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The headmistress, Miss Claudia Harper considered herself a modern woman. A woman not bound by tradition. Afterall it was the 1970's.

It took her a while to formulate a plan. A plan that involved nurturing Randall Ewing.

Less than a month after Randall missed class because he was "sick." Miss Harper introduced him to her clitoris. For weeks, Randall had been enamored with her sweet taste. Now, he was mesmerized by her reaction when his tongue played with that little button. "OOOOOOOOOH, OOOOOOOOOOH, OOOOOOOH, MR. EWING, MR. EWING, OOOOOOOH, OOOOOH, OOOOOH."

She wouldn't describe it this way, but she was fucking his face. Her legs were around his head, her hands holding his head in place. "OOOOOOOH, OOOOOOOOOH, MR. EWING, KEEP DOING MY PUSSY JUST LIKE THAT. PLEASE DON'T STOP."

Randall liked it when she said please. Before he left, the headmistress said "Mr. Ewing, thank you for a wonderful afternoon." She noted that his pants were soiled. It seemed liked they always were when he was eating her. She'd smiled when she heard him groan; she heard it even when his face was in her bush. Now, she knew.

Randall Ewing, at his age could keep going and going. To be specific, he could keep eating and eating. Rarely taking a break. After his tongue massaged her clitoris and she writhed with joy, fucking his face, momentarily he stopped to let her catch her breath. Then, "Mr. Ewing, do me again, please. Massage my pussy with your tongue again."

That's how the next month went and not just Fridays after his classes. He'd ring her doorbell Saturday and Sunday mornings. Now, she'd didn't turn him away. Those orgasms were too good to resist.

As she said she was a modern woman, and wasn't inclined to follow the traditions set in stone by her predecessors going back over 150 years. One Saturday morning, after her first, but hopefully not last orgasm. "Mr. Ewing, are you going to ruin your pants again today?"

"Ummmm, I-I . . .'

"Don't be embarrassed. I'm pleased that my pussy excites you, but instead of soiling your pants, why don't you take them off?"

"Ummmm . . ."

"Take them off for me." It wasn't so much an order as a request.

Randall Ewing had not even untied a shoelace in all the times they'd been together. Now, he unbuckled his belt, and dropped his pants to his knees. The outline of his very stiff cock could be seen through his boxers.

He stood in front of her. "Randall, you're not going to tease me, are you? Don't be embarrassed. Would you like me to pull them down for you?"

Of course he didn't. Slowly, he took the waistband of those boxers and lowered them. His face was red. His cock was pointing straight up. Of course, it was, he'd been eating pussy.

The pictures in all those magazines that the headmistress had spent hours and hours looking at couldn't do justice to what she was staring at. She'd never seen one except in those magazine, and even then, none so big, and to her joy, "Mr. Ewing that is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

His face was bright red. "You should be proud of your big, gorgeous manhood."

From the beginning, all the headmistresses at the Wilkinson School had been single women; spinsters whose virginity remained intact. Except for Headmistress Daisy Roberson with Albert Harris in 1890, their eyes had not gazed upon the sight Miss Harper was looking at.

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