Misty Andersen and Tamara Brewer had shared homeroom together every semester since they had arrived at Monroe Middle School as sixth graders, two-and-a-half years past. Despite this fact, they barely knew each other, and throughout their tenure together, they had had little in common beyond the fact that both of their last names started with letters at the beginning of the alphabet - the sole basis of their common homeroom assignment. Through all of sixth, all of seventh, and now most of eighth grade, the girls' had spent each and every school day in completely separate worlds.

This day seemed, on the surface, to be no exception. Misty Anderson wore her cheerleading uniform; there was to be no game that day, but a mandatory "School Spirit Pep Rally" assembly was scheduled for the fifth period. Few of the boys in the classroom were able to keep their eyes from straying repeatedly to the popular little cutie, with her blonde ponytail, her apple cheeks, her sparkling blue eyes ... not to mention her healthy, prematurely large breasts, full B-cups at least -- almost Cs --, which pressed deliciously through the fourteen-year-old's tight cheer-sweater. Her long legs, bared from sock-top to pleated skirt-hem, were smooth and luscious. As Misty sat in the second desk of the first file, she was well aware that she was, as always, the center of attention and devotion. With a smug satisfaction, she also realized that come the pep rally assembly, the entire boy population of the school -- not to mention most of the adult male teachers - would be devouring her beauty as she cheered and pranced with the squad before them.

Tamara Brewer, on the other hand, was not the sort of girl who craved - or received - much attention from others. Not that she wasn't attractive, mind you; with her huge, dark eyes, her bob-cropped brown hair, and her svelte, reed-like -- but unmistakably maturing -- body, she was in her own way a delightful specimen of adolescent beauty. But unlike Misty, Tamara was a quiet, unassuming, and intellectual girl. Not surprisingly, considering her temperament, she had selected a seat at the very back of her file. Even now, as she whiled away the mandatory half-hour study period pretending to read her book, "Memoirs of a Geisha," the young girl drew barely a glance, except, perhaps, from the somewhat nerdy Timmy Abner, likewise sitting in the back seat, a few files to her right. Tamara persistently wore baggy, grungy clothes - not dirty, mind you, but styled to that carefully crafted teenage angst and "don't give a damn" look so important for the "emo" set to present.

Two girls, worlds apart ... but today, they had something very striking - and entirely coincidental - in common.

Both Misty Anderson and Tamara Brewer had a problem with their grades. Not, of course, the same problem - Tamara was practically a straight-A student, while Misty was barely getting by. But their problems, if not identical, were highly analogous.

It was late in the second semester of eighth grade. Next fall, both girls would be matriculating at the local high school, and both had distinct aspirations.

Misty, of course, fully intended to make the freshman cheerleading squad. And frankly, she was a shoe-in. Not only was she adorable, sexy, and an accomplished gymnast, but her older sister would be a senior cheerleader next year, and had promised to make sure she made the roster. However, there was one problem. She was currently on track to get a "D" in science class. While this was certainly no impediment to her moving on to high school, to be eligible to participate in extracurricular activities, a student could not have had any "D's" or "F's" the previous semester, even back at silly old middle school.

So today was the day that Misty planned to get Mr. Davis, the science teacher, to convert that "D" into a "C," or better. She was quite confident in her chances of succeeding.

Tamara, on the other hand, had very good grades in everything - except gym. With her lithe and flexible body, she might have done well in the required activities, but to do that, she would have had to participate. Tamara had an unacceptably large number of "No Dress" days next to her name on the attendance roster. Somehow, she had too often "forgotten" to bring her gym clothes on the days she had P.E. Those students who failed to dress for gym spent the hour in the library reading, and this "consequence" was actually a big incentive to a girl like Tamara. So now she was facing a "C" in the class, which was, of course, fine for getting into high school, but unacceptable if she wanted to qualify for the "Honors Track" program. Tamara found school unchallenging and boring enough as it was -- she dreaded the possibility of getting stuck in the even more tedious "Standard Track."

So today was the day that Tamara planned to convince Coach Fellows to erase a few of those "No Dress" marks from his grade book, and give her a "B". She, in contrast to her classmate, wasn't at all confident of success.

