Little slut takes both teacher and dad

The first time it happened, I didn't expect it. We were still at school, late afternoon, the classroom empty except for the two of us. Mr. Dawson—that's what everyone called him, including me back then—had agreed to give me extra tuition after Dad asked him. He lived three houses down from us, so it made sense. Convenient for Dad to pick me up after.

That first day, he was explaining algebra, his voice low and patient. I was staring at the equations, barely comprehending, when his hand touched my shoulder. Just a gentle squeeze, like he was encouraging me. Then he leaned in closer, and I felt his breath on my cheek.

"You're distracted," he said softly.

I turned to apologize, but before I could speak, his mouth was on mine. It wasn't a hard kiss, not forceful. Just a press of lips, testing, questioning. I froze, my heart hammering. But I didn't pull away. And when his tongue touched my lower lip, I opened for him.

It slid inside slowly, exploring my mouth like he had all the time in the world. His tongue was warm, insistent, curling against mine. I tasted coffee and something sweet. My hands gripped the edge of the desk as he deepened the kiss, his fingers threading into my hair, holding me in place. I didn't know what to do with my own tongue, so I let him guide it, let him teach me that too.

When he pulled back, I was breathless. He smiled, wiped a strand of saliva from my chin, and said, "Let's focus on the work now."

I couldn't focus. But I nodded anyway.

The next week, we moved to his house. It felt different—more private, more dangerous. Dad dropped me off with a wave, trusting him completely. We sat at his dining table, books spread out, and for an hour we actually studied. But near the end, he closed my textbook and looked at me.

"Stand up," he said.

I obeyed. He guided me to the couch, sat down, and pulled me onto his lap. His hand slid under my skirt, fingers pressing against the fabric of my panties. I gasped, but he shushed me, kissing my neck while his finger traced the outline of my cunt through the cloth.

"You're wet already," he murmured against my skin.

I was. I didn't even realize it. He pushed the fabric aside, and his finger—just one—slid inside me. I whimpered, clutching his shoulders. It felt strange, invasive, but good. His finger moved slowly, curling, exploring. I could feel every ridge, every knuckle as he pushed deeper. My hips bucked involuntarily, wanting more.

"Shh," he whispered, his thumb rubbing my clit in circles. "Let me take care of you."

He added a second finger, stretching me. I bit my lip to keep from moaning too loud. His fingers pumped in and out of me, wet sounds filling the quiet room. I came on his hand, shaking, my face buried in his neck. He held me through it, his fingers still inside me, feeling every pulse.

After, he cleaned me up with a tissue, kissed my forehead, and said, "Same time tomorrow."

The next session, he wanted to taste me. He laid me on the couch, pushed my legs apart, and buried his face between them. His tongue was hot, flat against my slit at first, then pointed, darting into me. He licked my clit in long, slow strokes, then fast, flicking motions. I grabbed his hair, gasping, crying out as he ate me like I was his last meal. His tongue pushed inside me, fucking me, while his nose pressed against my clit.

I came twice before he stopped.

Then it was my turn. He sat on the edge of the couch, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock. It was thick, veiny, the head already glistening. He guided my head down, and I opened my mouth. I had never done this before, but I wanted to. I took him as deep as I could, gagging slightly. He groaned, his hand on the back of my head, not pushing, just resting.

"Suck it," he said. "Use your tongue."

I did. I licked the shaft, swirled my tongue around the head, took him in my mouth again and again. He tasted salty, musky. I loved it. Bobbing my head, I looked up at him, and he stared back, eyes dark with lust. He came in my mouth, hot and thick, and I swallowed without thinking.

He pulled me up, kissed me deeply, and whispered, "Perfect."

A few days later, we were on his bed. The ritual had formed—study for an hour, then this. He positioned me on my hands and knees, his body covering mine. I felt the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, slick with spit and my own wetness.

"I'll go slow," he said.

