The Corridor of Uncertainty

Ian shepherded Ginni away from the site of debauch that was rapidly and inexorably staring to develop in the classroom behind them, bombshell fuckdolls having stirred themselves into a lascivious froth through both the teasing of their classmates and the delicious tension over having pretend that they weren’t insanely lewd, sexually voracious bimbo whores. Slamming the door a little too abruptly, Ian took Ginni’s elbow and manoeuvred her into the corridor as all hell broke loose behind them, any class with Diamond and Titania in it liable to break into a three-hole gangbang ball-bursting orgy.

The way ahead of them was mercifully clear. The corridor had been denuded of its usual array of artefacts that proclaimed the lewd exploits of the school’s students, packaged as achievements, accolades, hyper-pornified class portraits and imaginatively vulgar examples of ‘work’. The production photos of the stunning star turn of the school’s resident thespian Jody Coxxx-Staynes (not a stage name) performing in Sheridan’s immortal satire ‘School for Scandal’ had all been taken off the walls. Ian had seen the show and could see very well why they had opted to change her character’s name from Lady Sneerwell to Lady Spearwell, and while he hadn’t actually realised exactly how filthy eighteenth century plays were, he was pretty sure that the bukkake scene had been an insertion.

That was gone – alongside the beaming pictures of the girls of Miss Campbell’s form on the charity visit to dig wells in some part of Africa or other (lots of important plumbing achieved), the cheerleading team enjoying the boy’s football team’s victory both with the boy’s team and their vanquished foes, several important latex-themed fashion shows superintended by Miss Stark, herself wearing an eye-popping pink skintight vinyl babydoll. Everything had been scrupulously cleared away, so that the bare walls were showing up the faded patches of paint from where they had been removed. The display cases, the motivation posters (‘You Can Take It’ featured a life-size reproduction of his own massive phallus entering B.J. Devine’s asshole), and the much-beloved ‘Top of the Pops’ competition, whereby students voted for the best facial cumshot of the week from a selection that were posted ad-hoc on the school’s website, had all been whipped away.

‘It’s a little… bare, isn’t it, Mr White?’ Ginni said, unevenly, looking at the walls.

Ian thought. Maybe he could come up with some bullshit about the benefit of letting the students go around with clear heads. Then something turned the corner ahead and came up the corridor.

‘We’re…’ he squinted at the approaching figures, ‘redecorating!’

The school’s redoubtable handywomen, Roxxxi and Foxxxi, we suddenly sighted approaching towards them hefting ladders, rollers, brushes and tins of paint. Both were in baggy camo combats and immodestly abbreviated skintight white vests that their gargantuan tits bulged out of, leaving their ripped midriffs exposed.

‘Hi Mr White!’ Roxxxi said.

‘Hi Roxxxi,’ Ian said to the stacked, tattooed fuckdoll as she set up a ladder ahead of them, ‘all cleared out for you?’

‘Just going to give it a lick,’ Roxxxi said in her usual raspy whore-voice, giving Ian a sumptuous wink.

‘Of paint,’ Foxxxi said, eyefucking Ian all the same.

‘Don’t get any on the inspector,’ Ian said, façade of bonhomie still intact, ‘very important person coming through!’

Roxxxi gave Ian’s ass a spank as he sidled past her, which hopefully Ginni didn’t detect.

They turned the corridor, they made towards science, and the hopefully subdued, middle-class calm and propriety of Charles Woodcock-Splatterwell, who was reliable to a fault except when in proximity to one of his many crushes, like Vixxxen Sinclair, Nurse Pennyweather, Diamond, or, come to think of it, pretty much anyone. Ian glanced at his watch. Ten o clock, meaning five more hours of this agony to endure. On the plus side, some of their biggest liabilities – Diamond, Sanddy, his own damned girlfriend – had already been negotiated, and to all intents and purposes, Ginni was so far non the wiser that the school was not in fact a further education college but a institution for perverse, sexually gifted, and unusually endowed eighteen year olds to… what was the educational phrase? ‘Explore’.

