Road of Good Intentions

Sixteen different stories of catholic schoolgirls growing up

The stories range from romantic to hard core erotica. All involve teenagers growing and navigating the world.

The stories follow a rough chronological order but can be read in any order. The table of contents has a brief description of each story, with tags.

Thank you to everyone who edited, read, and commented on the stories. Special thanks to storiesonline.net for hosting the original drafts.

If you enjoyed the book, please email me with comments (or if you didn't, still email) at tmax02610@gmail.com

If you enjoyed the book so much that you would like to contribute to me writing more stories, please consider buying me a coffee.

Reader Comments

"Good read" - bikergroshen

"Nice story" - notreal347

"Loved it! Everything you do well was on display." - kelliesfrog

"Creative, odd, sexy, very well done." - Dr_BuzzCzar

"This is a story with depth on several levels." - Fofo_Xuxu

"Excellent writing." - yonian

Table of Contents

Prologue: Ms. Barrett teaches Catholic Schoolgirls Sexual Health

Ms. Barrett contemplates her class of sixteen girls, worried about their future, she changes the curriculum. The lives of the girls will never be the same. - No sex

1: Sarah Receives Answers

Schoolgirl Sarah dreams about what sperm tastes like so much that she decides to learn with a trip to a glory hole. - public, oral, strangers

2: Taylor Tries Again

Gymnast Taylor learns the most important life lesson: always get up again. - public, sport, multiple, smoking

3: Lisa Wants Everything

Lisa covets a classic album and devises a plan to get it, unfortunately it goes wrong - blowjob, implied crime

4: Sally Practices for a Husband

Sally knows that practice makes perfect, so she practices for all the sexual things her future husband may need, but practice takes effort. Will Sally survive the day? - public, vegetable insertions, lesbian, school

5: Principal Saves Mary

Forgotten at home and in need of money, Mary gets into trouble at her job. She turns to Principal Campbell, the only person with time to help. Principal Campbell helps her understand the power within herself. - orgy, prostitution, bondage, lesbian

6: Amara Suffers Betrayal

A minor mystery about who posted the picture that will kill Amara and her mother. - teacher, violence

7: Judith Has a Problem

Judith receives an unexpected royalty cheque, which her parents use and end up in the hospital. Judith crashes her car and ends up in a horrible place. - rape, violence, suicide ideation, salvation

8: Kiera’s Business Opportunity

Kiera gets ready for her sexual online fan site to go live. She discovers some surprising things about her father and mother. - exhibitionism, public, incest

9: Vivian Gives Everything for Salvation

Vivian does everything she can to help, unknowingly including sinful things - blowjob, gangbang, incest, lesbian

10: Morgan Finds Help

Morgan, a chemist, needs help with her drug business. She interviews three candidates over breakfast, where she must find a helper and the traitor. - sexual harassment, bathroom groping, sex, virgin

11: Izzy’s Dream Comes True

Isabella, with the blond hair, decides to find a husband, and she decides that her best friend’s father would make the best husband. - love, implied incest, sex

12: Sam’s Hump Day Doesn’t Suck

Awkward Sam, never call her Samantha, has the best Wednesday of her life when she helps a fellow student. - romance, no sex, lesbian

13: Martha’s Heart Breaks

Lesbian Martha doesn’t fit in at her catholic high school, worse, she likes her best and only friend, even worse, she confesses her love and gets rejected. - drugs, lesbian, mfff, non-consensual, redemption

14: Jennifer Meets a Guy

Strange Jennifer meets a guy who finds her attractive and enjoyable. She brings him home. - love, virgin, gentle, safe sex

15: Bella Helps Family

Isabella, brunette, grows concerned for her older brother's change in behavior and meets the mafia man of her dreams while investigating - love story, first time, car sex

16: Teagan Makes Contact

Teagan participates in a satanic ritual and gets more than she bargains for when something goes wrong/right - incest, violence, horror, supernatural

Epilogue: Father Leon Teaches

Dismayed by what happened to Teagan, Father Leon decides to teach the Friday sexual health lesson - no sex

Prologue - Ms. Barrett Teaches Catholic Schoolgirls Sexual Health

‘How do you teach sex education and health to Catholic schoolgirls?’ I ponder and scrutinize my class. Sixteen girls, aged eighteen and nineteen, sit and stare at me. They come from all over the city to attend our private catholic school. Traditionally, people called this a finishing school; the church now calls it a preparatory or enhanced learning school. I have a full-year lesson plan that specifies how to teach sex education and health, approved by the board of directors. Still, the worksheets of ‘Sex equals Evil,’ ‘Abstinence till Marriage,’ and ‘You need to please your husband,’ do not help my students learn and grow.

The curriculum, random and disjointed, on thirty-year-old photocopies, can never overstate the danger of pregnancy for a teenage catholic girl. However, modern contraception does offer trustworthy protection, if only they had access to it. Unwed myself, and after a few close calls, I intimately know the danger of unprotected sex. Now, I use two types, and while I ask, men often lie about being fixed. So, pleasurable accidents have happened in lust and loneliness.

Another light has burnt out, so the back corner shadows have grown larger and slightly sinister in my old classroom, like specters that watch what I do and wait to pounce on my girls. I make a mental note to pick up another fluorescent light bar at the store. Only PhD-level academics can figure out the church's requisition forms.

The ‘Jesus on the Cross’ poster appears more oppressive in the shadows. His selfless act of dying for our sins remains a cornerstone of my life. I gladly give my students sleepless nights and long weeks. I have given them my life, too busy to marry or even date, I have my teaching, my girls, and little else.

Behind my grand mahogany desk, I contemplate my class. Sixteen girls, hunched over the old, small, one-piece combo of desk and chair, clumped in groups of two or three, spread out over five rows of four desks. The desks remind me of the ones I had as a catholic school girl. The current white walls brighten the room better than the dull green of my past. Sheltered all their lives, the girls have no idea about the great big world that will take advantage of, use, abuse, and discard them. I must teach them better than my teachers taught me.

I snuck out of the house for my first love to take my innocence in the back of a big red Cadillac. He also took my idea of maturity when he claimed my best friend's innocence and her sister’s before their father chased him out of town.

Now, social media steals innocence and wraps the girl's maturity around the phones they hold in front of parents, teachers, and friends. The magic age grows younger every year, from sixteen in my day to thirteen or even twelve today. I pray for the innocence of these girls and the knowledge to reach and teach them. In my day, only one or two girls from the public system became teenage moms. Now, with so many social media posts extolling the benefits of teen motherhood, public schools no longer shame young mothers. While maybe old-fashioned, babies do not belong in teenagers. Banned in catholic primary school, most did not get phones until their eighteenth birthday. I shudder to think what they watch.

They work on a worksheet about how sex before marriage hurts, but after marriage, sex magically becomes wonderous. Girls have filled out this exact sheet since I began teaching, and I have often wondered who created it. The curriculum, like the classroom, desks, and much of the church, remains firmly rooted in the glory days before women voted, worked, or had opinions.      

Sixteen girls, aged eighteen and nineteen, work, heads down, on the often-photocopied lesson. Some fill it out for the second time.

Does short, messy-haired Morgan believe the message anymore? Did she ever? She questions everything, seeks, and often finds loopholes. Persuasive arguments will not heal her father or return her adulterous mother.

Or Teagan, tall, elegant, with braided brown hair draping across her shoulder and into her lap. Will the rigid rules help her navigate hormones and budding sexuality? Or will the sheets draw lines she cannot help crossing?

The curriculum, unfortunately, doesn't prevent this gaggle of girls from experimenting and having sex. It doesn’t prevent pregnancy or venereal diseases. It shames them. It makes things worse and forces the girls to hide in embarrassment.

The harsh fluorescent lights shine down and give each girl a halo. However, the same light causes haunting shapes to appear and disappear as they write on and move around their desks.

Two years ago, a lovely young girl killed herself while attempting an abortion. A girl I taught with this curriculum. The death shocked the community, school, and church. Not me. The girl's life ended when the sperm met the egg. Abandoned by the boy, outcast by everyone and everything she loved, she didn’t want to die, but how does an unwed, pregnant, young catholic girl live?

Many girls, over many years, have had their potential destroyed by nature's cruel timeline. Each committed the ultimate and irreversible sin of hormones and naivety.

But what can I do?

I love my students, and I want to support them. Do I keep my job and teach the approved curriculum, knowing a girl will die because of it?

After each funeral, Principal Campbell and I go for drinks. We silently sit in the pub and sip our dark red wine in the comfort of each other's presence. Beyond belief, girls still get sacrificed for our way of life, a necessary by-product of our God’s love.

Since the last funeral, my standard glass of wine before bed has grown into a bottle, while my sleep has shortened to four hours on a good night. At confession, I talk to the priest about my concerns and questions. Did God want me to do this? And if so, why? I received only silence and absolution.

I contemplate sweet, young Sarah, blossoming into a beautiful, brave girl. Little wrinkles cross her nose like when she stared at me as a baby. The image of her funeral bursts in front of me. Flowers, crying parents and friends, and questions, why? How do I offer condolences to my closest friends, her parents, knowing I failed Sarah? Can I hold her father’s hands and lie about how the world will go on? Hug her mother while her tears soak my neck and black dress. Could I show up on Monday and not rip up the useless curriculum? Or do I just continue to teach like every other time?

What about Mary's funeral? Her dark personality joined us from public school in the fall. How do I do the same with her parents? Eyes down, hands clasped together in front, sympathy for their loss, while my heart burns at the injustice. Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t she confide in me, the priest, someone, or anyone?

I scrutinize the class. Will one of these girls, or one from my younger class, cause another night of wine and solace with my principal?

If I quit, a different teacher will teach the useless curriculum, and another senseless girl's death will still happen every couple of years.

To stop the sacrifices, I have tried different approved tactics over the years. I put the fear of God into them, but the message rang false - God means love.

I talked about the pain of sex before marriage. That worked better before social media. Furthermore, I enjoy a night of sweat and body fluid exchange. I explained how boys will use and abuse them, how men don’t love them, and only their husbands can love them properly, a lesser sin for the greater good. Yet, every four to five years, a young girl leaves this world at her hand or one of her well-intentioned friends.

How can I keep doing this?

