Virginia

It's a curious name, really. Virginal. Virtuous. The perfect name for the perfectly good girl that my parents always wanted, in poofy skirts and blonde pig tails and a slightly vapid smile that denotes a lack of any real substance beyond it. Well, Mom and Dad, I'm sorry to disappoint you. You may have given me a chaste name, but the urge to get fucked up the ass, that's all me. Or, hell, maybe I got it from one of you. Is butt-sluttery hereditary? Is the love of having my tight anus stretched out by a thick cock hard-coded in my genes? Or is it something I've learned, a cultural trait conferred to me via too much MTV and too many raunchy comic books? Maybe the whole of society is simply one big, brain-washing machine to turn ostensibly good girls into cock-craving anal whores? Maybe Big Brother is watching me masturbate with a rubber cock between my cheeks and my tongue lolling from my mouth like a deranged girl from some third-rate hentai clip.

Maybe. But whatever the case, I keep my predilections under wraps. Working as a kindergarten teacher, I'm not in the habit of sharing my personal or private life, beyond the occasional mention of my cat at home or how much I like to read. Gotta keep the kids at arm's length, you know? Otherwise, they'll want to know everything, as if they own you. I guess they do, in a sense; they certainly own most of my time and attention, even when I'm not at work. Preparing lessons in the alphabet and in counting, making paper cut outs of animals or writing words on cards for their memory games. There's always something, some task to prepare or chore to do to clean up after the little monsters. Crayons lodged in impossible places, clumsy scribbles of some innocently obscene word in a low place where they think I won't see. I can't tell you how many times I've had to clean 'fart' off the walls, but I suppose that comes with the territory. Better that than dealing with moody, hormonal teenagers and their insipid gossip and bullshit. At least with a group of kindergartners, you know that the idiocy they spew is because they don't know any better, and not because they read a few pages of the Communist Handbook and got inspired to change the world, one sour, moody pop-punk song at a time.

But I digress. Working with children all day, it's easy to get distracted by a random train of thought, and I confess that I sometimes feel a bit stir-crazy after tending to the little spawnlings for five days in a row. You can only do so many songs about clapping and counting syllables before your head starts to go a bit loopy, you know? Which is where you come in. Tall, clean-cut and handsome, with kind eyes and a warm smile-- the most recent addition to the school, brought in to teach the fifth-graders math and science... how could I not fall for you? And how could I not rejoice when the infatuation was reciprocated? A smile here, a coy, surreptitious kiss there, always hidden and obscured from the rest of the teaching staff for fear of being found out. The administration takes a hard stance against fraternization with your co-workers; nothing but trouble, they call it. Of course, the rest of the teachers know; they've seen the way we smile at each other, the way our hands brush briefly against one another when we stand in line for the coffee machine. Soft, sweet gestures, so tiny and insignificant as to barely matter, and yet so numerous that no one paying attention could miss them. Well, so far so good, I suppose. The other teachers may know, but all they see is a sweet, youthful romance, a cautious courtship between two modest and good-natured people who dance around the issue, too nervous to fully take the plunge but definitely admiring one another's radiance.

If only they knew what we do during recess. If only they had the slightest idea...

Your arms round my waist as you push me up against the wall, your lips pressing greedily against mine as our tongues swirl and grind in a lewd tango, spilling soft moans and panting gasps into the crisp air of the storage room. One hand slipping under my skirt, pulling it up, baring skin and a pair of tiny, black panties, so narrow as to barely even be there. Fingers clasping a firm cheek, squeezing, moulding, digits eagerly pressing into the canyon of my ass, seizing, taking. The sensation of your firm bulge against my fingers, pressing against your jeans and fighting to get out as I pinch the zipper and pull it, dragging it down one tooth after the other until the thick, firm shaft is practically bursting through the button of your trousers. My fingers deftly popping it and pulling your pants down around your thighs, and the weight of your warm cock slapping against my stomach. "Suck it," you demand, lips quivering against my own, and I nod and obey, and slink down onto my knees, one hand grasping my hair to guide my warm, hungry mouth.

And the taste of you, salt and musky and rich on my tongue as you push forward, deep, solid strokes of your hips pushing deeper and deeper between my lips. The thrumming pulse through the shaft, throbbing in sync with your heart beat, and my tongue dragging obediently along your potent cum-vein, worshipping the length and girth of your sex as you buck against my throat, forcing a muffled gag out of me and coating your tip in thick, viscous drool. A grunt from above; approval. You like it, don't you? You like taking the good little Kindergarten teacher down on her knees so you can fuck her throat. You love exposing that part of me, the part that no one else sees. The slut. The addled, cum-loving addict. The good girl gone bad. What a cliche. And yet.. here I am, living the fantasy of being your personal cock-sucker. Of slurping and gagging and drooling over your cock, or shivering with pleasure as you grip my hair more firmly and call me a good girl.

