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Introduction:

This is the first in an occasional series of stories set at Hirstmere Hall, a girls-only boarding school in the south of England. It is the same location as my series ‘In The Headmistress’s Study’ (which I will be continuing), but those stories take place in 1961 and these are present-day. The story is fiction, and any resemblance to real persons or places is purely coincidental.
copyright: Lesley Tara, 2010


Parry! – lunge! – parry! – our blades made a sharp metallic sound as they clashed together. Then I over-committed myself in an attack and left an opening, which Miss Champney was quick to exploit. With lightning speed, the tip of her foil flicked against the padded collar of my protective tunic, and our practice bout was over. I wasn’t disappointed that she had won – she is my coach, and had been testing me on some new feints that she had demonstrated earlier in the training session.

My name is Rebecca, but everyone calls me ‘Becky’ for short. I am nearly sixteen and a half years old and a pupil at Hirstmere Hall, an exclusive boarding school for girls in the south of England – what we in Britain call a ‘public school’, but which in the USA would be called a private school. As we live at the school during the term, it has many facilities to fill our leisure hours and occupy our energies, although quite a few of us engage in our own very unofficial activities ... energetic ones, too ... well, what do you expect with three hundred teenage girls all cooped up together? I’ve heard that the school was quite a lesbian hotbed in the past, back in the 1960s and 1970s; I don’t know about that, but there’s certainly plenty of girl-on-girl action available now, if you are inclined that way. I am – I’m so inclined that I’m not leaning, I’m horizontal; preferably in my second-most-favourite position, which is on my back with my legs spread wide apart, ready for a female fuck-fest.

Anyway, one of the additional sports offered at the school is fencing, which I took up with enthusiasm about a year ago, and I’ve made good progress. The fencing tuition is given by Miss Champney, one of the science teachers; she is very skilled at the sport, and when at university was a member of the national team. Being single and living here in the school buildings (she is one of the teachers who also supervises the residential side), she is able to give individual coaching lessons in the early evening to the older girls such as myself. She takes over the smallest of the school’s three gymnasiums for this, and always locks the door on the inside – she says it could be dangerous if someone came rushing in by mistake, not wearing a helmet or anything, and also that great concentration is needed and it is essential that there won’t be any distracting interruptions.

On this spring evening, I was having one of my twice-weekly individual coaching sessions with Miss Champney (I also attend the team practice with the other girls). We had been working energetically for over thirty minutes, and it was time to move on to the other part of the programme. I froze when Miss Champney’s blade scored its touch on my neck, and then moved only my right arm to point my own foil down and away to my side.

‘I submit’, I said, looking directly at her. Saying this, rather than the usual term ‘I yield’, was my signal that I felt had practised enough and – with her approval, and if she was satisfied with my efforts – we could now have a rather different type of workout. I held my breath, as for a long moment she stood as still as a statue, appraising me, and then she took a step backwards into the ‘at rest’ position, brought her foil to the front of her helmet in formal salute, and nodded once in silent permission. With a pleased sigh, I removed my fencing helmet and placed it and my foil carefully on the floor beside me. Then I took up the position of submission: I sank down onto one knee, the other on the wooden floor, and looked demurely downwards.

I know very well that I am an attractive girl, and I don’t try to minimise it. I am quite tall at five foot ten inches (and still growing, I will probably reach six feet), and this gives me a long reach that is an advantage in fencing – Miss Champney is an inch taller than me. Like her, I am quite slender with arms and legs that are slim but strong; as well as the gymnasiums, the school has a well-equipped exercise room with rowing machines, bicycles, weights, presses and so on – it’s quite a busy and popular place. We differ in other ways: I’m a brunette, with almost black hair, quite wavy and shoulder length – for fencing, I pin it up under my helmet – and I’m actually more curvy than she is! Miss Champney has quite thin hips and small breasts, whereas mine have filled out in the last year – not large, just nicely average or even a little less, pyramidal and pointy C cups. Miss Champney says rather disapprovingly that their weight on my chest will slow me down just that tiny bit which will prevent me from getting to the highest level in the sport, even though my eye, my reflexes and my instincts are all very sharp. However, I don’t mind – I enjoy fencing and can beat most opponents (not her, of course), but I’m not ambitious to make the Olympic team, as she did in 2000 when she was twenty.

