Sex stories

Erotic fiction and short sex stories




Henry's Exposed Adventure Ch. 02

[This story is not intended as a "slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am" porno tale, a semi-literate effort to recount genital jackhammering (either male to female, or vice versa) in such a way as to set a new Olympic record in the 100-metre dash. Your humble author has no problem with any such story, nor with those who enjoy them. That's all a matter of individual taste. But if that's what you prefer, then Henry's Exposed Adventure is definitely not for you. Your time will be better spent heading over to the high street to stand outside the department store window and watch them change the dummies. This is a slow boiler, a crock-pot, not a microwave oven. Please stop reading now and find, among the thousands of other stories on Literotica, something faster that you will like a lot more.]

[The objective of this work is to tell a story that is erotic, not to write something pornographic in the hope that it will somehow assemble itself into a story. This author will attempt to create three-dimensional characters who can lay legitimate claim to inner lives, and to bring the reader into their lives in such a way as to make her care about them, even if just a little bit. Whether I am successful in this effort is for the reader to judge. But, succeed or fail, this author will always insist that the quality of erotic writing lies in its ability to empower the reader to identify with the characters. Then, when those characters enjoy erotic experiences, so too does the reader, and with a degree of immediacy that keeps her coming (no pun intended) back for more.]

[Almost forgot. All of the characters in this story are over 18 years of age, and any resemblance of any character, institution or place to any real person, institution or place is purely happenstance.]

[In our last episode, Henry had been on a date with Alicia, his new Grimsley girlfriend, and she had come damn close to embarrassing him to death by forcing him to strip half-naked in a movie theater and inducing his ejaculation by manual stimulation. Immediately afterwards, she elbowed her dozing chaperone to wake her up. Henry barely succeeded in zipping himself up before the dormant matron regained consciousness.]



As if I didn't have enough hormones racing through my bloodstream and causing unexpected erections at inopportune moments, the memory of my date with Alicia kept me hard through most of the following week. I promised Alicia I would call her. Well, really, she whispered in my ear that if I failed to call her by Wednesday evening she would gleefully inform all of Grimsley about the peewee dimensions of my little peepee (her words, not mine), and I would never be able to show my face again at Grimsley, or even in downtown Armpit, without triggering a tidal wave of girlish snickering.

That would be really, really bad. So I knew I had to call her, even though it made me nervous as hell.

Meanwhile, I was stranded in the all-boy sexual desert that was East Point Academy. Our only oasis was Miss Frobisher, the English teacher and drama coach. It was Miss, not Ms. Back in those days, the Ms. thing was just getting started, and it took a while before single women started to really use it.

I was one of the lucky stiffs (and she usually made all of the boys stiff) who got into her senior English Lit seminar. The seminar was held in a conference room, rather than a classroom, and we all sat at conference tables rather than the traditional teacher's desk in the front and students' desks in rows stretching to the back of the room. This would not have been too bad, except that we had a clear view of her legs under the table, just as she, l soon found out, had a clear view of ours. She taught in the morning at East Point, and then around lunch time she drove the half hour or so over to Grimsley Hall where she taught English and drama in the afternoon. She taught drama at East Point too, but Grimsley's drama and theater arts program was much bigger and more elaborate than ours.

Ms. Frobisher was, we guessed, 30 or 32. Her hair was dark, dark brown, almost black, and her skin was very fair, an almost translucent white that made her neck and cheeks look so delicate in the light that I just wanted to kiss and lick her face, and then beg to kiss and lick her between her legs. She cut her hair so that her bangs fell over her forehead, ending just above her eyebrows, and then the rest of it flowed around her head, framing it, before coming to rest on her shoulders. Her eyes were large and cast in a shade of slate-blue that, when she looked at me, made me feel like there was absolutely nothing that could be hidden from her gaze. Outside of class I fantasized that she could undress me with her eyes. Thus, in class a single look from her was enough to provoke an ungovernable hard-on.

But her greatest feature by far was her mouth. She almost always held her mouth slightly open, poised in a just-about-to-smile position that, to me, made her look like she had just said "Yes! yes! yes!" She wore that shiny, wet-looking lipstick that girls wear, and hers was usually in a deep red color. Her dark hair, fair skin, red lips and slate eyes became the focal point of any room she entered. Her bottom lip was thick, full and generous, and her perfect, even, vanilla ice cream teeth peeked out from beneath her upper lip. My buddy, Mike Slade, sat next to me in her seminar, and after class we talked about how sweet would be the friction of being fellated by Miss Frobisher. We talked about how the underside of the tips of our cocks would rub against that thick lower lip, and how the topsides of our shafts would scrape lightly against her two front teeth as we thrust in and out of her mouth. And god only knows what her tongue would be like, sanding away at our frenulums. At these moments I had to think about something gross or terrible just to get a grip on myself or I would have spurted my load right through my pants and clear across the room.

