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COCKSUCKER FINISHING SCHOOL 

By Wyrdey

Those snooty rich kids in their private prep school...

Remember how they've treated us? How they've stood there in their fag-tastic school blazers and looked down their noses at us?

"A private boy's boarding school" - seriously, can you even think of anything more gay?

I bet it's like a prison, drop something in the shower and they'll be all over you before you can even moan.

I've got plans for them. Big plans.

I think I'll start slow - you know me, I love subtlety.

One day, a week or so from now maybe, they'll all wake up with a real craving for cock.

Their eyes will just flutter open in their rooms (do they all sleep together, in, you know, the same room? I've heard they do, but that just sounds too gay even for them maybe...)

Anyway, like I said, their eyes will flutter open, and they'll all be lying in a vast pool of their own jizz. Their balls will be sad, shrivelled, drained dry things indeed. 

But each one will be still sporting the hardest stiffies of their lives, and they'll think back, back to that incredibly sexy wet dream that left them with their little rod of iron, and they'll find, in their minds...

They won't just be normal cocks either, I mean some will be, but others will be like baseball bats, and they'll all be so swollen that it looks painful, the head all red and radiating heat, the big blue veins bulging through every last inch of translucent skin. 

And they'll just be so many, and so many different kinds. 

Cut cocks, uncut cocks, black cocks, Japanese cocks, cocks that are super long, cocks that are squat and super wide - like big, angry red mushrooms...

God, they'll drool.

I bet, even then, lying in a room full of boys (maybe) and reeking of jizz, I bet most of them won't be able to resist grabbing a hand round the sticky, straining length of their own cock just at the vague memory.

I wonder how they'll deal with that, each trying desperately to hide his own damp puddle on his sheets, his own raging stiffy, while trying so hard to keep their hungry eyes from each other's straining crotches.

It's going to be fucking hilarious to watch.

Then again, like I said before, such a queer group, maybe they won't even notice the difference in a school full of hormonal rich kids who can dream only of big, hard, tasty cocks.

We'll see.

They'll DEFINITELY notice my next little tweak to their toffee-nosed lives, though.

I'll just put the idea into the headmaster's head (ha!) that they need a new uniform.

They'll do it fast - whatever it is that that they do to decide such things. 

It doesn't matter.

They'll finally decide on some drab, stuffy thing and organise a big assembly to unveil their school's new look.

Everyone will be there. Some school captain or something will be taken backstage to be dressed in the new look. It'll all be boring right up until the moment when he steps out to model the look. That's when I'll do my little thing.

The second the curtain parts (it'll be done in super-dramatic way, too. I know how these stuffed shirts think) - he'll feel a strange shifting, but find himself strutting out anyway.

I wonder if they'll gasp?

Often shock makes you quiet, but I think they'll laugh. At least for that first moment - at least until they realise that it's not a joke.

Only the students will stare - the staff will just think that it looks perfectly appropriate for such an august an institution as theirs.

It'll all seem to fit right somehow.

The 5-inch Mary-Janes, the little thigh stockings, the teensy pleated plaid skirt, the so-tight-so-tiny croptop, the big pink ribbons pulling his hair into proto-pigtails, the pink diaphanous thong that he'll constantly flash, intentionally or otherwise, even before he bends over (in that careful way that girls have to in high heels) and wiggles his ass at the stunned crowd before pulling his best 'I'm-a-bad-little-girl' face and slapping himself across the buttocks that poke out from underneath his little skirt at the best of times.

His body will be totally hairless and his skin will have a gorgeous peaches-and-cream glow to it that might confuse those who've gotten over their initial shock.

The teachers won't understand the dislike.

The students will pout and snivel and whine, but somehow, won't be able to keep from getting up the next morning and wriggling into their pretty new uniform. Their complexions suddenly so hairless and perfect.

They'll walk in their shiny, strappy black heels and teensy skirts so naturally, so elegantly - like strippers teasing an audience.