Good girl. The irony is not lost on me.

You give me no time to savor you, though; no time to reap the spoils of my labor. Up, up and around until my face is pressed against the off-white wall, and your hands are grabbing at my ass, lifting the skirt and spreading my cheeks to reveal the thick, flared base of the plug filling my ass. A whole day of teaching with that thing inside me has made me positively besides myself with lust. Now, as your fingers reach around it and tug, teasingly at first and then more firmly, I can't contain my first, mindless moan. The sensation of opening, of spreading around the hard, bulbuous body of the toy, my asshole gaping and winking as it pops out with a muted schlorp, and then your fingers pulling my cheeks apart, spreading me open for your spit-slick cock, and the firm, slow push into me, assisted by whatever lube was left over from the plug. Your warm breath on my neck as you lean in, still thrusting ever-so-carefully into me, not because you fear that it will hurt me, but because you want me to savor every thick, mouth-watering inch of you. Because you want me to moan and tremble, because you want the good girl in front of you to remember the depths of her own depravity, how much she loves it when a strong, firm man takes violates her anal chastity. Hah. Been a long time since there was anything chaste about my asshole. Still, you get what you want. I moan. With every inch of warm cock-meat pushing into me, I moan, every breath a slight whimper of lust-addled need, breathy and high-pitched. You grin, nose pushed against my right ear. Your hand seizes my hip. And with one last, rough push, you spear yourself to the hilt inside me, and slam me up against the wall, making me whimper and gasp with pleasure.

"Good girl," you murmur, and your lips caress the crook of my neck where the sweater meets skin. "Now give me that ass, slut. Beg me to fuck you."

"Please," I gasp in response, the only thing I can think to say. "Fuck me!"

You oblige me, of course; no sense in beng balls deep in a girl's asshole if you don't intend to capitalize on it. A slow drag out of me, keeping me pinned against the wall, and then a hard push, making your balls slap against my cheeks. Your soft groan of pleasure in my ear, the tense flexing of your muscles as you lay more of your strength into me, holding me tight and using my hole for your selfish pleasure. Slow thrusts growing faster, harder, and my lust overflowing and trickling down my inner thighs as you fuck me hard. It is a necessity, and one that I relish; in the brief span of recess, there is no time for gentle lovemaking, no time for slow and deep. You use me, hammering your hips into my round ass with selfish glee, and I meet your thrusts with bucking movements of my own, delighting in my role as an anal fuck-toy. My breasts press pointedly against the wall, and my breath comes out in short, squeaking gasps of pleasure, and then your grunts grow deeper, more profound, and your hips lose all restraint as you slam roughly into me with all your might, your thick cock sliding past the ring of my abused hole another dozen times until my cheeks are burning red and tingling with the force of impact.

You cradle my ass, the large plug held in two fingers and pressing firmly against my skin as you fuck me, and then your grunts turn into moans, and you push forward with all your might, squishing me between your warm body and the cool wall. Pumping, throbbing movements erupt inside me, and I whimper with joy as your heat spreads into me, a thick and rich explosion of cum delivered as deep inside my ass as you can manage. You grunt. You gasp. You squeeze my cheeks until it hurts, lost entirely in your rapturous orgasm.

Until at last you pull out, and I feel the slick shape of the plug pressing between my cheeks, sliding in and sealing your warm cum inside my ass. A soft grin, a pat on the ass-- and then you're gone, jeans zipped up and the faint whiff of fresh sweat around you. Left behind, I shiver and groan with restrained pleasure, but then I, too, tug my clothes back in order and exit the store room, leaving behind nothing but the smell of sex and a small puddle of female arousal on the spot where my cunt had leaked its immodest pleasure. I flatten my hair and adopt my usual, shy smile. Recess is almost over, and the kids will need me to read them their daily story. Or maybe we'll do a rhythm game; who can name their favorite animal and clap out the syllables of its name for the class?

It's not always like that. No two romps are ever identical. But a few things are constant. It's always at work. It's always a secret. And it's always - always - my ass bearing the brunt of your lust. My name is Victoria. I teach kindergarten kids how to count and spell. I wear modest skirts and conservative sweaters. My classroom is immaculate, and my pupils adore me. And I am a hungry, pleading, unapologetic butt-slut for you.