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Subject: {ASSM} 14-Yr-Old Sandwich by Dr Wu 1/6
Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2000 19:10:07 -0500
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14-YEAR-OLD SANDWICH M/ff teen schoolgirls
By Dr. Wu
CHAPTER ONE
THE BLAH-BLAH: You shouldn't have to be told this, but this story
contains sex and perversion and if you are under 18, you should not read
it.
This story is copyright 2000 by Dr. Wu. It may be posted, re-posted or
archived anywhere that is completely free. It may not be archived
anywhere that charges any sort of fee.
It is completely fictitious, and any resemblance with real persons is
completely coincidental, although the events in the prologue are more or
less true to an experience that Dr. Wu had not long ago.
You can read other stories by Dr. Wu by visiting his author's site at
the Alt. Sex.Stories Text Repository. The address is: ftp://
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/doktorwu/. Dr. Wu makes no money off this site,
and if you are moved to make a donation to maintain the site, contact the
asstr administrator, who does a great job archiving countless stories and
needs donations to keep the site going.
THE MUSICAL SCENE-SETTER:
"I'd do anything,
For you, dear, anything ... "
Ñ From the musical "Oliver," music and lyrics by Lionel Bart
PROLOGUE: ONE DAY OUTSIDE MTV STUDIOS
A few months ago I was in New York City on vacation and found myself
in Times Square one afternoon. Big mistake! The place was absolutely
crawling with teenaged girls, who had turned out for a show called "Total
Request Live" on MTV. I learned later that MTV has a studio in Times
Square and a live daily show, usually with a big-deal teenaged band or
singer of the moment, a Britney Spears or Limp Bizkit or Backstreet Boys.
The day I was there it was the Backstreet Boys, and thousands of girls
were screaming and weeping, like the days of Beatlemania times 100. Most
of them held hand-lettered signs that said something like "Carson: Bring
Me Up" or "Bring Me Up, I'll Do Anything." It turns out some guy named
Carson Daly is the host of "Total Request Live," and for each show a few
lucky kids are plucked out the screaming masses and escorted past
security into the MTV studio, where they get to be on TV and get to be in
the same room as their favorite boy-band group of all time. Be still my
beating heart.
Anyway, I was trying to push my way through this throng of hormone-
addled adolescents when I got stuck. The crowd was just too thick, and
there was no moving forward or back. I looked at the girl beside me, and
like all the others, she was holding a sign up over her head that said
"I'll Do Anything, Carson, Anything!!!!!!!" with lots of smiley faces and
I (Heart) Backstreet Boys and stuff.
She looked about 13 or 14, and was wearing a white T-shirt, as it was a
warm day. Because her arms were over her head, her young breasts pushed
against the front of her T, and I couldn't help but notice that she was
quite well-endowed for such a young girl, and that furthermore she was
not wearing a bra. In her excitement, her nipples were erect and
thrusting forward against the thin cotton of her shirt. Or maybe it was
because she was bouncing up and down on her toes, and her breasts had to
be rubbing up against the shirt, stimulating those ripe young nipples.
She looked sweet and wholesome, and probably no guy had yet gotten his
hands or mouth on those wonderful bouncy girlish breasts.
Without a moment's thought (you guys know how this works), I found
myself sporting a rather dandy hard-on, which sprung straight out from my
crotch. As I said, we were all jammed in there pretty tight, and my
erection had no choice but to poke forward into the denim-clad behind of
the pubescent little cutie in front of me. I was embarrassed - I am,
after all, a school teacher, and sensitive to the feelings of young girls
- but there was no way to withdraw.
The cutie in front of me managed to turn around, but instead of
calling me a pervert, she smiled, flashing me a mouthfull of braces. She
had the letters BSB painted all over her face. I don't know if she even
knew what it was that was prodding her delectable little bottom, but the
fact that she obviously didn't mind re-assured me.
