The 40 Hour Nude Famine (a series for lovers of 18yo daughters and schoolgirls): Book 3

Author: Lisa Smiles

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Book 3 in this series takes us into Vice Principal Clark's time-out room where the girls are asked to read aloud to him, from incest smut novels, while they sit cross-legged with him on the floor. It's the 40 Hour Nude Famine so there is no need to be coy about private parts or signs of arousal. In fact, while they're naked and alone with their teacher, why not enjoy some practical lessons?

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5300 words Seldom has taboo fiction seen a new premise like this: eighteen year old girls raising money by remaining verifiably nude for 40 hours, starting at 10am on a school day. Naturally they need a teacher to facilitate things on the first Friday and a father to vouch they stayed nude on the weekend. Your reliable witness (the first person narrator) is Vice Principal Simon Clark, a veteran of romantic and kinky encounters with 18 year old schoolgirls and his 19 year old daughter. He has a younger one too, 18 year old Molly, a girl so nebulous and angelic that impure thoughts about her cannot even be held in his mind, and that isn't because he's not trying. She is just too amazing to even consider. But if he can use the 40 Hour Nude Famine to get some momentum, starting off easy with some smoking hot students, he may just have a shot at the stars. Subscribe for my email alerts for notifications about subsequent books as I continue to release them to help with your moral improvement.

Additional Info

Additional Info

incest, daddy daughter erotica, incest erotica, school girls, virgins, virgin, first time, age difference, family sex
Lisa Smiles
Heat Level
Heat Level (4)
Lisa Smiles
The 40 Hour Nude Famine



She sits up and says, “Here I’ll show you.” Now I’m the pupil; any time a male teacher uses this kind of inversion he is guaranteed to get closer to school girls. She stretches the hood until her swollen button is standing proud enough from the rest that she is able to make it stick to her finger. It’s as though each has a micron of glue. “Don’t forget,” starts her lesson, “the little dog’s doodle. That’s my real nice part.” “Ah ha!” I act dumb. “And if you can run young tongue in this groove”—my eye follows the pink nail polish on her pinkie finger as it traces the crescent where her clit is drawn clear of its sheath—“then that’s what my mom does, to help me relax.” “Should I try it?” “I’m happy to teach you. Then you can do it for your wife, to help her relax.” I guess this is a roundabout way of getting down and dirty with a cute girl, which I am planning on doing—I’ve had no change of heart—but what people who work on machines might not appreciate fully, is that this is the job. The job is to spend time with my students. Your taxes pay for my time to be here. Not here filling out paperwork. Not here dealing with parents. Here dealing with students, one-on-one or in groups, and intimately on occasions. The intimacy can be emotional as happens when a girl needs a shoulder to cry on. It can be intellectual, as when you explain a concept to a girl and you see in her eyes that a few things just clicked into place. At this school it’s me, not a woman, who girls need to go to for women’s needs. That can mean counselling, sanitary napkins, clean underpants, access to this room if they need somewhere private to change—and no I have not drilled any holes in the wall. In their relationship with the state, I am the key point of contact. If I sat here providing Olivia cunnilingus for the whole day, it would be enjoyable, sure, but no less a part of my work. I would only be remiss for neglecting her classmates who might already be feeling she has been here too long and that they’re missing out. “Am I doing it as well as your mother?” “Oh, better, Mr. Clark. What you’re doing is feeling fantastic.” “I’m so glad you taught me! Is there anything I can teach you?” “I don’t know. Maybe?” “Have you fornicated before?” “What’s that?” “Copulation.” “What’s copulation?” “Have you ever been fucked?” I ask, finally resorting to swear words. “Oh that. No. Really? With me?” “Why not with you?” “I’m only eighteen. I’m just your student.” “Come on Olivia!” I’m getting on top. “Why else would I be a teacher? They don’t pay us like they pay people in factories.”


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About the Author

Lisa Smiles

I'm taking a career break from college professorship and mining my intimate experiences with many students for inspiration for stories.

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