The day passed quickly for Misty - she always got a thrill from performing in front of a crowd, especially for the whole school during a pep rally, inciting lust and adoration. This was no conceit -- it was true that every male, from the least-mature sixth-grader to the sixty-year-old principal, had been leering at her athletic young body throughout the performance. After a couple more classes, still abuzz from the rally, school let out. Misty made her way across the school to the science department.

Tamara, however, felt the day was endless, with the frightening prospect of her outrageous plan looming before her. She mulled silently throughout the pep-rally, not even able to muster her usual cynicism. Two classes -- an eternity each -- later, and she made her way through the emptying day-end hallways towards the P.E. office.

The girls, heading in opposite directions, passed each other. They did not acknowledge one another, because they weren't friends -- nor enemies. Either would have been shocked to know that the other was on mission nearly identical to her own. Their respective destinations were camouflaged, in any case, by the flow of numerous other junior-high students grabbing their jackets, slamming their lockers, and heading for the exits.

Misty strode into Mr. Davis' science lab like she owned the place. In a sense she did - if the ability to distract boys from their assigned experiments conveyed property rights. However, if completing one's own work was the measure, then Misty's proprietary flair was surely misplaced.

She wasn't worried about succeeding in her mission. Mr. Davis was a nerdy old guy, thirty-five at least, and Misty figured he'd never even kissed a cheerleader in his life. Misty, on the other hand, had plenty of experience. She had had lots of boyfriends already - initially, the most popular boys in middle school, and more recently high school boys. She'd started her sexual explorations by giving handjobs to eighth graders, and had since worked her way up to sucking sophomore cock. She'd snuck out to attend high school parties with her seventeen-year-old sister, and had once found herself in a rec-room with six boys, all of whom she ended up orally servicing; she'd later learned that one of those boys was actually in college! She loved the sense of power it gave her, to have so many boys acting like total fools, just 'cause she was so hot, all under her control.

She'd never had sex, though - that is, she'd never been fucked. She was saving that, not of course for marriage, but for some special occasion. Like for her first steady "real" high school boyfriend, next year, who she just knew would be someone popular, most likely a senior, with a cool car. She figured letting him be the first would help her lock him down.

Today, she knew she wouldn't need to fuck anybody in order to get her way.

"Why Misty, what brings you to the science lab after school? I don't suppose you want to re-do your color wheel experiment, do you? You could sure use the extra points." While he said this, Misty watched his eyes scan her tight sweater, hungrily taking in the vision of her prominent breasts. This was a reaction Misty took for granted when approaching any boy or man.

"Mr. Davis, I did come to talk to you about my grade. Basically, I need it to be higher."

"Well, like I said, you might be able to re-do an experiment or two. Frankly, there are only a few weeks left in the semester, and you have a "D" right now. It would be difficult to get that grade up ... are you sure you want to do all that work? After all, I haven't seen much diligence from you up to this point."

To his credit, Mr. Davis tried to say all this while looking Misty in the face, but the experienced tease resolved that problem by hopping up on a lab table and crossing one smooth, delectable, and bare thigh over the other. Her pleated skirt slid further up to expose more flesh as she did this, and the effect was predictable: the poor teacher could not maintain his discipline, but glanced down to drink in the inviting sight.

As usual, Misty was completely in control of the situation, and she knew it.

"Sorry, Mr. Davis, but I don't want to do any more of those yucky experiments."

"Well, then, I don't see how you can - gulp ... er ... um -- change your grade." The interruption occurred, and was heroically overcome, when Misty uncrossed her legs, lifted her right foot up to rest on the tabletop, and scooted it in against her bottom. Her left leg continued to dangle off the lab table, and the result was that her cheer skirt splayed wide open, baring her sweet fourteen-year-old inner thighs completely. They led his eyes to her displayed crotch, where blue satin cheer-panties pressed tightly against her young vulva. Misty wore nothing underneath these panties -- which was against regulations, of course -- so the seam of the smooth material split her juvenile pudenda exquisitely, as she knew very well, right along her inviting crease.