So there I stood, a guy who is normally a pretty decent human being,
ogling the nipples and breasts of the young girl next to me, and letting
my dick luxuriate in the denim crease of another girl's ass. All around
me, the teenies were screaming for the Backstreet Boys and Carson Daly,
and the thought struck me: They all say they'll do anything to "go up" to
the MTV Studios. A guy with a nasty streak and a taste for young flesh
who had the power to pick girls from the crowd could probably have
himself a mighty fine time. Some of these girls would balk, and say they
didn't mean they'd do THAT, but plenty would probably go along. Here you
go baby, just open your mouth real wide and let me slide this onto your
tongue. Swallow it all down like a good girlie, and in five minutes,
you'll be upstairs with the Backstreet Boys.
The fantasy made me even hotter, and my cock throbbed a bit in its
warm, snug home. But all good things have to come to an end, and
eventually the crowd parted, and I moved on, and went back to my job as
an eighth-grade social studies teacher in a town that will remain
nameless.
CHAPTER ONE
I had forgotten all about the experience in Times Square when I won
the tickets to see the Backstreet Boys in concert. Don't think for a
moment that I give a rat's patootie about the BSB, as their fans call
them. Or at least I didn't at the time. Now I am eternally grateful to
them.
I guess the radio station had a mixup in its various sweepstakes. I
had entered a contest to get free tickets to go see Chrissie Hynde and
the Pretenders (and don't get me started on sexual fantasies where she is
concerned), but I didn't win. Then one morning I got a call from the
station that I had won tickets to the upcoming Backstreet Boys concert. I
told them that I hadn't entered any such contest, but they said come on,
don't be a spoilsport, you won, and read off my name and address. It
turned out I didn't just win any tickets, but they were front row
tickets. Not only that, a guest and I would then get to backstage after
the show and meet the Backstreet Boys their own bad selves.
Will whoop dee fuckin doo, I thought. No Chrissie Hynde, but some
flash-in-the-pan bubblegum boy band instead. What the hell, I told 'em,
I'll take the tickets. If nothing else, it'll be fun to see the reaction
of the kids in my classes when they hear old Mr. Turner (not really so
old, just 33, but to a 14-year-old that's ancient) had won tickets to the
Backstreet Boys. Maybe I'd scalp them, a public school teacher's salary
being what it is, or something like that.
I never even got the chance to make the dramatic announcement of my
"good fortune" to my kids. As soon as I walked in the building that
morning, I was mobbed with kids.
"Mr. Turner! Mr. Turner! Was that you on the radio this morning? Did
you win those tickets? Are you going? Can I have the other one! Please,
Mr. Turner!" I just smiled and kept walking.
A middle-aged middle-school teacher is usually pretty close to
invisible. The kids are very interested in each other, who's making out
with whom, etc. The boys are into sports and Nintendo, the girls into
music and whatever is on the WB. The last thing they care about,
literally the very last thing, is the man in the front of the room trying
to get them to care about U.S. history.
But that they, oh how they cared about me. My first class was full of
questions, wiggling in their seats, all talking at once. Even the cool
boys, who wouldn't admit to liking the Backstreet Boys under penalty of
torture, at least thought it was cool that teacher had been on the air on
the local pop radio station that morning. And the girls were beside
themselves, as if the cast of "Dawson's Creek" had walked in and said
"OK, who wants a kiss and an autograph?" They wiggled and giggled and
fidgeted and peppered me with questions about what I was going to do with
the tickets and backstage passes.
It was the same in all five of my classes. Eventually it got tiresome,
and I was glad when the day ended. It was Friday, and I was looking
forward to a weekend. I was newly "single" after my girlfriend of a year,
Amy, had taken a job in California, and I was toying with the idea of
going out to a singles bar and seeing what kind of action there was.
When I got home, I showered, put on some sweats, turned on CNN, opened
a Diet Coke and sat down to contemplate what I would do that night. The
doorbell rang.
There on my front stoop stood Karina Magnuson and Marie Taylor, two
girls from one of my classes. It was the first time students of mine had
ever visited me at home, and I was a bit taken aback at first.