He pushed. I gasped at the stretch, the intrusion. He only got the tip in before I winced. He stopped, let me adjust, then pushed a little more. I could feel every inch of him entering me, stretching my walls in a way fingers never could.

"That's it," he breathed. "Taking me so well."

He didn't go all the way. Not that first time. Just half, maybe less. He thrust gently, shallowly, letting me get used to the sensation. My pussy clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper even as my mind screamed caution. A few minutes later, he pulled out and came on my back.

But the next session, he got more. And more. Each day, he buried himself a little deeper inside me. By the end of the second week, I could take almost all of it. By the third, the head of his cock kissed my cervix. He'd ask, "Ready?" and I'd nod, and he'd thrust, filling me completely.

By the fourth week, the full length of him slid inside me without resistance. My body had learned him. I'd wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, grinding against him. He'd fuck me in every position—missionary, doggy, on my side, me on top. His cock slammed into me, stretching me, filling me, the wet sounds of our bodies slapping together echoing off his bedroom walls.

We'd end each session the same way now. Study closed, books shut, then his hands on me, his mouth on me, his cock inside me. It became our final lesson. I'd leave his house with cum dripping down my thighs, walking carefully to my dad's car.

Dad always asked, "How was tuition?"

"Good," I'd say. "Learned a lot." Before drifting of to sleep in dad's car.

And I had. My body had learned every inch of my teacher. Every vein on his cock, every taste of his skin, every sound he made when he came inside me. I'd sit in the passenger seat, full of knowledge and full of cum, my pussy sore and satisfied, and smile at the road ahead.

The afternoon sun was still high when I heard the door creak open—but I didn't register it at first. My mind was submerged in the thick haze of pleasure, my body pinned to the couch under Mr. Dawson's relentless thrusts. His hips slapped against mine, his cock driving into me so deep I felt it in my throat. My legs were wrapped around his waist, my fingers digging into his back.

"Fuck me harder," I gasped, my voice ragged. "Please, please—"

He grunted, his pace quickening, each stroke a hammer blow that sent shockwaves through my pelvis. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto my chest. I was lost in it—the stretch, the fullness, the wet sound of my cunt gripping him.

Then my eyes drifted past his shoulder and landed on the figure standing in the doorway.

Dad.

He stood there, frozen, his keys still in his hand. His face was unreadable at first, a mask of shock. But I saw it shift—saw his gaze travel down from our tangled bodies to where Mr. Dawson's cock was pistoning into me. And I saw the tent forming in his pants.

I wanted to say something, to warn my teacher, but the words died in my throat as Mr. Dawson slammed into me harder, his groans drowning out everything.

"Oh fuck, that's it—you take me so fucking good—such a tight little pussy—"

I tried to tap his shoulder, to whisper, but he was in his own world. His hand grabbed my hip, angling me deeper, and I moaned despite myself. My eyes met Dad's across the room. He wasn't moving. His hand drifted down to his zipper, and he began to rub himself through his trousers, watching.

The sight of my own father standing there, stroking himself while I was being fucked by our neighbor—it sent a jolt of electricity through me. My pussy clenched involuntarily around Mr. Dawson's cock, and he groaned louder.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me—"

He finally opened his eyes, saw my panicked expression, and followed my gaze. His body went rigid. He pulled out of me with a wet pop.

Dad spoke. His voice was low, steady, almost amused.

"Don't stop on my account."

Mr. Dawson stared, his cock still slick with me, standing at attention. Dad walked closer, unzipping his trousers fully, pulling out his own dick. It was thick and hard, veins prominent, the head uncut and glistening under the light.

"Continue," Dad said, and there was no room for debate. "Fuck the slut."

Mr. Dawson hesitated, but then positioned himself between my legs again. He guided his cock back to my entrance and pushed inside with a wet slide. I whimpered, still watching Dad. He walked to the side of the couch, his cock bobbing in front of my face.

"Open up," he said.

