Sunday School Teacher Day 02

This story is a sequel to the original "Sunday School Teacher", and I was happy to see that readers were enjoying it as much as I did writing it. Therefore, this is the continuation of young Timothy's strange summer.

You might wish to read the original story before tackling this one. Timothy is 18 years of age.

****

My folks probably thought I was weird, getting up before them even though I was on summer break. Me showering and getting dressed at the crack of dawn was also strange, but I suspect they were used to my erratic behavior by now after watching me for 18 years.

I even shaved, although I really didn't need to do that, and sprinkled a dash of my father's Old Spice on my neck to give me that manly scent that women supposedly loved. After picking out a button down shirt and slacks, I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

It looked like I was going to church or something, and in effect it was a little like that. After having been educated in many ways by the woman who lived a bit down and across the road from me, I had decided to take her up on her invitation to visit her again this morning. You might think that this was a no-brainer, but there were dangers involved.

If you recall yesterday, after watching Martha Beckford, my old Sunday School teacher and Can Man Carl Johnson, the trash man, practically destroy the Beckford's kitchen in a flurry of fellatio and fornication while I watched from outside the window, I was caught peeking at them.

What followed then was detailed in the previous story, but the end result was me getting my dick sucked - and nearly sucked clean off - by a middle-aged woman that I had thought was an old dried-up prude. Afterward, she apologized and said she wanted me to return the next morning so we could talk about what had happened.

Given her erratic and erotic behavior, I was hoping that she wanted me over there to give me head again, but there was also the possibility that she really did want to talk to me. The thought of sitting through a lecture about the sins of the flesh and how weak we were spiritually, when I could be out playing ball with the guys, had no appeal for me.

The second, and more scary reason for concern was that Martha Beckford was a married woman. Her husband John owned and operated a religious goods store in the city. He was a skinny version of Lurch from the Addams Family TV show, and while I didn't know him more than to nod at him whenever our paths crossed, I didn't think he would appreciate having his wife sucking a neighbor kid's dick.

That was why I assumed that Mrs. Beckford had asked me to come over after 8:45, and my assumption proved correct when I watched through my bedroom window and saw Mr. Beckford backing his rusty old Mercury Comet out the driveway at 8:42 and then down the road.

I waited for the car to disappear, and that took a while because John Beckford drove like the talked and walked. Very slowly. In time, the car disappeared from view and I left the house, making my way to the Beckford's in the same serpentine fashion I had the day before.

This was a somewhat rural area, and while there were many houses within view, I didn't want anybody to see me going over there. Oddly enough, I would have been most embarrassed if one of my friends saw me going over to see Martha Beckford. I would never live that down.

That's because they didn't know Martha Beckford like I did. They knew her as the old bag who looked like Jane Hathaway from the Beverly Hillbillies show, strict and straight-laced Sunday School teacher who rapped the knuckles of rude boys and wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful.

I had seen the other side of Mrs. Beckford, seen and experienced a very different woman. I had seen her naked as well, my first actual witnessing of a fully undressed female, and while I could never claim that she was a ravishing beauty, the fact was that she didn't look all that bad. She even had boobs, despite the outward appearance.

Making my way through the little patch of woods, I arrived at the kitchen window like I had yesterday, and there was Mrs. Beckford sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Not wanting to have her catch me looking at her like that again, I went to the back door and tapped lightly on the screen.

"Come in Timothy," Martha said, and it wasn't only the coldness in her voice that made me think I made a mistake in coming over, but the expression on her face gave me the impression that she wasn't all that happy to see me.

Then again, I didn't recognize the expression on her face yesterday as she was clawing at my ass, snorting and wild-eyed while she inhaled my dick either.

"Morning, Mrs. Beckford," I said with a tight-lipped smile.

"Sit down Timothy," Martha said, gesturing to the chair opposite her, and I almost didn't, because the Bible was on the table and I sensed I was going to get the hellfire and brimstone Martha Beckford instead of the cock-sucking version.

"I had hoped you wouldn't come," she said coldly as she watched me sit down.

"But - you told me to."

"I know," Mrs. Beckford responded. "I know I did, but I shouldn't have. Have you thought about yesterday? About what you saw? About you did? About what we did?"