"Hi, Mr. Turner!" Karina said with great enthusiasm. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, girls. How are you?"
"We're OK," Karina replied. "Can we, like, come in?"
"Sure, yeah, I guess," I said, a bit puzzled, still not seeing what
was coming. They sat down side by side on the sofa in my living room.
Karina was definitely the peppier of the two; her eyes shown with a
brightness that if I hadn't known better might have been drugs. But
Karina was a good girl, never a troublemaker in class. She wore the
standard dress of a 14-year-girl today: jeans, an Abercrombie and Fitch
T-shirt, and sneakers. She had not yet really started developing into a
woman; her breasts were small, her figure trim and almost boyish. Her
blonde hair was cut short, and the paleness of her skin emphasized what I
assumed to be a Scandinavian heritage.
Marie, sitting next to her, seemed nervous. She had not yet made eye
contact with me. Like Karina, Marie was dressed in T-shirt, jeans and
Keds. But unlike her partner, puberty had hit Marie like a freight train
a couple of years ago. She had what must have been 36-C breasts, and
although she always kept them tightly encased in a brassiere at school,
she was much talked about among the boys. On the few occasions she wore
skirts, it was impossible not to notice that her legs were now shaped
like a young woman's, her hips nicely flared. Marie was not a classic
beauty in that Barbie-the-cheerleader way that matters most to ninth
graders. She looked like she had some Mediterranean heritage in her:
large brown eyes, dark lustrous hair that she wore quite long, a nose
that was a little bit large by the standards of a Beverly Hills plastic
surgeon but that would have had men in Naples or Athens chasing her down
the alley.
Quite a pair, Karina and Marie, sitting there on my sofa, obviously up
to something.
"So, ladies, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"
"Um, Mr. Turner, you know those Backstreet Boys tickets?" Karina
began. "We were hoping that maybe you would, like, maybe let us use them,
because we're the biggest fans ever of the Backstreet Boys, you know? And
if you would do that, we would do anything for you in return. Anything
you wanted. Anything at all."
I drew in a breath. I was pretty sure what this 14-year-old cutie was
offering me, and I remembered the feeling of hormones and desperation
that poured off those girls in Times Square. But I had to be very, very
careful.
"What do you mean, anything?" I asked.
"Well, like, you know, anything," Karina said. Marie still hadn't said
a word, and when she looked at me, I could tell she was a little anxious.
"We want those tickets soooooo bad, please, Mr. Tucker, please, don't
make me say it."
"Don't make you say what, Karina?"
"You know, don't make me say what we'll do with you. But you know, Mr.
Turner. We'll do it with you if you'll give us the tickets." She smiled,
and it wasn't a fake smile. Little Karina was enjoying this, and maybe
she was enjoying more than just the thought of the backstage passes.
"I think I understand what you girls are offering. But are you sure
you want to do this?" I took a deep breath, and plunged ahead. "After
all, I have a feeling you're both virgins."
"Uh-huh," Karina nodded. "But to get to meet the Backstreet Boys ..."
"Marie?" I asked. "Is this something you want to do also?"
"Uh, yeah," said Marie. "I mean, it was like Karina's idea, but I
really want to meet the Backstreet Boys, so I'll do it, too."
"By 'do it,' then, I guess we're talking about sex," I said.
"Well, duh!" Karina said, and both girls started giggling. It was a
surreal moment, going from negotiating sex to hearing them titter like
the schoolgirls I knew them to be.
"I just wanted to be sure," I said.
I needed time to think, to figure out what I was going to do. OK, I
knew what I was going to do in the greater sense. I was gonna ream these
two little girls for all they were worth. But this was such a once-in-a-
lifetime opportunity, I wanted to maximize everything, and also make sure
there were no slip-ups that would come back to haunt me. If we got
caught, or the girls blabbed, I would be fired, barred from teaching,
probably arrested and sent to jail. These sweet young things were worth
some risk, but not that.