Her breasts were not big. Not small, mind you, but not big by any stretch. Mike Slade and I determined, based on our collective observations during class and our lurid study of brassiere ads in the Sunday newspapers, that she was more than an A cup but less than a B. Never having so much as felt a naked breast, much less seen a real one, we had no real clue as to what cup size meant. But her breasts were just right for me, all the same. I'm still a real contrarian when it comes to women's breasts. I think American culture and the porno world are as nutty about big breasts as they are about big dicks. If you like them, that's fine, but I personally never went in for the girls with big, swinging things that could knock down an old factory in an urban renewal zone. A girl with really big ones had to be careful to make sure that her twins didn't escape, which limited the types of clothes she could wear. But a small- or medium-breasted girl, on the other hand, could be much more daring and provocative in the way she dressed. She could wear a shirt with a button or two (or three) undone, or even go without a bra. Miss Frobisher always wore a bra because I could always see her shoulder straps under her blouse. But in the early fall or late spring, when the days were hot, Miss Frobisher - Elaine - would leave a blouse button or two (or, on occasion, three) unbuttoned. Ahhh, heaven on earth!

She had a great ass, not small or flat like some anorexic supermodel on today's fashion tv, but soft and round, ample and bubble-like, an ass with a positive uplift, an ass that just cried out for a pair of male hands to knead its twin globes into an erotic trance. Her skirts were always stretched tight around her backside, lending it the contradictory allure of simultaneous display and concealment. She had great thighs and calves, with slim ankles that she showed off in high heeled shoes. In regular classes, as opposed to seminars, when she walked up and down the aisle between the desks, some of the guys would reach out and squeeze the air with both hands right behind her buns. Once she took a completely unexpected step backward and her buttocks almost got squeezed by Mike Slade's grasping paws. He managed to snap them back to his desk in the nick of time. My best jerk-off fantasies were the ones where I grabbed Miss Frobisher by her hips, pulled her in towards me, and did her doggy-style.

She always wore skirts, and most of those skirts were cut above the knee. It was, after all, the era of the mini-skirt. Often well above the knee, much to our delight and the dismay of the other female teachers. She didn't pay attention to any of those old hags, and instead floated above them like some superior being. Mike and I hoped that she would spread her legs beneath the conference table so that we'd get as good a look at her crotch as she seemed to be getting of ours, but we never had any luck. She always kept her knees demurely pressed together...well, almost always. Every once in a while they would part, and we'd try to catch a shot up her skirt. We took imaginary bets on what kind and color of panties she was wearing, and then afterwards we'd argue back and forth as to whether she had a VPL -- visible panty line -- that day.

Both Mike Slade and I thought that she must have been doing that intentionally, even though she never gave any definite signal of intent. But Mike and I concluded that she must have noticed our erections when she walked around the class. One time I had an erection in her class and I saw her looking down below my desk at my crotch, then back at me, then down again. When we were sitting at those conference tables she could get a full, unobstructed view of my crotch as my dick extended itself at the front of my pants. Mike's dick, like almost everybody else's at East Point, was a lot bigger than mine, and I remember watching her watch Mike and then stop talking for a second or two. She quickly collected herself and went on with her English lesson. Later on Mike told me he'd been hard up for nearly the whole class and she definitely saw it. I put two and two together.

She was as unapproachable as she was voluptuous, and she was going to tease us into erections without ever letting on that that was her game. That's why I usually jerked off before her class to reduce the odds of an erection, but even that didn't always work. There are a few other female teachers at East Point, but they're all over 50, and all built like snowmen - real big on the bottom, almost as big on the top, and round all over. Only difference is that nothing on them melts in the spring.

That Wednesday I dutifully called Alicia, and to my surprise she didn't bring up our little adventure at the movie theater that past weekend. I wanted to talk to her about it because some of it bothered me, but in another way it really turned me on. When I did try to raise it, to see if we might do something like that again, she changed the subject.

"I've got something much more exciting that I want to ask you about, and I'm warning you that you can't say no," she said.

That had me worried. If I said no, would I be disobeying her? And would she start talking about me at school. I felt trapped, though it was intriguing being trapped by someone as pretty and sexy as Alicia.

"You know I'm in Grimsley's Theater Club, right? Well, this fall we're going to put on 'Sleeping Beauty.'

"Okay, so you want me to be a techie for the show or something?"