They'll try to run, especially from the laughing, mocking crowds of large, muscular boys that will congregate around them wherever they go, but have little luck with their teensy steps, hands stretched out limply, murmuring their concern as their asscheeks wiggle prettily for their audience.

They'll get used to lying bruised in ditches.

...And the magazines will be sitting - grubby and obsessively thumbed - beneath every mattress, in every bathroom, hidden in every desk, ready for their owners to get a moment alone when they can gape and bite their made-up lips and drool over those obscene, photoshopped studs and the titanic mouthwatering members that they thrust so shamelessly out at the reader. 

So many hands slipping their red-painted nails under a skirt and into stretchy pink nothings and rubbing while their owners go cross-eyed and yip and moan soft and high and shudder their hips spasmodically and come just like a girl.

I don't want it to be fast when it happens.

I want them to see it coming far, far off but be able to do nothing about it.

I want them to fret over how well they suddenly fill out their uniforms.

I want them to hate their bodies for betraying them to this soft and jiggling suppleness.

...And it'll go on much longer than they suspect.

They'll weep and clench their dainty little hands and stomp their pretty little feet in rage as they feel all of the hardness leaking out of their little members, as they feel the flesh remold delicately over days, as they first feel the silky softness of those new little lips that their pink underthings outline so prominently.

They'll think that the change has happened - that the perfect, creamy mounds that bulge so endearingly around their too-small tops have finished their humiliating swell, that their continuously outthrust buttocks have ripened and rounded as much as such things can, they'll think that the so-soft shimmering hair that always tickles their exposed asses has finished lengthening and thickening. They'll think that their change into creatures of cooing wet-dream is complete.

And they'll be wrong.

More and more of their softly bouncing T&A will poke into sight around, above and beneath the gorgeous uniform that they'll stretch more desperately, and fall out of more commonly, every morning for months and months.

They'll hate it even more when they realise that it's not just their bodies that are changing, softening...

As they hear more and more giggling and airhead valleygirl bubbliness filling the prestigious halls of their school... and their own helium voices. As gum-snapping and gossiping become their major occupations, and they seemingly lose the ability to read without cocking their head to the side, twirling a pigtail around a finger, and blowing big, pink bubbles.

As hair-pulling, slap-fights, and yanking a rival's top open to expose their over-swollen, bouncing breasts to the world become the only forms of violent disagreement. As giggling and posing and thrusting out soft, creamy flesh for anything male becomes universal and automatic, they'll start to understand how their very souls are putty now.

Their school will have to change to accommodate them, of course.

Sports will be right out. High-heels, constant popping out, the simple fact that not one of those dream-perfect boobies have ever so much as felt the touch of a bra.

From now on, the only sports will be cheerleading and pole dancing, and both will be mandatory.

That cheerleading uniform - tiny, stretchy, baby-pink, clinging perfectly, outlining perfectly... It will have only appeared in wet-dreams before I wrapped those jiggling cuties in it.

So enthusiastic they'll find themselves too - shimmering pigtails flying, huge fluffy pink pom-poms raised so high, little skirts swishing high on their full hips...

They won't have anything to cheer of course, not that that'll bother them.

Pretty soon, though, I'll organise for them to be the dedicated cheerleaders for every tertiary institution, boy's school (heh), or senior citizen's bowls team within driving distance.

Just watching the old fogeys gaping at those perfect, dancing melon-tits as the cuties find themselves fantasising about 80-year-old cock as they shake their asses for whoever will watch will be worth it.

Their pole dancing classes will be quite the sight too - a class of them wiggling into a room with mirrored walls and row after row of sturdy poles (I haven't decided just which classroom to convert just yet, but then there's lots of options. Little bimbos don't need that many rooms in their school. I'll just use something unnecessary, like mathematics.) 

Their synchronisation will be instinctive and perfect. 

A room of little bimbettes like that, dancing all together to the tacky music, flashing lights playing across their ceaselessly jiggling curves, each one's huge, gorgeous eyes glued to the omnipresent reflections of their wanton gyrations... it would get any cock painfully hard.

