Deepthroat Training

The third-floor women’s bathroom in the old classics wing always carried that faint scent of marble polish and the leftover sweetness of wine from the faculty gatherings that sometimes lingered in the corridors. I had pulled the girl into the farthest stall after the evening lecture, the heavy door swinging shut behind us. She was already on her knees on the cool tile, lips stretched around my cock, making those wet, eager sounds that echoed off the walls. Her technique was still clumsy, too much teeth, not enough depth, but her enthusiasm made up for it.

We were both too focused to notice the outer door open at first. Then the sharp click of heels on tile cut through the wet noises. A stall door two down creaked, followed by the rustle of clothing. Someone had come in to use the bathroom.

The girl froze with me still half in her mouth. I held still, listening. A moment later the footsteps came closer, deliberate. The stall door in front of us rattled once, then swung open.

The teacher stood there, blouse half-unbuttoned from the heat of the day, skirt already lifted as if she had been about to sit down. Her eyes locked on the scene, the girl on her knees, my cock glistening between her lips, saliva trailing down her chin. For a second her face simply tightened with pure irritation.

She let the stall door swing wider and planted one hand on her hip.

“Again?” Her voice was low and sharp. “This is the third time this term I have walked in on you with some boy’s cock in your mouth. I have had enough of you acting up. If you are going to keep sucking men in the bathrooms like a desperate little thing, at least learn to do it correctly.”

She stepped inside the stall, pulled the door shut behind her, and locked it with a decisive click. The space was tight; her perfume mixed with the smell of sex already thick in the air. She looked at the girl with open annoyance, then at my cock still standing hard and wet.

“Get up,” she ordered the girl. “Watch. I am not reporting this again, but I am not leaving until you stop making such a mess of it.”

She sank to her knees right beside the girl without another word. Her fingers wrapped around the base of my shaft, firm and sure, and she guided the head to her own mouth. Her lips parted, soft and precise. She took me in with a slow, controlled slide, tongue pressing flat along the underside. Then she pushed forward.

I felt the tight ring of her throat open. She did not gag. She simply breathed through her nose and kept going until her nose pressed against my stomach and every inch of me disappeared. She held there, swallowing once so the muscles milked the head in a deep, rhythmic pulse. When she finally drew back, a thick rope of saliva connected her lower lip to the shaft.

“See that?” she said to the girl, voice already husky. “No choking. No half measures. You open your throat and you take him all the way. Now you try. And do it properly this time.”

The girl leaned in, still looking a little stunned. The teacher’s hand settled on the back of her head, guiding the angle. “Tilt more. Relax the tongue. Breathe when you can. Deeper, yes, past the point where it feels like too much.” The girl gagged once, eyes watering, but the teacher kept steady pressure until she managed to push farther than before. When she pulled off gasping, the teacher took over again, demonstrating the same deep, relentless slide, throat working, spit running down my balls.

“Look at how hard she is trying for you,” the teacher murmured up at me, lips brushing the head between words. “You like watching her learn, don’t you? Good. Stay hard for us.”

She rose, unbuttoning the rest of her blouse with quick, irritated efficiency. The fabric slipped from her shoulders. She stepped out of her skirt and underthings in one motion and turned to the girl.

“On the counter outside the stall. Both of you. Now.”

We moved. I lifted the girl onto the marble edge of the sinks while the teacher locked the outer bathroom door. She came back, positioned herself behind the girl for a moment, hands on her hips, showing her how to tilt her pelvis open. Then she turned to me, took my cock in her hand again, and guided it between the girl’s folds.

“Push in. Fill her. She needs to feel what a real cock does when it is taken properly.”

I sank into her in one long thrust. She was slick and tight; she cried out as I bottomed out. The teacher’s voice stayed sharp and instructional even as her own breathing quickened.

“Rock with him. Do not just sit there like a passive little thing. Use your hips. Feel how he stretches you.” She reached around and circled the girl’s swollen clit with two fingers, pressing firmly. “Like that. Keep moving.”

After a few minutes the teacher climbed up beside her, knees on the cool stone, and pulled my cock free with a wet sound. She sank down onto me herself in one controlled drop. Her pussy was hotter, wetter, the walls gripping with practiced strength. She rode me with slow, deep rolls of her hips, showing the girl the exact angle that let the head drag against the front wall.

“Watch,” she said, voice breaking slightly. “Lean forward. Take every inch. Feel how deep he goes when you drop hard.” She demonstrated, rising until only the tip remained inside, then slamming down so the wet slap of her body against mine echoed through the bathroom. “This is how you ride a man until he cannot hold back.”

The girl watched, eyes dark, then slid off the counter and knelt again. While the teacher rode, the girl licked the place where we joined, tongue flicking over my balls and the stretched rim of the teacher’s cunt. The teacher’s breath hitched.

“Good girl. Keep that tongue working.”

She came first, shoulders shaking, inner muscles clamping down in strong pulses that nearly dragged the climax out of me. She stayed seated, grinding through it, then lifted off with a soft, filthy pop. A thin strand of her arousal stretched between us before breaking. She turned to the girl with the same irritated authority.

“Your turn. Climb on. Face him so you can see his face when he fills you. And do not waste a drop.”

The girl straddled me. The teacher’s hands guided her waist as she sank down, taking me to the root with a long moan. The teacher stood behind her, one hand on the girl’s hip, the other reaching around to rub slow, firm circles over her clit.

“Rise and fall. Use your thighs. When he is close, stay deep and squeeze that tight little pussy around him.”

I thrust up to meet her. The bathroom filled with the wet rhythm of skin on skin, the girl’s breathless gasps, the teacher’s low, dirty instructions. “That’s it. Take his cock like you mean it. Feel how hard he is.”

When the pressure finally broke, I drove up hard and spilled in thick, heavy pulses. The girl cried out as she felt it, hot, flooding, overflowing around the base of my cock. The teacher kept her seated through every spurt, voice rough. “Take every drop. Keep him buried until he is finished. Good.”

When the girl finally lifted off, a thick stream of seed followed, running down my shaft and dripping onto the tile. The teacher caught some of it on her fingers and pushed it back into the girl’s open pussy, then licked her own fingers clean with a satisfied hum.

The teacher dressed with the same brisk efficiency, smoothed her hair, and unlocked the outer door.

“The building will fill again soon,” she said, still sounding faintly annoyed. “Leave separately. And next time I catch you acting up, you had better already know how to take a cock the way I just showed you.”

She stepped out into the quiet corridor, the girl and I stayed a moment longer, still breathing hard, the tile cool beneath us and the evidence of the lesson still wet between her thighs.