"You remember your Shakespeare stuff, how all the actors back then were male, and males even played the female parts? Well, at Grimsley it's the exact opposite because all the parts, even the male ones, are played by girls. With this play, though, we're going to do it a bit different. The way I want to stage it, we simply must have a real boy in the title role.

"Isn't Sleeping Beauty the one where the handsome young prince kisses the sleeping princess to wake her up?"

"Exactly. But we turn that upside down. I mean, we take some dramatic liberties with the traditional script. It's part of our school's mission on female empowerment."

"Female empowerment?"

"Right. In the old fairy tales it was always the girl who was the helpless one being rescued by some handsome prince, and that's just patriarchal dead-white-male literature. In our show, the brave handsome girl rescues the sleeping prince."

This was sounding hotter by the minute but I still wasn't quite sure where she was going with this. But if I was in the Grimsley play, that meant that I'd be in rehearsals with Alicia, and Regan too, a few times a week. I was afraid to ask whether as part of the rehearsals I'd have to practice kissing one of them. Then she took the words from my mouth.

"There is some...well...some or -- I mean, there's some mouth activity involved. We do have to wake up the sleeping prince after all. Will you be okay with that?"

"Kissing?"

"Sure, that too."

"Of course I'd be okay with it." That too? I didn't follow her at the time, but I would soon find out. Would I be okay with it? Only okay? I felt blood rushing down from my brain to my crotch.

"Great, then we're all set! You're a such a sweet young thing! Miss Frobisher is our faculty adviser for theater, so I'll leave a message for her and tell her that you're going to be in the play. Then you need to talk to her to make arrangements to get here for rehearsals, which are Monday, Wednesday and Friday, starting this Friday."

"This Friday? That's two days from now?"

"We don't have much time, remember. I'm going to call her right now. You have a class with her, right?"

"The senior seminar."

"Well, you talk to her tomorrow and make the arrangements to come over here with her on those days. Got it?"

"Sure, got it."

"What did you call me?"

"Nothing. I didn't call you anything."

"That's what I mean. From now on you are to call me 'Mistress' or 'Mistress Alicia,' and you need to really improve your manners when you're talking to me. It's

'Yes, Mistress' or 'No, Mistress.' You'd better be polite as hell with me or I'll paddle your balls. Don't say 'got it' to me."

"Yes, Mistress," I said. [This story is not intended as a "slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am" porno tale, a semi-literate effort to recount genital jackhammering (either male to female, or vice versa) in such a way as to set a new Olympic record in the 100-metre dash. Your humble author has no problem with any such story, nor with those who enjoy them. That's all a matter of individual taste. But if that's what you prefer, then Henry's Exposed Adventure is definitely not for you. Your time will be better spent heading over to the high street to stand outside the department store window and watch them change the dummies. This is a slow boiler, a crock-pot, not a microwave oven. Please stop reading now and find, among the thousands of other stories on Literotica, something faster that you will like a lot more.]

[The objective of this work is to tell a story that is erotic, not to write something pornographic in the hope that it will somehow assemble itself into a story. This author will attempt to create three-dimensional characters who can lay legitimate claim to inner lives, and to bring the reader into their lives in such a way as to make her care about them, even if just a little bit. Whether I am successful in this effort is for the reader to judge. But, succeed or fail, this author will always insist that the quality of erotic writing lies in its ability to empower the reader to identify with the characters. Then, when those characters enjoy erotic experiences, so too does the reader, and with a degree of immediacy that keeps her coming (no pun intended) back for more.]

[Almost forgot. All of the characters in this story are over 18 years of age, and any resemblance of any character, institution or place to any real person, institution or place is purely happenstance.]

[In our last episode, Henry had been on a date with Alicia, his new Grimsley girlfriend, and she had come damn close to embarrassing him to death by forcing him to strip half-naked in a movie theater and inducing his ejaculation by manual stimulation. Immediately afterwards, she elbowed her dozing chaperone to wake her up. Henry barely succeeded in zipping himself up before the dormant matron regained consciousness.]



As if I didn't have enough hormones racing through my bloodstream and causing unexpected erections at inopportune moments, the memory of my date with Alicia kept me hard through most of the following week. I promised Alicia I would call her. Well, really, she whispered in my ear that if I failed to call her by Wednesday evening she would gleefully inform all of Grimsley about the peewee dimensions of my little peepee (her words, not mine), and I would never be able to show my face again at Grimsley, or even in downtown Armpit, without triggering a tidal wave of girlish snickering.

That would be really, really bad. So I knew I had to call her, even though it made me nervous as hell.