"Yeah," I replied, and I wanted to tell her that I had spent every waking minute thinking about it, and loving every second of it.

"Did you pray?"

"Uh - yeah," I answered, not adding that my prayers were along the lines of hoping that my dick would end up in her mouth again.

"I did too," Mrs. Beckford said, and sighed deeply. "You look very nice today, Timothy."

"Oh. Uh - thank you."

"Such a handsome boy," Mrs. Beckford added. "You could use a haircut, but still you're a marvelous creation."

I shrugged my shoulders, not realizing that a kid who was a mediocre student, could field but not hit a lick in baseball, and had a masturbation habit that seemed incurable, could be termed a marvelous creation.

"Stand up for me, Timothy," Mrs. Beckford asked, and when I did she looked me up and down and sighed. "A beautiful child."

"Uh, thanks I guess, but I'm not a child anymore," I said, as Mrs. Beckford still seemed to look at me like I was 8 instead of 18.

"I understand. Would you disrobe for me?"

"Pardon?" I responded, and when she repeated the request I shrugged my shoulders and asked, "Here?"

"Yes Timothy," she said, her piercing eyes looming large behind those horn-rimmed glasses.

I felt stupid unbuttoning my shirt under Mrs. Beckford's watchful eye, and when she reminded me to fold the shirt instead of leaving it in a ball, it was like being in class again. My shoes came off, the belt came loose, and then I was dropping my slacks.

My snug white fruit-of-the-looms showed the outline of my semi-erection very clearly, but Martha told me to take my socks off, and after I did I stood there in the middle of the kitchen with my hands cupped over my bulge.

When I looked at Mrs. Beckford, she merely nodded in the directed of my briefs. For some reason I glanced over to the kitchen window, almost expecting for Can Man Johnson to be looking in, but there was no one watching, so I slipped my underwear down.

I heard Martha exhale loudly, her breath coming out sounding like a steam engine huffing, and then she seemed to look past me for a moment before our eyes met again.

"What you did yesterday, Timothy," Martha Beckford said, sounding like she was out of breath or something. "Outside the window. When you abused yourself? Show me."

"Show me," Mrs. Beckford repeated when I just stood there. "I want to see what you were doing when you were watching Mr. Johnson and I."

"Right here?"

"Please," she asked in a softer voice. "I need to see. I need to understand."

"This?" I asked, taking my dick between my thumb and index finger and giving it a tug. "You want me to jerk off?"

Mrs. Beckford nodded, and that was when I started pulling on my dick, which had gone limp from the confusion and the conversation. I wanted to tell her that I if she put it in her mouth that it would be a lot quicker, but instead I just tugged and tugged, and tugged some more.

"Kind of nervous," I said sheepishly while I tried to get aroused.

"I know," Martha said. "Do you do this a lot?"

"I guess," I said, not knowing what a lot was.

"What do you think about when - you do this?" she asked.

"Girls," I said. "Like Raquel Welch and Karen Valentine and Grace Slick."

"Are those school mates of yours?" Mrs. Beckford asked.

"No," I mumbled. "They're famous people," and then for some reason I added that last night I did it and thought about her.

"Me?" Mrs. Beckford said in a shocked voice, and it was then that I realized two things.

One was that her left hand, the one trying to casually reach for her tea cup, was shaking. The second thing was that her right hand was no longer on the table, but was in her lap and her arm was moving a little.

"Yes," I confessed. "I thought about you. Stuff you did to me, and stuff your did with the Can Man."

"Mr. Johnson," Martha said, correcting me. "You thought about him?"

"No, not about him," I said, although that wasn't exactly true because it would have been impossible to think about the two of them without him in the picture, and even though I had no interest in the appendage he used on old Mrs. Beckford, you had to be impressed by it.

"And you abused yourself while thinking about me?"

"Yes ma'am," I admitted.

Mrs. Beckford let out a little wheeze at that, and as I watched trickles of sweat roll down the sides of her face it struck me. She was playing with herself. Mrs. Martha Beckford, 46 year old married woman and Sunday School teacher, was playing with her pussy while watching me jerk off.

My reaction? I took a step and a half to the side so I could see under the table, and now I was within her reach as I craned my neck to see what I could see. What could Martha see? She could see that my cock was so hard it could have cut diamonds.