"Are you sure you can't see any other way? Like, maybe you can think of something you'd like to experiment with, that could maybe improve my scores?"

Poor Mr. Davis gulped again.

Tamara hesitated at the open door. Sitting at his desk in the P.E. office, still unaware of her presence, was Coach Fellows, apparently reviewing the very grade book the thirteen-year-old honor student had come to discuss with him. At forty years old, with a smattering of steely gray at his temples, the Coach was the one teacher at Monroe Middle School who intimidated the otherwise successful student. He seemed completely unimpressed with her academics, although he had awarded her an "A" in seventh-grade Health class. But Tamara wasn't here to discuss Health class. Timidly, she knocked on the open door to get the coach's attention.

"Huh? Oh, it's you ... Brewer, right? What can I do for you? Did you get lost? This is the gym, you know ... a part of the school you seem to avoid."

"Um, yeah ... that's what I wanted to see you about. I know I have a lot of 'No Dresses'..."

"You sure do, let's see ... Brewer ... Brewer ... yes, fourteen -- FOURTEEN -- a full fourteen "NDs" this semester. You're only allowed five. So your 'B' - the 'freebie B' I give everybody who at least shows up -- is reduced to a 'C', if you care." Tamara quailed under the pressure of his stern eyes boring into her own.

"Um, yeah, I know, and I'm sorry about all that, Coach. But, you see, I want to get into the Honors Track at high school this fall, and I can't do that if I have any 'Cs'. Is there any way we could maybe just forget about some of those 'NDs'?"

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you 'forgot' your gym clothes so many times. I can't see how I can help you - it wouldn't be fair to the other kids."

"Well, um, what if I got out of my street clothes right now for you?"

He looked up sharply, his brows beetling down even more frighteningly, if that was possible. "What do you mean? You want to take extra credit gym classes?"

Tamara had rehearsed her next line over and over in her mind all day, but now she could barely get it out; what had seemed so clever in planning, now seemed absurd in reality.

"Um ... not exactly ... I am willing to change out of my street clothes... ," she pulled her loose top suddenly up over her head, to stand before the watchful authority figure with nothing but her tiny white bra to shield her upper body, " ... but I forgot my gym clothes again. I hope you don't mind?" This last came out much more quickly, and a lot less coolly, than she had intended.

To her dismay, Coach Fellows just stared at her, straight in the eye, apparently not in the slightest bit enticed to even glance at her nearly bare chest. The studious eighth grader was about to run away, top in hand, when he finally broke his silence with a growl.

"We'll see about that. Shut and lock that door, and then come over here, Brewer."

"Oh, Misty," gasped the thirty-five-year-old science teacher. "You have no idea how tempting you are." Of course, the fourteen-year-old cheerleader knew exactly how tempting she was. That was the point.

"I just can't do this ... I mean, what you're suggesting ... it just isn't right."

"Why not, Mr. Davis? I give you what you want; you give me what I want."

"But ... but ... you're a student ... an eighth grader ... we can't..."

Misty laughed, merrily, and it seemed to Mr. Davis that her laugh was only a little bit directed at him.

"It's not like I'm gonna let you fuck me or anything, Mr. Davis! I was figuring there's a thing or two you'd like to see ... maybe touch ... and maybe give a "C" for the "seeing," get it?"

Mr. Davis tried to protest, but the accomplished flirt easily silenced him by simply skinning her cheer panties out from under her sweet little rump and sliding them down her thighs. The science teacher was speechless throughout this process, and became even more stupefied when the manipulative cheerleader pulled her right foot back up into position on the table and back up against her tush, spreading her now naked crotch deliciously before her prey.

Misty knew men liked her body. And she knew men were obsessed with pussies in particular. She even suspected that her pussy, like the rest of her, was probably quite lovely, at least for a girl her age. But she was, after all, still only fourteen, and relatively inexperienced. So although she understood much, she didn't understand everything.

For example, if there was any part of her plan she feared was weak, it was the appearance of her pussy. Not the pussy itself, mind you, but its hair ... or more correctly, the lack thereof.