Meanwhile, I was stranded in the all-boy sexual desert that was East Point Academy. Our only oasis was Miss Frobisher, the English teacher and drama coach. It was Miss, not Ms. Back in those days, the Ms. thing was just getting started, and it took a while before single women started to really use it.

I was one of the lucky stiffs (and she usually made all of the boys stiff) who got into her senior English Lit seminar. The seminar was held in a conference room, rather than a classroom, and we all sat at conference tables rather than the traditional teacher's desk in the front and students' desks in rows stretching to the back of the room. This would not have been too bad, except that we had a clear view of her legs under the table, just as she, l soon found out, had a clear view of ours. She taught in the morning at East Point, and then around lunch time she drove the half hour or so over to Grimsley Hall where she taught English and drama in the afternoon. She taught drama at East Point too, but Grimsley's drama and theater arts program was much bigger and more elaborate than ours.

Ms. Frobisher was, we guessed, 30 or 32. Her hair was dark, dark brown, almost black, and her skin was very fair, an almost translucent white that made her neck and cheeks look so delicate in the light that I just wanted to kiss and lick her face, and then beg to kiss and lick her between her legs. She cut her hair so that her bangs fell over her forehead, ending just above her eyebrows, and then the rest of it flowed around her head, framing it, before coming to rest on her shoulders. Her eyes were large and cast in a shade of slate-blue that, when she looked at me, made me feel like there was absolutely nothing that could be hidden from her gaze. Outside of class I fantasized that she could undress me with her eyes. Thus, in class a single look from her was enough to provoke an ungovernable hard-on.

But her greatest feature by far was her mouth. She almost always held her mouth slightly open, poised in a just-about-to-smile position that, to me, made her look like she had just said "Yes! yes! yes!" She wore that shiny, wet-looking lipstick that girls wear, and hers was usually in a deep red color. Her dark hair, fair skin, red lips and slate eyes became the focal point of any room she entered. Her bottom lip was thick, full and generous, and her perfect, even, vanilla ice cream teeth peeked out from beneath her upper lip. My buddy, Mike Slade, sat next to me in her seminar, and after class we talked about how sweet would be the friction of being fellated by Miss Frobisher. We talked about how the underside of the tips of our cocks would rub against that thick lower lip, and how the topsides of our shafts would scrape lightly against her two front teeth as we thrust in and out of her mouth. And god only knows what her tongue would be like, sanding away at our frenulums. At these moments I had to think about something gross or terrible just to get a grip on myself or I would have spurted my load right through my pants and clear across the room.

Her breasts were not big. Not small, mind you, but not big by any stretch. Mike Slade and I determined, based on our collective observations during class and our lurid study of brassiere ads in the Sunday newspapers, that she was more than an A cup but less than a B. Never having so much as felt a naked breast, much less seen a real one, we had no real clue as to what cup size meant. But her breasts were just right for me, all the same. I'm still a real contrarian when it comes to women's breasts. I think American culture and the porno world are as nutty about big breasts as they are about big dicks. If you like them, that's fine, but I personally never went in for the girls with big, swinging things that could knock down an old factory in an urban renewal zone. A girl with really big ones had to be careful to make sure that her twins didn't escape, which limited the types of clothes she could wear. But a small- or medium-breasted girl, on the other hand, could be much more daring and provocative in the way she dressed. She could wear a shirt with a button or two (or three) undone, or even go without a bra. Miss Frobisher always wore a bra because I could always see her shoulder straps under her blouse. But in the early fall or late spring, when the days were hot, Miss Frobisher - Elaine - would leave a blouse button or two (or, on occasion, three) unbuttoned. Ahhh, heaven on earth!

She had a great ass, not small or flat like some anorexic supermodel on today's fashion tv, but soft and round, ample and bubble-like, an ass with a positive uplift, an ass that just cried out for a pair of male hands to knead its twin globes into an erotic trance. Her skirts were always stretched tight around her backside, lending it the contradictory allure of simultaneous display and concealment. She had great thighs and calves, with slim ankles that she showed off in high heeled shoes. In regular classes, as opposed to seminars, when she walked up and down the aisle between the desks, some of the guys would reach out and squeeze the air with both hands right behind her buns. Once she took a completely unexpected step backward and her buttocks almost got squeezed by Mike Slade's grasping paws. He managed to snap them back to his desk in the nick of time. My best jerk-off fantasies were the ones where I grabbed Miss Frobisher by her hips, pulled her in towards me, and did her doggy-style.