I was just about to ask her to let me look when she said, "Don't - not yet please,"

"Don't what? Don't cum?" I asked, and as Mrs. Beckford nodded she leaned back and swung her legs out from under the table.

While she had the bathrobe still in place and tied at the waist, which had given me the impression that she was just sitting there watching me at first, the robe was wide open below the waist, and now she faced me, her legs spread wide open as she sat in the chair.

"Aw geez!" I groaned when I saw the forest of black hair between her pale, skinny thighs, and the fingers she had inside of herself, her wrist wiggling furiously in full view.

Thankfully she didn't mistake my uttering "geez" for anything else, because a scolding would have ruined the moment. Martha had done that to herself yesterday afternoon while she was sucking Mr. Johnson's cock, and I had thought it was really sexy, but doing it for me, while looking at me? Geez!

I slowed down my stroking and grabbed my balls with my free hand, squeezing them tightly in an effort to keep from cumming, but that was going to be a losing battle no matter how loosely I held my dick or how slow I went.

"Timothy," Mrs. Beckford grunted, and now I was being pulled toward her, and my cock was disappearing between her lips. while she made squealing noises and squirmed in her chair.

Not that I would have lasted, but when I looked down and saw that it looked like she had her whole hand inside of her pussy, I erupted, grabbing hand-fulls of her bathrobe at her shoulders to keep from falling as I came like a machine gun.

When I finally stopped cumming, my dick fell out of her mouth and Martha eased back into the chair. Her glasses were still on but crooked, and her face was dripping with sweat and maybe tears too as she stared at me with glazed eyes, with some of my cum drooling out of the side of her mouth.

"You should leave, Timothy," she finally said after her breathing returned to normal.

Should leave? Did that mean she wanted me to leave or was it just a suggestion. I sure didn't want to leave. I wanted more, and seeing Martha's long bony fingers coming out from inside of her with all four fingers glistening wet, I wasn't going to volunteer to leave.

"I don't want to," I finally managed to say.

"I'm horrible. I'm evil. I'm going to hell and I can't be responsible for ruining your life," Martha said, and the tears were really there. "I can't - control myself. Save yourself."

"You're not horrible," I said, confused and very naked, with my spent dick a foot away from Martha's face. "You're a nice lady. I like you - a lot."

I don't think Martha Beckford had been told that by many people, and frankly I couldn't believe I had actually uttered those words to her, but it was true. She was a hypocrite, and if not crazy than at least a little twisted, but so was I.

"I don't want to ruin you," she said, another Martha appearing, a kinder and gentler one, almost vulnerable. "You're still pure. If you stay..."

I was no more pure than anyone else, maybe less so. I had masturbated outside this woman's house yesterday, for crying out loud, but I guess she meant by pure that I was a virgin, a fact she had managed to get out of me the day before.

Mrs. Beckford stood up, gathering her robe around her lower half with as much dignity as she could muster, and after folding my socks and briefs she put them on top of my other clothes. She gathered up the pile with her right hand, and with her left hand she took my sweaty paw and led me out of the kitchen and down the hall.

***

This was going to happen. I had planned this moment for my entire teenage life, but never had I imagined such a bizarre scenario would surround losing my virginity. The girls I had fantasized about doing it with were out of my league, but in my fantasies I was a masterful lover and brought them to mind-boggling orgasms.

This was different. This was a real woman, not some girl as inexperienced as I was, and I was stuck following a guy who not only knew what he was doing, but had equipment that dwarfed mine. I was in over my head, and scared shit-less.

The bedroom. It looked as much like a shrine as the rest of the house, and the bed was huge. She hadn't made the bed, and the outlines of the two people that had slept in it last night were still visible in the sheets.

The door was closing behind me, and I heard the click of a lock that sounded like a cell door being secured. What did Jack Slater say about his first time? What were the things he did, and the order that he did them?

What was I doing naked in Martha Beckford's bedroom? What was I supposed to do next? Now Mrs. Beckford was in front of me, and she somehow had gotten even taller than she already was. I was eye-level with her neck, which looked like it belonged on a giraffe, and she was staring at me while waiting for me to do something.

