Date: Mon, 10 Oct 2016 21:07:05 -0400 From: Olivia Palmer <olivia.octavia.palmer@gmail.com> Subject: Called to the Hall ( g, mast, menses, sniff, ws, nosex ) Called to the Hall by Olivia Palmer ( g, mast, menses, sniff, ws, nosex ) --- _Please_Donate_To_Nifty_ This amazing site provides us all with incredible erotica! I've been an avid reader for many years, and I can't imagine the thought of it going away... If you care about the erotica of alternative, non-traditional, non-patriarchal sexuality, then please please please help keep Nifty going!!! http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html --- This story is a work of fiction and does not purport to depict any real people, places, or situations. It is entirely fantasy and should be treated as such. This story might include descriptions of explicit sexual acts by and between girls, teen girls, and women. If this type of content offends you or if you are not of legal age to view adult content, then do not read it. Do not repost or redistribute without prior written permission of the author. One copy may be saved for private use, insofar as that use does not extend to personal or financial gain by use of the author's work without consent. Copyright 2016 by Olivia Palmer, all rights reserved. Please email the author with comments or questions (or story suggestions!): olivia.octavia.palmer@gmail.com --- I won't make excuses. I can't. How can a kid control who she is? What she is? I didn't even know it yet, so how could I be held responsible for anything I did? Eleven years old, youngest girl in my sixth grade class, and horny. Sopping, goopy, drippy-wet horny every day. I was already getting my mom to buy pads; she thought I was popping my menses already, but at first it was just ordinary everyday girljuice. And did I ever love to slurp it up. I made a habit of licking my pads, my fingers, my panties. Any time I could, I would. The funky-sweet, funky-sour smell, depending on morning or night, afternoon or after gym class. I loved it any way I could get it. That taste. That aroma. Even when that first pink smear appeared in my panties, on my pad. I licked. Sucked. The stink was so new and strange and wonderful, and the flavor? What can I say? Cringe at me, judge me, hate me if you will – I was what I was, I did what I did, and I am what I am. Should have seen me those first few periods. What a rush! The cramping had its bloated horrors to inflict, of course, but that swampy, sticky, smelly crotch? I took to masturbating with the crotch of my blood-stained panties over my nose and mouth – then soon enough with the panties jammed in my mouth, another old pair slung stinking over my face, my hands working my holes, squelching, stinking up my bedroom and making me shake all the way to my curling little toes. Then Ms. Buchanan figured out that I was a pervert. She had been approached by the janitor twice already – both times at the end of the day, two days in a row, both times within half an hour after I'd been allowed down the hall to use the bathroom. The third time the janitor came around, I knew I was caught. My teacher called me quietly away from my desk and into the hall. I queasily wobbled away from the safety of my peers and into the arms of institutional justice. "Young lady," Ms. Buchanan stared down at me sternly, "I know what you've been doing in the girls' bathroom. Three days in a row. What do you have to say for yourself?" Ms. Buchanan was not as old as my mother. Quite a lot younger, in fact; but she was taller, broader, and stronger than my mom – and a lot of men, if you stopped to think about it. She told us at the beginning of the year that she'd spent most of her life training for the Olympics; there was a picture on her desk, her arms wrapped around another girl, both of them in red, white, and blue sweatsuits, clutching flowers and beaming. But a knee injury had ended her dream. So she taught us life science instead. Her hair was a very light blonde and cut like a businessman's – short and smart, neat and clean. She never wore any makeup or skirts, and if she had any breasts you'd never know it. She was all muscly shoulders and big, round butt. I really liked looking at her butt. Funny thing to focus on when she was winding up at you in the hallway, after learning about your little finger-painting project in the girls' room. But I loved her huge muscly ass. It featured largely in my fantasies. My nose, my mouth, my face right up in there. Sniff, lick, slurrrrrp! What can I say? I was eleven. I was full to the brim with hormonal fizz, and overflowing. I found myself daydreaming. Licking teacher ass.... "Well?" my teacher insisted, beginning to lose her patience. She was leaning over me and standing very close. So closely, in fact, that I could smell her personal aroma – a subtle wave of soap-clean skin, a wisp of something like flowers from a deodorant underarm bar like my mother used, and then something else. Something salty-sweet and tangy in