David’s Tall Girls’ School Ch. 09


(It was late autumn of 1960 and I, David Shaw, was 20 years old and was following my hobby of bird watching. I had unfortunately been detained by Amelia Wiff-Naseford, headmistress, for being an alleged ‘Peeping Tom’ in the grounds of ‘Dentwood Finishing School for Tall Girls aged 18 to 20 years old’. There were 120 girls registered at the school. Clearly I was not a so called ‘pervert’ but I could not prove it.

I had decided not to get the police involved by agreeing to submit myself to the traditional ‘Punishment Rules of the School’ as applied to Peeping Toms. This involved being stripped naked and spread-eagled on the headmistress’ study carpet, and fettered with ropes and leather straps to metal rings set in floorboards. I was then required to orally pleasure the ‘whole’ school. This is part nine of my tale)


She told me to “Poussez votre tete sous ma jupe,” which meant that she wanted my head under her skirt. Who was I to argue with a lady?

Isabelle Lenoir told me to “Léchez s’il vous plaît mon con et faites-moi l’orgasme” which I understood meant that she wanted me to give her an orgasm.

I knelt down in front of her and slid my hands up inside her skirt and petticoat and pulled down her warm nylon knickers as she stepped out of them holding on to my shoulders for support. They were damp in the crotch and smelled very aromatic but slightly of garlic. She stood against me and kicked me hard again. I yelped as it really did hurt. What was wrong with this French bitch; did she think that she was supposed to be actually punishing me for being this so called Peeping Tom?

“Faites accélérer et bourrez votre langue en haut mon con mouillé.” She shouted kneeing me on the shoulder as she lifted her skirt above my head. I understood vaguely that she wanted ‘my tongue up her dripping cunt’, and quickly.

She reached under her skirt and pulled up her flared lacy petticoat and draped it casually over my head and pulled me savagely into her crotch. Instantly I slobbered my way up between her legs caressing the smoothness of her stockings where they met the soft firmness of her warm thighs.

“Mon vagin vous attend pervert. Continuez-le maintenant.” She insisted and squeezed my face quite hard between her thighs. She wanted me to ‘attend’ to her vagina as if I was some sort of domestic ‘genital-servant’. What part of France was she from? and on which planet?

I was not going to stand for this rudeness any more as I was doing my best trying to facilitate her petulant orgasm. I pinched her firmly on her buttocks making sure that my nails really dug in hard. She slapped my head through her skirt swearing at me loudly. I had had quite enough of this impolite behaviour so angrily I thrust my tongue deeply within the folds of her labia into the smooth slippery sheath of her vaginal passage and moved it around furiously in big circles stretching her noticeably. I gripped her hips so that she could not pull away from me. She squealed with wild delight.

The atmosphere under her petticoat and skirt was becoming extremely humid and I could see in the half-light a glistening trail of ‘female love juice’ trickling steadily down her thighs. I pushed my longest finger inside her and then a second while I tongued her clitoris mercilessly. Her squeals turned by degrees into soft moans.

I was no longer Mr.’Nice Guy’, nor Mr Polite ‘Little Boy Lost’ or even ‘Mr. Pathetic’. I was a ‘red-blooded sexually-charged’ male now clearly intent on fucking anyone with two legs and a cunt who happened to be lucky enough to find themselves in the same room as me.

I continued servicing Miss Lenoir with my tongue and fingers and was insistent that she was going to enjoy the best orgasm of her life. Her moans became louder and more explicit.

Her knees bent as she swivelled her pubic area and pelvis over my face and hair. I heard her groans muffled by her skirt. She kneed me again and I punched her hard on her leg making her scream and swear.

I heard the gentle scuffling of high heels as the other girls gathered around. Beneath Isabelle’s skirt I noticed several pairs of patent-leather court shoes pushing up against us. Clearly her groans and moans were causing curious interest amongst her classmates. They were whispering words of encouragement to her and to me.

Her skirt shook violently around me as she rubbed herself rhythmically and slimily against my face. I had three fingers inside her and I was still stimulating her clitoris. We continued like this for several minutes. I pushed her further towards her orgasm. My penis head rubbed against her stockings and its sensitive end suffered from friction burns. We were almost wrestling with each other like two circling widcats.