Misty knew she had only a light dusting of downy hair along her fat outer labia. She knew she had only the faintest patch - a mere fluff, really -- of true-to-life pubic hairs, surmounting her young slit. These were so fine and sparse - and so light in color, just like her pony-tailed mane - that even this patch was not especially visible. In these observable particulars, the young tease was completely correct in her assessments. But where she was in error - in fact, categorically and diametrically at odds with the real truth -- was in her conclusions concerning a grown man's likely reaction to her nearly- hairless state.

You see, Misty had always enjoyed the attentions of boys - and men - precisely because she was, in so many ways, an early bloomer. Her breasts had begun to sprout and become noticeable in the fifth grade, and by the seventh, she was already a "B-cup"; today, they were pushing a "C-cup." Her young pelvis had widened, if not to womanly proportions, then at least to some ratio altogether unchildlike, at around twelve. And her rear-end, with its ample, rounded shelf, was, like the rest of her bodily attributes, an early arriver, especially in comparison to her just-now developing classmates. In fact, with the single exception of her tardily arriving pubic and underarm hair, Misty was, at fourteen, completely finished with puberty.

So it is understandable that, based on this particular history, Misty would believe that her girlish pudenda, unadorned with the marks of maturity that the rest of her body so generously displayed, would not be so appealing to a full grown man like Mr. Davis, at least not as appealing as a more hirsute specimen might be. This belief represented the only element in Misty's entire agenda that troubled her otherwise ironclad confidence.

Of course, what she didn't appreciate, bless her little eighth-grade heart, as she sat before her teacher with her young vulva spread to his avid view, was that despite her presumptions, her very immaturity was absolutely enthralling to a man.

Consider first "a man" in the generic sense, of "Everyman." Most men, whether or not they admit it in our hypersensitive and politically correct culture, love youth. "Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed" is the joke that men tell each other at the sight of a cute little thing, and then invariably they nervously laugh and hope that the others don't realize that in their own heart-of-hearts, they really do think that this is true. So, even the hypothetical "average man" would, contrary to Misty's naive belief, delight in her young crotch, its forbidden nature, and its still-developing beauty.

But now consider "a man" in the sense of this particular man, Mr. Davis, who day-in and day-out attended to the educational needs of healthy young children, aged anywhere from eleven to fourteen. A particular man who had happily watched their young bodies — the female bodies, that is -- commence, accelerate through, and often complete puberty before his very eyes, year after year, class after class. A particular man who, on an almost nightly basis, was wont to masturbate in the safety of his bachelor apartment, imagining the charms of one or another of his young charges. A particular man who, with a frequency that would have surprised even her self-absorbed ego, masturbated specifically to thoughts of Misty herself. And a particular man who, in envisioning Misty's heretofore hidden flower, had never decorated it, in his mind's eye, with a single hair more than she in fact now presented to him, so unexpectedly, at 3:15 on a Tuesday afternoon in the Monroe Middle School science lab.

He stared, transfixed. He tried to speak, and then to stutter, but managed only to gasp. His pupils, now dilated to their greatest possible extent, drank in this vision -- this real, in-the-flesh vision - a vision that had so often, in a vastly inferior imaginary form, fueled his onanistic lusts.

Yes, Misty understood a great deal about the power a girl's body could project over a man's behavior, but in her one misplaced source of insecurity, she misunderstood completely; and this misapprehension caused her an inconvenience, at the very least. She had already won; all that remained was to declare victory, demand the grade revision, and head for home. However, mistaking her science teacher's devotional paralysis for a halfway negative response to her genital immaturity, she determined she must take a further step in order to close the deal.

Deciding in an instant, she slid off the table. This caused her skirt to drop over her crotch, hiding her sweet cuntlet and bringing a look of loss and pain to Mr. Davis' face, but not for long. Matter-of-factly, Misty dropped to her knees, began to unbuckle her teacher's trousers - which were already tenting out prodigiously, of course - and made her declaration.

"I'm going to suck you off, Mr. Davis. And then you're going to give me that 'C'."

