French Frolics Ch 01

I'm a 26-year old teacher at a private girls' school on the south coast of England. I've been there two years and I'm the youngest of the three men on the teaching staff. Naturally, surrounded by 200-odd teenage girls (not to mention a couple of dozen mostly young female colleagues), you get the odd kid trying to flirt with you, but I'd always managed to avoid any awkward situations – until last Autumn.

It was half-term and one of my fellow geography teachers, Shirley Stringer, had arranged a trip over to Brittany in France for some of the girls. It was a regular thing, and I'd agreed to go as well, but only because I'd spent the previous six months trying to get into Shirley's knickers. As we waited to board the overnight ferry to Saint Malo, where we were staying, the cow told me with tears of joy in her eyes that she'd just got engaged. I had to give her a big smile, a big hug, and try to avoid my big erection pressing against her.

There were 15 girls on the trip, aged from 15 to 18, Shirley, me and our French language teacher, Mademoiselle Mouthillon. I suspected she had a crush on me, but I wasn't remotely interested. She's a little dark, mousy thing with black framed spectacles and a faint moustache. She reminded me of the Greek singer, Nana Mouskouri. Anyway, on the first full day we did a trip to Bayeux to see the celebrated Battle of Hastings Tapestry, which I'd seen when I was 11. The second day, despite the girls begging us to sign up to a locally organised excursion to Paris, we visited Rennes Cathedral and a local museum. On the last full day we went to Mont Saint Michel, the location of a very famous, and very photogenic, historic abbey.

The place is one of the top visitors attractions in France, and it was a blisteringly hot, dusty day, airless, and the village around the foot of the Mont was packed like a sardine tin with loud, sweaty tourists. After three days of dry culture, surrounded by screeching, giggling schoolgirls, frustrated in my lust for Shirley, irritated by la Mouthillon's simpering attempts to beguile me, and wound up by kids who were amused by the French teacher dogging my every step, I was, hot, bored and totally, totally fed up. Leaving the girls to run riot, I skulked near the entrance arch to the village, mooching around tacky, overpriced, overcrowded souvenir shops. After a while I treated myself to a huge expensive ice cream cornet and found a stone bench in a cool, dark recess near the entrance arch to the village to sit and enjoy my purchase.

I had only just sat down when I heard an ear-piercing argument between several young women. Sure enough, it was three of our girls have a screaming fit at each other. I tried to sink back into the shadows, but two of the girls flounced off and the third one slumped on the other end of the bench to me. It was Charlotte Evans, one of the school's 'it girls'. Popular with everyone – most of the time – five feet eleven tall, deep blue eyes, long golden blonde hair, slim, shapely body, long, long legs, star of the netball team. One of my fellow male teachers had the hots for her something rotten, and I was aware of at least one female colleague who felt the same way.

Charlotte was dressed in a brief red and white striped vest top which did little to hide her ample boobs, and a denim skirt which ended less than halfway down her gorgeous thighs. It had been her 18th birthday just the night before and, perhaps unwisely, Shirley and I had let her and a couple of friends go out into Saint Malo to celebrate, with Yvette Mouthillon to keep them 'under control'. They'd returned to the hotel in the early hours of the morning, with Mouthillon distraught (she claimed they'd spiked her drinks) and the three pupils completely wrecked on booze. All that following day Charlotte had looked dreadfully hung-over, quiet and sullen, deathly pale and ready to throw up at a moment's notice. Now she was red in the face, scowling and bathed in a sheen of sweat.

She didn't seem to have noticed me at first; then she did and, with an evil smile and a twinkle in her eye, said in an innocent voice, "Oh, I thought Mademoiselle Mouthillon would be with you, Sir." I replied grumpily that she wasn't. Charlotte shuffled her bum along the seat until she was sitting right next to me, cutting off my escape out of the recess. "Hot, isn't it. Give us a lick of your ice cream sir." By now I was thoroughly pissed off. My brief respite from the school harpies had been shattered, I'd been wound up again about that bloody Frenchwoman, and now the cheeky cow wanted to share my overpriced treat! It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Charlotte to sod off, but before I could stop her she leaned in and swirled her little pink tongue around the ice, her eyes meeting mine.

As Charlotte leaned over, her left hand landed firmly on my groin. For a split second I thought it was accidental, and I was about to delicately move the hand away, but with the speed and skill of a seasoned professional her fingers twitched, and before I knew what was happening she'd lowered my fly and her hand had slipped down the front of my briefs! I could have stopped her – I should have done, of course – but the moment her long, hot, sticky fingers wrapped around my cock it was ramrod stiff. As she began to shuffle her hand confidently up and down me I found my mouth was suddenly too dry to speak, and I watched in fascination as she pulled it out of my jeans and continued to wank me. Bloody hell, there were thousands of people wandering past the opening of the recess, three feet away, every minute: not just tourists, but gendarmes, priests and nuns too! All the while Charlotte continued to lick and nibble at my ice cream, her eyes still locked on mine.

This teenage school student was in complete control of the situation and I couldn't have stopped her even if I'd wanted to. Trying to put the danger of discovery to the back of my mind I closed my eyes, let my head fall back against the cool rock of the wall behind me, and enjoyed the growing warmth in my loins, and the first feelings of an orgasm building inside my cock. Just as I was getting close Charlotte took her hand away, and I gasped in disappointment; but a moment later it was back, coated in ice cream. The combined sensation of the sticky coolness and Charlotte's fingers firmly gripping me and pumping me was too much, and in seconds I launched a huge fountain of jizz, which splattered onto her hand and the leg of my jeans.

Apparently satisfied with that, Charlotte took a huge bite of ice cream, gave me a cold kiss on the cheek and, with a wink, whispered, "See you back at the coach, Sir." Then, wiggling her bum at me, she sashayed out of the recess, licking my spunk off her hand. Feeling dazed, I tucked my sticky cock away, about a second before a little French kid and his grandpapa settled themselves down on the other end of the bench. I stumbled out, heading for the nearby gents' toilet – and the first thing I saw was Yvette Mouthillon, with a cheesy grin on her face. She glanced down at the dark, wet patch on my jeans and back up at my face, grinning even wider and raising one eyebrow suggestively. Christ, I thought, she must have seen Charlotte leave and put two and two together. Maybe she'd even seen Charlotte tossing me off. I foresaw big trouble with her at some point.

When I got on the coach back to Saint Malo, Charlotte moved over to make room for me to sit next to her, but I took a seat as far from her as I could get. I also managed to avoid her in the hotel that evening, and on the boat back to Portsmouth the following day. I also avoided Mouthillon, who apparently spent half the trip asking people if they'd seen me. Okay, Charlotte was an absolute babe, and there had to be a chance I could have her if I wanted to, but I was a teacher at her school and, even though she was legally a consenting adult, I'd certainly lose my job, and just possibly even my liberty, if anyone suspected the slightest impropriety between us. She wasn't in any of my classes at the school, I had no real reason to run across her and, in terms of the risk factor she represented to me, I really hoped I'd seen the last of Charlotte Evans.