Adults only, no prudes.  If you don't like sex stories containing people
engaging in weird perversions, or you can't separate truth from fiction,
get lost.  The author does not advocate or condone anything that goes on
in this story.

This story is mine.  You can repost it or archive it only if 1) you
don't change it, 2) my name and this disclaimer remain attached, and 3)
you aren't making money off it.  That includes posting it on some
slimeball banner farm web site.  Yes, that means you!

This mean, nasty, and perhaps out-of-character piece is yet another
spin-off from CGC.  I got quite a few requests to bring other men into
that story, never mind that I repeatedly stated that I wasn't going to
do it.  I'm not much attracted to the "slut" genre, so it never appealed
to me a great deal.  But recently, I came across a story containing a
theme that seemed to work, and after playing with it in the context of
CGC, I had an idea.  That idea turned into this.  Don't look for any of
the intelligent, redeeming plot elements you usually see in my stories,
because you won't find them here.  This is pure porn.

You know the drill: If you like it, let me know.  You can find my other
stories in the following archives:

www.asstr.org/~Richard_Bissell
www.asstr.org/~MichaelD/
www.storiesonline.net (under authors, MichaelD38)

Overall Story Codes: Mf, MFf, Mm+/f, teen, bdsm, humil, mast, piercing,
oral, anal, gangbang

AMBER: THE MAKING OF A FUCK TOY

(C)opyright 2000 by Richard Bissell

Chapter 1.

Some years ago, I was an assistant high school football coach in a small
town in the Midwest.  In addition to the football, I also taught senior
History and a couple of P.E. classes.  I was popular with the kids,
particularly the guys on the football team, in part because I wasn't
that much older than they were.  This was my first teaching job, and I
was just twenty-three when I arrived.

Although one might think that such a job would be tough on the libido,
being surrounded by hundreds of teenage girls, it didn't do much for me.
 Those sweet, corn-fed, All-American farm girls had never much attracted
me, never mind that I was soon fending off one student crush after
another.  None of them made a dent in my armor until the day, three
years into my career, that I met Amber Johnson.

I had Amber in both History and one of my P.E. classes.  She was
seventeen, blonde and blue-eyed like her Swedish ancestors, with the
sort of natural beauty and bod that often come along with that look.
She wasn't tall--she was maybe five-four, tops--but she packed a lot
into those sixty-four inches.  Toned, athletic legs, tight little butt,
flat stomach, and small, perky tits like ripe peaches.

Amber first began flirting with me in P.E. class, though it was
initially nothing overt.  Maybe one smile too many, eyes lighting up a
little whenever we made eye contact, asking me just a few more questions
than was really warranted.  When she talked to me before and after
History class, she would clasp her hands behind her back, squirming back
and forth a little, eyes shining.  Yet, for all that, Amber's fixation
was nothing I hadn't dealt with before, and nothing that was beyond my
ability to resist.  Teenage girls rarely have much in the way of wiles,
and Amber was no exception.

The problems, such as they were, really began in History.

A month into school, a few days after the first midterm, Amber
approached me after class, clutching her book to her breasts.

"Mr. Bradley?"

"What's up, Amber?"

"I didn't do so well on the test, huh?"

She hadn't, having gotten a C-.

"No, you didn't.  I'm sorry."

"What did I do wrong?"

"Amber, I need more out of you than an ability to parrot back what you
read in your book and hear in class.  To do better than you did, you
have to show me you understand what you've learned enough to have some
independent ideas about it."

"But I studied so hard."

"Just memorizing the book isn't enough.  You need to think about what
you're reading."

"Could we go over my test together this week?  Like after school?"

"Sure.  I've got half an hour between last period and football practice.
 Come on by."

She beamed at me.

"Thanks."

---

She appeared that afternoon a few minutes after the last bell.  I had
her pull a chair up to my desk and we went over her test line by line.

She leaned closer and closer to me as we worked, until her right breast
was pressing softly against my arm.  It couldn't have been accidental,
not after the third time it happened, but she acted as if she didn't
notice.  I remained where I was, more amused than aroused.

Finally I leaned back, and she pretended to stretch in her chair,
pushing her tits out against her blouse.

"You think you get the idea now?"

"I think so.  This is a big help.  Thanks."

