0 comments/ 41113 views/ 5 favorites Anthea's French Lesson By: adoration Author's note: there's an old saying that there's two sides to every story. This is a story told, in turn, by a French teacher and one of her pupils. The teacher's portrayal of events may, or may not, be "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth". Nor, on the other hand, may the student's. But neither is really important. What is important is that this is a fantasy – and no one gets hurt! The teacher's tale: I had been a tutor in French at a tertiary college in Windsor for two or three years when Anthea came along. Anthea was 18 and one of those delightful creatures – a natural at French. It dripped off her tongue in a superb accent which belied the fact that she had been a schoolgirl in Slough, of all places, and not a student of the Sorbonne. At 34, I was a specialist in French, at which I also had a natural ability. Single, and happily so, I was also aware that I was an attractive woman, with a large 40-inch bust, strong thighs and a curvy, very kissable bum. I must confess I did nothing to conceal my voluptuous assets as I always wore tight-fitting blouses and skirts. And, I must also confess, I often caught the lovely Anthea stealing a peak at my twin peaks, or trying to sneak a look down my ample cleavage. Anthea was attending our college as she was seeking a job with a huge multi-national company with close links to French industry. It was essential for the job she sought that her command of the language was impeccable – and not just "high French" either. She would also, it seemed, have to carry on conversations with people who, although in positions of authority, inclined to the more slangy-style patois of that wonderful, mellifluous, romantic language. I noticed Anthea the very first day she attended one of my classes. Her blonde hair – and it was dazzlingly blonde – was cut in a chien style, close and chic. Her eyes were deep blue – almost as blue, for example, as Chelsea football shirts. Her figure was, as they say, "to die for". Her lush young breasts, while not as large as mine, looked like they would make lovely handfuls. Her hips flared gloriously out from the miniskirts she was fond of wearing, her thighs looked strong, but not overly muscular and her calves were trim and toned. She was, in a word, stunning. She had been attending my class for almost a month when, at the end of this session, she lingered while the other nine pupils left the room, chattering and making a typically frightful noise. Anthea approached my desk as I was putting some text books away and cleared her throat. I looked up, surprised to see her still in the room. "Er, Ms Allcourt," she started, "I was wondering if I could ask you something?" I smiled up at her beautiful young face, which looked at the same time both sexy and innocent – how wrong I was to be about the latter! "Please, Anthea," I said, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile, "when there are no other students about, please call me Jeanette." "Jeanette?" she said, as a question. "That's such a sexy name." Only she didn't say it quite like that, it was more "That's such a sexy name!" if you get my drift. "How can I help?" I asked, indicating she should pull up a chair and sit by my desk. She did so, crossing her glorious legs and revealing a flash of bare brown thigh that made my mouth water. "Well, it's something rather – oh, how can I put it? Something rather naughty," she said, grinning a lovely grin and now looking much more relaxed. "It's just that you teach French and I was wondering – and I know this is awful of me – but I was wondering if you were aware of 'Frenching'. At least that's what I think they call it." I smiled what I hoped was a scholarly, professorial smile. "Well," I said, not quite sure where all this was leading, "if you mean French kissing, I am aware of it, yes." Anthea shook her chic little head seductively. "No, Ms – oh, sorry, Jeanette," she said, in a voice now full of teenage confidence, "I mean Frenching, nothing to do with tongues in mouths." And then she gave me a deliciously wicked smile and added: "Tongues in other places, perhaps?" I felt my cheeks redden. "Er, yes, well, er, yes, I am vaguely aware of that sort of Frenching, as you call it," I responded. "But how can I help?" "Well," said Anthea, her forefinger drawing a sort of doodle on the dust on the top of my desk, "I was wondering if you would give me some private tuition in it. I mean, you couldn't give tuition in Frenching here in class, after all, could you?" My heart was now thumping and I was