot sperm,” Isabella states as she twirls her long blonde braid.

Good point. Dogs do shoot sperm. Do dogs taste different? I can get dog sperm quickly. We have two dogs in our apartment complex who always try to hump my leg. Possibly the little black one, as the German Shepard scares me with his size.

“Isabella, first, you need to raise your hand to speak. Second, do not talk back to teachers, parents, or anyone else in authority. Lastly, and I hope neither has happened, a dog cannot impregnate you because it is from a different species, while your bother, who is from our species, even if you say he’s not, can get you pregnant.” Ms. Barrett remains so calm with ‘Blonde Isabella’s’ stupid questions.

Isabella’s hand shoots up to ask another question. Martha sighs beside me and whispers, “Finally, she’s learning.”

“Isabella, write your question on the paper. That’s what it’s for.” Isabella lowers her hand. Tongue between teeth, she furiously writes on the paper.

“It’s been almost five minutes. Does anyone, other than Isabella, need more time?”

Oh my goodness, I haven’t written anything. I don’t even have a question yet. My hand raises, “Sarah, do you have a question? Or need more time?” Ms. Barrett’s calm voice barely betrays her exasperation.

“More time, Miss.” I thank the Lord for Ms. Barrett’s patience with me. I cannot imagine what it’s like to deal with teenagers all day.

“Class, I didn’t tell you to prepare questions, so I will give you as much time as you need. However, before the next class, you need to have a question so we can be fast and efficient.”

I smile at Ms. Barrett. Dad and Mom say, and I agree, Ms. Barrett cares and teaches us better than any other teacher. I learn and have so much fun when she visits for dinner. At her last visit, we discussed whether God, because he’s omnipotent, can make an object even he can’t lift. Dad said, ‘Yes.’ Mom said, ‘No,’ while Ms. Barrett explained weight only exists because of gravity and then explained how gravity works.

After dinner, I wanted to stay up and listen while the grown-ups talked. Instead, they sent me to bed early.

On my pink sheeted bed, I stared at the kitten and puppy posters covering my pink walls. I still wish Dad had brought a kitten home. I had almost convinced him. However, he joked two cats kept him busy enough. I knew he often called Mom his unquenchable kitty, but he called me his princess. I have wondered about the other cat.

Sleep refused to arrive as my mind raced. What did the parents talk about? I crept to my bedroom door to listen.

Our apartment contains four rooms: my bedroom, my parent’s bedroom, which shares a wall with mine, a small bathroom, and a spacious main area, with a TV and couches at one end and a kitchen and dining island at the other.

They sat on our couches and laughed about something. I didn’t understand every word but surmised they gossiped about two teachers from school. Something about them hugging after the last dance while married to other people. I disagreed with Ms. Barrett about the two committing a scandalous act. I agreed with Mom, “Two consenting adults may ‘smack uglies’ if they want.” Such a horrible thing to say about those two teachers, even if they are old and ugly. Dad just laughed and commented their spouses might know already. I agreed. If the two teachers hugged as close friends, the two couples likely all had dinner together. Ms. Barrett always hugged Mom and Dad in greetings and farewells.

Dad then said the words I dreaded the most, “Dear, will you check on Sarah and make sure she’s asleep.”

I rushed to bed, dove under the covers, and pretended to sleep. I prayed when Mom kissed my forehead goodnight that I didn’t have sweat on it.

The door opened, and Mom whispered, “She’s sleeping like an angel.”

Ms. Barrett commented beside her, “She’s grown into quite the smart girl.”

I warmed inside at Ms. Barrett’s compliment but focused on steady, sleep-like breaths.

“You’re quite the sexy kitty,” Mom complimented Ms. Barrett. Mom must have tickled Ms. Barrett because she giggled.

Oh, maybe Dad referred to Ms. Barrett as the other cat.

Thankfully, Mom shut my door without my goodnight kiss. While I missed the kiss, she didn’t discover I wasn’t sleeping. I could listen in on the adults, a small, easily forgiven sin. I strained and listened to them move around the apartment. When they finally moved to my parent’s bedroom to talk, I slipped out of bed and put my ear on the wall.

They quieted until they giggled. They grew louder, like when Mom and Dad wrestle. I wanted to watch Ms. Barrett wrestle Dad. She can easily beat Mom because of her extra height and strength. But Dad? While standing the same height, his shoulders and arms dwarf hers. I stilled my breath and strained to hear better.

