Public toilets always smell nice. Even in the cold white tiling and bleak institutional decoration there's warmth. The whiff of cheap cleaning solutions. The roughness of paper towels. The hum of hand drying machines. I always liked the idea of public toilets in ancient times, where there were no partitions, where you could piss and shit and happily chat without embarrassment that other people could see you, smell you, hear you. I think school toilets are as close as you can get to that. Part social club, part secret place for dealing in gossip, cigarettes, drugs and sex. It's somewhere, in the otherwise structured and tight-arse orderly world of school — where every minute is accounted for and in public — somewhere where you can be private and let your knickers down.
Of course, the unwritten rule is that I should go to the staff women's loo — lest the sound of a teacher dropping a heavy number two is too gross for our girls. Or perhaps the girls' loo is just somewhere where the kids don't want to hear more shit from their teachers. Well, never mind all that. The teacher's loo is a fair walk from the Maths block, and besides, I like to lurk in the girls' toilet. I like to hear the busy gossip of girls cleaning and preening themselves. I like to hear the plop of poo and the swish of piss. Often a joint gets passed around as the girls steel themselves for another fascinating lesson. Occasionally there's a fight or a bit of bullying. But I never interfere, because if they knew I was there, they'd only go somewhere else. And besides, it's my break from lessons too.
So I like to sneak in early and slide into cubical two. The first cubical is the disabled one - and I've learnt that if there's any action to be had, that's the one with space to have it.
I just like to sit, with my panties down - an idle finger fiddling with myself at the most glacial pace I can achieve - getting off on the sounds of young girls going to the toilet and being bad.
And then occasionally, something wonderful happens. Last year ... last school year, that is ... I'd had the saucy delight of hearing Helen and Fran going at it in the disabled cubical. It was a hot June day and the air was thick with Cannabis smoke. Helen and Fran were next door to me, chatting, smoking, a couple of fairly cute A level students, both 17. They were being fairly risqué just being there together, as they were the only open lesbian girls in the school. And when the school bell went, and the clatter of pupils returning to class subsided, they stayed.
I stayed.
The silence of an echoy toilet takes your breath away. Literally, you can't breath for fear of being heard. There's only two things you can do. Either fart loudly - roll, rip and wipe with the toilet paper vigorously - pull up your knickers - flush the loo, open the door, wash your hands, check yourself in the mirror and airily leave as if you'd never noticed a couple of lesbians making out four feet from you, shielded by a flimsy lavatory dividing wall (which doesn't reach the floor or the ceiling). Or, hold your breath, sit dead still, resist the temptation of playing with yourself least you let slip your own moans, and LISTEN till your eardrums burst.
They were kissing. Snogging more like it. The wet slaps of pouting lips bounced softly off the walls. Low moans and inaudible whispers strained my ears till they hurt. I imagined tongues swapping sticky saliva between hot mouths. I imagined wandering hands exploring pert breasts (Helen in particular has heavy swaying breasts that her bra never seemed to still). I imagined exploring fingers seeking out secret spots in the fuzziness at the tops of youthful legs.
Even though I wasn't touching myself, my pussy burned with arousal by just contracting and relaxing my pussy muscles. I wished I could have stood on the toilet and peeked over. I wished one of them had said, "that Miss van Haankden is a minxy little bitch, I wish she'd come and eat my pussy out right now!"
But such things are for the plots of bad porno movies. In the repression and fear of a school, a teacher risks everything if she is found to be lusting after her pupils. It's the stuff of tabloid newspaper dreams. So I bit my lip and held my breath and hoped they'd believe the "Out of Service" notice I'd hung on the outside of cubical two. And for the best part of an hour, I sat, feet away from the loving couple, learning what it sounded like when Fran's gentle fingers brought Helen off in a quiet breathy orgasm (they were trying to be quiet too, in their secret love nest). Learning how Fran likes to talk dirty while her sweet baby-faced lover slowly eats her pussy out. Learning that when Fran cums she whimpers in half caught breathes, as if she can't expel her lungs before another climax snatches her breath away.
And then after the sex, they talked. That was the hardest part. Sitting frozen still while not quite being able to hear the hushed loving mumbles. Eventually the bell rang. The forty-five minute period was over. The girls quickly left for a class. Leaving me aroused, exhilarated, frustrated as hell, and with a large pink ring around my bottom from sitting on a loo seat for so long.
It was a relief to stand. It was a pleasure to rest my back against the wall and strectch. It was a joy to sneak my hand between my legs and play with my sticky cunt. I don't really think of myself as a voyeur, but within all too few minutes I'm quivering in leg weakening orgasmic contractions. And I have to bite my lip, bite it so it nearly bleeds, to stop me from shouting out my lust. My legs give way, and I can't help my back sliding down the wall, till my bear bottom lands on the cold hard wet floor. Wet because I've peed myself. I look down and I'm sitting in a small puddle of my own pee. I've cum so much I let go of my bladder, and my thighs and calves are gleaming wet with my own urine. And that realisation, and my fingers still grubbing around my pussy, bring me off again.