acutely aware that Anthea's stare was fixed on my breasts, which were heaving in my tight black silk blouse. "Tuition on Frenching in class would be, oh, how can I put it?" I said, struggling for words. "Unorthodox?" suggested my lovely young student, with almost a leer. "Yes, precisely, Anthea, precisely," I gabbled, "er, yes." And then I finished, tamely: "Unorthodox." "So I was wondering if you'd be prepared to enlighten me with some private tuition, say at your place?" the lovely little minx pressed me. I looked towards the door, dreading that someone might return to class to fetch something they'd forgotten. No one came. "Well, er, yes, I suppose so, yes, I guess that would be possible," I told her. "We could do it – er, the tuition, I mean - at my place, I have a comfy little flat above a shop in Eton High Street. After class on Friday, perhaps?" Anthea shook her head. "Friday's out, I've got a date with my bungling boy friend, who'll be trying to get into my bra and then my panties," she laughed. I looked aghast, but she smiled: "Don't worry, I don't let him. He gets to stroke my bra, but that's it. Now, I'm playing hockey on Saturday morning, so shall we say Saturday afternoon?" With trembling hands, I wrote down my High Street address, a time and a phone number. "Now be careful," I told her. "Hockey can be a very dangerous game." And then I added, and betrayed my interest in her: "Be careful you don't get injured. I'd hate for you to miss some private tuition!" As she stood to leave, the lovely young thing traced a cool hand across my upper thigh. And I believe I blushed – at 34, I blushed! Friday dragged and Saturday morning seemed like an eternity. I took a long, luxurious bath in my small but well-appointed bathroom. Then I shaved my pussy, removing any traces of pubic hair which might have grown since my previous shave about four days before. I left a narrow strip of dark brown hair from my mound, which rose about three inches towards my navel. I looked spick and span. I then pulled on one of my sexiest little black silk slips, which brushed so erotically against my nipples, making them as hard as stones. I stepped into a pair of Lulu Guinness classic high heels - shoes are my weakness, I'm afraid, I use far too much of my good pay on shoes, the sexier the better. I turned and looked at my rear reflection in the wardrobe's long mirror. My bum was just covered by the shiny black silk, but when I bent over slightly, the material rode up to reveal my pussy. I decided to go without panties – after all, Anthea had been pretty explicit about what it was she wanted! Then I began to worry that the phone would go and it would be her to say she'd had a change of heart, or that she'd broken her leg playing that stupid hockey game. There were three calls, and at the first "ping" of each my heart gave a frightful leap of agonised tension. I need not have worried – the first was a wrong number, the second was an awful man trying to "hot sell" some product, what, I can't even remember now, and the third was my mother asking when I was going to visit her in Bracknell. I was so relieved it wasn't Anthea cancelling that I was actually pleasant to mum and engaged her in a long conversation. Lunch was out of the question – I had too many butterflies storming around in the pit of my stomach to contemplate food! Finally, I heard a clock from the college chime 2 o'clock and then I heard – right on cue! – a ring on the door bell. I almost sprinted downstairs, opened the door a smidgin, saw her lovely face smiling at me, moved behind the door frame and Anthea stepped into the little square foyer in front of the stairs. She was looking freshly scrubbed and healthy, her face was glowing, a faint dab of deep red lipstick on her mouth. She was in jeans and a large woollen sweater and carrying an Yves St Laurent shoulder bag. I wanted to snog her to death there and then, but I led the way upstairs. Anthea followed and half-way up the flight leading to the apartment she laughed: "Oooh, Jeanette, you are naughty – no panties, you wicked woman!" Upstairs, the lovely blonde stepped into the centre of the room, looked around, remarked "Nice", tossed her YSL bag on the floor then pulled off her sweater. I gasped at her superb breasts, encased in a shiny black satin uplift brassiere, the upper globes brown and gleaming. Then she unzipped her jeans and struggled out of them. Her calves and thighs were bronzed and beautiful. On her hips hung a little black satin thong, her buttocks were almost perfectly round, scrumptious mounds of teenage flesh. "We're in no