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Author’s note: there’s an old saying that there’s two sides to every story. This is a story told, in turn, by a French teacher and one of her pupils. The teacher’s portrayal of events may, or may not, be “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth”. Nor, on the other hand, may the student’s. But neither is really important. What is important is that this is a fantasy – and no one gets hurt!

The teacher’s tale:

I had been a tutor in French at a tertiary college in Windsor for two or three years when Anthea came along. Anthea was 18 and one of those delightful creatures – a natural at French. It dripped off her tongue in a superb accent which belied the fact that she had been a schoolgirl in Slough, of all places, and not a student of the Sorbonne.

At 34, I was a specialist in French, at which I also had a natural ability. Single, and happily so, I was also aware that I was an attractive woman, with a large 40-inch bust, strong thighs and a curvy, very kissable bum. I must confess I did nothing to conceal my voluptuous assets as I always wore tight-fitting blouses and skirts. And, I must also confess, I often caught the lovely Anthea stealing a peak at my twin peaks, or trying to sneak a look down my ample cleavage.

Anthea was attending our college as she was seeking a job with a huge multi-national company with close links to French industry. It was essential for the job she sought that her command of the language was impeccable – and not just “high French” either.

She would also, it seemed, have to carry on conversations with people who, although in positions of authority, inclined to the more slangy-style patois of that wonderful, mellifluous, romantic language.

I noticed Anthea the very first day she attended one of my classes. Her blonde hair – and it was dazzlingly blonde – was cut in a chien style, close and chic. Her eyes were deep blue – almost as blue, for example, as Chelsea football shirts.

Her figure was, as they say, “to die for”. Her lush young breasts, while not as large as mine, looked like they would make lovely handfuls. Her hips flared gloriously out from the miniskirts she was fond of wearing, her thighs looked strong, but not overly muscular and her calves were trim and toned. She was, in a word, stunning.

She had been attending my class for almost a month when, at the end of this session, she lingered while the other nine pupils left the room, chattering and making a typically frightful noise.

Anthea approached my desk as I was putting some text books away and cleared her throat. I looked up, surprised to see her still in the room.

“Er, Ms Allcourt,” she started, “I was wondering if I could ask you something?”

I smiled up at her beautiful young face, which looked at the same time both sexy and innocent – how wrong I was to be about the latter!

“Please, Anthea,” I said, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile, “when there are no other students about, please call me Jeanette.”

“Jeanette?” she said, as a question. “That’s such a sexy name.” Only she didn’t say it quite like that, it was more “That’s such a sexy name!” if you get my drift.

“How can I help?” I asked, indicating she should pull up a chair and sit by my desk. She did so, crossing her glorious legs and revealing a flash of bare brown thigh that made my mouth water.

“Well, it’s something rather – oh, how can I put it? Something rather naughty,” she said, grinning a lovely grin and now looking much more relaxed.

“It’s just that you teach French and I was wondering – and I know this is awful of me – but I was wondering if you were aware of ‘Frenching’. At least that’s what I think they call it.”

I smiled what I hoped was a scholarly, professorial smile. “Well,” I said, not quite sure where all this was leading, “if you mean French kissing, I am aware of it, yes.”

Anthea shook her chic little head seductively. “No, Ms – oh, sorry, Jeanette,” she said, in a voice now full of teenage confidence, “I mean Frenching, nothing to do with tongues in mouths.”

And then she gave me a deliciously wicked smile and added: “Tongues in other places, perhaps?”

I felt my cheeks redden. “Er, yes, well, er, yes, I am vaguely aware of that sort of Frenching, as you call it,” I responded. “But how can I help?”

“Well,” said Anthea, her forefinger drawing a sort of doodle on the dust on the top of my desk, “I was wondering if you would give me some private tuition in it. I mean, you couldn’t give tuition in Frenching here in class, after all, could you?”

My heart was now thumping and I was acutely aware that Anthea’s stare was fixed on my breasts, which were heaving in my tight black silk blouse.

“Tuition on Frenching in class would be, oh, how can I put it?” I said, struggling for words.

“Unorthodox?” suggested my lovely young student, with almost a leer.

“Yes, precisely, Anthea, precisely,” I gabbled, “er, yes.” And then I finished, tamely: “Unorthodox.”

“So I was wondering if you’d be prepared bahis firmaları to enlighten me with some private tuition, say at your place?” the lovely little minx pressed me.

