Sunday School Teacher

"You realize that what you did was against the law, don't you Timothy?" she said coldly, but without the dramatic tone she had before. "I could press charges."

"I know," I agreed, and made an attempt at a kind of apology. "I never did it before and I won't ever do it again."

"Very well then. There is one thing though," Mrs. Beckford added, and leaned closer to the door and lowered her voice, even though no one was around. "When you - abused yourself outside my kitchen window, you made a horrible mess on the siding."

"Sorry," I mumbled, and knowing she had found that and knew that I was jerking off out there was worse that the peeking part.

"As long as you clean it up, I will consider it all a closed issue. Is that acceptable?"

It was, and after I told her I would be over in a few minutes she seemed satisfied. After I closed the door I went into the kitchen and got a small bucket and some cleaning supplies, but just before I headed across the street I happened to look down and saw that the front of my shorts were also - stained - let's say, a result of a too-quick holstering of my weapon in my haste to flee the scene.

I threw off my clothes and took a quick shower before putting on a tank up and a fresh pair of shorts. No sense going over there with the evidence of my activities so obvious. It was humiliating enough to have to crawl across the street as it was.

***

I had to admit that when I came all over the side of Martha Beckford's house, it must have been one hell of a load, judging by the amount of dried semen that was on the brown siding. The stains also didn't come out easy, and I had to repeatedly squirt the 409 on the stain to even begin to have the marks fade.

What the hell is in my cum to make this kind of stain, I wondered as I kept wiping and spraying the marks? Mom is good at getting stains out, I recall thinking. Maybe I should ask her what's the best way to remove semen stains from aluminum siding.

I chuckled at that thought, but kept cleaning away, wanting to end this humiliation as soon as possible, as well as not wanting to have to face Mrs. Beckford again. When I finally got it clean, I straightened up and looked into the kitchen window again, but this time the room was empty.

"Still involved in voyeuristic activities, Timothy?" a familiar voice asked from around the corner of the house, and there she was, scowling away.

"No - I - er - wanted to tell you that I was finished," I mumbled as I found myself on the defensive once again.

"Right. Of course you were," Mrs. Beckford said sarcastically as she looked at my work. "I suppose that's alright, although that part of the siding is now much cleaner than the rest."

I shrugged, and thought that if she was suggesting I scrub her entire house to make it all match, she was crazier than I thought.

"Come inside, Timothy," Mrs. Beckford. "Clean those toxic chemicals off your hands."

I began to tell her that I could wash up at home but she was beckoning me with her bony fingers just like she did when she made me go to the blackboard, so I followed her inside.

Mrs. Beckford had me wash my hands at the kitchen sink, under her watchful eye, and after she handed me a towel she sat down at the kitchen table and waited for me to dry off.

"I realize that it must be very difficult for a child to understand adults sometimes," Martha Beckford declared, bringing back more memories of Sunday School as she lectured me like I was still 9 years old. "Perhaps in time you will understand what you witnessed when you violated my privacy."

"Uh - I'm not a kid anymore, Mrs. Beckford, I said, gently reminding her that back in 1963 I was 10, but this was 1971, figuring that she could do the math - but she seemed to be oblivious.

"Oh, I'm aware that you fancy yourself as being adult," Mrs. Beckford said in her haughty tone. "One can't help but notice that you even have developed secondary sexual characteristics."

"Huh?"

"I'm referring to the fact that your have hair under your arms already," she announced, gesturing grandly towards me. "I can see it."

I glanced over at the hair peeking out from the armholes of my tank top and then looked at her in amazement. This old fossil must be out of her mind.

"You do too," I said, recalling that when she was getting humped over the very table she was leaning on, I had noticed she didn't shave her pits, making her look like one of the hippie chicks at school.

"I'm as the Creator made me," Mrs. Beckford sniffed. "Altering that would reflect negatively on his handiwork."

I shrugged, getting lost in her anatomy class becoming a theology lesson, and chose not to mention that it looked like she did shave her legs.

"Regardless of how you perceive yourself, one thing cannot be denied," Mrs. Beckford continued. "When you abuse your body as you did earlier, that is a sin. Certainly you remember that lesson."