She always wore skirts, and most of those skirts were cut above the knee. It was, after all, the era of the mini-skirt. Often well above the knee, much to our delight and the dismay of the other female teachers. She didn't pay attention to any of those old hags, and instead floated above them like some superior being. Mike and I hoped that she would spread her legs beneath the conference table so that we'd get as good a look at her crotch as she seemed to be getting of ours, but we never had any luck. She always kept her knees demurely pressed together...well, almost always. Every once in a while they would part, and we'd try to catch a shot up her skirt. We took imaginary bets on what kind and color of panties she was wearing, and then afterwards we'd argue back and forth as to whether she had a VPL -- visible panty line -- that day.

Both Mike Slade and I thought that she must have been doing that intentionally, even though she never gave any definite signal of intent. But Mike and I concluded that she must have noticed our erections when she walked around the class. One time I had an erection in her class and I saw her looking down below my desk at my crotch, then back at me, then down again. When we were sitting at those conference tables she could get a full, unobstructed view of my crotch as my dick extended itself at the front of my pants. Mike's dick, like almost everybody else's at East Point, was a lot bigger than mine, and I remember watching her watch Mike and then stop talking for a second or two. She quickly collected herself and went on with her English lesson. Later on Mike told me he'd been hard up for nearly the whole class and she definitely saw it. I put two and two together.

She was as unapproachable as she was voluptuous, and she was going to tease us into erections without ever letting on that that was her game. That's why I usually jerked off before her class to reduce the odds of an erection, but even that didn't always work. There are a few other female teachers at East Point, but they're all over 50, and all built like snowmen - real big on the bottom, almost as big on the top, and round all over. Only difference is that nothing on them melts in the spring.

That Wednesday I dutifully called Alicia, and to my surprise she didn't bring up our little adventure at the movie theater that past weekend. I wanted to talk to her about it because some of it bothered me, but in another way it really turned me on. When I did try to raise it, to see if we might do something like that again, she changed the subject.

"I've got something much more exciting that I want to ask you about, and I'm warning you that you can't say no," she said.

That had me worried. If I said no, would I be disobeying her? And would she start talking about me at school. I felt trapped, though it was intriguing being trapped by someone as pretty and sexy as Alicia.

"You know I'm in Grimsley's Theater Club, right? Well, this fall we're going to put on 'Sleeping Beauty.'

"Okay, so you want me to be a techie for the show or something?"

"You remember your Shakespeare stuff, how all the actors back then were male, and males even played the female parts? Well, at Grimsley it's the exact opposite because all the parts, even the male ones, are played by girls. With this play, though, we're going to do it a bit different. The way I want to stage it, we simply must have a real boy in the title role.

"Isn't Sleeping Beauty the one where the handsome young prince kisses the sleeping princess to wake her up?"

"Exactly. But we turn that upside down. I mean, we take some dramatic liberties with the traditional script. It's part of our school's mission on female empowerment."

"Female empowerment?"

"Right. In the old fairy tales it was always the girl who was the helpless one being rescued by some handsome prince, and that's just patriarchal dead-white-male literature. In our show, the brave handsome girl rescues the sleeping prince."

This was sounding hotter by the minute but I still wasn't quite sure where she was going with this. But if I was in the Grimsley play, that meant that I'd be in rehearsals with Alicia, and Regan too, a few times a week. I was afraid to ask whether as part of the rehearsals I'd have to practice kissing one of them. Then she took the words from my mouth.

"There is some...well...some or -- I mean, there's some mouth activity involved. We do have to wake up the sleeping prince after all. Will you be okay with that?"

"Kissing?"

"Sure, that too."

"Of course I'd be okay with it." That too? I didn't follow her at the time, but I would soon find out. Would I be okay with it? Only okay? I felt blood rushing down from my brain to my crotch.

"Great, then we're all set! You're a such a sweet young thing! Miss Frobisher is our faculty adviser for theater, so I'll leave a message for her and tell her that you're going to be in the play. Then you need to talk to her to make arrangements to get here for rehearsals, which are Monday, Wednesday and Friday, starting this Friday."

"This Friday? That's two days from now?"

"We don't have much time, remember. I'm going to call her right now. You have a class with her, right?"

"The senior seminar."

"Well, you talk to her tomorrow and make the arrangements to come over here with her on those days. Got it?"

"Sure, got it."

"What did you call me?"

"Nothing. I didn't call you anything."

"That's what I mean. From now on you are to call me 'Mistress' or 'Mistress Alicia,' and you need to really improve your manners when you're talking to me. It's

'Yes, Mistress' or 'No, Mistress.' You'd better be polite as hell with me or I'll paddle your balls. Don't say 'got it' to me."

"Yes, Mistress," I said.

henry's   exposed   adventure  

Aug 2, 2018 in femdom

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