Whatever confidence Tamara had coming in fled at that moment. Obediently, she shut the door and turned the latch. Then, still clutching her doffed top in both hands, she shuffled to the front of Coach Fellows' desk.

"C'mere. Around by me."

The thirteen-year-old honor student followed his commands with alacrity. Once beside him -- he had pushed his chair back from the desk and turned to face her approach - she froze, like a little bird, except for a slight tremble in her shoulders.

The coach looked her straight in the eye. He was a large man - meaning tall and muscular - so even seated, he barely had to incline his head to do this. After a good four-count, he snatched the top from her hands and tossed it aside.

"Well?"

"Huh?"

"Well, you said you were going to undress. What d'ya got?"

More than slightly taken aback, Tamara was confused for just a moment, and then understood. Reaching behind her back - a move that secretly delighted the forty-year-old coach, for it thrust her cupcake-endowed chest outward - she unfastened her A-cup bra and dropped it to the floor. For an instant, she almost moved to cover her nakedness, but remembering her mission, she lowered her hands to her sides.

"Well, this is a start, I suppose," he grunted, and immediately covered her juvenile titlets with his large, strong palms. Tamara was startled, but no longer shocked. As she had contemplated this course, the possibility that the Coach would demand more than just a look had certainly been considered, and accepted. In fact, the earnest thirteen-year-old, whose entire romantic experience consisted of kissing a boy for five minutes last summer at band camp, gasped at the touch, not in alarm but in pleasure.

She really had no idea what being felt-up was usually like, so when the coach shifted from mere cupping to kneading, and then from kneading to lightly pinching, and next from pinching to carefully twisting, the adolescent schoolgirl took it all in stride. Frankly, she enjoyed every bit of it, and was starting to think that her fears of Coach Fellows were completely baseless.

That is why, when the coach, holding a nipple firmly between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, pulled the supplicating pupil down to her kneel between his spread knees, she complied readily. He released her swollen nubbins, and she found herself staring into the P.E. teacher's crotch, covered, for the moment, by a pair of button-up athletic shorts.

"Brewer," he said, as he began to unbutton these shorts and reach inside, "if you want to start erasing 'No Dresses', you're going to have to make your case to the 'Referee.' Like most refs, he's kinda blind - got only one eye. And if you want him to hear you, you better put your mouth right up next to his head. Here he is... ," with this, he fished out a cock - a large and hairy cock - and, not insignificantly, the first live adult cock Tamara had ever laid her eyes upon. "So, you got a case to make? Tell it to the 'Ref!"

Misty was somewhat surprised, since he obviously like science and stuff, that her teacher was so impressively endowed. The only cock she had ever held that she was sure, in this moment of recollection, had been larger, belonged to Tommy Gordon, a high school sophomore. Of course, although Mr. Davis did sport a larger-than-average member, it is important to remember that Misty's experiences, although reasonably numerous, had largely been limited to middle-school boys and high-school underclassmen.

As she weighed his manhood in her well-manicured little hands, she decided that Mr. Davis wasn't a complete loser, after all.

Now would be a good time to mention that despite Misty's demonstrated willingness to engage in oral sex with various boys and now her thirty-five-year-old teacher, she actually had a very low sex drive. Her drive was for status, attention, and adoration. Fooling around, offering up her gorgeous little body, was simply a means to those ends.

So, for example, when she had found herself, as has been already recounted, on her knees at a high school party, confronted with and mastering the challenge of blowing six boys in a row, she had enjoyed the experience, but not particularly for sexual reasons.

Sure, she was attracted to boys and men; and kissing, and petting, and so forth were pleasant sensations, but what really motivated her was demonstrating exactly how attracted these men and boys were to her.

Therefore, although she was impressed by the size of Mr. Davis' tool, this was more because she knew that boys thought prick size was important than of because of any particular erotic appeal for her. In her foolish, adolescent mind, she figured that if boys thought a big prick was better than a small prick, then that meant Mr. Davis was a bigger prize than she thought he was going to be, and therefore her accomplishment in bringing him into the flock of thankful Misty worshippers was that much more important to her.