"I guess," I mumbled, trying to figure out a way to get out of this lecture ASAP.

"Is that something you do a lot?" Martha Beckford asked. "Abuse yourself? I've heard that you hippies are very much involved in that sort of thing."

"Abuse? It's not abuse," I said, wanting to tell her that while I was doing it, abuse wasn't involved. How I became a hippie eluded me as well, because while my hair was a little long, I was miles away from being Jerry Garcia.

"It is abuse in his eyes, Timothy," Mrs. Beckford declared. "And you are ashamed of yourself, as you rightly should be. I can see it in your eyes."

"Ashamed of being caught," I mumbled into my shirt. "Not ashamed of doing it."

"So you think that it is all well and good to expose yourself in public and do - whatever it is you do?" she huffed. "Thankfully I've never been witness to such a thing, and is this something you do at home all the time? Pleasure yourself whenever you want? In front of your mother?"

"Let's leave my mother out of this," I said, getting a little irritated. "Mothers and husbands have nothing to do with any of this."

"You'll forgive me," Mrs. Beckford said. "I did not mean to disparage your mother. She's a fine woman who always helps out at the church bake sale, and she - I always thought she was a good mother to her children."

"She is."

"I was never blessed with children," Martha Beckford admitted. "Apparently that wasn't to be my place in the plan, so I don't understand children. I know that as our bodies change, we start thinking all of these demented thoughts. Dirty thoughts. We try to fight them - we must always try and fight them, and keep Satan out of our hearts and minds."

"Sometimes, like today, we fail," Mrs. Beckford confessed, and I watched her take off her glasses for a second and dry her eyes before putting them back on. "You failed, and I failed too. I failed horribly. I can only imagine what you must think of me after what you witnessed here today."

"I dunno," I said, although I really wanted to say that before today I had thought she was a dried out old bag who lived a boring life, but now thought she was kinda cool in a way, with a body that wasn't half-bad.

"Mr. Johnson and I - we have our demons like everyone else, and we often meet to discuss our fight to remain pure," Mrs. Beckford told me. "Sometimes, like today, we fail. Our minds waver and our bodies betray us, and before you know it, you end up fornicating."

Fornicating?

"I - uh - guess I don't know," I stammered.

"I think you do Timothy," Mrs. Beckford declared. "Since you fancy yourself a man, I assume that this is also something you and your fellow hippies do."

"I'm not a hippie," I said.

"Whatever you call yourself, we are all brothers and sisters in the end. So, is that what you often do?"

"Do what?"

"Fornicate. Take comfort in the pleasures of the flesh with girls - or other boys," Mrs. Beckford said.

"Guys? Hell no," I huffed.

"Please don't swear in my home. Girls then. Do you have relations with them?"

I shrugged my shoulders, once again being overloaded with all of this hypocritical babble. I say hell in her kitchen and she gets upset, but a couple of hours ago she was screaming "Fuck me!" to a garbage man and that was okay?

"I take by your silence that you don't do these things," Mrs. Beckford said. "Is that true, Timothy? Are you saying that you are a virgin?"

"Virgin?" I sneered, but under Mrs. Beckford's glare it didn't come out the way I wanted, and after I shuffled my feet and hemmed and hawed, I guess I sort of answered the question without the need for words.

"That's wonderful, Timothy," Mrs. Beckford said, actually smiling and rejoicing in the revelation that while I had managed one blow-job and 3 hand-jobs from the opposite sex in my 18 years, fornication, as she called it, had eluded me.

Oh, I could have changed that last month, when a couple of guys I play ball with dragged me into the woods and said they had a surprise for me. They had gotten Marcy Catalano drunk and there she was naked and for the taking in the grass, and these guys thought this would be a good time for me to break my maiden.

I didn't, of course, and got a lot of flack for not only refusing to take part, but for getting her dressed and making sure she got home safely. That was what the Tim Bakers of the world get, or so I figured, the joys of helping a semi-conscious girl stagger home, holding them upright while they get sick, and then baby-sitting with them until they become able to walk into their house under their own power.