I looked towards the door, dreading that someone might return to class to fetch something they’d forgotten. No one came.

“Well, er, yes, I suppose so, yes, I guess that would be possible,” I told her. “We could do it – er, the tuition, I mean – at my place, I have a comfy little flat above a shop in Eton High Street. After class on Friday, perhaps?”

Anthea shook her head. “Friday’s out, I’ve got a date with my bungling boy friend, who’ll be trying to get into my bra and then my panties,” she laughed.

I looked aghast, but she smiled: “Don’t worry, I don’t let him. He gets to stroke my bra, but that’s it. Now, I’m playing hockey on Saturday morning, so shall we say Saturday afternoon?”

With trembling hands, I wrote down my High Street address, a time and a phone number. “Now be careful,” I told her. “Hockey can be a very dangerous game.”

And then I added, and betrayed my interest in her: “Be careful you don’t get injured. I’d hate for you to miss some private tuition!”

As she stood to leave, the lovely young thing traced a cool hand across my upper thigh. And I believe I blushed – at 34, I blushed!

Friday dragged and Saturday morning seemed like an eternity. I took a long, luxurious bath in my small but well-appointed bathroom. Then I shaved my pussy, removing any traces of pubic hair which might have grown since my previous shave about four days before. I left a narrow strip of dark brown hair from my mound, which rose about three inches towards my navel. I looked spick and span.

I then pulled on one of my sexiest little black silk slips, which brushed so erotically against my nipples, making them as hard as stones. I stepped into a pair of Lulu Guinness classic high heels – shoes are my weakness, I’m afraid, I use far too much of my good pay on shoes, the sexier the better.

I turned and looked at my rear reflection in the wardrobe’s long mirror. My bum was just covered by the shiny black silk, but when I bent over slightly, the material rode up to reveal my pussy. I decided to go without panties – after all, Anthea had been pretty explicit about what it was she wanted!

Then I began to worry that the phone would go and it would be her to say she’d had a change of heart, or that she’d broken her leg playing that stupid hockey game. There were three calls, and at the first “ping” of each my heart gave a frightful leap of agonised tension.

I need not have worried – the first was a wrong number, the second was an awful man trying to “hot sell” some product, what, I can’t even remember now, and the third was my mother asking when I was going to visit her in Bracknell. I was so relieved it wasn’t Anthea cancelling that I was actually pleasant to mum and engaged her in a long conversation.

Lunch was out of the question – I had too many butterflies storming around in the pit of my stomach to contemplate food!

Finally, I heard a clock from the college chime 2 o’clock and then I heard – right on cue! – a ring on the door bell. I almost sprinted downstairs, opened the door a smidgin, saw her lovely face smiling at me, moved behind the door frame and Anthea stepped into the little square foyer in front of the stairs.

She was looking freshly scrubbed and healthy, her face was glowing, a faint dab of deep red lipstick on her mouth. She was in jeans and a large woollen sweater and carrying an Yves St Laurent shoulder bag. I wanted to snog her to death there and then, but I led the way upstairs.

Anthea followed and half-way up the flight leading to the apartment she laughed: “Oooh, Jeanette, you are naughty – no panties, you wicked woman!”

Upstairs, the lovely blonde stepped into the centre of the room, looked around, remarked “Nice”, tossed her YSL bag on the floor then pulled off her sweater. I gasped at her superb breasts, encased in a shiny black satin uplift brassiere, the upper globes brown and gleaming.

Then she unzipped her jeans and struggled out of them. Her calves and thighs were bronzed and beautiful. On her hips hung a little black satin thong, her buttocks were almost perfectly round, scrumptious mounds of teenage flesh.

“We’re in no rush, Jeanette,” said the gorgeous teenager, in a forceful, even commanding voice, “come and sit down over here with me.” And with an outstretched hand she led me to a couch against one wall. I walked with her and sat on the cool leather, feeling the stickiness from my pussy dampening the seat.

Anthea looked at me and cupped my chin in her hands and then delivered a wonderful, open-mouth kiss. As our tongues intertwined, one hand brushed across my breasts, tweaking the nipples inside the material.

“You have got such wonderfully full breasts,” she whispered, breaking off from the kiss, “I’ve been fantasising about them for days, how they would feel, how hard the nipples would be, how firm kaçak iddaa the flesh. And you’ve not let me down one bit.”