Her bursa seks hikayeleri legs twitched and shook against me until my whole underskirt world was a moving seething mass of black nylon stockinged legs, white slippery underskirted hips and a warm wet hairy slimy vagina thrusting into me persistently. From every angle I could hear swishing and froufrouing as nylon slid over nylon.

Her gaping vagina was rubbed over my face ceaselessly. Eventually I removed my fingers and concentrated every part of my face in stimulating her clitoris. Another three or four minutes passed and I still continued until I sensed she could take no more. Above me her thighs gripped my cheeks as she spasmed and swore wildly.

She remained clamped to my face as I felt her vaginal muscles tighten up, lightly soar then go into spasms for a second time.

I kept up my insistent lapping and tonguing as I felt her whole body float on the brink then judder and shake as if hit by several seismic shock waves, one after the other. Her screams filled the echoing room.

Isabelle Lenoir orgasmed for a third time.

Her screaming stopped to be replaced by laboured breathing as she slowly eased herself off me, perspiration running across my face from her thighs. She collapsed weeping with pleasure. Every part of my face was wet with her juices. Her petticoat was stained.

I ducked out from under her skirt gasping for air. The other nineteen or so pairs of eyes fixed themselves on me having seen me give a woman a proper orgasm, a multiple one at that. Suddenly I saw respect written on their faces instead of disdain, disgust or pity.

I asked Danielle Lalonde, whom I realised spoke most English, to tell the rest of her French classmates that was not some perverted Peeping Tom and that I was merely a bird spotter, or ornithologist who had been mistaken for a pervert by their insane demented headmistress who was hell bent on getting me to ‘orally pleasure’ her whole damned school. Danielle explained this in detail and there were several puzzled ‘Ah ouis’ from the gathered throng.

The girls got together in a huddle and spoke softly in French to each other, so softly in fact that I could not make out what they were saying.

“Obtenons ce ‘Tom’ à notre dortoir de sorte que tous les nous puissent apprécier le sexe avec lui” I could just about make out that they wished to take me back to there dormitory as soon as possible where they intended to have none-stop sex with me.

“We want you to come up to our dormitory and do sexy things to us please Tom,” Said Danielle being explicit.

I told them that I wanted to fuck one of them right here, right now.

“Right here, right now, I need to fuck one of you, or else there will be no ‘night of sex’ and I will not do ‘sexy things’ to you.” I threatened, still no longer Mr. ‘Nice Guy’ with my ‘Little Boy Lost’ eyes, which usually worked so well on women of all ages.

I stared around at them and my eyes rested on the tallest of them all, Nicole Barbier, the blonde haired eighteen year old ‘catwalk’ model with the swiveling strutting hips. I decided I would fuck her. She stared back at me her big brown eyes and lashes looking demurely under her straw coloured fringe. Once more I recognized her as a pure ‘sexual animal’ after tennis dress session.

She was an angel of a girl, amazingly tall with a uniquely beautiful aristocratic face.

“You, Nicole Barbier, come here,” I ordered. She pushed her way towards me. Standing at six-foot three-inches, in addition to her three-inch heels, she really was a magnificent creature.

“Nicole, stand in front of me,” I said patting my knee. She walked up to me her hips swinging from side to side. Her legs touched my knee as her pleats hung over my naked lap and the heat from the space beneath her skirt became increasingly intense.

“Turn round with your back to me,” I told her. She didn’t understand so Danielle told her to “Retournez-vous avec votre revers à moi,”

” Ah oui, monsieur,” she answered in her sensual deep French growl. She twisted around so that her pleats swung out, flicked up and swished across my face revealing a very lacy two-tiered pale pink petticoat beneath. As her skirt dropped back into place she placed her parted stockinged legs firmly to each side of my bare knees.

She shook her hair.

Her blonde hair cascaded down her back and she turned to look down upon me over her shoulder. She stood before me like a giant doll with her pert arse at more or less the level of my face. Her legs were amazingly long and judging from my formidable erection Mademoiselle Barbier and the others could see I was savouring the prospect of doing ‘sexy things’ to this cat-walk model.