So it was with this odd train of thought, rather than especial attraction, that the cheerleader took pleasure in noting the eight-inch length of her science teacher's by-now very hard cock. No matter what her body looked like, she still possessed the mind of a fourteen-year-old.

Therefore, with a great deal of self-satisfaction but only a limited sense of sexual arousal, the gorgeous little eighth-grader made an "O" with her lips and slipped them over the swelling, weeping knob of her anxious teacher's prick.

Tamara could hardly believe her eyes. As she knelt between her gym teacher's powerful thighs, her cute upturned face was practically shaded from the office's harsh fluorescent light by the swaying, upright rod of seemingly angry flesh, jutting as it was from the coach's spread open buttonfly.

Emerging from a nest of thick, dark pubic hair, interspersed with just a few wiry gray curls, the alien object thrust skyward like some anatomical Tower of Babel. At its base, where a few hairs sprouted along the first inch or so of the stalk, it seemed to the inexperienced thirteen-year-old's eyes to be as thick around as a pop can. In this estimate, she was quite correct. Further, it seemed to be as long, from base to tip, as her forearm from elbow to wrist. In this measurement, the young honor student perhaps overestimated. However, at nine-and-a-half inches of turgid manmeat, Coach Fellows' fuck-tackle might very well turn out to be the largest the young girl would ever handle, for the rest of her life. She couldn't know this at the time, of course, but rest assured, even without this foreknowledge, its size was sufficient to both frighten and impress the petite girl.

"Thwaap!" without warning, the coach took his prick in hand by the base and tapped it against the stunned schoolgirl's forehead. This startled her for a moment, and she finally broke her stare to look up past his genitals to seek out his face.

"Hey, I know it's a beauty, but if you want to make your case, you'd better start making nice with the 'Ref.' Why don't we see what you can do with your hands?"

Tamara was a bright girl, and although she had had very little experience in these matters, it wasn't as if she was clueless. She read the spicier sort of romance book -- avidly -- and had, on many occasions, masturbated herself to sleep dreaming of some tall, dark sheik whisking her away to his desert tent and ravishing her.

Her classmates -- and teachers -- would probably be quite surprised by how often the shy, quiet, and studious little cutie thought about boys -- correction, men -- and how aroused some of her reading and fantasies made her.

But despite her active imagination, Tamara had never dreamed she'd be confronted so ... presently ... with the heretofore abstract object of her erotic thoughts. She had come to the P.E. office this afternoon expecting to strip, probably pose, and maybe let the coach fondle her a little bit. She'd certainly not expected to take any active role herself. Tentatively, she reached her slender hands towards the beast.

Gently, she reached around and grasped the shaft with both hands - one above the other, as if she was gripping a baseball bat -- and nearly let go when the monster jerked in obvious pleasure at her touch. Regaining control of herself, the sweet young teen lightly squeezed, and then stroked, the vibrant pole in her grasp.

This was the first penis she had ever touched in her life and, if possible, the sensation was even more thrilling than she had imagined it would be. The flesh was soft in one way, but underneath this surface it was steely hard, and yet alive. The warmth of the thing surprised her, and by this point her own young loins were heating up in sympathy. For a few moments, as she stroked and studied the organ, she completely forgot about her grades, her purpose, and even Coach Fellows himself. It was just her ... and that COCK.

She certainly had no idea how positively sexy the view was from the other side. The coach looked down upon an adorable little dark-haired pixie, hanging onto his cock like a lifeline. Her petite, elfin face, gazing up from under his cock in an almost worshipful awe, served to exaggerate the size of his looming member by comparison, and to accentuate deliciously the forbidden discordance of their intergenerational liaison.

Not that Coach Fellows hadn't been here before. In his fifteen-year career at Monroe Middle School, many young girls -- six, to be exact -- and even one effeminately cute little sissyboy -- had found themselves in this position, either in pursuit of a better grade or compelled by simple animal attraction. Despite her opening assertion, that she sought a grade revision, the authentic adoration Tamara was affording his prick led the coach to believe that she had come to his office this afternoon for the latter reason as well.