1. Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 7


    Date: 9/23/2015, Categories: Cuckold, Author: blin18, Rating: 4, Source: LushStories

    My rushed getaway from Josh meant I arrived the Sponge Toss booth ten minutes early, so I had an opportunity to get a feel for the game before I started getting hit with wet sponges. Mr Mitchell the P.E. teacher was on-deck, his wet and smiling face mounted above the brightly coloured body of a clown painted on the outside of the booth, while a line of senior boys tried and mostly failed to hit him with large, wet rectangular sponges. It didn’t take long to work out that this game was a lot harder than it looked. The size and shape of the sponges made them hard to throw, they wouldn’t fly straight, and if you threw them too hard then the water would all fly off in transit. Notwithstanding the fact that the game was clearly rigged to get people coming back for more (it would be no fun if every throw hit the target), I wanted to have a go too. “Can teachers play?” I asked the supervising parent who was collecting money and making sure that most of the rules were followed. “Sure thing, Miss Granger,” he said (well that was embarrassing – I didn’t recognise him at all). “Your money spends just as well as the kids’. Two bucks gets you two sponges, or five bucks for five,” he said with an ironic grin. “But making good with Mr Mitchell afterwards is your own lookout.” “This isn’t going to make for an awkward moment in the staff room, is it Mr Mitchell?” I joked to the face in the booth. “Only if you hit me Jeannie,” he said dryly. “Just remember whose turn it is next.” “Oh, I’m ...
    well aware,” I laughed, paying my two dollars and arming myself with a sponge. “I just want to have a go now before I lose my sense of humour.” I find the expression ‘he or she throws like a girl’ pretty offensive, but whoever came up with it was probably watching me throw at the time. In my defence, I spent most of my childhood reading books, not playing cricket or softball or skipping stones on a pond. Rather than enduring the crowing from the boys that would surely come if I tried to throw over-arm, I looped a gentle under-arm lob in Mr Mitchell’s direction and I almost got him. The look on his face was in some ways better than a bullseye; he braced for the direct hit, but it just dipped at the last moment and hit the chest of the painted clown to a cry of “O-o-o-h” from the crowd of onlookers. “A bit more pepper on the next one, Jeannie,” he teased, obviously trying to goad me into a rash throw that would surely spray wide. “Just finding my range, Mr Mitchell,” I called, still using his surname in the presence of the kids. “Hold your breath for the real one!” I threw my second sponge with the same underhand loop and this time I got him! “Yes! Woooo!” I celebrated perhaps a little too grandly with the gathered group of seniors as it plopped wetly into his face. I admit that it wasn’t as satisfying as the loud THWACK of a full-blooded throw, but I’ll take my wins where I find them. “The sponge I can forgive, Jeannie,” Mr Mitchell spluttered, blinking water from his eyes. “It’s ...
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