At first, Dad groaned at Ms. Barrett’s wrestling domination until she screamed in submission. Daddy always wins.

“Is everyone finished?” Ms. Barrett’s firm voice interrupts the memory. I shake my head, hoping others are also unfinished.

What do I ask? I ponder the stark white sheet of paper. Ms. Barrett always says, “Even if you do not know what to write, write something, anything, it helps the brain focus and come up with something.”

I write ‘Cum’ in large black letters at the top left of the page. It helps. I remember my first dream about cum. After Mom and Dad bought me a cell phone, I searched for pictures of cute wet kittens. I love their adorable soaked, matted, hairy, and grumpy face. I spent the next hour fascinated by the online porn I had accidentally found. That night I had my first dream about a penis ejaculating in my vagina. The following morning, I deduced Mom had sperm on her chin and ear, not cream as she claimed.

I write ‘Sperm’ in small, block letters at the bottom of the blank page. I write ‘Spunk’ along the top, giggling at the slang. I write ‘Spew’ in tiny, fancy letters in the bottom-right corner.

Finally, the question arrives. “Do glory holes actually exist? And if so, where can I find one?” I hope it’s ok. I asked two questions. They kind of go together.

Imagine if Ms. Barrett answers both questions. I can figure out how to sneak away and use the glory hole to answer my burning question.

All the girls have already handed in their questions. I stick mine in the middle. I’d die of embarrassment if she knew what I wanted.

Martha leans over and whispers, “What did you ask?”

I don’t answer her. We are not allowed to talk in class. And I don’t want to tell her.

“You’ll never guess what I asked?” she whispers again.

I mentally yell – ‘Shut Up, you will get us in trouble.’ I sit still. Maybe if I don’t say anything, Martha will ignore me and whisper to the new student, Mary, who sits on the other side of her, “I asked...”

“Martha, Sarah, stop whispering. No talking in class,” Ms. Barrett’s voice rings out. Great, now I’m in trouble. I hope we don’t get detention. Luckily, Ms. Barrett continues to read the questions instead of focusing on punishment.

‘Talk to Mary instead. Talk to Mary instead,’ I mentally yell over and over into Martha’s brain. She doesn’t talk to Mary. She never talks to Mary. Martha leans to whisper when Ms. Barrett rescues me.

“OK, class, listen closely. I will answer five of these questions first. They are very similar,” Ms. Barrett says as she rolls her eyes and shifts her hips. There are probably a lot of stupid questions.

“Despite what some websites claim, you cannot get pregnant except by having a male ejaculate inside you. Toilet seats and used panties with sperm on them cannot make you pregnant. Sperm needs to enter the vagina. And while yes, the sperm may hypothetically get on your vagina and swim up to your eggs, the chances are very, very remote. And despite what some websites assert, there has never been a documented, credible case of it happening.”

I knew that. Those websites give lots of examples of girls getting pregnant, some very young, but the official science websites always debunk them. I try, but fail, to imagine good Christian girls having sex. While theoretically possible, maybe it happened to one or two, but not as many as the websites declare.

“Do not believe everything you read on websites. People who post on them can lie and make things up. In many of the examples, girls likely became pregnant the normal way, through sex. But because of parental or societal pressure, the girl had to claim virginity. Furthermore, I do not believe a person would accidentally sit on a sperm-covered toilet seat, gross, or put on sperm-soiled panties, double gross.”

The class giggles. Who sits on a toilet seat covered in cum or puts on a pair of cum soaked panties? Maybe a lick to taste, sure, but to sit on them? Girls that stupid deserve to get pregnant. It does make me question, where are all those cum-covered toilet seats or soiled panties? I have never found any, and I always inspect the seats before I sit. Most only have pee on them. I hope cum does not have the same pungent flavor or smell.

“OK, three questions asked if you can masturbate too much.”

The class grew quiet. What a great question. I wish I had asked that question.

“Yes, and no. I have confirmed with the priest that the church considers masturbation a sin. You must always confess if you masturbate.” I nod. Everyone knows that. I have confessed many times. Martha claims she always adds gross details to tease the priest. She claims the last time she told our priest she used a cucumber on herself. I glance over to her. She stares at Ms. Barrett, hanging on her every word. Perhaps it’s her question.

“So yes, any masturbation is too much. However, we are human, though made in God’s image, but because of the original sin, we sin. Our goal is not to sin. Please refrain from masturbation.”