And with that her hand delved beneath the hem of my slip and rose to my right breast, cupping it, stroking it, massaging it. Then her other hand pulled the slip up so it was hooked across my shoulders and my twin peaks stood out, full and facing her.

Anthea’s mouth was hot on my nipples as she sucked first one, then the other, her wonderful oral adoration taking my breath away. She sucked on my nubbins, licking them, kissing them, playing a magnificent tune until I could hardly stand it any longer.

Then she was slithering away from me, pushing my right thigh away so my leg was against the edge of the couch, my right foot on the floor. Next she pulled my left thigh up, and I hooked my left foot over the back of the couch. Now I was totally exposed to her.

I lay back and saw her looking at my exposed quim, her blue eyes flashing, her tongue licking against her lips. “That’s a good girl,” she said. A girl? I’m 34, for heaven’s sake – she’s the girl, she’s the teenager!

“Lie back and let me show you what I mean by a good Frenching,” she ordered, and her mouth was suddenly against my box, licking, probing and delving into the places which for so many long, starved months now had been secret places only explored by my fingers.

Her little tongue was hot on my anus, then it was at my cunt, my weeping, sobbing cunt.

“Oh, Jeanette,” said Anthea, in that still commanding voice, “you’re sopping wet and you want me so much.” And again her tongue went to work, thrusting into my cunt, then parting my labia lips and diving into my hidden folds of flesh, before rising to my clitoris and teasingly bringing it out to play.

My hands fell onto her short-cropped hair and stroked her there. Her tongue was a darting, diving little snake, thrilling and paralysing me. I lay back, not daring to move, not daring to breath hardly as I felt her oral ministrations bringing me closer and closer to the inevitable climax which I knew was only moments away.

Then the crashing roared to an unavoidable bursting, billowing, blinding scream and I soared into sex space, as her tongue gave me one of the most intense, body-jolting climaxes I have ever experienced.

Anthea sat back up, smiled me a mischievous little grin and unhooked her bra and tossed it away. Her breasts hardly dropped one centimetre! They were magnificent mounds of 36-inch glory, the nipples dark pink, the areolae small but exquisitely shaped. Then she stood and stepped out of her thong.

Now my gaze was transfixed on her mound, her lips showing between her firm young thighs, her little heart-shaped piece of light, almost white pubic hair, on her mons. I stood from my place on the couch, and Anthea sat in the middle of the seat and placed her high heels a yard apart on the floor and presented me with an untrammelled view of her snatch.

“On your knees, Jeanette,” she said, in a voice that brooked no dissent, “and let’s see what you’re made of.”

I made no objection – I was enthralled by her fantastic, firm young body, I wanted her, I was hungry and thirsty for her all at the same time. I knelt before her thick-lipped labia and inhaled wantonly at the strong, rich aroma seeping from her snatch.

My tongue flickered along her trench, from her clitoris to her labia, tasting the tangy juices seeping from her, then I was at her cunt, pushing my tongue into it, tasting her velvety softness, her seeping, sopping softness.

Then I dived lower, to her brown-puckered anus, tight and inviting. I kissed it, then licked it, then – in a move I would never have dreamed I could make – I placed my fingers on the insides of her buttocks and pressed the flesh outwards, until her anus was opening, peeping with its pinkness at me. My tongue licked up there, tasting a brackish, tangy taste, then I moved back to her cunt, and up to her clit.

Her hands came down and fastened onto my head. “Stay there, keep it there, lick me there,” came her command, and my tongue flashed back and forth until with a moaning, grunting sound which rose into a higher-pitched yell, she announced those two wonderful words – “I’m coming!”

My tongue flashed faster and faster until, finally, she calmed and pushed me away, before turning around, kneeling on the couch and presenting me with her wondrously kissable arse.

“You seemed to like kissing my anus, now you can get work on my buttocks and bumhole, Jeanette, while I present your report card,” she said, in a tone which brooked no argument.

I gazed at the round moons of bum flesh before me, her anus brown and inviting, her pussy lips lower down, and then I started to work on her, kissing and licking all over her firm, pert buttocks, before once more worshipping her luscious little anus.

As I performed this oral adoration, Anthea spoke. It was a voice that proclaimed, quite simply “I’m in charge!” It was not the voice of a pupil, it was the voice of a mistress kaçak bahis – a headmistress, I thought, almost laughing aloud at my own, awful pun.

