Educating Emma Ch 01

My friend Jackie Macy and I first met each other about twenty years ago, when we first shared a room at the college during the first year. Jackie was a real flirt at college: right from the fresher's ball, it was quite clear that I, Muriel Grey, was to be the dull companion to the dazzling brunette.

My closed-off frowns, my early nights and my short black hair, with its severe, almost boyish cut, presented a complete contrast to Jackie and her flowing brunette locks. I could hardly compete with her broad smiles and the openness with which she seemed to greet anyone and everyone. So, I simply chose to contrast full stop.

Men would take one brief dismissive look at me, nod cursorily and then turn eagerly to attract the attentions of my room mate.

Within weeks of that first excursion, my role as chaperone was redundant. Jackie was known far and wide as 'Racy' Macy after a series of short-lived encounters with various men, eager to show the teasing brunette the ropes or learn from her reputed exploits in bed.

On the face of it we gradually drew apart as I lost myself in books and she lost herself in a whirlwind of sexual gratification that ended rather traumatically when she was sent down, pregnant early in our second year.

At first we kept in touch with each other as she raised her child single-handedly. Her parents turned away from her and the boy who'd acted so irresponsibly having disappeared over the horizon and out of Jackie's life with the same rapidity as he'd jetted his sperm into her unprotected, young womb.

I was fortunate to have been endowed with a small inheritance. Through it I was pleased to provide support to my former friend, using the funds to rebuild the bonds between us as I worked my way through academia and graduated with honours.

You should know that I will remember that day for a long time because it was the last time that I saw Jackie for ages. She was my guest that day and brought baby Emma with her.

See I have the photograph of them here in my rooms. Look at the loving way Jackie nurses her baby, gazing upon her with such motherly pride as the little girl sucks at her teat. And look at that gorgeous teat, all pink and swollen with a mother's milk. I had to clench my fists to not step forward and offer to nurse the other creamy breast myself, for all she looked so lovely and sweetly maternal.

Instead, I contented myself with offering Jackie another cup of Earl Grey tea, a rather delicious biscuit and a discrete envelope containing further funds for Emma's development.

Jackie was a very polite guest and never objected even when I insisted in taking a very close up picture of Emma on her teat, the roseate nipple being teased by Jackie to ensure sustenance for the child while I photographed the wonderful scene.

I certainly ensured that I caught as much tit as I could in the picture. I did after all have to consider the subsequent clenching of my thighs in my subsequent masturbatory frenzy that night...

After graduating, I moved into teaching first English and then specialised in English as a Foreign Language. During my post-graduate year, I gave Jackie advice on books for the toddler, Emma, to read, ways of encouraging her interest and various thoughts to help her language skills develop.

By the time Emma started at school though, my friendship with her mother was maintained entirely by correspondence, as my teaching of English as a Foreign Language took me overseas.

I wrote to them from all around the Mediterranean where I took up a number of short-lived posts as a private teacher of young ladies.

As I grew in confidence I moved from teaching through schools towards more and more private tuition. Helping to add polish to the finishing of young ladies from the French, Italian and Spanish middle classes became my vocation.

And I loved it.

Jackie sent me news and updates on her work as a shop assistant and her slow progress towards a supervisory role. It was such a shame that all her promise had been spoilt by her university adventurism, but there were compensations.

I so looked forward to the pictures she sent of Emma as she developed from a shy young girl into a rather lovely, petite brunette. In fact as time progressed she came to very much resemble my recollections of her mother at college.

Emma wasn't all that athletic although she did swim quite a lot keeping down the puppy fat. It rather pleased me that Emma became quite bookish in her teens. I had high hopes of her and continued to recommend literature via Jackie. I confess that began to fantasise about her.

Both she and her mother were such a contrast to the nubile young eighteen and nineteen year old Mediterranean girls who so often shared my bed, when their parents were off guard. I was caught a couple of times, but discretion was the watchword and I was sent on my way with tearful looks from the young signorinas, senoritas and mademoiselles and a stern, but often envious look from the offended parents.

It was all Jackie's fault that I had this thing about teenaged girls. She was so forward when we shared that room when we were both nineteen that it stuck with me despite the risks to my profession.

And I have no plans to change now after twenty years of seducing the daughters of the upper middle classes. They do, after all, have to come out sometime.

Even though I've had lots of good times will my young charges, I will always recall the times when I was in the room alone with my books and Jackie was out with one of her many boyfriends that year we spent together.

In fact, Jackie was very much my real early inspiration. I have to confess that had you strayed into our shared room, barely half an hour after she'd gone to her beloved of the night (and I'd stayed in on the pretext of some essay deadline to meet), you'd have found me furrowing through her drawers methodically.

It became quite a fixation for me: toying with her smalls: those lovely bras and panties. Those delicious camisoles and the stockings, my dear, well! I can still feel the silkiness and the cotton soft fabric of the school girl knickers that she abandoned soon after arriving at college.