I shift nervously in my seat. I want to ask what to do about my strong urges. Others nervously shift in their seats. A few, like me, peer at our feet, trying to hide the flushing of our faces. Ms. Barrett can’t know I have masturbated.

“Physically, you cannot masturbate too much. You will not get sick or anything. You are tarnishing your soul. So, don’t masturbate, especially in inappropriate places, like class.”

At her last statement, some of the class erupts in laughter. I can’t image masturbating in class. Only ‘Blonde Isabella’ might do something dumb like that.

Ms. Barrett smiles at her joke and becomes serious again. “Quiet class. One of you asked, what is masturbation? Please know that masturbation has a U, not an E. It is mast-Ur-bate.”

Oh, I didn’t know that, something to remember.

“Masturbation is when you stimulate yourself, usually with your fingers. Most people enjoy masturbating, although, remember, it is a sin. So, if you do masturbate, you need to confess to absolve your sin.”

I nod sagely. The last time I confessed to the priest about my masturbation, I had acted out a video online about a girl getting covered in cum. The video turned me on so much that I needed to do what the pornstar did.

Alone in our apartment, I went to the kitchen to find something resembling cum. The mayonnaise in the refrigerator had the best resemblance. I unscrewed the blue top and tentatively dipped a finger in the slimy but firm white stuff. Maybe like cum. I have always liked the taste of mayo, so I licked my finger and imagined it tasted like real cum. Like in the video, I stripped off my clothes to expose my budding breasts and almost hairless pussy. Luckily, I do not have to shave to resemble the girls online. I don’t know how to shave down there.

I spread out on the kitchen floor. Like in the video, a whole bunch of guys jerked off over me. I pinched my nipples and rubbed my pussy, just like the girl. I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue like she had. I imagined all the penises ejaculating, so I smeared mayonnaise on my face and breasts to simulate the scene. Does cum taste like mayo? I like mayo on my sandwiches. Does cum taste good on sandwiches? I have so many questions.

Anyway, the priest asked for a detailed description of everything. He said he had to know everything for indulgence and correct punishment of my sin. I told him about covering myself, pushing some in my mouth to taste, and shoving some into my vagina to make a creampie. I love the term creampie. It reminds me of the cream pies Mom makes. Maybe they call it a creampie because cum in the pussy tastes like a creampie. I asked the priest, but he didn’t know. He just asked for more details.

I told him how I used a hairbrush handle to pretend a penis pushed the creampie deep into my pussy. I do everything from the video.

He asked more questions. “How many dicks?”

“Ten or twelve.” I had forgotten to count.

“Did you play with your breasts?”

“Not really, just smeared mayo on them.” I enjoyed the slimy texture. I didn’t mention that.

“Did you have an orgasm?”

“Yes, after rubbing hard on my little nub.” I can’t use the correct term, clit, talking to a priest.

“Have you seen a real dick?”

“No.” I didn’t tell him I accidentally walked in on Daddy peeing. Can you accidentally sin? I need to ask.

“Do you want to see a real dick?”

“Yes, but after marriage.” I gave him the correct answer, although I want to view one before marriage.

“What would you do if you saw a real dick right now?”

“In confession?” I exclaimed in confusion.

He must have gleaned the required information because he stopped asking questions. For penance, I had to pray to our Holy Father every morning and night for a week. I inquired if I could continue to masturbate. He just repeated the penance. He did say never to use mayo again, an easy promise because I had a hard time cleaning it off, and annoying to get out of my vagina.

I snap back to the room as Ms. Barrett finishes reading my question out loud. I sit up straighter, straining for the response.

“Glory holes, for those who do not know what they are, are holes in the wall at gas stations or porn shops that allow a woman to anonymously fellatio a male. I do not know where any glory holes are. I guess seedy gas stations, like near a highway or places of sin, like in adult or porn shops.” Ms. Barrett appears genuinely confused and flushed.

Martha leans over and whispers, “I heard there’s one at that new truck stop by the highway.” Good to know. Wow, Martha knows everything.

Ms. Barrett clears her throat to get our attention and reads the next question,” Dad took my sister to the doctor. My sister says she’s allowed to have sex with anyone because she can’t get pregnant anymore. Is that true?”

Ms. Barrett glances around the room, very obviously avoiding Lisa. Everyone knows slutty Lisa’s sister might have a demon possessing her or something. “Likely, your father had the doctor give your sister the pill or an IUD. Our church only allows abstinence.”