rush, Jeanette," said the gorgeous teenager, in a forceful, even commanding voice, "come and sit down over here with me." And with an outstretched hand she led me to a couch against one wall. I walked with her and sat on the cool leather, feeling the stickiness from my pussy dampening the seat. Anthea looked at me and cupped my chin in her hands and then delivered a wonderful, open-mouth kiss. As our tongues intertwined, one hand brushed across my breasts, tweaking the nipples inside the material. "You have got such wonderfully full breasts," she whispered, breaking off from the kiss, "I've been fantasising about them for days, how they would feel, how hard the nipples would be, how firm the flesh. And you've not let me down one bit." And with that her hand delved beneath the hem of my slip and rose to my right breast, cupping it, stroking it, massaging it. Then her other hand pulled the slip up so it was hooked across my shoulders and my twin peaks stood out, full and facing her. Anthea's mouth was hot on my nipples as she sucked first one, then the other, her wonderful oral adoration taking my breath away. She sucked on my nubbins, licking them, kissing them, playing a magnificent tune until I could hardly stand it any longer. Then she was slithering away from me, pushing my right thigh away so my leg was against the edge of the couch, my right foot on the floor. Next she pulled my left thigh up, and I hooked my left foot over the back of the couch. Now I was totally exposed to her. I lay back and saw her looking at my exposed quim, her blue eyes flashing, her tongue licking against her lips. "That's a good girl," she said. A girl? I'm 34, for heaven's sake – she's the girl, she's the teenager! "Lie back and let me show you what I mean by a good Frenching," she ordered, and her mouth was suddenly against my box, licking, probing and delving into the places which for so many long, starved months now had been secret places only explored by my fingers. Her little tongue was hot on my anus, then it was at my cunt, my weeping, sobbing cunt. "Oh, Jeanette," said Anthea, in that still commanding voice, "you're sopping wet and you want me so much." And again her tongue went to work, thrusting into my cunt, then parting my labia lips and diving into my hidden folds of flesh, before rising to my clitoris and teasingly bringing it out to play. My hands fell onto her short-cropped hair and stroked her there. Her tongue was a darting, diving little snake, thrilling and paralysing me. I lay back, not daring to move, not daring to breath hardly as I felt her oral ministrations bringing me closer and closer to the inevitable climax which I knew was only moments away. Then the crashing roared to an unavoidable bursting, billowing, blinding scream and I soared into sex space, as her tongue gave me one of the most intense, body-jolting climaxes I have ever experienced. Anthea sat back up, smiled me a mischievous little grin and unhooked her bra and tossed it away. Her breasts hardly dropped one centimetre! They were magnificent mounds of 36-inch glory, the nipples dark pink, the areolae small but exquisitely shaped. Then she stood and stepped out of her thong. Now my gaze was transfixed on her mound, her lips showing between her firm young thighs, her little heart-shaped piece of light, almost white pubic hair, on her mons. I stood from my place on the couch, and Anthea sat in the middle of the seat and placed her high heels a yard apart on the floor and presented me with an untrammelled view of her snatch. "On your knees, Jeanette," she said, in a voice that brooked no dissent, "and let's see what you're made of." I made no objection – I was enthralled by her fantastic, firm young body, I wanted her, I was hungry and thirsty for her all at the same time. I knelt before her thick-lipped labia and inhaled wantonly at the strong, rich aroma seeping from her snatch. My tongue flickered along her trench, from her clitoris to her labia, tasting the tangy juices seeping from her, then I was at her cunt, pushing my tongue into it, tasting her velvety softness, her seeping, sopping softness. Then I dived lower, to her brown-puckered anus, tight and inviting. I kissed it, then licked it, then – in a move I would never have dreamed I could make – I placed my fingers on the insides of her buttocks and pressed the flesh outwards, until her anus was opening, peeping with its pinkness at me. My tongue licked up there, tasting a brackish, tangy taste, then I moved back to her cunt, and up to her clit. Her hands came down and fastened onto my head. "Stay there, keep it there, lick me