The volume in class grows as girls finish the useless worksheet. I wait for just the right level before calling everyone to attention. The next lesson instructs about God's love and how all teenagers remain nasty and devil-infested creatures until marriage. I scrutinize the useless message. Can I hand this out?

In dismay at my failing faith and failure as a teacher, I ask in exasperation, “Does anyone have any questions about sex, your health, or anything involving boys?”

I haven’t asked that question since the first day of the first class I taught. The same silence answers me. Then, I accepted it meant no questions, but now, I knew the embarrassment held their tongues.

Still desperate to do anything to change the outcome for the poor sacrificial girl in this class, I bend the rules: “Grab a blank sheet of paper and write a question about your health or sexual health. You do not have to put your name on it. I will collect, read, and answer them.”

Instantly, the noise level rises with pens writing on paper. This excitement reminds me of why I began teaching in the first place.

I glance around the room to study my girls, my beautiful teenagers, hunched over their desks. Long blonde, brunette, and black hair cascade down over the desks. Such a pleasing sight, diligent, confident, impressionable girls, all writing questions.

Vivian appears confused as she tries to write her question. Her thin body hunches awkwardly, while her tongue sticks out, and she carefully prints on the page. Does Vivian know anything about sex? Does she know the meaning of the word sex? She must, at eighteen, she must know.

Wait, what if they ask questions about obscure sexually transmitted diseases or specific anatomical structures of the male reproductive organ? What have I done? I know the basics about sexual health, but not everything. I suppose I can search for answers on my phone.

But what if I contradict Catholic doctrine? Oh, I may have made a grave mistake.

As the girls finish, no one speaks. The bright classroom stays silent like a church during silent prayer. Typically, girls turn to talk after completing a worksheet, but now, thirty-two eyes stare at me. Even impulsive Samatha remains quiet, and she never sits still.

I nod to our class suck up, Martha, to collect the sheets. Martha quickly and quietly moves around the room, collects the papers, and proudly deposits them on my desk.

The girls sit taller, expectant of my sage answers. I worry about what they wrote, strange sexual positions, or exotic sexual dysfunctions.

The first question shocks me, and without forethought, I answer immediately, “You cannot get pregnant by kissing a boy.” Judith, Sally, and blond-haired Isabella visibly relax.

Martha shoots her hand up!

“Yes, Dear?”

She sticks her small chest out in pride, her pink lips form an ‘I told you so’ smirk, “But you can if he sticks his tongue in!” our class want-to-be-genius, Martha, states with great authority.

“No, Stupid, he needs to use his dick and squirt into your mouth to get pregnant!” Sarah, our actual class genius, sneers at her.

“Sarah, Martha, girls, you can only get pregnant if a boy, a man, ejaculates into your vagina.”

‘How do they not know this?’ I think and stare at the poster of Jesus. ‘Give me patience and help me teach.’ Have I done such a poor job teaching that they do not even know the basics?

“You mean pee?” Sam shouts out.

What? A mechanical wizard with useless parents, she knows how to repair a car engine, yet does not know the difference between pee and semen.

“No, Sam, ejaculation does not mean peeing.”

Her head, with a small grease stain under her left ear, tilts to the side, and she opens her mouth to ask another question before closing it.

I squint around the class. How? Instead of difficult questions, they do not know the answers to the basic ones. The lesson plans have failed them. I have failed them!

Now what? Do I ignore the curriculum? It will help this group until the board fires me. What happens to the next group?

Our star gymnast, Taylor, vibrates in her seat and leans forward. She always struck me as intelligent and thoughtful. How does she not already know?

I inspect the stack of questions. I will answer these while I ponder the problem.

The next sheet emphasizes my fear.

“You cannot get pregnant if a man ejaculates in your anus. Only in your vagina.”

Next question.

“You cannot get pregnant from a sex dream.”

Sarah sighs, which causes me to want to comfort her and explain that I had sex dreams at her age. I heeded the anonymous trust the girls placed in me and gave no hint that I knew who wrote each question based on their handwriting, spelling, and grammar.

“Class, sex dreams happen at your age.” I hope the general statement helps Sarah enough.

Wait, did I just contradict doctrine? Many girls have sex dreams, especially when hormones flood the body. But does the church condone sex dreams? I will have to ask the priest before I say anything more.

I scan the rest of the questions. All but one follow the same theme.

Glancing around the room, everyone silently waits for me to speak. In most classes, Amara, our foreign student, habitually stares out the window at the trees, not paying any attention, but now, her mocha skin flushes, and she nods at my answers.

“You cannot get pregnant by cucumbers, or carrots, or dogs, or hair brushes, or anything else you put in your vagina. You can only get pregnant if sperm enters your vagina.”

Hands shoot up to inquire about more. I don't want to know their follow-up questions. I motion for them to lower their hands while I ponder the last question.

This question demands a response, but I pause and gather the strength to proceed. Kiera, who usually plays on her phone, has shifted sideways and strains to hear more. Her perfect face holds interest instead of the regular vapid expression.

I read it out loud, “My sister gets pain when she pees after Dad’s penis went in her cunt.” I take a moment to muster more courage and state, “Please use the proper term, vagina, not cunt,” before I continue to read the question, “Does my sister have the devil in her now? How do I perform an exorcism?”

I stare at the back wall and avoid the writer's wide gaze, before I answer, “Your sister does not have the devil in her. She has a venereal disease. She needs to go to a doctor to get treated. The person who asked about this needs to talk to Principal Campbell or me. Soon!”

I fall backwards into my chair, stunned. Lisa’s father chairs our school board. The board will fire me over this.

I grab the worksheet on ‘How God's Love Will Fill Your Urges’ and hand it out.

Book-smart Jenny writes quick, with a pink-lipped smile, while her classmate, world-smart Isabella, copies off her sheet. Does this useless sheet help Jenny become more world-smart? Does it help brunette Isabella become more book-smart? The curriculum fails everyone equally, almost like someone designed it that way.

Thankfully, the worksheet requires the rest of the class time. The harsh bell rings and the girls leave, louder and more animated. Unfortunately, Lisa doesn’t stay to talk.

As suspected, the PA system politely demands that I join Principal Campbell in her office.

With trepidation, I pause before entering her cluttered room. I move a pile of papers and sit like a little girl in trouble. I have no idea how she will react to my health class today.

I force myself to sit straight and resist the urge to comfort myself as she shifts papers around her small desk. I remember when she hired me decades ago. She gave me eleven commandments, ten I knew, and the eleventh commanded me to follow the board-prescribed lesson plans.

Over the years, we have always supported each other. As two unmarried women, we have leaned on each other during horrible situations. All the funerals, molestation scandals, counseling girls during parent divorces, and even once, we helped hide a young girl when her mom tried to steal her and return to Eastern Europe.

Principal Campbell remains a beautiful, dynamic woman, only slightly showing her age with more conservative dress suits and more pronounced crow's feet in the corners of her eyes. Like the school’s rock foundation, she supports her teachers.

“One of your students informed me of what you said in class. Did you say to use a cucumber to avoid getting pregnant?” Principal Campbell jumps straight to the point.

Stay calm.

My nerves jump, my head throbs with my heartbeat, and I clasp my hands together, “No! I said that a girl can’t get pregnant from a cucumber.” A metallic sweat scent overpowers the paper and musty smell of the small room.

I must stay calm. I do not want Principal Campbell as my enemy. She doesn’t know. She stares at me with disdain, a face she has perfected over the years. She gets a lot of practice as an all-girls school administrator dealing with the daily stupidity of both parents and students.

I launch into my prepared explanation. “I asked the class to write down an anonymous question.”

She scowls and interrupts me, “Is that part of the approved course curriculum?” Principal Campbell takes her job seriously and cares deeply about our little pupils.

“The curriculum states the girls can ask questions, but nothing about how they can ask them.” After twenty years, I know the curriculum almost verbatim.

“So, why did you say that to the class?” She scowls at me and dares me to justify my unjustifiable actions. She knows me well, but still needs to read the questions herself. I still doubt the girl’s ignorance, and I read the questions.

“I think you need to read these,” I say as I hand her the questions.

At first, she stares at me, then down at the sheets ruffling in the cool air from the air conditioner. She leans back in her chair and rubs her chin. Twenty years ago, countless wrinkles ago, she might have ignored the sheets and continued grilling me about the class. Instead, she leans forward and snatches them from the desk.

Her eyes narrow as she flips through the pages. The lids grow closer together, almost closed, until they spring open, and she shouts, “You can’t be serious!” She throws the papers neatly on her desk. A stray paper from a pile at the corner of her desk flies up and flutters to the floor, which joins other papers scattered around the desk leg.

“How would they know?”

“They have the internet!”

I lift one eyebrow to still her body. Her fingers, with red-chipped nails, have minor cuts and rest on the table, on either side of the answer stack. She stares at the pile, and the back of my neck grows cold as sweat evaporates. Goosebumps rise on my arms.

“They have family. They have friends,” she mutters, deflating with each word.

I allow the silence to linger. Rarely has this stern administrator shown defeat. Over the years, she has encountered and dealt with so much crazy stuff. The girl’s ignorance succeeded, where even the most pious do-gooder failed. This stoic woman slumps down into her chair and holds her head. “What can we do?”

The air conditioner rattles in the background while I tentatively reach forward to comfort her before my hand stops and retreats. “Officially, what I did today. But we both know, while I technically followed the curriculum, the board will not agree.”

I sit straighter. I have figured out a solution, but I must lead Principal Campbell towards it. A sweet lilac smell grows in the room, my favorite body wash that Principal Campbell enjoys. From the paper stack at the corner, another piece of paper flutters to the floor as the air conditioner grows louder.

She picks up and shakes the sheets. “They would if we showed them these questions.” Not wrong, but incomplete. Those sheets shine a light on the ignorance of our girls.

“They won’t understand. They will use the sheets to fire me, and maybe you, citing incompetence at best, sexual predation at worst.”

Her head slumps onto the desk, hands covering it, defeated by sixteen questions on sixteen sheets of paper written by sixteen innocent teenage girls. A metallic sour odor overrides the musty paper smell of the school detention room, her office. The hallway grows loud with students between classes. Sweet, defenseless girls, who have looked to us for protection, to shield them from the horror of the world. Their parents trusted us to teach them everything necessary. We have failed in one crucial aspect: sexual education.