I did. My lips parted, and he pushed his cock into my mouth. It tasted different from Mr. Dawson—saltier, skin softer but the shaft thicker. I couldn't breathe properly, my nose pressed against his pubic bone as he filled my throat. The pungent musk of his skin flooded my senses.

Then Mr. Dawson started fucking me again, deeper than before, and the double sensation overwhelmed me. I sucked Dad's cock blindly, my eyes watering, my mouth working to keep up while my pussy was being rammed from below. Every thrust from Mr. Dawson pushed me further onto Dad's shaft, and every bob of my head made my teacher groan.

I couldn't think. I was just a hole, a mouth and a cunt, being used by both ends. The sounds—wet, sloppy, obscene—filled the room. Dad's fingers tangled in my hair, guiding my pace. Mr. Dawson's hands gripped my thighs, splaying me open as he pounded into me.

My first orgasm hit like a freight train. My back arched, my throat convulsing around Dad's cock as I screamed against it. A muffled, guttural noise. My pussy rippled around Mr. Dawson's dick, milking him, and he groaned, slamming deeper.

"Fuck—she's cumming—"

Dad pulled back just enough to let me breathe. "Little cockslut," he murmured, his voice husky. "Take it."

He pushed back in, and I gagged, tears streaming down my cheeks. Mr. Dawson's rhythm became erratic, animalistic. I was lost between them, a ragdoll of pleasure.

"I'm gonna—" Mr. Dawson started.

"No," Dad commanded, pulling out of my mouth. "Both in her cunt."

I barely understood the words until I felt Dad move. He pulled his cock out of my mouth and shifted position. Mr. Dawson pulled out too, and I heard the wet sound of two dicks being aligned. I whimpered, knowing what was coming.

"One... two," Dad said, and then they pushed together.

The pressure was impossible. Two heads at my entrance, stretching me wider than I had ever been. I screamed as they forced their way inside, side by side, the walls of my pussy burning and stretching to accommodate them. It felt like I was splitting apart—but the pleasure, sharp and blinding, overrode the pain. I came with a violent convulsion.

They moved together, a rhythm they found instantly. Dad's cock rubbing against Mr. Dawson's, both sliding in and out of me, filling me completely. I couldn't breathe. I could only feel—the friction, the fullness, the sheer overwhelming invasion.

"I'm gonna cum again—" I sobbed.

"Then cum," Dad said, thrusting harder.

I did. I screamed so loud my throat went raw. My vision went white, my body convulsing, every muscle clenching around both cocks. They kept fucking me through it, relentless, until I came again. And again. I lost count. Each orgasm triggered the next, my pussy a tight, wet furnace that refused to stop milking them.

Mr. Dawson came first, his hot cum flooding my insides, mixing with Dad soon after. Together they painted my walls with their release, pumping into me, their groans harmonizing. I felt the cum dripping out around their shafts, slick and warm.

When they pulled out, I was hollow. Empty. Cum leaked from my gaping cunt onto the couch cushion. I lay there, panting, my limbs heavy, my mind blank.

Dad zipped up, wiping his hand on his shirt. He looked down at me with a mix of disgust and satisfaction.

"So my suspicion was right and this is what you've been learning," he said. "I pay him to teach you algebra, and you end up taking cock. Couldn't even come to me for it, could you? Had to go outside the house for it."

I tried to form words, but nothing came. My eyes fluttered closed.

"You're a slut," he said, his voice flat. "That's what you are. A greedy little slut. You seduce men to fuck your little greedy cunt."

Mr. Dawson said nothing. He just stood there, his deflating cock still wet.

Dad grabbed my arm, pulling me upright. "Let's go."

I stumbled, my legs weak, cum running down my thighs. He dragged me to the door, not bothering to help me clean up. I collapsed into the passenger seat, my head falling back, my pussy still throbbing, still dripping.

Before I could even buckle my seatbelt, I was asleep.

The last thing I heard was the car engine starting, and Dad muttering under his breath, "...I am gonna fuck you so hard till you forget all about him."