And yes, I admit I did keep a couple of my favorite sets for old time's sake. It is quite amazing how you can manage to lose your room-mates panties when doing their wash for them communally.

In any case I did no harm: it was simply recycling discarded raw materials - and they do say the planet is in sore need of that. Jackie quickly grew out of her sensible school panties and had soon moved on to unappealing thongs and lacy things more suited to a brothel than the tight, young mons of a beautiful and educated young English lady.

Once I actually spread a pair of her old knickers out on her pillow and put my face to them, kissing and licking them, thinking of her undressing shamelessly in front of me after one of her little soirees, showing off the lacy gimmicks presented to her by her latest enamorata, changing right there in front of me completely shamelessly.

Jackie looked sweet enough to eat in such a state of undress. And I certainly ate her when sneaking to the laundry basket late at night on pretext of a late night pee. I loved the thought of her sleeping barely five feet from me, with only a thin wall between us as I masturbated myself silly in the early hours.

I remember that I would rummage through the laundry basket too and either chose her dirtiest pair of knickers or the ones she had worn most recently. Then I would use them as a panty-gag to muffle my groans as I played with my clitoris furiously, slapping my labia and sometimes pressing a slim finger into my dainty young bum hole. I would think of her looking so lovely and wholesome in her night dress; and then of her with a face full of cock all lecherous and needy; and then I would come and come and come.

Imagine me, the prim, bookish Muriel, with her legs spread, her body contorted and her fingers pummeling in and out of the twin orifices. I came to love those cool porcelain nights, where I spent the most delicious hours on the pedestal of the toilet in the communal bathroom next to our bedroom. Oh! Alma Mater! You provided for me so generously.

There was one time, when overcome by an excess of passion and daring I actually didn't make it to the bathroom. Instead, I took a pair of Jackie's sports shorts, fresh with her odour from a late night work out in the gym, stuffed the crotch in my mouth and masturbated under the sheets until I came like a soldier deprived of sex for a year of combat.

My fingers were coated with the viscous fluids from my cunt and the warm residue that fingers occasionally coax from an overused anus. I felt quite disgusting after that climax and, in any case, had to get up to wash myself, for fear Jackie would scent my excitement when she woke in the morning.

Quietly, I slid past Jackie's bed, tiptoeing to make sure that she would not be disturbed and as I walked past I gazed down at her peaceful face, as she lay on her side under the thin cotton sheets.

It was then that I noticed that her lips were slightly open. I stood there for what seemed an age watching her breast rising and falling, willing myself to head to the bathroom; but I was quite paralysed by the sight of her warm lips and the soft tongue that I could glimpse between them.

Finally, I could resist it no longer: I slid my come stained finger, sodden with my bodily spending, into her mouth. It brushed her lips and her tongue; it pushed in and out of her young mouth until the acrid moisture mingled with her saliva and the spermatozoa of whatever young beau had had her that night.

I watched mesmerised as my fingers plunged in and out of Jackie's mouth, watching her soft lips accepting my dirty digits, fucking her face, reaching under my own nightdress to caress myself at the same time and then switching hands to give Jackie a fresher taste of chateau Muriel.

And, when I'd done a second time, I was delighted to see her tongue licking away the residue from her Muriel encrusted lips before she rolled over and slid back into the deepest of sleeps. And, of course, you know that I really had to suppress a giggle when she complained of the fish supper she had had the following morning.

I never told Jackie about my fantasies or the kinky goings on in our room when she absented herself in search of cock or slept through the night. I didn't want her to think ill of me, but I've since had the naughtiest thoughts about young women for years, tempting my gauche young charges to undress for me just like Jackie used to do. And more often than not succeeding.

And I'd done more than think too. Let me tell you that you always have to be careful not to frighten the lovely young colts with their dark eyes and their eager smiles, so, so willing to please Miss Muriel Grey.

First there is the introduction: are they nervous? How strong is the handshake? How damp are the hands? How trembling are their lovely young frames?

Then there is the first embrace: the grazing of cheek to cheek. How firm is their grip on the arm? Do they tremble or just shake a little? Do they blanch when my ice blue eyes meet their soft, inexperienced pupils for the first time? Do they look down or turn to their mothers for reassurance?

And how do they respond when I ask the mother about the child's disciplinary history and experience? I am a firm believer in traditions: spare the rod and spoil the child is my motto: hence my divergence into the most private spheres of education.

A firm whipping early on in our relationship teaches the young would-be Prima Donna a lesson. It will show her why she should not to repeat her actions and will show me her precious under things.

It also reassures the parents. They know that I mean business when they see me commanding their little darling to bend, bare and forget the rebellion of their earlier teenaged years. The fact that many of these wilful girls have not been spanked since they were children is gratifying.

There is a look of shock in their eighteen year old faces as they look to their mama for guidance. And, yes, I always spank in the presence of the parents - at first at least.