“Did you read the last question in the pile?”

She hasn’t. She slumps a fallen husk, not an angry, vengeful angel. “Why bother?”

“Just read it.”

She has taught me almost everything I know about teaching and has likely forgotten more than I will ever know. Still, the impossible situation holds her head to the table. She understands our failure. Thankfully, Principal Campbell does not hate the messenger, does not hate me for exposing the girls' ignorance.

“Please.”

As if holding the world, she lifts her head and peeks at me. All those nights drinking wine after all those funerals have broken her as much as me. Deeper wrinkles appear beside her eyes. Her wide-eyed gaze holds hope but also a threat. If this does not solve the problem, if everything stays the same, I will have to pay for the wine.

She ruffles and glances through the sheets. She reads the last question. Fire fills her body, lifting her. Righteous vengeance has arrived to solve the problem, and she asks, “Do you know who wrote this?”

“Yes, but before I tell you, I want you to know I have a plan for the class. I just need your help.”

I have taken my first step toward the solution. Will she?

“Tell me!”

The cracks in her eyes have fused, and our world shifts. The rattling air conditioner increases in tempo until it suddenly stops, and silence descends. The room grows stuffy as I swallow the bitter taste and answer her, “Lisa.”

Her fists open with her eyes before she leans onto her desk and squints at me. While a thin woman, her passion makes her appear more significant. Red cheeks and a red-lipped sneer, her eyes lay in shadow from the overhead lights. The body casts a dark shadow over the stack of answers. A halo of light surrounds her head's shadow on the desk. Her white hands appear dark with only the tips of her fingers outside her shadow. “The board will not interfere. You do what you need to do.”

Sweat tickles my cheek as a chill runs up my spine.

“Wait till Monday, but spend the weekend preparing,” she says, sits, and turns away. Quietly, I stand and slip out of the room.

I stride from the office, inhaling cheap perfume, mint gum, and sweet onions. Mrs. Foley stands in the middle of the hall, holding orange sheets for the girls. The pious, well-meaning woman often stands in the hallway, uniquely allowed because of her high status in our community and church. As one of three school board members, she controls my boss.

“Good day, Mrs. Foley.”

She squints at something three inches to my right. I peek backwards at old lockers and the air.

“Do not do this,” She scowls and narrows her eyelids.

I find her strange on good days. She shakes her sheets at me, still staring over my shoulder. I peek for a spider or a fly. The orange sheets flap and cool me in the suddenly stifling hallway. Instinctively, I grab a sheet as my heels click down the hall, away from her.

Our interactions often leave me confused and worried. This meeting makes the top three, although not as bizarre as when Lisa’s dad first arrived at our school. The brown-suited, balding, slight man strode into the school with a leather file folder and his young daughter's hand. Mrs. Foley pointed at him and hissed like a cat, “The bearer of light.”

He grinned, “Mrs. Foley, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Hissing, she stepped closer, and I moved between them. Mrs. Foley’s frail body vibrated while she pointed, “The fallen one.”

Lisa’s dad grinned with only his lips and tried to shake her hand, but Mrs. Foley spat and hurried away, muttering, “Corruption, deceit, lies.”

Except at board meetings, they never interact. Mrs. Foley always rushes away. I often imagine her rants at board meetings. Principal Campbell has never talked about board meetings between the two of them. She always begins to say something before she closes her eyes and shakes her head. I want to press for details, but she remains my boss, who once fired her secretary for calling during a funeral service.

Given Lisa’s question, possibly Mrs. Foley knows something we don’t, although Lisa’s dad has only shown kindness and understanding around me. Did he commit incest? Would Lisa lie, or maybe misunderstand the situation?

Unread, I neatly fold Mrs. Foley’s flyer and slip it into the recycling bin around the corner. Coffee gets me through the health classes for younger grades. I manage to muddle through the day. My body moves on autopilot while my mind swirls with ideas for Monday's health class.

I work all day Saturday, reading everything I can on health and wellness. My knowledge of modern women’s health and issues elapsed twenty years ago.

New lesson plans take shape. From dusk to dawn, coffee and ideas make me a young teacher again. Sunday morning, my body reminds me of my age. By noon, eyes watering, mind foggy, and no longer able to smell my coffee, I straighten my lesson plans and place them in a folder for Monday morning.

Opening the fridge for the third time, and somehow not finding anything new, I have the sensational Italian bistro deliver my favorite hot Italian sandwich. I write notes about possible future lessons while I nibble on the sandwich and ignore the mustard drops.

Sunday afternoon, Principal Campbell calls an hour into lunch with my sandwich barely touched, and has news from the board meeting. I almost cried when the board rejected the proposed curriculum changes but agreed to the new Q&A format. As expected, Mrs. Foley opposed everything, Lisa’s dad approved everything, while Father Leon took the middle ground.

All my work lies useless on the table. The lack of sleep catches up to me, so while I almost scream at Principal Campbell, I hold my temper and focus on the positive. I can at least answer the girls' questions.

Disappointed to have wasted so much time on new lesson plans, I treat myself to a bottle of wine and a silly romantic movie. I fall asleep after only half a glass.

Sarah Receives Answers

The classroom lights appear softer, the shadows like arms holding our well-worn desks. Ms. Barrett, the best teacher ever, arranges papers on her oversized wooden desk. Her pale blue blouse falls open to show her flawless skin over her massive heart. Long black hair cascades over thin shoulders to frame her wise face with smoky eyes and full, dark red lips. Her black leather skirt squeaks as her sheer black hose-covered legs shift and tap her flat black, high heels on the linoleum ground. Her lilac scent comforts me and reminds me how much I love this school and Ms. Barrett.

I almost bump into her desk as I walk past, “Good morning, Ms. Barrett.”

“Good morning, Sarah.” Ms. Barrett’s voice sings in my ears. I bounce to my front seat and slip in.

I loved Friday’s lesson and slept better each night after. Her agreement with the official scientific websites about how only real sperm can impregnate a woman comforted me. Some Christian sites have examples of girls and women getting pregnant from dreams. I hoped it wasn’t possible because I wasn’t pregnant. Yet. My recurring dreams of getting filled with cum grew over the weekend. The most vivid and fulfilling on Sunday.

I awoke this morning stuffed and almost unable to eat breakfast. Last night, I dreamed of laying on my bed, naked, my little, perky breasts jiggling with each breath, my small vagina leaking and making a puddle on the sheets.

Two penises appeared, one white and one black. The unseen owners jerk them over my sweet, innocent face. My eyes widen while my body burns. The bright red head on the white one draws my gaze, while the black one, larger than my forearm, casts a shadow over my eyes.

Another massive black penis appears with a thud, it lands on my forehead, causing my eyes to cross. A fourth penis, this one tan, with a dark brown head slimy with pre-cum, materializes beside my mouth. I open my pale pink lips as wide as possible to engulf the helmet tip. I wish I knew the taste.

Two more penises emerge, one for each hand. I stroke them. I imagine their warmth and solid flesh, like a flexed arm muscle, so big my little, pink-finger-tipped hands barely fit around them. I wish I knew their smell. I have imagined roses or lilac like Ms. Barrett.

A penis begins to rub up and down my slit. Much like my fingers when I need to satisfy my urges. I want to observe the penis head pushing my vagina lips apart, but the enormous penis on my forehead weighs my head down. I can’t move my head but I try to peer past the massive black penis on the head and the white and tans ones on either side of my mouth. The ones in my hand twitch as I try to hold them. I move my legs up in the air with hope that the penis will slip inside me. It does, and an overwhelming sensation consumes me, just like my hairbrush does, but bigger and much warmer. My spine tingles as the penis almost doesn’t fit. My juices flood around the erect monster, and my body pulls it deeper. My nipples grow painful as they grow more erect, and my small body withers on my bed. Images of other men in the background, grey, dark shapes, watch me and grin with white teeth. They all have spotlighted penises, some black, some tan, some white, some huge, some tiny, but all erect for me.

Two more penises rub on each foot. I time my sucking with the thrusting, knowing the strangers grow closer to cumming in and on me. Even now, my vagina tingles at the memory. I wish I could satisfy my urges again. I wish I knew the flavor, the smell, but I have only flat images, two-dimensional men, with three-dimensional penis. My thin arms jerk the two in my hands, my tiny pink lips wrap around the one in my mouth and the one in my pussy. The one on my forehead thuds on my head over and over. My toes jerk the dick at my feet. Another two penises rub my nipples, the heads send shocks up my chest and into my head. A less intelligent penis tries to use my belly button as a hole, my belly bulges and hallows with the penis inside me and the one on my belly button. All the penises move together.

I close my eyes in the class, remembering the penis inside me came first, shooting cum deep. How awesome to get filled with cum. The penises on my feet spew, spraying my feet and legs with cum. Next, the fisted ones shoot burning hot sperm across my little breasts, coating them, which causes the penis on my nipples to cover my neck, cum pools at the base of my neck. Thicker than water, I imagine the cum slimes me like the pudding I have used on my breasts. Maybe cum tastes like vanilla pudding. The one in my mouth explodes and coats the back of my mouth. I swallowed, and in my dream, it tasted like vanilla pudding.

The penises jerk over my face and shoot sticky cum across my cheeks and into my hair. Finally, the massive penis on my forehead erupts. A rope of cum travels the length of my body, landing between my little breasts, on my tight pale stomach, and into my sparse vagina hair. It pools in my belly button. The cum covers me, shining in the defused light of my dream. The background penises fire and cover me like a hoses. A shower of cum, like in the mornings before school, but thicker. Some websites claim that cum helps moisten the skin and will give a surreal glow. I wonder how to test that.

I open my eyes wide, hoping no one heard my slight moan. Luckily, the other girls don’t notice me as they pull out paper and pens, and exchange stories about the weekend. I again speculate about the taste of cum. Will it taste like warm vanilla pudding, as in my dream? Or does a stranger's cum taste gross and toxic, as our lesson plans claim?

Mom must like the taste. She often has some on her chin while making breakfast, left over after Mom and Dad’s morning sex. Although, maybe she doesn’t and only sucks Dad off on special occasions because most days his cum leaks from her pussy.