“Well, if I was a school teacher marking your report card, under the heading ‘Frenching’ I’m afraid I’d have to write ‘Must do better!’,” Anthea informed me, as I continued to work at her buttocks and arsehole.

“And what happens to naughty girls who are so pathetic at Frenching, eh Jeanette?” her voice snapped out like a whip cracking across my back.

I pulled from her glorious bum and said, as calmly as I could, although my heart was racing: “They get punished, my dear Anthea, they get punished.”

The youngster pulled her arse away from my eager, submissive mouth and laughed: “Too fucking right, Jeanette, they get punished!”

She then sat on the couch and snapped her fingers, like a boorish person in a restaurant trying to attract the attention of a waiter! “Over to my bag – on your knees, Jeanette, on your knees – and in the bottom you’ll find something that I need for your beautiful big bum!”

I turned on all fours, displaying that “beautiful big bum” to Anthea and crawled to her bag. Delving into it I came across the item she was obviously referring to when she had spoken of “something” that she needed.

It was a gleaming black leather tawse, the handle like the grip of a golf club, only this was about six inches in length, no more. The punishment end of the implement was about a foot long, and at the tip the four-inch width of the business end had been split into two separate strips, each about four inches long. It looked lovely, but it also looked cruel.

“Put it in your mouth, and crawl back to me, there’s a good teacher,” said Anthea, in a faintly sarcastic tone. I did as she ordered and she took the tawse from my mouth, then patted her lap. “Come on, come and get it, Jeanette!”

I could hardly believe what I was doing, but I obeyed the teenager’s instruction, and soon found myself bent over the young madam’s lap, arse on display, feet on the floor behind me, palms in front.

Then the tawse hit home and it stung as if I’d been jolted by an electric shock. I writhed and yelled, but Anthea’s response was to crack me again, and again. After six strokes, I felt her fingers probing my backside, one sliding into my anus, then pulling back, driving next up my vagina. I was sopping wet.

“Want six more from the other side, darling?” I heard her ask, her voice now calmer, softer, more friendly.

“Yes, please, darling,” I whispered, and I stood and stretched out over her lap the other way round. Six more stinging, stunning electric shocks smacked into me, then the fingers of her other hand probed my anus and pussy once more.

Finally, she was done, and she stood, took me in her arms and gave me a long hug. Then, bending over, she picked up her thong and asked: “Got a glass bowl?”

I nodded, dumbly. “Sure, what for?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” she smiled, and I went to my little kitchen and returned with a bowl I used for beating eggs for omelettes.

“Bathroom?” asked Anthea, and I led her to that room. Inside, she placed her feet apart and held the bowl beneath her lovely pussy, then let go a strong stream of light yellow urine into the container, almost filling it.

Anthea then put a plug in the basin, and poured the contents of the bowl into it, plopped the thong into the urine, then walked back into the living room.

She dressed, put the tawse in her bag and turned to give me a kiss on the mouth. “Let those panties marinate in that pee for an hour, then let the water out,” she instructed me. I nodded, meekly.

“After another hour, put the panties in an airing cupboard, let them dry out a little. When you go to bed, place them on your face, OK?” I nodded once more.

“If they’re still damp, you may need to place a towel over your pillow,” said Anthea. “Inhale the aroma and think of me while you finger fuck yourself.” I nodded.

“Then you’ll fall off to a lovely, deep sleep. When you wake up, my lovely aromatic panties will still be on your face. Then you can have a dawn breaker while you think of me.”

And she skipped to the door and turned. “Don’t worry, I’ll find my own way out,” and with that she descended the stairs.

I walked to the head of the stairs and stood there, naked save for my high heels, and watched as she departed. The door opened, the noise of the bustle of Eton High Street flowed up to me. Anthea looked up, winked and blew me a kiss, then the door closed and she was gone.

I ran my tongue across my lips, tasting the wonderful tang of her sex juice. I knew she would be back.

The student’s story:

For me, the best thing about French lessons at that college in Windsor was Ms Allcourt, our teacher. I don’t know how old she was, but possibly in her early to mid-30s, an bracket which, I must confess I found rather old, being an 18-year-old – well, nearly 19, actually.

But Ms Allcourt was very alluring. She was taller than me, which isn’t difficult because I’m only five foot three, but she’s got this lovely brown hair, which sort of bounces just above her shoulders and these deep brown eyes, eyes so deep you’d swear you could swim in them.

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