I love following the pleading look of my charge and seeing her mama firming her lips and slowly nodding her head, having heard my recitation of the daughter's crimes, real and imagined.

Fathers will shy away from such scenes at first or pretend a disinterest that belies the excitement in the pits of their bellies and lower still.

I've smiled at many a father, concealing his burgeoning erection beneath Il Journal, La Stampa or Le Monde. And I've watched their eyes following as I flip the skirts of their little darlings up, just as they've dreamed of doing, observing their minds, misty with lust as they note the contrast between dark Mediterranean flesh and the soft pastels of their offspring's innocent underwear.

I've seen the look that passes between mother and father, when the crotch of the knickers is drawn up into the crease of the soft young behind. I've seen the mothers turn their faces away at the first whistle of the cane on nubile flesh. I've seen the gaunt, red-eyed look of the fathers, as I finally lower the skirts on the criss-cross patterns of their daughters well used behinds.

And I've heard them at their siestas afterwards, as papa takes out his frustrations on his beloved wife. The headboard in the master bedroom thumps regularly against wall, the noises accelerating slowly, until their climax is reached.

You should know that I do take my duty of care quite seriously. I find myself having to reach down to cover the ears of their precious darling through such blissful early afternoons; well I am charged with the young woman's moral welfare after all.

And the girls themselves? Well, I don't think they notice, for they are far too busy at their studies, learning all about love and forgiveness between my thighs.

As Emma grew into her teens Jackie's letters became less regular, but I still got the occasional snapshot of them on holiday together or sharing a special event like Emma getting 4 As in her A levels.

I loved looking at the pictures of her, especially when I was able to catch glimpses of her underwear. There was one picture taken just after her eighteenth birthday where she wore a blue school blouse. It had three buttons open, so the picture showed off her cleavage to good advantage.

I was so pleased to be able to see inside and get a peek at one of her white bras and the curve of her young breast within the bra cup, that I summonsed dear sweet Ramona. She was my twenty year old Spanish charge of that moment. I have to say that she was most obliging and obedient, as I told her to strip off her blouse and her bra to show off her dark Latin torso for me.

And she was so proud. Why there was barely a tear when I whipped her breasts quite assiduously with a martinet throughout the siesta period.

There was another picture taken during the Easter holiday of Emma's final year at school I think; at least it arrived as a lovely Easter present for me. She was wearing tight jean shorts. I could quite clearly discern the outline of her panties as she stretched up to catch a Frisbee.

I couldn't help but rest the photo on Ramona's young back as she crouched down over the coffee table before me. You know I didn't take my eye off it, even as I stripped off my little Spaniard's panties. And didn't I make Ramona come so sweetly with my fingers in her delectable young pussy and my thumb in her tight, dry nether hole? Of course I did.

And then, in Emma's final term in school, Jackie sent me a lovely picture of her daughter wearing her school uniform, studying hard for her exams. She looked so insouciant, completely unaware of the fact that her short plaid skirt had ridden up.

Anyone looking could clearly see her white school panties peeking out underneath the skirt, the lips her peachy young mons clearly outlined against the fabric. And there was me all strapped up in no time and ready to apply a large pink dildo to a petite and dainty little French girl called Kiki. Her nineteen year old bottom hole made a lovely nest for my little alouette of a toy; and I tell you I was certainly not at all gentle.

Oh the wails and oh the joy! It's a good thing Kiki's mama was used to the little charmer's off key singing by then. She had made her excuses and had withdrawn to the other side of the house to wrap herself in her Debussy records and a nice glass of absinthe.

Still Kiki was wonderful and even cleaned off the strap on once we were done (with her tongue of course, my dear - there really is no other way).

It's most heartening to see such affection for this excellent finishing tool amongst my more timid charges, anxious as they are to make for the bathroom to ensure the bottom burps occasioned by my forceful entry are exploded in private...

When they moved house that summer, Jackie sent me loads of pictures of the most banal detail of the new place. She was perhaps conscious that she might be boring me, so she used Emma as an accessory to show off the finer features.

There was one shot of Emma bending low in fashionable loose jeans, her pale yellow panties clearly visible as she looked over her shoulder. she was smiling happily and showing off the interior of the new refrigerator. The thing i most admired was the stretch of her young eighteen year old limbs.

Another shot to show off the new parquet, was illustrated by Emma clearing the contents of a spilt mug of coffee. Emma was so focused on the task in hand and her mother so evidently keen to show off the lovely new floor, that both had forgotten that Emma was just wearing a camisole and shorts.

Do you know that I nearly dropped my coffee cup myself as I caressed my sex, even more assiduously than usual on receipt of that set of pictures?

How ironic. I distinctly remember whispering Emma's name and Lucia looking up at me from her kneeling position on the floor in front of my writing desk.

Ah! My lovely new charge, Lucia, looked almost comically puzzled, as I pressed her nineteen year old face into the stickiest groin on the Genoese Riviera that afternoon; and wondered about the possibilities of ever meeting the younger Miss Macy...