This morning, while I sat at our eating island in the kitchen, Mom danced in Dad’s blue-striped dress shirt, bum cheeks just below the shirt tails, and hummed while she swirled his scrambled eggs. Sperm trickled down the inside of her leg. The clear liquid trail glistened from under the shirt to her left knee.

I licked my lips. What does the little rivet taste like? As her husband, I bet Dad’s sperm tastes sweet to Mom. But what about for me, not his wife, but his daughter? Will it taste sweet to me?

I enjoyed Mom’s dance around the kitchen, putting the coffee on, buttering the toast, and pouring orange juice for herself. My morning mood improves with her energy and enthusiasm.

“What’s the plan for today?” she asked as she spun on the spot.

Her long brown hair swirled while her firm breasts bounced under the cotton shirt. I want to go braless like she does in the morning. I bet men like slightly visible nipples through thin shirt material, and they’d give me their cum. Maybe that happens to Dad with Mom every morning, he sees her nipples and grows an erection that only Mom can service. The shirt rises, and her dark-haired, wet vagina appears, and holds the secret favor of cum.

I moisten my lips, “School, then a hike. Martha wants to show me a tree house she found,” I tell her as I crunch mouthfuls of cereal. Maybe cum tastes more like milk. Both are white.

“OK, have fun, Dear.” Mom kisses my forehead, then leaves to bring breakfast to Dad in the bedroom.

Mom’s breath smells of citrus and calcium with a slight chemical, metallic smell. She only smells that way after drinking Dad’s cum. Maybe if I kiss her on the lips, I will get to taste it. Then I will know what cum tastes like. But Mom left with Dad’s breakfast, and I can only sit and ponder.

I have read online what people say cum tastes like. Bitter, sweet, salty, bland, overpowering, gross, toxic, nutritious, and the divine nectar of God. But how can I know for sure? I wish cum came online like takeout, then I could order a sperm drink from Uber Eats. I still giggle at the idea. How would I explain that credit card charge to Mom and Dad? Mom might not care. She does love sperm. Dad will act supportive but ground me because I didn’t ask first.

Would he let me taste his? No, only Mom can have his cum.

I have listened to her moaning and groaning in the bedroom. They claim they only exercise or wrestle, but I know the truth. I hope one day I have a husband who will have sex with me three or four times a day, morning and night.

Martha disturbs my memory, “Hey, Sarah. What question are you going to ask today?” Martha’s my best friend. Her bright red hair, which she dyes, bounces as she sits beside me. So wild and intelligent.

“What question?” I envy her mature makeup, bright red lipstick, and dark green eyeshadow.

“Didn’t you hear? We get to ask Ms. Prude one question. Anonymously, like on Friday.”

I cringe that she called Ms. Barrett a prude. Martha may know more than Ms. Barrett, but I hope to teach and care like Ms. Barrett one day. I don’t think I will ever have large breasts like Ms. Barrett, as Mom does not have large breasts, which disappoints me, as guys like large breasts. If I had breasts her size, guys would offer to give me their sperm, then I could taste it.

“How do you know?” I ask. How does Martha always know everything?

“I have my sources,” she whispers and licks my ear.

“Gross.” I turn away and frantically rub the saliva off. Why does she always tease me?

Yesterday, during her goodbye hug, she grabbed my butt and squeezed. I had to push her away to get her to let go. She wanted to kiss me goodbye, but I refused and left. I didn’t mind the butt squeeze, it sent shivers up my spine, but no way could I kiss a girl, even in practice like Martha has suggested many times.

“Attention, class. Take out a piece of paper. Like last week, you may ask one question. You do not have to put your name on the paper. You have five minutes.”

Wow, Martha always knows. I squirm in my seat, hoping to ask a good question. But what? What does cum taste like? But does Ms. Barrett know? She isn't married, but she does have large breasts. How can someone describe it? Even the internet can’t agree. Further, I can never find the right words to describe a taste.

“Ms. Barrett, will you answer all our questions? Cause last week you didn’t answer mine.”

Once again, Blonde Isabella does not raise her hand and shouts the question. Dad says she does this because she’s blonde, while brunettes, like Martha and me, have more control, and Brunette Isabella never shouts out in class. Dad always knows the correct answer to everything. I wish I could ask him what cum tastes like, or borrow some of his.

“Isabella, raise your hand,” Ms. Barrett correctly informs the girl. Ms. Barrett always gives Blonde Isabella second and third chances, while other teachers rap her knuckles on the first. Maybe Ms. Barrett acts too lovely, but she cares, and I love her for that.

Blonde Isabella’s small, yellow-tipped hand shoots up while her tiny, button nose wrinkles and pink, glossy lips flatten.

“Yes, Isabella, what’s your question?” Ms. Barrett calmly asks the impatient girl.

“Ms. Barrett, I asked last week if a younger brother could get someone pregnant.” Isabella hates her younger brother, doesn’t she? Wait, if he shot his cum inside her, maybe I can convince him to let me have some. While not his sister, Martha tells me I look prettier.

“Yes, a younger brother, which I hope did not happen, can get you pregnant if he ejaculates inside your vagina,” Ms. Barrett explains again. Dad says you have to tell a blonde multiple times.

“But my brother’s a dog, and you said dogs can’t get me pregnant, and they both shoot sperm,” Isabella states as she twirls her long blonde braid.

Good point. Dogs do shoot sperm. Do dogs taste different? I can get dog sperm quickly. We have two dogs in our apartment complex who always try to hump my leg. Possibly the little black one, as the German Shepherd’s size scares me.

“Isabella, first, you need to raise your hand to speak. Second, do not talk back to teachers, parents, or anyone else in authority. Lastly, and I hope neither has happened, a dog cannot impregnate you because it is from a different species, while your brother, who is from our species, even if you say he’s not, can get you pregnant.” Ms. Barrett remains so calm with Blonde Isabella’s stupid questions.

Isabella’s hand shoots up to ask another question. Martha sighs beside me and whispers, “Finally, she’s learning.”

“Isabella, write your question on the paper. That’s what it’s for.” Isabella lowers her hand. Tongue between teeth, she furiously writes on the paper.

“It’s been almost five minutes. Does anyone, other than Isabella, need more time?”

Oh my goodness, I haven't written anything. I don’t even have a question yet. My hand shoots up. “Sarah, do you have a question? Or need more time?” Ms. Barrett’s calm voice almost doesn’t betray her exasperation.

“More time, Miss.” I thank the Lord for Ms. Barrett’s patience with me. How does she deal with teenagers all day?

“Class, I didn’t tell you to prepare questions, so I will give you as much time as you need. However, before the next class, you need to have a question so we can be fast and efficient.”

I smile at Ms. Barrett. Dad and Mom say, and I agree, Ms. Barrett cares and teaches us better than any other teacher. I learn and have so much fun when she visits for dinner. At her last visit, we discussed whether God, because he’s omnipotent, can make an object that he can’t lift. Dad said, ‘Yes.’ Mom said, ‘No,’ while Ms. Barrett explained weight only exists because of gravity and then explained how gravity works.

After dinner, I wanted to stay up and listen while the grown-ups talked. Instead, they sent me to bed early.

On my pink-sheeted bed, I stared at the kitten and puppy posters that covered my pink walls. I still wish Dad had brought a kitten home. I had almost convinced him. However, he joked that two cats kept him busy enough. I knew he often called Mom his unquenchable kitty, but he called me his princess. I have wondered about the other cat.

Sleep refused to arrive as my mind raced. What did the parents talk about? I crept to my bedroom door to listen.

Our apartment contains four rooms: my bedroom, my parents' bedroom, which shares a wall with mine, a small bathroom, and a spacious main area, with a TV and couches at one end and a kitchen and dining island at the other.

They sat on our couches and laughed about something. I didn’t understand every word, but surmised they gossiped about two teachers from school. Something about how they hugged after the last dance while married to other people: I disagreed with Ms. Barrett that the two committed a scandalous act. I agreed with Mom, “Two consenting adults may ‘smack uglies’ if they want.” Such a horrible thing to say about those two teachers, even if they are old and ugly. Dad just laughed and commented that their spouses might already know. I agreed. If the two teachers hugged as close friends, the two couples likely all had dinner together. Ms. Barrett always hugged Mom and Dad in greetings and farewells.

Dad then said the words I dreaded the most, “Dear, will you check on Sarah and make sure she’s asleep?”

I rushed to bed, dove under the covers, and pretended to sleep. I prayed when Mom kissed my forehead goodnight that I didn’t have sweat on it.

The door opened, and Mom whispered, “She’s sleeping like an angel.”

Ms. Barrett commented beside her, “She’s grown into quite the smart girl.”

I warmed inside at Ms. Barrett's compliment, but focused on steady, sleep-like breaths.

“You’re quite the sexy kitty,” Mom complimented Ms. Barrett. Mom must have tickled Ms. Barrett because she giggled.

Oh, maybe Dad referred to Ms. Barrett as the other cat.

Thankfully, Mom shut my door without my goodnight kiss. While I missed the kiss, she hadn’t discovered I had stayed awake, and I could listen in on the adults, a small, easily forgiven sin. I strained and listened to them move around the apartment. When they finally moved to my parents' bedroom to talk, I slipped out of bed and put my ear to the wall.

They quieted until they giggled. They grew louder, like when Mom and Dad wrestle. I wanted to watch Ms. Barrett wrestle Dad. She can easily beat Mom because of her extra height and strength. But Dad? While they stand at the same height, his shoulders and arms dwarf hers. I stilled my breath and strained to hear better.

At first, Dad groaned at Ms. Barrett’s wrestling domination until she screamed in submission. Daddy always wins.

“Is everyone finished?” Ms. Barrett’s firm voice interrupts the memory. I shake my head and hope others haven’t finished.

What do I ask? I ponder the stark white sheet of paper. Ms. Barrett always says, “Even if you do not know what to write, write something, anything, it helps the brain focus and come up with something.”