"I need to get to practice.  I'll see you in class tomorrow."

"Bye."

---

I was the team's defensive coordinator, having been a decent safety when
I played in college.  I had a good relationship with the players, trying
not to be the aloof dictator I had encountered too often when I was
their age, and we tended to joke and kid each other a lot during
practice.

We were winding up a scrimmage when Tommy Nelson, one of the
linebackers, stopped next to me with a big grin on his face.

"Hey, coach, I hear Amber Johnson has the hots for you."

I gave him a smirk.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Stacey Bennett was telling me about it.  She said Amber's always
talking about you now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I guess you guys need to run some wind sprints if you've got enough
energy to listen to crap like that."

He groaned, laughing.

"Oh, man, come on!"

"Next time, maybe.  Move it."

He ran off, still laughing.

---

Amber approached me again after class a few days later.

"Mr. Bradley?  Could we go over this week's chapter this afternoon?"

"What don't you understand?"

"I just want to be sure I'm getting it all the way you want us to."

I stifled a grin.  I suspected that she wasn't getting it all the way
_she_ wanted to either.

"I can give you a few minutes."

"Thanks."

She returned to the room right on time and sat down next to my desk.
Today, she had on a thin spaghetti strap top, and if I wasn't seeing
things, she wasn't wearing a bra.  She wouldn't have come to school like
that--it was simply too obvious, and I thought I would have noticed it
earlier that day--which meant she had probably just taken it off.

In any case, I could tell by the sly look in her eyes that she knew what
I had just noticed.  But we pretended to go over that week's work
anyway.

Once again, she was soon brushing her breast against my arm, and this
time I could feel her nipple through the fabric.  It stiffened rapidly
after the first contact, and I could feel the pert flesh sliding against
my arm as she breathed.  My cock began stirring in my slacks.

When I withdrew a little, breaking the contact, she came slowly after
me.  Within a minute or two, her breast was back against my arm.

I leaned back, looking down at her.  Her face colored a bit, and she
inhaled slowly as she met my gaze.  There it was in her eyes,
unmistakably: Kiss me.

I didn't, of course.  Instead I straightened myself in my chair and
moved backwards.  I watched the disappointment flashing through her eyes
as I closed her book.

"I need to get to practice.  You think you have a handle on this now?"

She nodded nervously.

"Yeah.  Thanks."

---

For a couple of weeks, things continued in that vein.  Amber would ask
for help a few times a week, and when she had me alone in the
afternoons, she would do her best to entice me somehow.  Some days she
arrived braless as she had that day; other days she wore short skirts
and tried to rub her leg against mine.

The attentions soon spread to P.E. class.  One morning when we were
playing volleyball, Amber fell to the floor after stretching for a ball,
seeming to twist her ankle.  As the other kids circled around us, I
tried to gauge the extent of her injury.

"Can you get up?"

"It hurts."

I put her arm over my shoulder and helped her over to the bleachers.
The rest of the students resumed the game while I squatted in front of
Amber, feeling her ankle, gently bending it one way, then another.

"Does that hurt?"

"A little."

When I looked up at her after a few seconds, I suddenly realized what
was going on here.  She had seated herself to give me a clear view up
the leg of her nylon gym shorts--and there was nothing under there but
her natural blonde charms.

I had to steel myself for a moment before setting her leg down.

"I think you'll be all right.  Just rest it for now."

For once she didn't try to hide her disappointment at my reaction, but I
stood up and turned back to the game anyway.

---

Despite my outward restraint, Amber's antics were starting to have an
effect on me.  She was a hot little piece of ass, make no mistake about
that--she just wasn't my type.  The guys on the team often teased me
about it, and I had to think that Amber was getting some teasing of her
own.  She simply wasn't subtle enough about her attentions.

Things finally came to a head after the next midterm.  Though Amber
insisted on getting my help beforehand, it was fairly obvious that she
was paying more attention to me than to History.  And when the test
rolled around, I got the confirmation with her exam.  She had done a
little better, but not much.  I cut her some slack and gave her a C+.

The shock that hit her face when I returned the tests put a twinge of
guilt in my gut, but, I told myself, she had gotten what she had earned.
 She spent the rest of the class trying not to cry, and when the bell
rang, she left quickly without looking at me.