He stole a glance at Ginni’s immense chest and wondered why she couldn’t just be normal, like all of the other hypersexual nympho bimbo fuckdolls he encountered in his professional life. It was tremendously inconsiderate and of no help to anyone. However, what was a boon to him was Gina Taylor’s apparently successful attempt to depornify the school’s outward appearance -all that was left to conceal, was to apply the same standards to his own sex-corrupted heart. That and the thousand other reprobates in the immediate vicinity. As he was mulling this over, an example of this very liability suddenly presented itself, and his heart sank. A single female student was making her way down the hallway towards himself and Ginni. And she clearly hadn’t got the memo about appropriate dress.

Ginni, finally - finally - was taken somewhat aback.

‘Heavens…’ Ginni said.

Heavens was right.

Approaching them down the corridor, was the unmistakable sight of Jizzelle Cumshotte. It would be difficult for Ian not to recognise her, because he had fucked her only yesterday, railing her over his desk during a lesson – whatever it was – where she had squealed and sprayed a glistening welter of girljuice before kneeling in front of him and holding up her phone to capture the enormous, molten gluey cumshot that Ian had ejected directly into her face, giggling and wincing playfully as each massive bolt of groin-syrup smacked between her eyes. Jizzelle was the scion of an incredibly rich and aristocratic family who had sensationally renounced her class status and privilege on her 18th birthday, whereupon she had eschewed the chance to appear on a trashy reality posh-porn show with her older sister by instead enrolling at the school to train for a career in real porn films, compressing her double-barrelled surname Cumming-Bagshotte into its more fittingly distinctive sobriquet which she planned to use as her erotic-movie handle.

Jizzelle was a perfectly and evenly tanned bimbo slut with a bimbo hardbody, plump dicksucker lips, glossy, shimmering blonde hair and a tattoo across her clavicle that read ‘GET FUCKED’ in elaborate script. She was dressed completely normally for her, which was to say, full fuckdoll attire, consisting of shiny black PVC ankle boots with platforms and 8 inch heels, black fishnet stockings, shiny black bracers on her forearms, and a red shiny kinked-up bra and panty set that was linked together, out of which her humongous, spheroid, tanned, projecting tits burst out of, areolas visible, but nipples mercifully covered.

Those nipples being concealed was the only thing that kept Ian in a job, and the school from being closed down on the spot.

‘Mr Whiiiii-iiite’, Jizzelle called.

‘Jizzelle,’ Ian said, heart in his mouth at the foxy teen nympho strumpet’s salutation. He cursed the fact that while her name was so pornified, it was actually her actual real name, Jizzelle every bit as posh as she was trashy.

‘I’ve sent you the video we took in class,’ Jizzelle said, making goo-goo eyes at him, ‘did you get it? I love your lessons soooooooo much…’

Ian had received it, and had studied it carefully. He had had to admire the way that Jizzelle managed to keep her eyes open even as rope after rope of hot spunk belted into them. He’d skullfucked her after his sixty-seven spurt spunk cannonade of semen, and ended up hammering the back of her head against his desk.

‘Very useful teaching aid,’ Ian spluttered, saying literally anything as they went past Jizzelle, ‘can’t stop, I’m with the school inspector.’

Ian whisked Ginni further down the hall, glancing over his shoulder to see Jizzelle hold her hand up to her mouth and stick her tongue in her cheek as he went.

‘Active teaching,’ Ian said, ‘sometimes we record as we go. Cutting edge.’

Ginni’s brow furrowed suspiciously.

‘Mr White, I feel I have to say something. That is most unusual. Not to say outrageous. How on earth do you allow girls to go around the school in that sort of attire? Shouldn’t there be some form of reprimand?’

Ian considered this. He needed to think, but all his blood was engorging his enormously stiffening fuckpiece, stuffed down his leg, bloating his trousers, hot and hard and heavy against his skin. He needed it, for the first time, in his brain. He gulped and held the manilla file closer against his groin and leg to secrete the bulge, and was about to burble some sort of response, when yet another female **** majeure presented itself at the end of the corridor.

It was none other than Harley Staxxx.