I write ‘Cum’ in large black letters at the top left of the page. It helps. I remember my first dream about cum. After Mom and Dad bought me a cell phone for my eighteenth birthday, I searched for pictures of cute wet kittens. I love their adorable, soaked, matted, hairy, and grumpy faces. I spent the next hour fascinated by the online porn I had accidentally found. That night I had my first dream about a penis ejaculating in my vagina. The following morning, I deduced Mom had sperm on her chin and ear, not cream as she claimed.

I wrote ‘Sperm’ in small, block letters at the bottom of the blank page. I wrote ‘Spunk’ along the top and giggled at the slang. I wrote ‘Spew’ in tiny, fancy letters in the bottom-right corner.

Finally, the question arrives. “Do glory holes exist? And if so, where can I find one?”

I hope I can ask two questions, they kind of go together.

Imagine if Ms. Barrett answers both questions. I can figure out how to sneak away and use the glory hole to answer my question, which burns inside me, causes my stomach to flutter, and my mouth to water. I would finally get the answer to the ultimate and most important question..

All the girls have already handed in their questions. I stick mine in the middle. I’d die of embarrassment if she knew what I wanted.

Martha leans over and whispers, “What did you ask?”

I don't answer her. We cannot talk in class. And I don't want to tell her.

“You’ll never guess what I asked?” she whispers again.

I mentally yell – ‘Shut Up, you will get us in trouble.’ I sit still. Maybe if I don't say anything, Martha will ignore me and whisper to the new student, Mary, who sits on the other side of her.

“I asked…”

“Martha, Sarah, stop whispering. No talking in class,” Ms. Barrett’s voice rings out. Great, now I'm in trouble. I just hope we don't get detention. Luckily, Ms. Barrett continues to read the questions instead of focusing on punishment.

‘Talk to Mary instead. Talk to Mary instead,’ I mentally yell over and over into Martha’s brain.

She doesn’t talk to Mary. She never talks to Mary. Martha leans to whisper when Ms. Barrett rescues me.

“OK, class, listen closely. I will answer five of these questions first. They are very similar,” Ms. Barrett says as she rolls her eyes and shifts her hips. She must get a lot of stupid questions.

“Despite what some websites claim, you cannot get pregnant except by having a male ejaculate inside you. Toilet seats and used panties with sperm on them cannot make you pregnant. Sperm needs to enter the vagina. And while yes, the sperm may hypothetically get on your vagina and swim up to your eggs, the chances are very, very remote. And despite what some websites assert, there has never been a documented, credible case of it happening.”

I knew that. The Christian websites give examples of girls getting pregnant, some very young, but the official science websites always debunk them. I try, but fail, to imagine good Christian girls having sex. While theoretically possible, maybe it happened to one or two, but not as many as the websites declare.

“Do not believe everything you read on websites. People who post on them can lie and make things up. In many of the examples, girls likely became pregnant the normal way, through sex. But because of parental or societal pressure, the girl had to claim virginity. Furthermore, I do not believe a person would accidentally sit on a sperm-covered toilet seat, gross, or put on sperm-soiled panties, double gross.”

The class giggles. Who sits on a toilet seat covered in cum or puts on a pair of cum soaked panties? Maybe a lick to taste, sure, but to sit on them? Girls who do something that stupid deserve to get pregnant. It does make me question, where are all those cum-covered toilet seats or soiled panties? I have never found any, and I always inspect the seats before I sit. Most just have pee on them. I hope cum does not have the same pungent flavor or smell.

“OK, three questions asked if you can masturbate too much.”

The class grew quiet. What a great question. I wish I had asked that question.

“Yes, and no. I have confirmed with the priest that the church considers masturbation a sin. You must always confess if you masturbate.”

I nod. Everyone knows that. I have confessed many times. Martha claims she always adds gross details to tease the priest. The last time she told our priest, she used a cucumber on herself. I glance over to her. She stares at Ms. Barrett, hanging on her every word. Perhaps it’s her question.

“So yes, any masturbation is too much. However, we are human, though made in God's image, but because of the original sin, we sin. Our goal is not to sin. Please refrain from masturbation.”

I shift nervously in my seat. I want to ask what to do about my strong urges. Others also nervously shift in their seats. A few, like me, peer at our feet, trying to hide the flush of our faces. Ms. Barrett can’t know I have masturbated; she can’t think of me that way, unclean, sinful, and full of horrible urges. I can have her hate me.

“Physically, you cannot masturbate too much. You will not get sick or anything. You are tarnishing your soul. So, don’t masturbate, especially in inappropriate places, like class.”

At her last statement, some of the class erupted in laughter. I can't imagine someone would masturbate in class. Only Blonde Isabella might do something dumb like that.

Ms. Barrett smiles at her joke and becomes serious again.

“Quiet class. One of you asked, What is masturbation? Please know that masturbation has a U, not an E. It is mast-Ur-bate.”

Oh, I didn’t know that, something to remember.

“Masturbation is when you stimulate yourself, usually with your fingers. Most people enjoy masturbating; remember, it is a sin. So, if you do masturbate, you need to confess to absolve your sin.”

I nod sagely. The last time I confessed to the priest about my masturbation, I had acted out a video online about a girl getting covered in cum. The video turned me on so much that I needed to do what the pornstar did.

Alone in our apartment, I went to the kitchen to find something resembling cum. The mayonnaise in the refrigerator had the best resemblance, so I unscrewed the blue top and tentatively dipped a finger in the slimy but firm white stuff. Maybe like cum. I have always liked the taste of mayo, so I licked my finger and imagined it tasted like real cum.

Like in the video, I stripped off my clothes to expose my budding breasts and almost hairless pussy. Luckily, I do not have to shave to resemble the girls online. I don’t know how to shave down there.

I spread out on the kitchen floor. Like in the video, I imagined a whole bunch of guys over me, their penises in their hands, each jerked over my tiny body, black, tan, white, all the colors, faceless bodies but distinct penises - long ones, short ones, ones with veins, perfectly smooth ones, every type imaginable. My back arched, my legs spread, the cool air caused my moist vagina to burn.

I pinched my nipples and rubbed my pussy, just like the girl in the video. I had much smaller breasts but my imagination contained more penises. My mouth opened with my tongue stuck like hers. I imagined all the penises ejaculating, spewing cum over my body, gobs of white stuff, in my hair, on my face, on my breasts and belly, over my legs. I smeared mayonnaise on my face and breasts to simulate the scene. Does cum taste like mayo? I like mayo on my sandwiches. Does cum taste good on sandwiches? I have so many questions.

The priest asked for a detailed description of everything. He said he had to know everything for indulgence and the correct punishment of my sin. I told him about covering myself, pushing some pretend cum into my mouth to taste, and shoving some into my vagina to make a creampie. I love the term creampie. It reminds me of the cream pies Mom makes. Maybe they call it a creampie because cum in the pussy tastes like a creampie. I asked the priest, but he didn’t know. He just asked for more details.

I told him how I used a hairbrush handle to pretend a penis pushed the creampie deep into my pussy. I did everything from the video. The mayo made everything slimy, and it took an hour to clean the brush later. Mom and Dad also didn’t like me using all the mayo.

He asked, “How many dicks?”

I had forgotten to count. I had closed my eyes, a huge black one, a small white one, a small black one, a medium-sized tan one with a bright red head, a large two-toned one, too many.

“Ten or twelve.”

“Did you play with your breasts?”

“Not really, just smeared mayo on them.” I enjoyed the slimy texture. I didn’t mention that. I hope cum has the same texture.

“Did you have an orgasm?”

“Yes, after rubbing hard on my little nub.” I couldn’t use the correct term, clit, with the priest. I didn’t know who sat on the other side of the curtain, but he had a kind voice. The confessional smelled of stale perfume and mildew. A safe smell. A smell from my childhood, when Dad and I played hide and seek, and I hid in the dirty laundry. He never found me, but I always found him.

“Have you seen a real penis?”

“No.” I didn’t tell him I accidentally walked in on Daddy peeing. Can you accidentally sin? I need to ask, but not now. I have sinned enough for one day.

“Do you want to see a real penis?”

“Yes, but after marriage.” I gave him the correct answer, although I want to view one before marriage. The internet penises fascinate me, so many different types, and so many different sizes from small ones the size of my hand, to large ones the size of my forearm, and even massive ones the size of my leg.

“What would you do if you saw a real penis right now?”

“In confession?” I asked in confusion. I would love it, but I didn’t want to sin. What if I asked the priest to show me his? Would I have sinned? I could ask to taste his cum. Maybe a school project, like something about knowing the taste so I didn’t accidently sin and put cum stained panties on, or sit on a cum covered toilet. I could tell him that if I knew the taste, I wouldn’t get fooled by mayo, pudding, or other white stuff.

He must have gleaned the required information because he stopped the questions. For penance, I had to pray to our Holy Father every morning and night for a week. I inquired if I could continue to masturbate. He just repeated the penance. He did say never to use mayo again, an easy promise because I had to clean the slimy stuff off the floor and out of my vagina.

I snap back to the room as Ms. Barrett reads my question. I sit up straighter and strain to hear the response. My chest tingles, and I lick the saliva off my lips. I can almost taste the cum, I just wish I knew the taste.

“Glory holes, for those who do not know what they are, are holes in the wall at gas stations or porn shops that allow a woman to anonymously fellatio a male. I do not know where any glory holes are. I guess seedy gas stations, like near a highway or places of sin, like in adult or porn shops.” Ms. Barrett appears confused and flushed. She gazes at someone behind me. My heart hammers in my ears. Thank goodness she doesn’t know I wrote it.

Martha leans over and whispers, “I heard of one at that new truck stop by the highway.” Good to know. Wow, Martha knows everything.

Ms. Barrett cleared her throat to get our attention and read the next question,” Dad took my sister to the doctor. My sister says she’s allowed to have sex with anyone because she can’t get pregnant anymore. Is that true?”

Ms. Barrett glances around the room, very obviously avoiding Lisa. Everyone knows slutty Lisa’s sister might have a demon possessing her or something. “Likely, your father had the doctor give your sister the pill or an IUD. Our church only allows abstinence.”

I knew about the pill. IUD? Intercourse Under Distress? In Up Down? Abstinence meant no sex but I could still suck cum out of a man’s penis? Maybe? I will repent regardless. Now that I have a possible spot, I can go after school. I will decline the hike with Martha and go there instead. I will finally know the taste of cum.