there," came her command, and my tongue flashed back and forth until with a moaning, grunting sound which rose into a higher-pitched yell, she announced those two wonderful words – "I'm coming!" My tongue flashed faster and faster until, finally, she calmed and pushed me away, before turning around, kneeling on the couch and presenting me with her wondrously kissable arse. "You seemed to like kissing my anus, now you can get work on my buttocks and bumhole, Jeanette, while I present your report card," she said, in a tone which brooked no argument. I gazed at the round moons of bum flesh before me, her anus brown and inviting, her pussy lips lower down, and then I started to work on her, kissing and licking all over her firm, pert buttocks, before once more worshipping her luscious little anus. As I performed this oral adoration, Anthea spoke. It was a voice that proclaimed, quite simply "I'm in charge!" It was not the voice of a pupil, it was the voice of a mistress – a headmistress, I thought, almost laughing aloud at my own, awful pun. "Well, if I was a school teacher marking your report card, under the heading 'Frenching' I'm afraid I'd have to write 'Must do better!'," Anthea informed me, as I continued to work at her buttocks and arsehole. "And what happens to naughty girls who are so pathetic at Frenching, eh Jeanette?" her voice snapped out like a whip cracking across my back. I pulled from her glorious bum and said, as calmly as I could, although my heart was racing: "They get punished, my dear Anthea, they get punished." The youngster pulled her arse away from my eager, submissive mouth and laughed: "Too fucking right, Jeanette, they get punished!" She then sat on the couch and snapped her fingers, like a boorish person in a restaurant trying to attract the attention of a waiter! "Over to my bag – on your knees, Jeanette, on your knees – and in the bottom you'll find something that I need for your beautiful big bum!" I turned on all fours, displaying that "beautiful big bum" to Anthea and crawled to her bag. Delving into it I came across the item she was obviously referring to when she had spoken of "something" that she needed. It was a gleaming black leather tawse, the handle like the grip of a golf club, only this was about six inches in length, no more. The punishment end of the implement was about a foot long, and at the tip the four-inch width of the business end had been split into two separate strips, each about four inches long. It looked lovely, but it also looked cruel. "Put it in your mouth, and crawl back to me, there's a good teacher," said Anthea, in a faintly sarcastic tone. I did as she ordered and she took the tawse from my mouth, then patted her lap. "Come on, come and get it, Jeanette!" I could hardly believe what I was doing, but I obeyed the teenager's instruction, and soon found myself bent over the young madam's lap, arse on display, feet on the floor behind me, palms in front. Then the tawse hit home and it stung as if I'd been jolted by an electric shock. I writhed and yelled, but Anthea's response was to crack me again, and again. After six strokes, I felt her fingers probing my backside, one sliding into my anus, then pulling back, driving next up my vagina. I was sopping wet. "Want six more from the other side, darling?" I heard her ask, her voice now calmer, softer, more friendly. "Yes, please, darling," I whispered, and I stood and stretched out over her lap the other way round. Six more stinging, stunning electric shocks smacked into me, then the fingers of her other hand probed my anus and pussy once more. Finally, she was done, and she stood, took me in her arms and gave me a long hug. Then, bending over, she picked up her thong and asked: "Got a glass bowl?" I nodded, dumbly. "Sure, what for?" I asked. "You'll see," she smiled, and I went to my little kitchen and returned with a bowl I used for beating eggs for omelettes. "Bathroom?" asked Anthea, and I led her to that room. Inside, she placed her feet apart and held the bowl beneath her lovely pussy, then let go a strong stream of light yellow urine into the container, almost filling it. Anthea then put a plug in the basin, and poured the contents of the bowl into it, plopped the thong into the urine, then walked back into the living room. She dressed, put the tawse in her bag and turned to give me a kiss on the mouth. "Let those panties marinate in that pee for an hour, then let the water out," she instructed me. I nodded, meekly. "After another hour, put the panties in an airing cupboard, let them dry out a little. When you go to bed, place them