Life for a school teacher slut pervert just doesn't get better than that.
But here I am again, a school summer holiday between then and now. It's only the second day back at school, and I'm sitting on my loo in the girls' toilet, masturbating greedily to the sounds and smells of young girls going toilet. The school bell commands the toilet to empty, and I'm left there - with a free period to kill and a happy finger, glad to be back. When I realise I'm not alone.
There's someone in the cubicle next to me. I listen with my breath held and my heart pounding. She's alone. I can tell. I can hear her. She's making the sort of noises you make when you're trying very hard not to make a noise. She's masturbating. Sitting just an arm length away, playing with herself, and I never guessed! I wonder what she's thinking about.
Rashly, I decide to not disguise what I'm doing. She was as guilty as me, why be ashamed? Listening to her got me so horny, all judgement and prudence flew from my head. With shaking hands, I got out a scrap of paper, "Hello" I wrote, and slipped it under the cubicle divide.
My heart thumping out of control, I sat on the cold floor, facing the thin partition between us, my legs wide open. I squashed myself as tight as possible against the wall. I knew my open knees poked underneath the divide. I knew the occupant on the other side could see how I was sat, pressed up against the wall, my thighs exposed for her. I stuck my hand under the divide, and waved a finger for her to come to me.
For a moment, silence. Then scuffling sounds. Two bare knees appear under the wall, thin, tiny. I reach my hand under and touch a bare thigh. It's as soft and creamy as a baby's. I gently finger it upwards. I feel the sinews at the top of her wide-open legs, and I know I'm within a couple of millimetres of her pussy. For a second, I hesitate, a large lump in my throat. I've never done one of my own school kids before. I'd done girls, sure. Friends of my daughter. Daughters of my friends. And, of course, my own beautiful girl. But never one of the kids in my own professional care. Well, OK, in my head, sure, in my head I'd licked, fucked, pissed, beaten half the kids in the school, but only in my sick head. This was different. This was a teacher touching the most private part of a schoolgirl. And she didn't even know who I was! Suddenly I realised she probably thought this stranger in the other cubical was just another girl like her. Not some old slapper slut bitch that got her pedo jollies by surrounding herself with peeing and pooing girls.
I felt ashamed and lost heart. I was about to pull my hand back. Except it was touched by tender small fingers. They were so warm. I pushed my hand forward and it arrived at the bony vulva of a young girl. A soft slow squeal leaked through the dividing wall from a high girlie voice. My fingers inched cautiously round the puffiness of her underdeveloped pussy. She had some pubic hair, only wiry strands. It was only the tiniest fluff, and not because it had been shaved, like so many of the other whore schoolgirls do. But because this girl could have only just started puberty - probably a late starter. I realised she was probably one of the new Year 7s, an eleven-year-old on her second day at Secondary School. If her birthday was in the summer, she'd of only just turned eleven, and here she was being fingered by a teacher well past old enough to be her mother.
Her sexuality was quite shocking in someone so young. My fingers were already damp with the leaking moisture of her arousing pussy. She softly rocked her hips to guide the tips of my fingers along the moist slit of her pussy. I found her clit. It was small and firm (rather than hard and erect ... like mine). Stoking it softly produced quiet girlie moans. It was fascinating. Sexing a person by touch alone. A thin piece of chipboard protecting our anonymity. She let me touch her everywhere.
Gently, I inserted a probing index finger into the neck of her vagina, being careful not to harm her hymen. But she pushed her hips forward, swallowing my finger almost to the knuckle. She whimpered a soft moan and I felt her cervix. Deep inside her I wiggled a finger to her obvious pleasure. She'd pulled herself back, and then leaned forward again, developing a steady rhythm, back and forth. She was fucking my finger. I squashed a second finger inside her and realised ... there was no hymen. As tender and young and possibly not even menstruating as she was, she was not a virgin.
I was not the first to defile her innocence, and that made me sad. But not because of the virgin thing itself. If she had been a virgin, I wouldn't have taken that away from her. But because she'd lost part of her childhood and could never capture it back. Yet the willingness of her rolling hips, fucking herself on my rigid fingers (my sore, tiring rigid fingers), the breathy pants, the feeling that she was pressed flat against the toilet wall dividing us to be as close to me as possible. It all welled up in me, and tears - happy and sad tears, rolled slowly down my cheeks as this willing young girl drove herself up to an orgasm on the tips of my fingers (and with the special touch of her own fingers dancing across her clit).
It was a surprise when she came. Just a small thing. A sudden thing. Over in a moment. A dirty stolen orgasm, without love. Just two strangers sitting on a communal cold toilet floor.
I wanted to break her door down. See whom I'd just abused. Show myself. But I was too much the coward. Afraid she's be disgusted at the dirty old woman who'd just touched her so privately. Afraid she'd be shocked and report me. So instead, I slipped another scrap of paper under the toilet cubicle divide: "tomorrow lunchtime" it read.
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