“There is one unanswerable question. I will read it and explain why.”

What question can't Ms. Barrett answer?

Ms. Barrett glances around the room and then stops her gaze on Martha. “What does pussy taste like?”

The room erupts in laughter. Everyone knows the taste of pussy, since we all have one. But maybe not every vagina tastes the same. Wait, did Ms. Barrett just imply Martha asked the question? I use my peripheral vision to peek at Martha, who suppresses a grin and sits tall.

“No one can answer questions like these. How do you describe the taste of steak? The type, seasoning, and cooking method all change the taste. It’s a meaningless question, like, what does juice taste like? What type of juice? In the future, do not ask these types of questions.”

So yes, maybe different vaginas taste different. Does cum from different penises taste different?

Martha’s hand shoots up, waving in front of the teacher. Martha vibrates, almost out of her seat. Ms. Barrett ignores Martha and reads the next question.

“Two people asked this question. What is the clear fluid that comes out of my vagina? Please remember to use the correct term. It is vagina, not pussy, nor cunt.”

Everyone knew that. Dad humorously refers to it as ‘my special place’ and to Mom’s vagina as ‘his special container.’ But I knew he meant he put his sperm in Mom’s vagina. Does sperm taste different in a creampie? Mom might let me taste hers if I pretended I needed to know for school. But, what if Mom asked Ms. Barrett? Unless I claim Mrs. Waters, our math teacher, assigned it. But how would I spin the need to know the creampie taste for math? Math has pie in it, and we learn lots of strange things, but we have never once talked about men or sperm. I don’t think that would work.

“It is called ‘vaginal discharge.’ It helps clean and lubricate your vagina and helps fight off bad bacteria and infection.”

Martha still waves her hand. For such an intelligent girl, she acts dense sometimes. As Ms. Barrett said earlier, only questions written down get answered.

“Can boys grow a condom on their penis?”

Everyone laughs at the question. However, I lean forward to listen better.

“No, they cannot grow a condom. Also, never trust a boy to put on the condom.” I know that. Boys are useless at doing things with their penis. That’s why they always stick it into the wrong hole. Martha explained that yesterday. Don’t trust a boy because he might stick it in your ass instead of your pussy. Always either guide it yourself or have a friend help you. Martha said that we should practice with fake penises, but I don’t have a fake penis, and neither does Martha. She responded that we could use our fingers, but gross, I don’t want her dirty fingers in my vagina or anus, and I don’t what to put my fingers in her dirty vagina or anus.

“Class, listen up. I have saved this serious question for last. You need to listen very carefully.”

Ms. Barrett pauses and glances around the room. I sit very still. The perfume scents grow stronger: chemical flowers, metallic fruits, and sour sea mist. A couple of chairs creak near the back as she continues the question, “What do I do if I am pregnant?”

What? Who? How?

Not Martha, she asked the question about pussy taste. Someone else is pregnant. Blonde Isabella asked about her brother last time. I peer back to deduce if Blonde Isabella’s belly appears more prominent, but I can’t tell because of her loose white shirt. Are her breasts bigger? Breasts grow to feed the baby, right?

“If you are pregnant, please come and see me or Principal Campbell. We will help you navigate this difficult situation. If you are concerned about something and need to talk, talk with me or Principal Campbell. We will always do what’s best for you.”

We all sit in silent speculation. Even Martha lowers her hand. Lisa has a slutty sister. No, she likely asked the question about the pill. Not Vivian, as she probably asked about masturbation.

Ms. Barrett puts the questions away and tells us, “You will get to ask more tomorrow. Right now, you need to work on the lesson for today, ‘How not to think about sex and instead, think about God’s love.’”

Oh, good. A lesson that will help me deal with the urges. But what if it doesn’t help?

It said to stop thinking about bad things and instead meditate on God’s love. The more I tried not to muse about sperm erupting from penises, the more the images forced their way in. Only now, the image of a disrobed God and Jesus cumming on me fills my mind.

The bell rings to force us to leave. The old lady hands out little pieces of paper. In reflex, I take one and hurry down the hall. The paper shows a bad photocopy of an important message: ’God’s love is all you need. Gluttony is a sin. Fill up on God's love, not Devil’s food.’ A barely recognizable drawn devil holds a hose and sprays liquid into a round child’s mouth. I deposit the paper with similar pieces in the nearest garbage bin. I want to return and ask how this might relate to my dreams. Do I need to confess my dreams? I will ask tomorrow.

The day crawls by. I spend most of the day imagining what a penis will taste like as it spews from glory holes at the truck stop. How many will there be? Ten, twelve? I hope I can handle them all. The idea of sucking a penis causes butterflies to flap in my belly, but I must act brave like the apostles in Jesus’s time.

Since Friday, and all weekend, my need to know the taste grew. In science class, I stare at Mr. Ryan’s barely perceptible crotch. In English, with each shift of Mr. Bertram’s legs, each time he stands with wide legs, hands on his hips, talking about animals on a farm, I lick my lips and imagine what he might taste like.

In Mr. Goddy’s religious studies, I cannot focus on anything except his long brown pants and the shiny silver belt buckle. What does his penis taste like? If he let me taste his sperm, then I wouldn’t have to go to the scary truck stop. How can I ask him?

No, teachers would never do something like that with a student. Maybe the priest? No, too pious. He often tests me at confession with offers to show me his penis. I like how much he cares, but I wish he hadn’t followed scripture so closely and shown it to me.

As soon as the bell rings, I run out the school doors before slowing to a fast walk. I have only two hours before Mom and Dad get home. By my calculation, if I walk fast enough, forty-five minutes to the truck stop, thirty minutes inside to taste, then forty-five minutes home. I have lots of time, but I don’t want to rush the man. What if he takes more than thirty minutes? I speed up my walking.

I walk with a slight bounce and overstride. I remind myself to relax. However, replaying my dream shifts me back to my race walk. I speed up and slow down, over and over. I ignore Martha’s texts until I can't stand the beeping phone anymore.

“Can’t hike today, something cum up,” I text and blush at that word in a text for the whole world, well, Martha anyway, to read.

I rush past meager single-floor houses with small front yards and slightly larger backyards. As a compromise between my tingling body and my inflamed mind, I skip along the sidewalk.

The newish sedans and clean trucks rest perfectly aligned on the side of the busy road. Trees and shrubs line the street, with only a few torn receipts and school sheets lying around. I pass our eight-apartment complex, which sits on the corner of two busy roads.

Across the busiest street, I enter the older part of town. The houses appear older, and their yards less well-kept. I pass Martha’s house with peeling paint and a broken fence gate. I remember the fear when I played at her house for the first time. Her parents welcomed me and treated me well. However, I still will not sleep over like Martha wants.

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at the extra scary part of town; no more houses, only stores selling cigarettes and candy. One has porno magazines on display in the front window. My blue pleated skirt and bright white blouse do not fit in this neighbourhood. Thankfully, I wore my runners and can sprint through this section. The sleeping piles of clothing don’t bother me, but one man calls out. I don’t stick around to listen to what he wants. I sprint the three blocks.

The grim section ends abruptly at the edge of the farmers' fields. I slow down, out of breath, more from the fear than the sprinting. Birds and bugs replace the street noises. Fresh air with wafts of manure replaces the oil and exhaust of the city. Only twice does a truck pass me.

I begin to skip again. The little tree islands in the fields remind me of a cartoon about a rabbit saving the environment that I watched this weekend - a rabbit streaks across a field like the cartoon hero off to save the world.

The sprawling truck stop grows on the horizon. A massive green neon sign towers over the landscape. With great excitement, I increase my pace.

Eventually, I arrive at the edge of the black expanse. Big trucks dominate the lot. They rumble and growl as they move around. Some sparkle and shine, others have mud streaked on their trailers and cabs. Large poles with thick green hoses run to some of the trucks—most line up like a used truck lot, all different colors. Most have flat gray trailers.

I rush to the large box building in the center of the asphalt lot, a neon yellow and bright white convenience store, and a homestyle restaurant, but no outside washrooms like other gas stations. I hope it has washrooms inside.

A few fat truckers stare at me as I enter the cool interior. Sweat beads on my forehead. I glow, as Mom calls it. My little nipples hurt and itch in my bra. I want to scratch them, but not in public. Goosebumps erupt on my bare legs, and I hold my hand for comfort.

To my left gleams the big, bright, multi-colored convenience store with packages of sugar and salt and smells of lemons and bleach. On my right, coffee and fried chicken invite me to a wooden homestyle restaurant. Straight ahead, the white, grease-smuggled hallway contains the washrooms.

I wish to walk straight, but chicken out and turn left to browse the candy aisles. All the way here, my panties dampened at finally sucking and tasting a stranger’s cum, but now confronted by the actual possibility, I stand feet from my desire and inspect chip bags instead.

My hand shakes as it picks up a bright orange bag. What if the men won't let me suck them? What if I appear too young? Will they call the police? Worse, will they tell my parents?

I put the bag back, but I dropped it. I redden, pick it up, and then grab a green bag of sour cream. Maybe sperm tastes like sour cream. My pussy begins to twitch. ‘Enough,’ I yell at myself mentally, ‘time for bravery.’

I can do this. I must do this. I use both hands to return the bag before I head to the washroom.

The hairs on my neck stand up, and my heart pounds in my chest. The modern curves of the washroom shine bright white with an overpowering disinfectant tang. The row of blue metal stalls on the left opposes the blue plastic counter with white sinks on the right. I pause and check my appearance in the tall wall-to-wall mirror. The glory hole stalls loom behind my reflection.

A bit of water and my fingers fix my wind-blown hair. I add lip gloss to make my little pink lips wet and inviting. Imagine the embarrassment of getting rejected because of dry, scratchy lips - I’d die.

I smooth down my blouse to accent my small, perky breasts. I don’t expect anyone to view them, but you never know. I straighten my blue plaid skirt and pull my white socks up to my knees. I wish I had put on eyeshadow or eyeliner, but Mom won’t buy me any, and I forgot to ask Martha to borrow hers.

I screw up my courage and turn to the first stall, where I push the door open. I expected a hole with a penis or many holes with many penises hanging out. I know, in hindsight, so stupid.