As I knelt, looking downwards at my teacher’s white shoes, I felt the touch of her fencing foil once again. Its blunt tip moved across my padded body-tunic and came to rest with unerring precision over the nipple of my right breast, which instantly hardened in response to the firm pressure. Miss Champney moved the tip of her foil in a tracery around the tip of that breast and then across to stimulate its neighbour in the same way, making me give a slight moan of sweet arousal. Then she withdrew it, stepping back a pace into her previous position, and still without speaking a word. There was no need, for I knew exactly what to do – this was very far from being our first time. Even then, about eight months ago (Miss Champney had a little anticipated the understood, of course unwritten, rule at the school that teachers did not have sexual relationships with girls under the age of seventeen), I had been far from a lesbian novice. I have had affairs with my classmates since a week after arriving as a new girl, aged fourteen, when I found plenty of willing takers for mutual masturbation and wet sloppy cunnilingus, and I lost my virginity not long before I was fifteen to the strap-on dildo of one of the Sixth Form prefects – again, my height and growing figure, making me look older, led her also to sidestep another convention, which was that the seventeen and eighteen year-old Sixth Formers didn’t screw the under-sixteens. However, I was making no complaints either in that case or when Miss Champney first fucked me, after about two months of lessons – in fact, I deliberately enticed the prefect, who I had quite a crush on. The truth is that I have an unquenchable appetite for lesbian sex, and a wide and catholic taste in lovers: anyone from puberty to fifty, any race or colour, with only two total turn-offs – I can’t do the overweight, or those with bad breath (and I’m sorry, but that includes you smokers out there; I mean, seriously, would you want to kiss or lick an ashtray?).

So, still kneeling, I quickly unfastened the protective tunic that covers from the crotch to the neck, tossing it away to the side, and then I peeled away the sports bra which had kept my jutting breasts confined during the fencing lesson. Now that I was naked from the waist up, I resumed my pose of demure obedience. The fencing foil came into view again, and repeated its circling of my stiff pink nipples, the touch of the cool steel having an incredibly arousing effect. Miss Champney then moved it a little lower, running the tip along under each of my breasts, slightly lifting them as she did so. My nostrils flared, my breathing became a little ragged, but I made no other sound. Then the foil moved down my chest, circled twice around my navel, and stopped at the waistband of my three-quarter length white fencing trousers.

I held my breath. Would she, would she ... oh, would she?

YES!!

My silent prayer was answered, as Miss Champney snapped the blade of her foil smartly up between my legs, giving an imperative double rap against the crotch of the trousers. They are padded slightly too, so again there was no discomfort – in fact, it turned me on that she had to deliver quite some force to get an appreciable feeling and sound. I bounded eagerly to my feet, and quickly discarded all of my remaining garments: shoes, socks, trousers and the already damp panties that had been underneath. Miss Champney handed me her foil, which I carefully put next to mine, out of our way, and then like a squire in some medieval tournament, I removed her helmet and unbuckled her tunic. When she was free from the helmet she tossed her head once, shaking her short blonde bobbed hair back into place, but otherwise she stood as still and silent as a statue.

Miss Champney’s breasts are nice but quite small, I rather think just A-cups, and she did not need to bother with sports bras – indeed, she had no bra on at all under the fencing jacket, so when I removed it she was naked from the waist upwards. As she stood quietly, but with a slight smile playing around her mouth and a gleam of desire in her eyes, I came back around to her front and bent forwards. I cupped her right breast in my hand, kissed her nipple, and then began quite vigorously to lick and suck it. After a few moments, as I heard her breathing quicken, she gave me a slight tap on the top of my head, which was the signal to transfer my attentions to her other breast. This I did, but still keeping one hand massaging her right breast with occasional tweaks of its tit.

The next signal came a few moments later – a firm downwards pressure on both my shoulders, quite unmistakeable in meaning. I relinquished her left breast with some reluctance – they may be smallish, but her tits really turn me on – and dropped to squat on my haunches in front of my lithe and attractive teacher. I undid the buttons and zip at the side of her trousers, and drew them down her legs; with a flick of her fingers, she indicated that her panties (a small bikini pair, just in plain white cotton) were to go now as well, and so they followed the trousers over her ankles as she lifted first one foot and then the other to allow me to remove them. Miss Champney was now entirely naked except for her shoes and short white ankle socks.