on your face, OK?" I nodded once more. "If they're still damp, you may need to place a towel over your pillow," said Anthea. "Inhale the aroma and think of me while you finger fuck yourself." I nodded. "Then you'll fall off to a lovely, deep sleep. When you wake up, my lovely aromatic panties will still be on your face. Then you can have a dawn breaker while you think of me." And she skipped to the door and turned. "Don't worry, I'll find my own way out," and with that she descended the stairs. I walked to the head of the stairs and stood there, naked save for my high heels, and watched as she departed. The door opened, the noise of the bustle of Eton High Street flowed up to me. Anthea looked up, winked and blew me a kiss, then the door closed and she was gone. I ran my tongue across my lips, tasting the wonderful tang of her sex juice. I knew she would be back. The student's story: For me, the best thing about French lessons at that college in Windsor was Ms Allcourt, our teacher. I don't know how old she was, but possibly in her early to mid-30s, an bracket which, I must confess I found rather old, being an 18-year-old – well, nearly 19, actually. But Ms Allcourt was very alluring. She was taller than me, which isn't difficult because I'm only five foot three, but she's got this lovely brown hair, which sort of bounces just above her shoulders and these deep brown eyes, eyes so deep you'd swear you could swim in them. Anthea's French Lesson But it was her figure and the way she carried herself that was most alluring about her. Her breasts were ginormous – mine are 36 and they're babies in comparison to hers. They must have been 40 inches of pure unadulterated sex appeal. And she had a luscious bum. Being so well-built, she also wore clothes that showed her figure off, shiny tight blouses, tight-fitting skirts, often minis. But then, I often wore the same sort of outfits and I often noticed that she noticed, if you get my meaning. Often I'd catch her peeking at my boobs. Every now and again she'd walk around the class, making a point about something to do with pronunciation, and she would nearly always linger just behind my desk. I just know she was peering down my blouse. And I've got cleavage to die for! Anyway, it was a Thursday afternoon, and when the bell went the other nine pupils, the rowdy sods, all marched out whooping and hollering, as usual, when Ms Allcourt stepped in front of me as I was making my way out of class. "Oh, Anthea," she said, "I just wonder if you'd mind staying behind for a minute or two, only there's something I've been meaning to ask you." "Sure," I said, and I pulled up a chair by her desk, dragged my mini down as far as I could over my thighs – my thighs are mouth-watering, trust me, it's true. So anyway, Ms Allcourt went to the classroom door, peered out into the corridor, then shut the door. Then she pulled her chair away from her desk and arranged it so she was in full view of me as she sat down. She was also wearing a mini this day, and her skirt rode up over her left thigh and she made absolutely no attempt to pull it down. Her thigh looked firm, bigger than my beauties, but still very attractive. I like nice, firm thighs. "Anthea, my dear," she smiled reassuringly at me, "I've been meaning to say how well you are coming along in speaking colloquial French. I'm hugely impressed." "Thank-you, Ms Allcourt," I replied, feeling really chuffed. "Please, my dear," she said, leaning across and placing a cool hand on my thigh, "when there are no other students around call me Jeanette, no need for formality now." Then she went on: "As I was saying, your colloquial French is brilliant." And then she dropped this fucking A-grade bombshell: "Tell me, Anthea, have you heard the expression 'gamahuche'?" And she looked me straight in the eye. I squirmed. I'm no dummy when it comes to French. I knew that the term "gamahuche" was an old-fashioned term for cunnilingus, muff-diving, Frenching, call it what you will. "Er, yes, Ms – oops, sorry, Jeanette," I said, stalling for time. "I believe it derives from the French 'hucher', meaning to purse ones lips. I think the more popular term these days is cunnilingus." Ms Allcourt looked somewhat disdainfully at me. "Cunnilingus – what a revolting word, I far prefer 'gamahuche', but if that's not the word used, then I love the term 'Frenching'," the lovely brunette said. "Anyway," she added, "I was just wondering if, when you have some spare time, perhaps I could broaden your French education further, if you see where I'm coming from?" I could see exactly where she was coming from – and to be quite frank, I was intrigued. I was attracted to her – as old as she was – and the thought of being "Frenched" by her, or the other way around, was appealing. Not that I'd ever done that sort of thing, you understand. "This, er this broadening of my education, Jeanette," I said, feeling more comfortable using her first name now, "it could hardly be in the classroom, could it?" She smiled. "Hardly, my dear, that would be a somewhat unorthodox, not to say screamingly radical approach to French education. No, what I had in mind was some private tuition in my flat – it's a lovely little place above a lingerie shop in Eton High Street." The way she stressed the "lingheray" pronunciation was almost pornographic and she must have noticed my reaction. "Lingerie," she repeated, "it's such a sexy word for such sexy garments, don't you think?" I nodded. "Yes, the French certainly have a way with words," I said. And so do some French teachers, I thought. "Well," she said, all businesslike, "when would you like to visit for your private tuition. Friday after college?" I shook my head. "Sorry, Jeanette, I've got a date with my boy friend, who will spend most of the evening trying to get into my bra, or my knickers – or both!" She laughed. "Of course, you youngsters get up to such randy pursuits. Don't let him exhaust you." "Fat chance," I assured her. "I sometimes let him cup my bra, but his hands haven't got anywhere else – and nor will they." Ms Allcourt almost let out a sight of relief. "How about Saturday, then?" she asked. "I've got hockey in the morning," I said, "shall we say 2 o'clock Saturday afternoon?" Ms Allcourt scribbled her address and phone number on a sheet of exercise paper and leaned over to hand it to me, allowing her free hand the opportunity of stroking along my thigh up to the hem of my mini. "Please be careful, my darling Anthea," she whispered, "I'd hate to think our little bit of private tuition was going to be cancelled due to an accident on the hockey field." I stood up, nervously, I must admit, stuffed her address in my shoulder bag and scurried out of the door. I was scared, I was apprehensive, but I knew from the sopping state of my panties that I was aroused! Friday at work crawled by. French seemed so mundane in view of what I was looking forward to. Friday night also crawled because my awful boyfriend was all hands again. When he tried to grope me after a "Goodnight" kiss I told him it was all over. "Sorry," I said, "I've got other fish to fry!" Saturday morning went by in a blur. At hockey, I stayed out on my wing most of the game, trying to concentrate on what was happening around me, but secretly my thoughts kept straying to what I was going to get up in a flat above a lingerie shop in Eton High Street that afternoon! Still, I managed to score a goal from a penalty corner with five minutes left which won us the game 4-3. I didn't even shower with the team. All I wanted to do was get home, shower and then shave my pussy so the heart-shaped design of my fair-haired pubic bush was sharply delineated for Ms Allcourt! I caught a bus from Slough to Eton High Street and heard the college clock peal 2 as I rang the door bell to the side of the lingerie shop. It was opened very quickly, and I stepped into the little foyer at the bottom of a long, narrow flight of stairs. Ms Allcourt greeted me wearing a pair of high heels, a black satin slip and a big smile. She kissed me warmly on the mouth and then turned and walked up the stairs with a sexy "Follow me, you lush young thing!" As she went ahead of me, I could clearly see up the bottom of her slip, her shaven pussy lips pink and glistening, her anal orifice a deep, dark brown. As if reading my thoughts, she turned and smiled: "I'm sorry to be so naughty, my dear Anthea, but in view of what we're going to be getting up to I thought panties would be surplus to requirements." Up in her comfortable little flat, she took my Yves St Laurent shoulder bag and placed it on a chair. "Now, let's get you more comfy," she said, placing her hands on my shoulders and giving me another warm kiss on my mouth. I stood mute as she pulled my sweater off, threw it on an easy chair, then knelt to unzip my jeans and drag them down. I stood before her, wearing a black satin uplift bra and a match black thong. "Come, my dear," she said, leading me by the hand to a long leather couch, "and let's get to know each other." I sat in the middle of the couch, my knees primly stuck together. Ms Allcourt sat beside me, the warmth of her thigh rubbing against mine. Then she reached behind my back and