It’s a standard stall like the ones at school. The stall has no holes. No holes with dicks. Maybe just the wrong stall. I move to the next one. Same. Next one. Same. I cross my fingers as I stare at the last stall door.

The bathroom door opens, and country music from the hallway fills the washroom. I jump into the stall and shut the door. No hole, now what?

I sit on the cold toilet seat, acutely aware of the cool bowl on the back of my legs. Worst letdown ever. No hole, no dick, no cum. Stomach acid bubbles up and sours my mouth—the washroom reeks of piss, shit, and a horrible floral odor.

The intruder flushes and moves to a sink to wash their hands. The noisy dryer startles me and almost drowns out the click of her heels on the hard floor as they leave.

I smack my head. I’m in the women’s washroom. The other washroom must contain the holes with dicks. But how do I go into the men’s bathroom? I can’t just walk in, can I? What if there’s a man? What if it’s a police officer, or worse, my dad? I’d die twice, once from embarrassment and the other from Dad killing me.

I stand and move to the sink. I wash my hands even though I haven’t gone pee or poo. No one likes dirty hands. No one wants to get their prized body part dirty.

I stare at my reflection and reflect on what cum might taste like. Will I ever get another chance? I secure my courage, and before the fear can reassert itself, I stride from the women's washroom and straight across the hall and into the men's washroom.

My eyes widen, and my mouth drops open because they appear almost the same. Two toilet stalls and three long white urinals, one with a big, fat, dirty man peeing, to my right.

I stop my body from turning around. Cheeks hot and red, I follow Ms. Barrett’s advice for stressful situations - stand tall, stare straight ahead, and pretend you belong. I stand tall and pretend I belong. I try to stare straight ahead, but I glance at the peeing penis as I walk to the closet stall. My first sight of a live penis, except Daddy’s. Not as impressive as expected.

I quickly slip into the safety of the stall. I grin and do a tiny victory clench. The stall has a hole in the wall shared with the other stall but no dick. Now what? I expected a dick in the hole.

“How much?” a man asks from outside my stall.

How much what? What did he mean? Do I have to pay? I only have a few dollars on me. How much do I need?

The other stall door bangs, and he asks, “Normal rate?”

I squint at the hole. Do I push the money through the hole? How much?

Then it appears. An erect penis. Similar but smaller than the ones from my dream. My hand automatically touches the pink, wet, warm, spongy tip, like Dad’s arm when he flexes for me. A yeasty, pungent smell like Mom’s Saturday morning cinnamon buns rises to me. Will it taste like the sugar drizzle on the buns? Is the wetness pee or pre-cum? How can I tell?

I run my hand down the shaft to the wall as I hear him say, “Double if you suck it.”

Double? Do I have enough? I’ll worry later. I came here to taste it.

‘Better to ask for forgiveness,’ Martha always says.

First, I touch it, and then I move my hand from the coarse brown pubic hair barely sticking through the hole and up the prominent vein of the shaft to the angry red tip. Nothing like I imagined. Hotter, softer, more flesh-like, less wooden, but stiff like a stick, and smooth like he moisturizes daily. Not impressive at all. Does the sperm come from the little hole on the end? It must, but then where does the pee come from? The head has thin lines. What do they do? And the hole has little lips. Can the man taste with his penis? So much to learn.

It twitches, and I lean closer. I smell pee and pre-baked bread and something else.

Not fishy. More chlorine or ammonia. I have never smelled anything like this. I don’t hate the scent, but I don’t love it either. A neutral scent. Maybe I will know my future husband when I find a scent that I love. Maybe Mom knew Dad would make the perfect husband because she loved his musk. And I know she loves Dad’s taste.

I lean further and tentatively stick my tongue on the tip. I taste my first penis, saltier than I expected, but not strong, rather a bit bland. Slightly smokey, like Dad’s BBQ sauce, but not really, more earthy, like green beans or carrots before you bite them. Maybe I need more.

I bring the penis head between my lips and suck hard like the straw of a thick milkshake. He groans. Did I turn him on or hurt him? I read some guys like this, and I never understood why. The girl receives the pleasure of their cum. Lucky to find a guy who likes to get his dick sucked on my first attempt. Maybe he won’t tell on me if I give him enough pleasure. Possibly, he might even give me a discount.

I suck hard while my hand caresses his shaft. I like to caress my pussy when I masturbate. I hope he likes it and gives me my prize. He grunts over and over. My jaw cramps, but I keep at it—the warm head against my tongue. My teeth almost touch the shaft, but my focus stays strong, and I do not bite. I never imagined something so small could feel so big in my mouth. I continue for a long time, I estimate I sucked and rubbed him for three minutes.

Finally, he rewards me with his sperm. The salty chlorine sperm fills my mouth. Fascinating. Now I know.

“Thanks,” he said and pulled his penis away from me. I swirl his sperm around my mouth to savor the moment of victory. A complex flavor of musty, chemical, with hints of sour, sharp, tart something. Chicken? Fish? No. Not sure what. Simple and less messy to swallow. Slimy but not like pudding or mayo. Different, unique. I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it. Not my future husband, or I would love the taste. Good enough to try others, but not worth the forty-five-minute walk. Maybe if I could find someone closer to home, I would do this again.

A small bundle of bills gets pushed through the hole, and then he leaves. Did he pay me for this? Wow. So lucky. Not prostitution because I never asked for money, but so cool. I giggle at the idea that I received a tip for sucking his tip. Could you imagine how much a girl could make if every guy tipped like this? Better, he didn’t ask me to pay. I must have done great.

A set of deep blue, tired eyes under a red, ‘big rig’ hat appears over the stall wall. I straighten my top and thrust out my chest. I hope he doesn’t mind my youth and innocent catholic schoolgirl appearance. I bat my eyes and twirl my hair in nervousness. Will he put his penis in the hole?

“The last guy said you suck.”

Oh no, did I do it wrong? I had never done it before. I thought I had done so well that the guy tipped me. But I sucked. I cast my gaze to the floor. The spotted green floor has soap streaks along it. Maybe the guy didn’t like that I swallowed his sperm. Perhaps he wanted me to give it back? But he didn’t ask. He just had to ask.

His penis appears in the hole. Well, maybe I can do better this time. His penis looks different, as I knew it would, but still shocks me a bit. Will he let me suck? Before he can say no, I lean over and put it in my mouth.

Sweeter with no pungent tang. Still warm and smooth. I want to savor and learn on this penis instead of rushing to get his cum. My tongue swirls around the head like a lollipop it resembles; soft, small ridges, and a prominent flesh ledge between the head and the shaft. I move my hand up and down along his thinner but longer shaft, with no prominent vein, but still warm, and spongy smooth. The whole head easily fits into my mouth.

I explore the head with my tongue. Eyes closed, I remember the pictures of penises online as I touch each part. Smooth underside before the head, the skin around the tiny hole, and wrinkles on the head, saliva coats everything and rolls down my chin. I like that I can taste and tongue this anonomyse penis. I don’t need to worry if I make a mistake because he doesn’t know me and can’t find me later. A smart thing to practice on unknown men before I try this on someone I care about. Imagine if I asked the priest for help and made silly mistakes, I could never show my face in the church again.

He grunts, and a tangy, sweet, milky texture coats my mouth. Some leaks out of my mouth. Tastes better than the last guy, but it happened too fast. I wanted to practice more.

Again, the penis disappears, and money falls through—another tip, too cool—money to spend on something I need. Maybe I could buy Mom something nice, or perhaps I could buy a kitten. I have money for the food and toys. I swirl the sweet mix in my mouth before I swallow it. Better than the last guy, but I still don’t love it. Good thing, but I would hate to rush after him and convince him to propose to me. I pick up the crinkled dirty money, and another penis, shorter and thinner, appears. It smells more smoky and earthy, almost malt-like.

I want to suck and caress the penis longer. He tastes like he smells, smoky, earthy, but a bit more metallic. I enjoy his thinner penis, much easier on my jaw. Smaller, I can get almost his whole penis in my mouth before I gag. A better penis to suck on but as with the last guy, he cums quick. Surprised, I swallow before I can savor the taste.

The following penis smells and tastes sour, salty, plastic, and almost rancid. It turns my stomach. Thankfully small like the last guy so that I can get most of his penis in my mouth. But thicker, it forces my jaw wide, like the first guy. His penis head feels almost rough, but still sliky soft and smooth. I understand why people on the internet have so much trouble describing penises. Each varies so much. He doesn’t take long, but my jaw muscles hurt. I swallow. Money replaces the penis, and I catch it before it falls to the floor. The worst taste so far. The opposite of husband material.

Another erect penis appears, longer, broader, it almost touches the edges of the hole. It smells of horrible yeast and something foul. The combination of sweet, salty, smoky, and sour sum threatens to come back up, and bile hits the back of my throat. My hand flies to my mouth, and I run out of the stall, pinballing off the two men waiting outside.

“Hey, where are you going?” the taller, handsome one calls.

“I want my turn,” the wide, stubble-faced guy growls.

I sprint through the glass double doors across the smelly, truck-covered lot and into a small grove of bushes just off the highway. Garbage lies strewn on the ground, preferable to the mean trucks and truckers.

Pride fills me. What an experience. Cum has so many different tastes. Like a steak, each penis and cum combo had similar but different flavors. I bet because everyone has a different diet.

The smell of rotten milk assaults me as I hide, crouching within the grove. How do I get out of here? What if one of the truckers recognizes me? What if one of them kidnaps me? So extremely stupid to come alone. The dirty bushes scratch my shoulders. Hard to imagine that the bushes can live in such a toxic environment.

Who can save me? My parents will kill me for coming alone to a truck stop. Ms. Barrett always said she’d do anything for us, and we could ask her for any favor. She has always helped and protected me. But can I call her? But who else?

As the phone rings, I pray she won’t ask why I crouch, hidden at the truck stop. “Hello?” Ms. Barrett’s sweet voice asks. My heart slows, but my hand trembles as I hold the phone.

“Oh, Ms. Barrett, it’s you.” I slump and almost touch the foul mud. “I’m stuck at the truck stop. Can you come to get me?” My words rush out. I cross my fingers and pray, ‘Don’t ask why?’