And a lot of that would come from their dance style - that perfect incongruity of wide-eyed, impenetrably girlish innocence and totally shameless slutdom. 

Angels moving like filthy whores.

They won't even need to change, their uniforms will look perfectly appropriate at last. 

Flippy plaid microskirts looking at home fluttering about thighs wrapped tightly and spinning around a cold metal pole, filmy pink nothings letting just a hint of that metallic coldness through to the moist lips swelling beneath every one, tiny spandex tops stretchy enough to let that cold steel slip easily and deeply between every outthrust pair of bosoms.

Such a display of nubile girlflesh even before they begin removing their scanty slutwear.

Such an innocent demonstration of wanton sexual athleticism.

Legs raised up high above flying pigtails, back-arched, bust-displaying poses sustained only by the muscles of those sleek thighs, ass-bouncing splits that spread long, shapely legs so very, very wide. 

They won't be able to keep their hands off themselves either.

Fingers will squeeze at swollen tits, trace achingly hard nipples, slip between legs...

They just can't help being so turned on.

And, best of all, when they grind their hips into their poles, or turn to give it a perfect, synchronised tittyfuck, the way that all their big eyes shyly seek out those of the male in the room. Row after row of angel faces upturned, shining, pink-glossed lips parted orgasmically, hands roaming mindlessly... 

And you know, absolutely know, when those big, timid, hungry, stupid, pretty, lost, blazing eyes meet yours, that they're imagining, dreaming, that it's with you.

And that's what makes them finally ruin their pretty little panties.

The bucking hips, arched spines, and soprano moans just as synchronised as everything else.

That might be my favourite class.

Even counting Sex Ed., when they gently undress each other and lie on their backs on the floor, each with their buzzing plastic friend in one dainty hand, legs uniformly splayed, and happily explore the pretty drooling little slots that I gave them.

They come often and irregularly, the automatic pussycat arch of their backs lifting everything between their ass and their head off the ground, and forcing those huge, firm, perfect breasts straight up, high above the rest of their body - hemispheres of jiggling perkiness capped by agonisingly swollen pink nipples.

If you stand just right, you'll be able to look down between those wobbling twin peaks of tit and see an angel face, ringed by a halo of gleaming hair, and thrashing back and forth, transfigured by girlish ecstasy. 

It's a long class, maybe some of them almost manage to fuck some of the Boy Crazy out of themselves for a moment or two.

All of this will require a change in the teaching staff too, of course.

Soon the cocks will vanish from them as well, and they'll be a group of prim, snooty dykes watching like hawks over their giggly, jiggly, ditzy charges.

They'll need little excuse - any real or imagined failing in lady-likeness or academic discipline will be enough - then they can take the mewling airhead over their knee, give their scanty panties the minute yank required, and spank that perfect little bubble-butt until it's bright pink.

They'll love that - the pouting, the sniffing, the tender ass-rubbing, the awkward sitting...

Maybe I'll make it a reality show... or at least a pay-per-view special.

I want every one of those little-girly-girl faces to be recorded and splashed across the screens of the world: mouth open wide as they scream and moan and thrash and come like a porn star, pouting and nursing their most recent spankings, cooing and giggling and vacantly twirling a pigtail... As cheerleaders giggling and bouncing and ecstatically rubbing their tits in some dumb jock's face... As eager strippers that the whole world of pimply fat nerds will beat off too... As mewling, squealing schoolgirls fingering themselves shamelessly and oh-so-happily for the cameras... 

I'll think I'll change the name last. I like the idea of it still being called a 'Boy's School' through all this.

But still, I can't wait to see that old, drab sign out the front shift and change.

I'm still making up my mind... What do you think about "Miss Hotbuns' School for Young Ladies"... Or perhaps "St. Bimboslut's"... Or "Bigtits Academy"... 

Or "Cocksucker Finishing School"