Message-ID: <22933asstr$951264607@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: doktorwu@yahoo.com Lines: 352 X-Original-Message-ID: <88utv9$i5k$1@nnrp1.deja.com> X-Article-Creation-Date: Tue Feb 22 21:10:05 2000 GMT Subject: {ASSM} 14-Yr-Old Sandwich by Dr Wu 1/6 Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2000 19:10:07 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: newsman, gill-bates 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. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+