My squatting position meant that my face was just at the right level for her cunt, and I took a second to admire her lean flanks, trim hips and the curve of her pelvis – she had quite a wide gap between her legs at the top, and her mound jutted forwards, neatly shaven as always. Leaning forwards, I brought my lips up to it, giving first a soft kiss on her puckered and extended outer labia – a kiss of greeting and of reverence. Then I became more purposeful and energetic, and took a grip behind on her ass to steady and brace myself. I thrust my tongue into her vagina, tasting her slightly bitter juices, delving into her hole and then pulling out in order to sweep upwards, like a cavalry charge, seeking the treasure trove of her clit. My lips fastened around her pussy with limpet-like determination, sucking vigorously one second and then in the next plunging my tongue into her, penetrating her as firmly and far as I could reach.

Miss Champney began to lose a little of her poise and cool – which was what I loved about this part, because driving this very experienced dyke to climax gave me an amazing sense of sexual power. My teacher’s hips began to jerk in a rhythmic counter-response to my oral thrusts, and her breath broke up into ragged gasps. She reached for my shoulders again – not to send any signal to desist, but purely to steady herself. Then, quite suddenly, Miss Champney gave a harsh barking sound, grabbing my head and pulling my face almost suffocatingly into her cunt. This had the effect of rubbing my nose into the top of her vaginal cleft and under the clitoral hood, and I feverishly nuzzled her swollen nub. At the same time, my tongue – curled up for greater penetrative impact – never ceased to bore into her hole. After her broken cry, I felt all of my teacher’s muscles lock into rigidity during the powerful burst of her orgasm, and my tongue tasted the flow of fresh sharp pussy juice that almost squirted onto my tongue and cheeks.

Miss Champney spoke her first wards to me since the end of our fencing bout:

‘Thank you, Becky, that was very nice ... very nice indeed. Now – take up your position!’

I obeyed with alacrity, lying down on my back on the thin rubber mat we used for the practice matches, and spreading my legs apart – I don’t shave my pussy (we schoolgirls aren’t allowed to, lest we injure ourselves with the naked blades), but I keep it carefully trimmed, with just a ring of short black hair drawing the eye to the pink cleft in between.

As soon as I was in place, Miss Champney straddled me, taking up the classic 69 position with her mouth going down onto my cunt and her ass above my face, her legs arched apart and giving me a full view of her gaping slit. I was eager to taste her again, and was stimulated near to frenzy by what she was doing between my legs – she was using both her fingers and her mouth to stimulate my vagina and clit, and to expert effect. I reached up to wrap my arms around her thighs and pull her pussy downwards to press against my mouth, and I began my second session of cunnilingus.

I was the first to come – that woman has such a deft touch, she can play me like a piano! I gave a kind of scream, and then spasmodically my butt jerked upwards and then thumped back on the mat three or four times in rapid alternation, and as I came my legs flopped sideways, even further apart. Miss Champney gave a final flick of her fingers on my clit, sending further orgasmic shivers through me, and then she reared upwards, squatting her cunt on my face. Her hands went to her own small breasts, pinching and pulling on her nipples, and she rocked backwards and forwards, her eyes closed and her vagina grinding down against me. I managed to squirrel a hand in under her as well, and shoved two fingers into her pussy – in response, she shifted slightly further back, so that my mouth could devour her clit whilst I pistoned the fingers roughly and rapidly in and out of her sex-hole. Before long, she climaxed as well – her second orgasm, and I thought it seemed at least as powerful as the first.

My teacher climbed off my naked prone form, and then bent to give me a soft kiss, one of her hands gently tracing down my body to caress first my breasts and then tenderly to stroke my pussy. I stretched and purred like a cat ... well, I am such a pussy-cat, it just seems right! Also, I was pretty sure that I would be getting my full reward tonight – it doesn’t always happen by any means, sometimes because there is not enough time left and sometimes, though not often, because I have not tried hard enough or concentrated properly during the actual fencing lesson.

Miss Champney looked down at me, and then her slightly sharp features melted into the attractive smile which I love, but which she rarely shows in class. She gave me a nod, and I scrambled round onto my hands and knees, my legs braced apart and my ass up in the air. After a moment, I sensed Miss Champney standing behind me, and then I felt the cold steel nub of her fencing foil. She drew it across my back, and then with tantalising slowness – but wonderful effect – scraped it down my spine to rub against the small of my back. Then, as I waggled my ass in the air as eagerly as a young puppy wagging its tail, the flattened tip of the foil moved on, down the cleavage between my ass-cheeks, around my anus, and so reached its prize – the base of my pudenda: soft, wet and hanging open. Miss Champney changed tactic; up to now, she had exclusively used the tip of the sword, but now she slid its long flexible length along my cleft, coaxing the blade into the jut of my vagina, and then pressing more firmly, easing the foil from side to side to open me up further and then slowly sliding the side of the blade back and forth. I was quivering, nearly fainting from stimulus and desire, when she paused and withdrew the foil – with unerring instinct, she knew that I was close to coming, and that was not on the agenda just yet.