Mrs. Beckford reached up and took her glasses off, the red mark standing out on the bridge of her over-sized nose. She looked different without the glasses; her eyes now big and dark on their own, and the thick dark eyebrows clearly visible.

After she set the glasses on the dresser, she came back in front of me, swallowing along with me as my mind went blank.

"I - I don't know what I'm supposed to do," I finally said.

"You are the man," Mrs. Beckford said softly. "I am your vessel. You can have me as you wish."

I reached my hands up toward her, and then retracted them. Think, stupid, I said to myself. You've made out with girls before.

But this was different. before when I was groping and feeling up girls I was doing it knowing damn well that any second I was going to get stopped or slapped, but that wasn't going to happen here.

Mercifully, Martha took my hands and put them on the lapels of her robe, and pretty much had me pulling the cloth open, letting it slide off her bony shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

She was wearing a bra, and nothing else. The dingy white harness looked older than I was, and after I looked to see whether it opened in the front or not (something I didn't do once and instead fumbled in the back for the non-existent hooks while Beth Kramer giggled), I reached around Martha and tried to undo it while avoiding touching her.

Mrs. Beckford turned around and made life easier for me. I still struggled with the three hooks, but when the last one came free and the elastic slipped out of my hands, she turned around and let me pull it off of her.

Mrs. Beckford's grapefruit-sized breasts loomed in front of me, their pink pebbled aureoles about the size of silver dollars, with pencil-top erasers for nipples. I managed to get my mind and limbs working long enough to be able to put my hands on them.

"Nice," I whispered softly, the globes not as firm as the ones I had experienced before, but still feeling nice in my palms as I massaged them. They would look bigger on a smaller woman, but on this tall and broad shouldered frame, they looked lost on the wide pale expanse around them.

Martha Beckford sighed, so I kept on with my crude foreplay, practically treating them like bicycle horns while the older woman swayed from side to side as she looked up to the ceiling.

Then I was being brought over to the bed, with Mrs. Beckford's hands clutched over my own, squeezing my hands onto her breasts and bringing me over to the edge of the mattress.

My dick was not hard. I had just cum a few minutes ago out in the kitchen, but it was more a case of nervousness that was keeping me soft. Her gazelle like frame eased onto the bed with surprising grace, and then I followed on top of her.

Martha was squirming backward and now her hands were on my shoulders. Looking down, I saw her body slide beneath me as I held myself up with my hands. Her breasts moved past me, and then the long expanse of pale white flesh with the stomach flat and her ribs showing along with the hips.

Her belly button was in front of my eyes, and then a tiny sliver of down went from right beneath it, winding down until it disappeared into the timeline of her bush. Her bush - what a wild jungle of curly black hair it was - fanning way out towards her hips and disappearing between her legs.

I couldn't see the opening, although the hair was sparkling and darker where I suspected it to be. The smell was something unfamiliar to me, and while I had sensed the aroma out in the kitchen, now with her primed pussy inches from my nose, the scent was almost dizzying.

Martha's hands were on the back of my head, pushing me down between her thighs, which were now parting. The smell was sending shivers down my spine as my cheeks were buffeted by her pubic hair, and then my mouth was slipping into a warm moist fold.

I had no idea what I was supposed to do so I started licking, not in any particular place, but just lapping away like a hound dog. The taste was as foreign as the scent had been, but while it was tart and unpleasant at first, the more I licked the less bitter it got.

Mrs. Beckford's hands were moving my head, pulling it upward, and when my tongue got up to the top of her opening I heard her groan. Taking that as a good sign, I started licking faster and harder, and soon her moaning and groaning got louder and turned into screams.

The hands that were guiding my face were now pulling at my hair, grinding my face into her pussy until her thighs smashed against the sides of my head. Her body jerked around wildly under me as my mouth kept slobbering into her incredibly wet sex, until her screaming finally stopped.

As I stayed on top of Martha, my tongue aching as my mouth stayed between her labia and my face rested in her bush, all I could think off was that it was lucky the houses in our somewhat rural area were far apart.

It also occured to me that after all that, my tongue was tired but my dick was re-energized. Was I supposed to do it now? I raised my face out of the steaming cauldron that was her pussy, and looked up for guidance.