in a flash the clip was undone and she had my bra off. I've always been proud of my breasts, I mean at 36 they're not exactly soft-boiled eggs. Ms Allcourt looked at them, remarked "What a lovely little pair of breasts" and lowered her mouth to begin her oral adoration. My nipples were erect from the excitement and as she started to fondle, suck and caress my boobs, I felt my sex juices starting to make the gusset of my thong sodden. I felt I should reciprocate, so as she was sucking my titties, I reached my hand beneath the hem, of her slip and pulled it up until the garment was hooked onto her shoulders. She pulled back from my breasts and I looked at her set. What a sight! Her breasts were full and heavy – I knew they would be – but her nipples and areolae were the largest I'd ever seen on a woman. The nipples pointed at me like twin bullets, the areolae surrounding them were almost the size of small saucers. She cupped them in her hands, hefting them up slightly. "Suck them!" she said. The words weren't a request, they were an order. I bent over the beautiful mounds and took the right one in my mouth, filling it with nipple and breast flesh. She tasted sensational, like a person who's just stepped from a heavenly-scented bath. After some minutes worshipping Ms Allcourt's beautiful big mammaries, she pushed me away, peeled the slip off entirely, then pushed me to my feet, placed her hands on the sides of my little thong and pulled it down. As I stepped from the garment and flicked it away with a kick, she noticed my little heart-shaped haircut on my mons. "Oh, a heart shape," she said, lowering her mouth to my mons and planting a long, slow kiss on it, "how sweet, my pet." Then she pulled me onto the couch, made me sit in the middle of it, knelt on the floor in front of me, pulled my thighs wide and snapped: "Drape them across my shoulders!" I did as she said, and then heard her murmur: "Such a sweet-looking little snatch. Are you ready, child?" I remember how husky my voice was as I answered: "Yes, Ms Allcourt, yes." And she laughed. "No pet, Jeanette, remember?" And then her tongue was on me. I felt it start at my anus, flickering, then licking, then kissing my back passage rosebud. The feel of her tongue on my anus was incredible, it made my pussy even wetter! Her next port of call was my vagina, by now seeping juice more copiously than it had ever in my life. She sucked me, then I felt her pointed tongue insinuating itself at the lips, then driving an inch or two up me. The labia lips, puffed, engorged, aroused to beat the band, were next, her mouth sucking and working softly, gently, then harder, then quicker, then slower, as she played me the way a guitarist strums a flamenco. And then, after complimenting me on "the tastiest fucking pussy I've ever gone down on", her mouth and tongue went to work on my clitoris. If the previous stops had been paradise, then this was heaven. I felt a throbbing thrill run through me from my throat down to my cunt, then back up to my mouth again as I gulped and swallowed, fighting for breath from all the oral excitement I was receiving. Soon I felt a sort of throbbing in my ears, like someone was pounding a drum in my head, then it became faster and faster as Jeanette Allcourt worked her marvellous magic on my juice-seeping pussy. A minute of this – maybe less, who was clock-watching? – I could hold out no longer and with a keening yelp I whimpered "Yes, mistress, yes, yes, yes" and as I gabbled on and on, the wonderful French mistress's mouth was bringing me soaring to the glorious heights of the best orgasm I had ever experienced. I lay back against the leather couch, panting and sobbing, and Jeanette – she was now Jeanette, pure and simple – stood up and smiled down at me, before fetching me a glass of white wine from her refrigerator. She took me in my arms, cuddled me, kissed me on my mouth with her pussy-stained lips, and whispered: "Sup that down, then you can try some Frenching on me!" I gulped the wine back in one swallow – I was thirsty, but it a thirst for her pussy, not her wine. Jeanette arranged herself on the couch so that I could kneel before her. She draped her thighs across my shoulders and I gazed at her shaved sex trench. The labia lips were thick and glistening. The cunt was pink, wet and oh-so-lickable. But following her cue, I began to work on her anus. She moaned the moment I touched her, then placed her hands on my head to guide me throughout my twat-licking task. For a minute or so I worshipped her anus, then moved up to her sopping sex orifice. It was tasty, very tasty, very