"To be able to stay chaste in these times is a virtue," Martha determined. "I may have underestimated you, Timothy. It must be very difficult to remain a virgin, seeing as how these girls these days walk around half-naked all the time, not even having the decency to wear brassieres."

I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what to say yet again.

"You know, you don't have to be afraid of me," Mrs. Beckford said softly, and then gestured for me to come closer to her.

I took a couple of steps closer, and when I got within reach she reached out at took my hand, her long, bony fingers grabbing my damp ones.

"I would like to help you - to help us both," she said as her other hand reached over and grabbed my belt loop and pulled me closer until I was right in front of her. "It's just that I'm very sore right now."

I didn't know what she meant by that, but when I looked down I saw her staring at my crotch, which was eye-level to Mrs. Beckford. I could see the grey roots at the part of her black hair, and then she was looking up at me.

"Forgive me," she gasped, and I don't know if she was looking at me or up above when she was speaking. "Forgive me. I try - please know I do, but I'm so weak. So very very weak."

Then Martha Beckford was undoing my belt with those bony china-white fingers, one of them with a wedding ring attached, and after my belt came loose she was undoing my shorts and pulling them down.

What was I doing during this? Nothing. I remember looking toward the kitchen window, perhaps expecting The Can Man to be there looking at us. I also remember trying to get my dick to wake up, because while it was only average in size anyway, I was so scared that it felt it was trying to crawl into my body.

My underwear were coming down - clean underwear thankfully - and it was all I could do to figure out how to lift my legs to let Mrs. Beckford take the clothing from around my ankles. I felt so pathetic, not only for being so unable to act like a man - like Carl Johnson had just done - but for seeing Mrs. Beckford look at my shriveled dick, which was so puny in comparison.

"You've been blessed with a beautiful body, Timothy," Mrs. Beckford was saying as my knees trembled under her touch. "You should fall to your knees every evening and give thanks for that."

My dick was in Martha Beckford's hand, and she was caressing it in her palm while her other hand reached below and stroked my balls, which were doing the turtle act as well.

"Forgive me," she said again before leaning forward and making my peanut disappear into a warm and comforting place.

She's doing it, I recall thinking as I looked down and saw Mrs. Beckford's face nestled in the little tuft of golden brown curls above my dick. My cock was rolling around in her mouth, and as she sucked I felt myself come alive. It happened so fast I was tempted to shout out hallelujah or something, but within a minute my cock was hard.

"Look at you," Mrs. Beckford was saying as her lips moved away from what had become 6" of blue steel. "You ARE a man, Timothy. Thank you."

I had no idea what she was thanking me for, because I was in the middle of what felt like the wildest roller-coaster ride I had ever been on. When Mrs. Beckford went back down on me, I came to realize that while my dick had been in Beth Kramer's mouth once (and had enjoyed it very much), what Martha Beckford was doing bore no relation to Beth's efforts.

Her lips plunged down the shaft, seeming to try and inhale my cock as she forced her mouth down hard around the stump, her head shaking back and forth like a puppy playing with a toy, and then her mouth would slide back up to the tip.

All the while my balls were still being played with, and since they had been loosened up in her warm palm while my nervousness evaporated, she was now pulling on a squeezable loose sac, milking it crazily while she gobbled up my dick.

I wanted to undo her hair from the bun it was in, so it would be wild and free as it had been before, but suddenly Mrs. Beckford was off of the chair she had been perched on the edge of, and was on her knees in front of me.

Now her hands were on my bare ass, her nails digging deep into my flesh as she pulled me close to her, and if I thought what she was doing to my cock was crazy, it paled in comparison with what followed.

Her mouth moved up and down the length of my cock so fast my head was spinning just watching her, and then she was lifting my dick out of the way to suck on my balls. First the left one, and then the right one went into her mouth sucking so hard that there was a loud popping sound when she let them go.

I think she might have tried to stick both of them in her mouth at some point before she went back to my cock. Her glasses were crooked on her face, and the lenses looked foggy as I looked down at Mrs. Beckford snorting and making weird noises while inhaling my cock.