In true Gallic style Nicole swiveled and twirled her buttocks creating a froufrou sound from under her pleats. Her hems shook from side to side as she swung her derriere over and around my field of vision. If I did not fuck her now, I thought, I would orgasm there and then. She began singing a now familiar French nursery song….

“Que fait ma main? Elle caresse : doux, doux, doux Elle pince : ouille, ouille, ouille, Elle chatouille : guili, guili, guili, Elle gratte : gre, gre, gre Elle frappe : pan, pan, pan Elle danse : hop, hop, hop Et puis… elle s’en va!”

Danielle Lalonde translated it as…..

“What is my hand doing? It caresses: soft, soft, soft It pinches: ouch, ouch, ouch It tickles: tickle, tickle, tickle It scratches: scratch, scratch, scratch It hits: whack, whack, whack It dances: twirl, twirl, twirl And then… it goes away!”

I shuddered as my mind was filled with the images of a long legged Nicole Barbier and Michelle Lesquereux singing in their girlish voices as they spread their summer dresses over the upturned faces of village boys somewhere in isolated meadows away from public gaze. I imagined them manipulating these boys’ penises while acting out the various movements in line with the little nursery song. Perhaps they did more than actually manipulate?

“Ask Nicole if she ever sucked any of the village boy’s penises?” I said to Danielle my translator

“Les garçons du village vous ont-ils demandé oui je devais toujours sucer leurs pénis?.”

“Oui, Je devrais aussi avaler leur semence. Un garçon du village me tiendrait par la tête pendant que l’autre garçon masturberait et remplirait ma bouche du sperme de sucer leurs pénis” Nicole replied in a puzzled way wondering why I wished to know.

Danielle quickly translated it as “yes I always had to suck their penises. I would also have to swallow their semen. One village boy would hold me by the head while the other boy would masturbate and fill my mouth with sperm.”

In an instant I understood all I needed to know about ‘Miss Tall’s’ background and was keen to take advantage of it.

With her back to me I ran my hands up her black smooth stockings, over her knees and under her wide pleated skirt and pink lacy petticoat. I caressed her stocking tops luxuriating in the tactile contrast between smooth nylon and firm skin.

My hands hovered around her suspender clips and I slid a finger under her suspender straps which were taught and tight against her flesh. My palms felt her flinch slightly as I touched the lace trim of her knickers.

Her knickers were very loose legged and were slippery and shiny. The lacy flared legs felt scratchy and starched. I brushed my fingers against her pubic hair beneath her knickers and again she flinched pushing her delightful pleat-skirted French derriere into my face as I sat against her with her astride my knees. For the first time I noticed her perfume, not her natural one but the one she had sprayed over herself after the shower.

The odour was of ‘wild flowers’ and my mind immediately wandered back to her home village and visualized her being used by the local boys. I could see this eighteen year old willow like six-foot three-inch creature being led into a field, or perhaps into a wood by boys of her age but not of her stature.

They would be holding her by her hands or perhaps her summer dress, pushing her and pulling her like drones around a queen bee. Her high bottom would be swinging to and fro flicking her hems out provocatively, perhaps revealing her underskirt. The atmosphere would be like frenzy. How many were there? Two? Three? a dozen? I visualized them dropping to their knees staring up at her, perhaps masturbating. I could see her straddling their faces while singing her song. Some may have asked for her to peepee whilst wanking. My mind returned to my ‘model girl’ and continued with my under skirt exploration.

By instinct I rubbed her crotch area. Even if I tried to touch her elsewhere it returned to her pubic hair beneath her French knickers. She held me by the wrist through her plaid skirt to prevent me from removing it.

She began moaning, pushing her derriere in small circles against my nose. The pleats made a scratchy soft sound as they brushed against me; I could also feel the slippery nylon petticoat sliding over her body from within her skirt. Everything was moving in front of me being swirled around by her curvaceous buttocks.

Her moaning increases as I applied more pressure to her crotch. I eased the damp loose gusset to one side while my middle finger began making tantalising circles around her outer lips. Her grip on my wrist was intense and she guided me to her clitoris. “Que fait votre main?”

“What is your hand doing?” she sang, “It caresses soft, soft, soft.”