The fencing mistress put down her foil, and reached for another kind of weapon – one which was familiar to me, and I greeted it like a long-lost friend (it had been too long – a week! – since the last time). She buckled on the harness of a long, thick and curved strap-on, and then knelt behind me, bumping the end of the fake phallus against my distended labia. I arched my back in response, and at once she plunged the dildo in, nearly to its full-length; I was delighted that I had the capacity to take it, to take it all the way.

Miss Champney kept up a steady stroke – indeed, her smooth rhythm reminded me of the rowing machines in the exercise-room, as she grasped my hips and pivoted backwards and forwards behind me. This is my most-favourite position: I just love being taken with a strap-on from behind, doggy-style, especially by an older woman. I’m not usually the submissive sexual partner – in fact, I believe in the principle that it is better to give than to receive, and I particularly get off on fucking other girls this way, but with a good-looking experienced dyke like Miss Champney, I love to surrender myself and get really shafted, really drilled – the harder, almost the rougher, the better. Miss Champney knows this well; it’s one reason why I’m more or less her favourite piece of ass amongst the pupils (of course she has sex with other girls – and teachers too, I’m sure; I’m not at all jealous, after all I’m in the bed of another teacher regularly, plus two prefects and about five girls in my own class and the ones both immediately above and below!).

So, within a few seconds of giving me the first few strokes, Miss Champney upped the tempo and began really slamming the rod of the dildo into my pussy, the faceplate of the harness slapping against my outer labia as it was thrust home. I was giving squeals of delight, accompanied by pleading imprecations for her to do it more, do it deeper, do it harder – basically, just to fuck me to bits. Miss Champney is very fit, and she barely broke sweat as she adjusted her angle of attack, took a firm grip on my hips, and began to batter the plastic cock in and out of me with almost savage intensity. I felt like I was being torpedoed, and that very soon there would be an explosion inside me.

Without pausing in her faster and more frenetic impalements of my cunt, Miss Champney removed one hand from my waist and used it to pull out the clip and comb which had kept my hair fixed up in a tight bun during the fencing practice. I know that my glossy and wavy black hair is one of the things which Miss Champney finds most attractive about me, and she let my long locks cascade across my shoulders and fall down my front, dangling in front of my wildly jerking breasts. Then she grasped a great clump of my hair on the back of my head, and used it as leverage – both to steady herself, and to pull the front of my torso upright, bracing my body against the thrusts of her bucking hips.

Tears were starting to form in the corners of my eyes – not of pain, certainly not of fear; they were the tears that you get when your sensory system is overloaded, as mine surely was then. My mouth gaped open, my eyes were glazed and staring forwards, and all of my slim form was trembling and shaking in that starburst second that comes before a climax. I gave a rapid series of grunts, each one forced out of my guts by an even deeper merciless penetration from Miss Champney’s strap-on phallus, and then almost without warning all my joints turned to water and I collapsed face-down, simultaneously with climaxing. I gave a gasping and ululating moan as I came – it was the orgasm, as always a bone-shaker when Miss Champney fucks me like this; it was a most intense, out-of-this-world experience and I wanted to acknowledge it somehow.

It took me a few seconds to recover my breath, and during this Miss Champney leaned forwards and kissed me softly in the middle of the back, before flexing her hips and withdrawing the dildo – it was an extraordinary sensation as it was extracted from my cunt, making a wet popping sound as it emerged from my love-tunnel. My teacher massaged my back for a moment, giving me a lovely feeling as her fingers and nails stroked down my spine and out across my hips. Then, as Miss Champney rose to her feet, she gave me a playful but quite forceful slap on my ass.

‘Good girl – you’re improving!’ she declared.

She unlocked the door that connected to the pupils’ changing room and showers, and as I gathered up my gear and scuttled through, I wondered whether she meant the fencing or the fucking? Perhaps she meant both? Mmm – I do hope she meant both!


If you enjoyed this, check out my other stories ... you might like them too ... (to find them, follow the author link at the top of this story)
3 comments

scotty792Report

2012-11-04 00:17:44
My g/f and I usually read your stories together and it doesn't take lone for my prick to get hard and her panties lovely and wet.

Anonymous readerReport

2010-04-29 10:43:44
Haha obama' in here? . .fuck him

Anonymous readerReport

2010-04-29 07:51:06
Obama lives, long live the king

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