I couldn't have held back my orgasm if I tried, my knees buckling when I finally erupted in Martha's mouth, and she was swallowing loudly while I came. My legs were barely able to hold me up as my orgasm washed over me, and Mrs. Beckford may have actually been holding me up at one point, so powerful was my orgasm.

"Oh!" I groaned as my dick withered in her mouth, but old lady Beckford kept sucking like I hadn't even cum yet.

Certainly she had to have known that I had, because even if I didn't cum as much as it felt like I had, my dick shriveling up must have given her a clue, but she didn't stop. If anything, she got even more energetic, stretching out my flaccid pecker as far as she could each time she leaned back.

Her hands were still clawing my ass, but I felt them start to pry my cheeks apart. I almost knocked over the table when I felt her finger digging into my ass crack in search of my anus, and when she found it I cried out in shock.

She was making snorting and squealing noises, and I was groaning as I felt my rectum being probed by her bony finger. Since the sucking on my spent dick had started to become a bit uncomfortable, I was tempted to pull myself away from her, and if the prospects of anything like this ever happening to me again weren't so remote I probably would have.

I didn't, and then something happened. Her penetrating finger started to rub into someplace different, and the probing changed from intrusive to something indescribable. It felt so damn good all of a sudden that I found myself swaying around like a marionette on strings.

Perhaps a puppet would be a better description, because I was dancing with Martha Beckford's finger playing the tune. My dick started to get hard again, and while it never got fully erect again, it got energized enough so that I felt myself hanging on the brink of an other orgasm for what felt like forever.

I think I was bouncing on my toes by then, pushing myself as far into Martha Beckford's mouth as I could while I teetered on the edge, and I think I was babbling something myself as Mrs. Beckford tried to swallow my dick while it was still attached to me.

I came again, and although I don't know if I really ejaculated all that much, the feeling was every bit as intense as if I did. Crouching over Martha, I was hugging her head as she siphoned what was left out of me, and then I was begging for her to stop because I was about to fall down or pass out, whichever came first.

"I'm sorry, Timothy," she whimpered, and I found myself going down to the floor with her, hugging her and letting her cry on my shoulder as she kept apologizing, either to me or to a higher power.

"Can you ever forgive me?" Mrs. Beckford said after she gained a little self-control, and all I could do was nod as she cradled my head in her hands.

I said of course I could, and then she kissed me on my forehead, a sweet touch that reminded me of my Grandma. We got to our feet and after I stood there wondering what I should do, Mrs. Beckford picked up my underwear and shorts and untwisted them before handing them to me.

"See?" she said, watching me put my underwear on. "We try, but sometimes even our best intentions cannot overcome the demons within. Do you understand?"

"I think so," I said, too busy wondering whether the ache in my balls was the result of my nuts being drained, or due to a permanent injury caused by being compressed in Martha Beckford's oral vacuum.

"What has happened here today must never be spoken of again to anyone else," Mrs. Beckford said, straighting out her dress and getting back into her usual self. "Especially your mother."

"I know."

"I would like you to come back over tomorrow, if that's possible," she asked. "We need to get ourselves straightened out, and discuss what has taken place here."

"Sure," I replied. "What time?"

"Any time after 8:45 in the morning will be fine," Mrs. Beckford informed me and then stuck out her hand.

"Okay," I said as I stuck my hand and shook hers, which struck me as a weird way to say goodbye after what had just gone on, and I wondered whether Can Man Johnson had gotten a handshake when he left.

I went back home the same way I had arrived earlier, and when I got home I went into the bathroom and examined my privates. My ass felt a little funny from that crazy probing, but that was fading away. My dick was pink but was still attached and my balls looked the same as they had as well. Any worry that there was damage done disappeared when I found myself jerking off after having trouble falling asleep later that night.

"Oh Martha," I groaned just before popping a load into a tissue, imagining what Martha Beckford wanted to talk to me about the next day, and wondering if I should go.

To think that 24 hours earlier I had probably been doing the same thing, jerking off, only Martha Beckford had not been the inspiration then, and wouldn't have been if the list of women had a million names. Now, she was all I could think about.

***

Timothy decides whether or not to return...