tangy. I was allowed a minute or two to perform there, then with a whispered "Higher, pet, higher" she allowed me to run my tongue and lips over her lush labia, the tastiest spot in her snatch of all. Finally, I arrived at her engorged clitoris and soon she was thrusting hard against my mouth, graunching and grinding against my face as she pressed my head onto her calling out sharply: "Flat tongue, Anthea, flat tongue!" Then, as if she had prepared it all along, as her climax neared and came closer and closer she started to chant "Gamahuche me, gamahuche me, gamahuche, gamahuche!" She must have repeated the word five times before she abbreviated it to "huche, huche, huche" (only it sounded like "hoosh, hoosh, hoosh") as her climax crashed through her crotch. I stayed between her full, firm thighs, waiting for her pants to die down, then she allowed me up onto the couch. We kissed and I awaited her verdict. It was not long in coming. "Well, my dear," she said, in a far more composed voice now, "it's report time. As I expected, you were a keen, rather than accomplished – oh, what's the word? Gamahuchist? Will that do?" I giggled: "You're the French teacher, Jeanette." She smiled. "Right, then it's 'gamahuchist', my darling. Now, as I was saying, keen, rather than accomplished. For a student of your ability, I would have expected full marks. So, what can you expect?" I pondered. "A spanking, mistress?" an appellation I felt was more suitable than "Jeanette" at this stage. "No, silly," she laughed, "not a spanking – a whipping! Now, be a good girl and go to the drawer on the desk by the window. Inside you'll find a nice black leather tawse." I did as she ordered and brought a black leather tawse back to her, with a short golf-club-type handle grip, and a punishment section of some 12 inches. From the tip, the tawse was split into two evil-looking thongs, both about four inches long. She then made me bend over till my palms were touching the couch, my feet a yard apart, my poor bottom totally exposed to her wicked implement. From my left side she gave me six stinging, shocking strokes. On completion her fingers stroked against my pussy. The treasonous little bitch was soaking! Next, Jeanette swatted my poor arse six time from the right side, and followed the punishment with another fingery feel-up. "Well, it seems that a taste of the tawse agrees with you," she smiled, letting my stand and kissing me full on the mouth. "Now, my pet that's almost enough excitement for one afternoon, but finally I have a little present for you," said my French tutor. "Come with me." She led the way into a small but beautifully set-up little bathroom. In the wash basin she showed me a pair of black satin panties. They were soaking in a dark-yellow liquid. The aroma which wafted up from the basin left me in no doubt as to what it was. "These have been soaking in my piss for most of the morning, my pet," she said, stroking my burning buttocks. Then she pulled on the chain, unplugging the basin and the urine drained away. Taking the panties in her hand she wrung them out, lightly, then popped them in a clear plastic bag sitting on the bench. "Now, Anthea," she said, "when you get home put them in an airing cupboard to let them dry a bit. When you go to bed, put them on your face – you may need to place a towel on the pillow if they're still slightly damp. "The aroma will, I trust, remind you of your dear French mistress and her first private Frenching tuition session. Have a little play with yourself, my dear, before you drop off to sleep. "Then, when you wake up tomorrow morning, the panties on your face will remind you of me again. I think you'll find your fingers straying downstairs again!" Jeanette then washed her hands, while I dressed. She led me to the head of the stairs, kissed me on the mouth and whispered: "I think you can find your own way out!" I went down the stairs happier than I've ever been in my life. As I got to the door, I turned and looked up at her, standing at the head of the stairs. She was still clad in her high heels, her calves and thighs gleamed brown in the light. Her pussy lips were pink and still hugely inviting. Her breasts were heavy and kissable. She grinned down at me and winked, then blew me a kiss. I stepped out into the bustle of Eton High Street and skipped happily along to the stop where I could catch my bus to Slough. As I waited for the bus to arrive, I ran my tongue across my lips and tasted the wonderful scent of her pussy. I checked in my YSL bag. Her panties were gleaming wetly in their plastic container. I knew I would be back.