"OK, listen carefully to me girls. You say you'll do anything for the
tickets and the passes. Is that right? Anything?"
"Yes sir," Marie answered, and Karina too.
"No matter what I tell you to do, you'll do it? Because I don't want
you changing your minds halfway through. If you change your minds, the
whole deal will be off."
"OK," they said meekly.
"Then here's the first thing. If you're going to seduce a man, and
let's be honest, that's what you came here for, to seduce me, you need to
wear seductive clothing. You need to both go home and change into sexy
outfits. Be imaginative, be slutty. This isn't school where you'll get in
trouble; just the opposite. Change into some sexy clothes, then meet me
back here. How did you get here, by the way?"
"A cab," said Marie.
"Then here's $20 for cab fare. Go home, change, and come on back here.
Be back in an hour. I'll be waiting. We'll have our fun, and when we're
done, you'll be on your way to see the Backstreet Boys in concert."
Karina shrieked - she was so wound up - at the mention of the
Backstreet Boys, and I thought Marie was going to hyperventilate. It was
obvious who the ringleader of the duo was, and if I was going to make
this succeed, I was going to have to get Marie to the same level of
enthusiasm as Karina. In fact, I was going to have to do a lot.
I called the girls a cab and they took their money and left, promising
they'd be back in an hour.
I picked up the phone and called my friend Trance. For the girls who said
they would do anything, I needed the man who had everything.
"Trance, old buddy, I got myself a situation," I said. "I need all the
Ecstasy you have, and your camcorder with a fully charged battery."
Needles to say, Trance peppered me with questions, most of which were
about whether he could participate in whatever I had going. I told him
no, that it was illegal and had the possibility of falling apart at any
moment, but that if he brought over the items, I would let him watch the
video when I was done. He grumbled, but relented, and within 20 minutes
was at my door with the camcorder and the Ecstasy, which he had
thoughtfully brought in powder form.
You may wonder what a middle-aged school teacher is doing knowing a
man like Trance who has a supply of Ecstasy on hand, and all I will say
is that I'm a teacher, not a fucking saint. I thanked Trance and beat
down his repeated entreaties to stay and join in, or at least be the
cameraman, and he finally left. I put the camcorder upstairs in my
bedroom under a blanket in the corner, changed into a bathrobe with
nothing on underneath, and waited for my girls to return.
They did not disappoint me. With plenty of time left in the hour, the
doorbell rang again, and there were Marie and Karina. My heart jumped,
and so did my cock, when I saw them. Karina was wearing a pleated
Catholic schoolgirl skirt, white socks and patent leather penny loafers.
Her white cotton blouse was thin, and I could see that underneath she
wore no bra. Her breasts were small, but her pink nipples were clearly
visible.
Marie was the big surprise. I had sensed that she was a reluctant
partner in this game, but she had dressed to kill. She was wearing a pair
of Daisy Dukes cut off shorts that were so short and so tight she would
have been arrested walking down the street. It looked as if the center
seam cut right up between her legs, and I doubted she could possibly be
wearing panties. They were cut as high in front as a bikini bottom,
making them a mere scrap of denim. On top she had taken a man's white
shirt and tied it off in her midriff, exposing her belly button and her
smooth, tan belly. She was taller than usual, I noted, due to black
stiletto spike heels. She had put on some makeup, especially bright
scarlet lipstick. She looked like a 14-year-old whore, as did Karina.
"Welcome, ladies," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Come on
in. You look good enough to eat." Karina strolled in and Marie tottered
after her, not used to the tall heels, like a little girl playing dress-
up.
"Are you still up for our little adventure?"
"Yes, sir," they both answered.
"Then let me hear you each tell me what you will do for those tickets
and passes."
"Mr. Turner, I'll do anything for those tickets," said Karina. Her
eyes were shining, glittering.
"You can fuck me if you want to."
"You can fuck me, too, Mr. Turner," said Marie. Her voice was
stronger, and I guessed that Karina had given her a pep talk.
"Very good, ladies. Come on in, and we'll begin."
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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