the air, a smell I could almost taste, like cookie dough melting on the hot pan in the oven – only not quite so sugary, but mouth-watering and no less delicious. Before I could respond I took a deep breath, through my nose. I inhaled her odor, her scent, her signature. I did. She of course noticed. Ms. Buchanan's eyes flared, and she tensed more than ever, her neck muscles bulging, her face beginning to redden. She looked up and down the hallway, then stepped closer and squatted down until we were nearly at eye level. The cookie dough was melting even more, and I did everything short of snort it into my face, out loud. Ms. Buchanan's eyes narrowed. "Give me your hands," she commanded quietly, and without waiting she grasped them both and lifted them, her eyes locked upon mine, until my fingertips were pressed up against her nose. She then inhaled. Deeply. And again. And again. Then her eyes rolled, so much that she had to close them and keep them closed. We stayed like that for a little while – my hands held within hers, pressed to her face as she inhaled and exhaled through her nose, slowly and deeply, with her eyes closed, shuddering just a little. Maybe squatting so long was making her muscles sore? Eventually she let go of my hands and stood. Her face was red. I gasped when I saw her nipples pressing hard against the fabric of her shirt – fat, hard nipples – and I could finally make out the little bumps of her boobs, too! From standing up close and underneath her like I was, a girl could notice a lot of new things. "Young lady," Ms. Buchanan finally muttered, leaning back and crossing her arms, hiding those magnificent little mounds, "You will stop painting your menstrual blood on the walls of the bathroom stall. Do you understand me?" I, of course, nodded automatically. When you're caught you're caught. "That is not lady-like, nor is it sanitary or respectful of your classmates, who have to use that stall too." I nodded again. "Do you do that at home?" I shrugged, then admitted, "Yeah, on the bathroom tile, like when I'm getting in the tub so it washes off easy." My teacher leaned back down again, then, and brought her face close beside mine. Her breath on my ear was warm and almost wet. Magical. I could feel my vagina, already throbbing, swell and seep almost instantly. "Well, home is where that is supposed to happen. In private. In the home. Your home. My home. But not school. Never school. Is that understood?" She stood back up, and I nodded. Nodded and shook, because I could feel my pad getting heavy and my juice beginning to saturate it and soak out into the slippery side-space between the stitched edges of the cotton double-panel and my throbbing crotch. I wanted to touch myself. Badly. I squeezed my thighs together instead. I shivered. I couldn't help it! Ms. Buchanan watched my sweet misery with hooded eyes, and I stared at the space between us, trying to control the surge of pleasure about to send me thrashing into her arms. Then before I could stop it, my hands pressed together, mashed against my mound. I was terrified, but I was so excited! I sobbed as a little orgasm shook me all over. My tears fell hot and fast against my arms and legs as I bowed my head and awaited the inevitable shouting and dismissal to the principal's office. Instead, Ms. Buchanan bent down again and whispered, "Just take a deep breath now, and let yourself relax." Her long, strongly-veined fingers began gently rubbing the outside of my arms, down all the way past my wrists and partly onto my hands, which were still clamped hard up against my hot, wet problem. "Why don't you go down to the bathroom and wash your face and pee?" She quietly suggested, standing back up and stepping away from me. "Then come on back, and let's never have to talk about this again, OK?" I could only nod and flee. Once in the bathroom I did pee – messy gushes of it, in fact, thanks to my soupy-sticky engorged little lips. Then I made sure to slurp and suck out as much of my syrupy pad and panties as I could, of course; but part of that was merely practical. My spares were in my purse back in class. It was almost time to dismiss for the day already, and I knew there was no chance of a return trip to switch out once I got back to class. I was going to have a long, damp walk home, but at least I could do it without squelching with every step! Plus, I'd have a nice aftertaste to enjoy. And some pretty awesome memories of teacherstink and of nipples that I made hard! It goes without saying, of course, that I had a very hard time getting to sleep that night. --- Hope you liked it! Please email the author with comments or questions (or story suggestions!): olivia.octavia.palmer@gmail.com Copyright 2016 by Olivia Palmer, all rights reserved. Do not repost or redistribute without prior written permission of the author. One copy may be saved for private use, insofar as that use does not extend to personal or financial gain by use of the author's work without consent.