“What are you doing there?” My heart sinks while my mind races for an excuse, but the cum flavor in my mouth distracts me and doesn’t allow my brain to work correctly. Images of the penises in the wall cloud my vision.

When in doubt, just stay silent. I hold my breath. Please. Please. My foot has sunk further in the mud, the heel of my shoe almost buried. The air has grown cool, nearly cold.

“Never mind, be there in ten minutes,” she has saved me, just like when she didn’t tell Mom and Dad about the ice cream I spilled at the park. I almost cried, but she gave me her ice cream, and while I didn’t like the mocha flavor as much as the mint I had, I thanked her, and Dad didn’t notice. He hates it when I waste food.

My stomach complains about the cum, while I plug my nose against the rotting garbage and junk food wrappers piled beside me. A truck rumbles past. Can the driver see me? I pray I didn’t suck him. Worse, what if I didn’t suck him off and now he wants to turn me in? My body trembles as my heart beats faster than ever, loud in my ears, almost as loud as the truck horns and brake squeals.

The ten minutes take forever. Ms. Barrett’s red Honda Civic pulls into the lot—a tiny red insect against the massive monster trucks. Two trucks cross the path between my spot and her slow-moving vehicle. I sprint out of the bush towards the car as it drives away. Frantically, I wave my arms, again thankful for my running shoes. From sour milk to diesel air, I hold my breath as my lungs panic and almost bump into a trucker exiting his truck.

“What’s a schoolgirl…” his words get swallowed by a truck horn blast.

Ms. Barrett’s red taillights blind me, but I manage to dive into the safety of the passenger seat. Soft beige seats, with filled work sheets on the floor, that I ripped in my haste. Mud from my shoe smears the grey floor mat. Her car smells like salami and mildew, while she smiles like roses and lilacs. My heart no longer threatens to burst, but I still gasp for breath. I squeeze my knees as I stare out the front window.

With a calmness I don’t have, the car maneuvers through the beastly trucks and exits the back entrance.

Silence slowly stills my body. ‘Please, don’t ask why,’ I mentally project.

“Were you looking for a glory hole?” Ms. Barrett asks. What? How did she know? I mean, she can’t, right? I can’t look at her but sense her gaze on me. She holds the steering wheel with both hands like Mom does. She still wears her teacher's clothing.

“Did you find one?”

I gaze out the window and purse my lips tighter. The streets have come on, but the sky has not darkened yet. Two trees in the distance appear like mother and daughter; the larger branches hang over the smaller tree, like a protector giving shelter.

“What was it like?”

What? She wants to know. Wait, how does Ms. Barrett know? Can she read my mind like my parents? Oh, no, will they know what I just did? My stomach grumbles. My hand at my lips smells like a mixture of salty, sour, mettilic cum.

“You do not have to talk to me right now, but if you ever want.”

I nod. Ms. Barrett always listens; however, I can’t tarnish her opinion of me. Just the idea causes my heart rate to increase again. She can never find out about the four cum loads in my stomach or how much tip money I made off those strange faceless men. Worse, she can’t know that I enjoyed the tastes and loved the experience.

Wait, maybe she can’t read my mind. Perhaps, she just notices things. Like she could smell me, but does she know what cum smells like? Does that mean Dad can’t read my mind and just observes things? I close my eyes in prayer. The car wheels crunch on our apartment complex’s parking lot.

“I know you found a glory hole, and you fellatioed at least one man, but I will not tell. It’ll be our secret.”

I stare at her. How? Ms. Barrett has one hand on the steering wheel while the other rests near my leg. The street lights highlight her sharp eyes and pale skin. I wish I had her confidence and maturity.

“You will need to go straight to the washroom or your room. You have cum in your hair and on your cheek.”

What? My hands touch the slimy stuff on my cheek and hair. ‘I’m not a worthless whore,’ I mentally plead with her. I gaze out at the weeds growing around the parked cars. The complex sprays them, yet they keep coming back. A red mustang with rust spots has two eyes glowing under it, our neighbourhood cat, grey with orange highlights. Dad says someone must fix him because he has produced three kitten litters. I hope he makes another litter so I can have a kitten from it.

“It’s ok. Whatever you did, just confess at the next confession.”

The sperm gurgles, but I focus on the yellow flower beside our neighbor's van. What will the priest give me for penance? I put the finger with the slimy sperm in my mouth. It tastes like the second guy. I suck on it while shifting my gaze to dog scratches on the van. I would like a puppy also. Cats and dogs get along if they grow up together.

“I can keep a secret, and I do not hold a lesser opinion of you. You are just growing up.”

Can she read my mind? No, she just said I have cum on my face and in my hair. Thank goodness Ms. Barrett understands. Someone left an empty shopping cart beside the back door. Why would they steal it from the grocery store?

“You don’t have to answer the next question. I have never used a glory hole. What’s it like?”

I frown and rub my finger along my lips. I answer into the window, “Most of the penises tasted good. It was scary at first, then exciting until it became scary again.” I turn to stare at her smile and grave stare.

“Are you planning to do it again?”

Was I? I did like the taste of the first three. Even the fourth didn’t taste horrible. I touch the money in my pocket and nod. I have enough to buy food and toys for a new kitten, puppy, or both.

“OK, but next time, I'll come with you.” She reaches over and touches my forehead, wiping cum off, before sucking on her finger. Does she mean that? Wow! So awesome. Her protection changes everything. With her beside me, I won’t have to stop at four. No one could kidnap me because she’s almost as good a wrestler as Dad.

“I want a kitten.” I don’t know why I said that.

She nods and smiles. My insides flip. Best night ever.

I kiss her on the cheek and sprint for our apartment. I run up the stairs, two at a time, the cum smell on my breath grows with each inhalation. The drab hallways grow brighter and more vivid. The idea of sharing my experience with my favorite teacher causes my vagina to tingle and moisten, and she said she would get me a kitten. I want a fluffy one, with cute little ears, and white paws.

I sprint to the bathroom and enter the shower with the knowledge of what sperm smells, feels, and tastes like. I hope my dreams include Ms. Barrett.

Taylor Tries Again

My right foot smashes into the leather, my arms fly to the side, the grey ceiling beams move into focus before a bang jars my ears, and my elbow explodes in pain.

I refuse to cry. Instead, I stand tall, thrust out my chest, and stomp to my best friend, Lasha.

Her arms enfold me, helping me stay strong and not cry. I turn back to the balance beam, glaring at the offending apparatus.

“You got this,” Lasha says and rubs my shoulders.

Yeah, maybe. Blue and yellow glassy mats surround the long, brown, suede-covered beam, which looms innocently in wait. I stare at the darker brown end where someone left water to dry on the beam. A blue springboard awaits my bounce onto the beam, my hands to land just before the darker patch.

My tailbone itches. I open and close my hands as I stare at the placement spot. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and visualize the mount. Five powerful strides, double leg explosion, head tuck, hips up, feet to the ceiling, hands placed just past the beginning of the beam, fingers spread with a light touch of the supple, firm suede, arms spring, hips rotate, left-foot ball then heel, right foot beside - overspin, yelp, and hard landing on my ass. I fight the image to stay on the beam.

Lasha’s toxic, musty air tickles my ears. “You got this.”

Caring fingers dig into my tightening shoulders, causing pain to shoot down my spine.

Yeah.

Stride, bounce, hands, fall. No fall. Stride, bounce, hands, stay on the beam, don’t fall. Don’t fall.

I open my eyes to the beam and wait for my hands to steady.

I begin my approach - right, left, right, left - my hip tightens. I won’t make the spring. Growling, I clench my fists and hobble to the side, smashing my feet on the unforgiving plastic mats. No! I smack the beam and stamp my foot where my ass landed two months ago, two months of hobbling, texting instead of doing, watching instead of doing, and missing all the lead-up competitions.

My teammates visited when they had time.

I turn and force myself not to limp to Lasha. My tailbone itches with each step while I avoid Lasha’s concern.

Yesterday, I made the spring before my hips failed. Saturday, I touched the beam. Friday, I placed and rotated.

Lasha’s hands grip my neck. “You can do this.”

“Yeah.”

I turn back to the approach. Smokey, woodsy, breathes comfort me. I study the lead up - right foot there, left foot there, right, left - a sharp pain wiggles up my spine.

Her fingers dig, pressing and hurting tight muscles. Her shoulder ministrations meet my tailbone’s shivers in the middle, at my stomach, which contracts, and bile fills my mouth.

“You got this.”

“No,” I shake my head, “not today.” My tailbone needs more time to heal.

“It’s ok. It’s just nerves,” Lasha offers her arms. I turn into them, crying.

The doctor told me the tailbone had healed, allowing me to return to practice. The doctor reassured me and showed me the X-rays. Yet, I can’t do a simple but dangerous jump.

Her hands rub up and down my spine, soothing my soul. I let out a sigh and forced my eyes shut.

Her concern, fear, and doubt drip from her voice, “You’ll get it.”

She rubs my lower back as Natalie joins the hug.

“It’s just nerves. You’ll figure it out.” Natalie whispers. One arm goes around Lasha, and the other around me. She kisses my ear and squeezes tighter. Mint covers her musty, rotten egg breath. “You’ll be ok.”

Lasha kisses my forehead as Natalie rubs my tailbone.

“Enough girls, back to practice!” the coach yells from across the gym.

Natalie squeezes my bum before returning to her visualization.

“You’ll get this.” Lasha kisses my forehead before returning to her stretching.

“When?” I ask no one.

I move to practice rings. Flawless. Bars. Floor. Flawless.

“Are you going to be ready for Saturday?” Coach limps over, slightly favoring his destroyed knee.

My heart sinks while my body stands taller, arching my back for more height. I gaze up at V-shaped eyebrows, narrow eyes, and a frown behind a well-trimmed beard.

“Sure,” I mumble.

My heart rate falls, slowing to a thudding beat in my ears. Coach offers sturdy arms accented by a too-tight shirt, and I slump into them. His soft belly and musky cigarette scent comfort me. To curb the cravings, I have recently taken up the foul habit. I borrow Lasha’s because I find Coach’s cigarettes too harsh and toxic.

“Is it the tailbone still? Does it hurt?” He asks as he rubs my back, pressing his fingers up and down my spine. I shiver and moan as his fingers press between each vertebra.