This story forms part of the Evolution series, about how, in the not too distant future the world is ruled by women, men being relegated to the status of animals, or at least lower class beings. If you want to read more from this series you can find them in the old AS Blogger Archives, currently available via the button at the bottom of the screen.
“I don’t want to see you again until every one of those bats is treated.” Miss Carter had instructed. Emma could see her now, hands on hips, dressed in a blue tracksuit, humiliating her in front of the other girls.
Emma sat, back to the wall, beneath the dim light bulb in the sports equipment storage room on a pile of hessian sacks. A dim, bulkhead light, its glass diffuser a perfect collector for any number of unfortunate insects, her only illumination. She forlornly rubbed linseed oil into the distressed willow of the cricket bat in her hand with a cotton cloth. Her nostrils were filled with its aroma. Only the rubber gloves that Miss Carter had insisted she wore prevented her hands being impregnated with it. Well, she thought, it had been a heavy tackle, and Heather would probably be hobbling around for weeks because of the way she’d fallen, but that’s rugby. Perhaps Emma shouldn’t have grabbed her by the hair and made her eat grass though. Still it wasn’t fair. She consoled herself that in only a few months she was 18 and would be leaving for university.
Emma glanced at the row of lockers against the wall to her right. There was something jammed behind them. She took off her gloves and reached behind the lockers and extracted the yellowed and torn magazine.
The image on the cover made Emma gasp. It was a man, muscular and tanned, wearing only tight swimming trunks. His head was turned skyward and he was standing on a set that purported to be an open air shower on Caribbean beach. The water was running down his oiled limbs and torso. Emma stared at him, his muscular arms, broad shoulders, powerful trunk, wet trunks, the bulging member in the trunks …
Her heart was racing as she leafed through the tattered periodical. In the first of a set of photographs he had acquired a female companion. She was also dressed in beach attire, she knelt at his feet, perfectly manicured hand resting on his inner thigh, a mere centimetre away from the outline of his semi-erect penis. Her mouth was slightly open, tongue licking cherry-red lips.
Emma felt a glow in her groin, a warm, welcome wetness, the tremors of anticipation.
In the next photograph the companion had freed the tip of the man’s cock by pulling at the waistband of his swimwear and seemed surprised to find his glans “staring” at her. Emma’s hand slid under her short skirt, coming to rest on her cotton panties. She rubbed gently at her slit, already feeling the humidity rise through the fabric and her lips becoming very sensitive to her touch.
In the next image his cock and balls were exposed, the waistband of his trunks forming a sling under them. The girl’s tongue quivered, tip millimetres away from him in a provocative close-up.
Emma listened for sounds outside. There was silence. She put the magazine to one side and slipped off her knickers. Quickly she returned to the images and, holding the magazine in one hand, caressed her wet slit with the other.
The girl was licking the man’s shaft. Emma stroked her labia majora back and forth, the deliciously viscous wetness becoming wetter with each movement.
Next the girl took the man deep into her throat. Emma rubbed her clitoris between two fingers, tugging it gently between index and middle finger. She liked the sensation that gave her sometimes, intense to the point of pain. Just sometimes.
There were a few pages missing, and the next images showed the couple engaged in sex in a variety of positions. Emma laid out the magazine at a double page spread of the girl sat astride the man as he lay on his back. The page strap line was “Lucious Linda Loves to be a Cowgirl”.
Emma knelt on the floor, knees wide, her hand sliding in and out of her fiery hot, wet entrance. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes tight shut now, except for the occasional glance at the image in front of her. She thought of the man’s thick hard shaft impaling her, stretching her pussy. Here fingers tried desperately to simulate a sensation that she so longed for, but had yet to experience.
Her mouth was open, but no sound emerged, that would invite discovery, just the quick, shallow breaths that heralded an imminent orgasm.
When it came she was on her own. There was no man to join her in her exaltation or to fill her with his seed. But that was of no consequence. She luxuriated in the afterglow, bathed in its syrupy sense of well-being.
Her eyes slowly opened to see a familiar silhouette, hands on hips.
“Emma, you wicked girl!” Shouted Miss Carter. “Where did you get this disgusting filth?”. She pulled a notepad from her top pocket and scribbled a hurried note on it. Tearing off the top sheet of paper and giving it to Emma she said “Take this to the Headmistress immediately, she’ll deal with you.”
Clutching the note a tearful Emma walked briskly out of the storeroom, her inner thighs cooling as the breeze this created rushed beneath her short skirt.
Miss Carter picked up the magazine and slid it back behind the lockers, ensuring that it was just visible for anyone sat on the pile of sacks with their backs to the wall. Then she made her way to the headmistress’s office.
As she approached the door she heard the first crack of hand on buttock and smiled. Thanks goodness that these girls had such a dutiful headmistress who knew how to correct their waywardness. And thank goodness she could watch.