“Elle caresse:doux, doux, doux” she moaned in time to her rhyme. Her hips swayed widely as I inserted my finger into her and slid it up and down and from side to side inside her. I could feel the various textures of her folds and vaginal sheath. Nicole was very well lubricated and judged it was the right time to enter her.

I slid her knickers down to her ankles where she stepped out of them still singing her childish song with a marked lisp which made her even more enchanting. She peered over her shoulder smiled and pouted through her long blonde hair. With her arms raised above her head she wiggled and shook her pleats around in front of me. I grabbed her by her waist and firmly pushed her forwards and told her to kneel on all fours in front of me so I could mount her from behind. I wanted to tell her to ‘behave’ and not to be so silly.

“Elle chatouille : guili, guili, guili, Elle gratte : gre, gre, gre.”

“It tickles: tickle, tickle, tickle It scratches: scratch, scratch, scratch,” she sang in her little ‘French girl accent’

She did not understand what all-fours meant so picked up her kickers and rubbed the crotch over my nose. Instantly my penis stood up. The smell was highly concentrated, almost as intense as Maria Kingsland’s, why hadn’t I noticed it on Nicole earlier on her tennis clothes?

“Danielle can you tell Nicole to kneel on all fours and get ready to be fucked.” I said to my interpreter.

“Nicole Tom veut que vous s’agenouilliez sur vos mains et genoux pour qu’il puisse entrer dans vous avec son pénis”

“Ah Oui oui oui.” she said kissing me passionately as she positioned herself on the floor with her bottom in the air.

I knelt behind her and flipped her skirt across her back, followed by her pink petticoat which was hemmed with inserts of white Calais lace, including two luscious slit vents at the sides. Her suspenders framed her fabulous firm pear shaped buttocks at the top and her black stockings framed the view from below.

I knelt there transfixed and completely in awe of this perfect arse. I pushed her legs further apart to get the entry angle and height correct for my relatively puny frame. I held my penis firmly as Nicole reached under her to guide me in.

I eased my seven inches of thick erection towards the moist opening and pushed myself slowly in. Her muscles were tight and I left my penis remain fairly static until she became used to it. Once again she squealed and lisped her little song, moving backwards and forwards sliding her vagina up and down my now slimy shaft. I let her establish a rhythm and I bucked a counter rhythm moving forwards as she pushed backwards.

All around us the other girls watched. I sensed that they wished that I would hurry up so that they could get me back to their dormitory for a naked session of dirty abandoned afternoon-sex.

One of them, I think it was Angelique, said she was ‘bursting for peepee’ and could she fill my mouth. I told her in no uncertain way, gasping through effort that much as I’d like to I couldn’t swallow her urine and fuck Nicole at the same time. She dashed off to the loo and came back with dripping knickers and wrapped the crotch over my face. What was it about these French girls and their knickers?

After several minutes we built up a greater tempo. There was a suction sound as my penis slid in and out. Nicole’s vaginal juices were soaking the insides of her thighs. I felt her grip her muscles as she squeezed my now primed penis. Only a few more strokes and I would orgasm. I tried to delay and hold back. I kept it going.

“Elle caresse: doux, doux, doux Elle pince: ouille, ouille, ouille,”

Several of the other girls joined in. It was becoming like some bizarre scene from ‘Monty Python’s Flying Circus’. ‘The French Fucking Song’ maybe!

I kept things moving. Her lyrics degenerated into incoherent moans and squeals as I gradually brought her to orgasm. Goodness knows how she could concentrate on her inner feelings and instincts in this ‘echo-chamber’ of a changing room. She swore as she came. I was ready for her to faint again as I felt seminal fluid gradually build up inside me then spurt into her in ten vigorous thrusts. I gasped and fell on top of her. Nicole collapsed under me and my face became entangled with her very long hair where it lay over her flipped up pink lacy petticoat. Both of us gasped for air and lay there panting like two racehorses.

The girls stopped their singing and suddenly seemed less interested in us and appeared to be backing away.

Behind me I could hear the thud of high heels on the carpeted dressing room floor.

“What the hell has been going on here?” bellowed Miss Amelia Wiff-Naseford standing in the doorway.

(Continued in part 10)

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