---

I saw nothing of her the rest of the day, and I went home after football
practice.  It was a Friday, but we didn't have a game that night, so I
was looking forward to a lazy evening in front of the TV.

Around eight o'clock, the doorbell rang.  Behind the door, I found
Amber, dressed in hiphugger jeans and a short halter top.

"Hi."

"Amber, what are you doing here?"

"Can I come inside?"

"First tell me what you want."

She inhaled nervously

"What do I have to do to make you like me?"

I took a slow breath.

"Amber, this is a very bad idea."

She took a step toward me, pushing her shoulders back a little to lift
her breasts.  I stayed where I was, and she closed to within a foot or
so.  She looked up at me yearningly.

A moment later, she raised her arm and caressed my cheek tenderly.

"Amber--"

"Don't you want to?"

"No, I don't want to."

Her eyes swelled in shock.

"Why not?"

"Because although you are very pretty, you are not my type.  You're not
the sort of girl I'm attracted to."

Tears began filling her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Amber, tell me something.  You're a virgin, aren't you?"

Her jaw vibrated for a moment, then she answered me.

"Yes.  You . . . you would be my first.  I've never even let a guy take
my top off."

"And why me?"

"Because you're so cute, and so hot, and so smart, and so nice to me
and--"

Her voice broke, and now she pressed herself against me, trying to put
her arms around my waist.

"Please--"

I pushed her away.

"Listen.  I'm just not into this sort of thing.  I like bad girls,
sluts, girls who aren't afraid to say the word 'fuck' and then do it six
different ways no matter who might see it.  That's not who you are."

She sniffled as the confusion spun through her head.

"You don't want me . . . because I'm _not_ a slut?"

"Exactly."

She panted against her agitation for a few seconds.

"But if I were?"

"You're not.  I can see it in your eyes.  You don't have it in you."

"But I could.  For you.  I'll do whatever you want me to.  Whatever you
want to do to me, you can."

I stared hard at her for a few seconds, but she stood her ground.  I
realized we were still standing on the porch where anyone could see us,
so I pulled her into the house and shut the door.

"Do you understand what I'm talking about here?  Not just garden-variety
perversions like oral sex.  I'm talking big league stuff.  Is this
getting through to you?"

She gulped.

"Whatever it is, I'll do it."

"This isn't going to be one of those tawdry student crushes where you
change your mind in a month and get me fired.  You must surrender to me.
 Completely.  Whatever I tell you to do, you do.  No argument, no
questions.  In exchange, you get a commitment, from me, that you will be
mine until you no longer want to be.  But a refusal of my instructions
will be the same as a statement that you want out.  Do you understand?"

Her face had gone pale, but she nodded weakly.

"Say it."

"I understand.  I'll do whatever you tell me to."

I ran my eyes over her body slowly.

"You said you're a virgin."

She nodded rapidly.

"I am."

"If you're lying, you're out of here, okay?"

"I'm not.  I swear."

"Follow me."

I led her into the bedroom and shut the door behind us.

"Strip.  Show me."

Amber stripped rapidly out of her clothes.  She hadn't been wearing a
bra, and under her jeans she wore nothing but a tiny lycra thong, which
she removed in an instant.  Then she lay flat on her back on the bed,
spreading her legs.

I squatted between her firm thighs, inspecting her wet blonde pussy.
She was so turned on that her fluids were running out onto her legs.
She gasped when I first touched her, and her legs twitched as I probed
gently into her.  Her sex was as cute as the rest of her, slim pink
petals like the inside of conch shell.  Just inside, I found her hymen,
still intact.

"Very good."

She gulped.

"Thanks."

I stood back and looked over her smooth, taut body.  Her small breasts
were hard and firm, holding their shape well though she lay on her back.
 They quivered with each nervous, rapid, breath.  I traced my eyes down,
past the curve of her ribcage to the smooth concave swell of her
abdomen, the muscles around her navel, finally down to the sparse nest
of pale blonde pubic hair that surrounded her swollen sex.

She wasn't a slut, yet.  But maybe I could make her one.

"Let's begin."

---

-To be continued.-

---

Amber: The Making of a Fuck Toy
Copyright 2000 by Richard Bissell
Free redistribution permitted; no commercial use without authorization.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.