Rural Alabama Schoolteacher, 1902

In 1952, an 86-year-old recalls his life of debauchery as a young man--especially his romps with a few Alabama school girls he had taught 50 years earlier.

Part One

My name is Sanford Douglas. I am penning this memoir in the spring of 1952. I am 86 years old. I don’t know how many more years I have left to live—I suppose nobody really does—but I think it’s high time I recorded some of the more interesting adventures of my life for posterity. These tales might amuse my great-grandchildren someday. I’m not especially proud of this first one, but it happened.

I was born in 1866 just a year after the American Civil War had concluded. I was born in Ohio, so I’m a northerner. I had several uncles and cousins who fought in the bloody affair. About half of them died of illness or battlefield wounds in the four years it lasted. My father, who was part of a field artillery unit, remarkably avoided any sort of injury. One day in Tennessee, however, three of his gunnery buddies were killed near Lookout Mountain by a Confederate shell only about 30 seconds after he had been dispatched to the rear fetch more ammunition. They were literally ripped to pieces by flying shrapnel. It was an awful, messy sight. Understandably, Dad seldom talked about it.

Before and after the war, Dad held a good job as a pharmacist in Dayton, Ohio. Why he wasn’t given a medical job in the army is anyone’s guess. I suppose he preferred to go wherever his neighbors and friends were, even if that put him in terrible danger. He saw that I was a smart kid, too, and insisted I study hard to make something of my life. I eventually went to college and got a degree in English literature. I tried to make a living penning short stories, but my success was minimal. I eventually settled for being a small-time government clerk with a sideline as a bookkeeper. Any writing I did was generally for my own amusement.

I’d likely still be in Ohio today if I hadn’t succumbed to temptation. That temptation was females. I liked girls. I mean I really liked girls. For as long as I could remember, I thought they were lovely, sensual creatures who ought to be kissed and hugged at every opportunity. I started young. When I was just five, I was always smooching the twin girls who lived across the street from my family. They were four years old at the time. All the adults thought it was cute. When I was seven, I discovered it was a lot of fun to go skinny dipping in the many nearby lakes—especially if I had female companionship. One day when I was ten, an angry father caught me getting too friendly while swimming in the nude with his eight-year-old daughter. He raced into the water, dragged me onto the shore, and beat the tar out of me with his belt. That swift, painful punishment didn’t cure my obsession of course; all it did was make me be far more careful in my lusty pursuits.

I generally stayed out of real trouble until 1893 when I was 27. That year I impregnated a 15-year-old girl at a church picnic. It was the minister’s daughter. When she became noticeably pregnant and pointed to me as the only possible father, I was told I either had to marry her or be out of town within 24 hours. A third option involved a rope and a sturdy oak tree. I chose the option of fleeing.

I moved to Indiana and quickly acquired an office clerk’s job. By 1895, I was dating a shapely stenographer for a while, but that ended when I impregnated her 17-year-old sister whose charms I could not resist. Again, I was strongly advised (at the point of a gun) that it would be best for my long-term health to leave town immediately if I had no intention of marrying the fertile girl who was carrying my child. This scenario seemed to occur to me wherever I went. I really got into trouble with my sexual antics in Missouri where I was carrying on with two underage sisters. I heard through the grapevine that I was about to be arrested on serious charges, so I caught the first train heading out of town with little more than the money I had saved, a few personal items, plus a suitcase of clothes. I ended up in central Alabama. I figured no one involved in law enforcement from Missouri would be looking for me there.

Part Two

The county I entered was poor. Alabama had been a very prosperous state before the war. Now, 37 years later, it was near the bottom in just about every economic statistic you could name. People with college educations were rare, too, so when I learned that a teaching position in a one-room schoolhouse was available, I applied for the job and was quickly hired solely because of my degree in English. My teaching experience was nil. Nobody cared. The teaching position had been vacant for over a year. The three-person board of education members were overjoyed to hire me. I was told there would be students ranging in age from 6 to 18. I was given the state curriculum for every grade level, but I was plainly told that the most important things to teach were reading and arithmetic—two very basic life skills. Anything else was a bonus. My pay was $45 per month. I boarded with a family whose house was about half a mile from the school. My room and meals cost me $7 per week.

The first day that school reopened with me in charge saw 22 students arrive—18 of them were girls. That ratio startled me until I realized that there were no laws in Alabama that mandated school attendance and that most of the boys were needed to help on the farms where they lived. Schooling was secondary for them.

I spent the first hour trying to gauge where all the students were in math and reading—and found that they were all poor in those subjects. I restarted everyone at second-grade level and went from there. I tried to spend at least 20 minutes with each student individually to show that I cared about how they were progressing. That was new to most of them. Slowly they began to become fond of “the Yankee teacher.”

An early success story was a nine-year-old name Beth Wilkins who could not read at all on the first day of school, but by the end of one month she could get through small passages without too much assistance. Her parents were so thrilled that they sent me a cake. When she presented it to me before school started, she also gave me a kiss on the cheek, which I happily returned. When she kissed me two more times, I handed her a penny from my pocket. Having money was a novelty for most of my students, as bartering was the normal means of commerce in the county. In 1902, you could by three or four candies for a cent, so I had enabled Beth to have several treats. Beth told the other girls her age about her penny. When school ended, two other girls who were about Beth’s age, Mary Sheppard and Vanessa Mitchell, asked me if they could earn pennies for kisses, too. I said why not. These two I embraced fully. They both walked away happy—and a penny richer.

I wasn’t earning a fortune, so I did odd jobs on Saturday and Sunday to increase my income however I could. I was creative. The closest village had an opera house that was seldom used. I made a deal with the proprietor that I would read stories and newspaper articles aloud for two hours every Saturday afternoon to anyone interested in hearing them. This was a treat for the locals as most of them were illiterate. Some 65 people showed up to hear me. There was no admission fee, but attendees were encouraged to leave gratuities. Some left pennies and nickels, others brought fruit and vegetables. The proprietor and I split the take. I used the groceries as partial payment for my room and board. This became a regular Saturday feature. On Sundays I used my typewriting skill to prepare a pastor’s sermon and was paid three cents per page.

Some of the older girls in my class were quite fetching when they were scrubbed. One busty 14-year-old named Ashley Monroe had heard about my pennies-for-kisses exchange, and, out of curiosity, coyly asked me what she could do for me to earn a dime. I told Ashley that if she stayed after school for 20 minutes so I could fondle her sexy body, I’d happily give her ten cents. She readily agreed! When her classmates were dismissed, she left with them, but she doubled back and met me at the door. I locked it behind her. We remained dressed, but I had a fine time putting my hands under Ashley’s clothing to feel her lovely tits and finger her pussy. She seemed to enjoy the sexual contact as much as I did. I became totally aroused, so I offered Ashley an extra nickel to masturbate me. She didn’t know what that meant, but she caught on in a hurry when I dropped my trousers. A few timely tugs caused me to shoot two ropes of semen that luckily struck the floor instead of her clothing. “Good girl, Ashley!” I said enthusiastically when I handed her a small fortune of 15 cents.

Of course, Ashley did not keep her windfall a secret. She told Cindy Foster what she had done—and Cindy approached me to find out if she could get in on the same deal, too. Cindy wasn’t as well built as Ashley, but I got the idea that she was experienced in pleasing boys. I was right. She undressed fully and yanked down my trousers. She gave my stiff dick a passable hand job as I explored her body. There was no way that was a first-time thing for her. I came far too quickly, but I figured Cindy had surpassed Ashley’s efforts, so I happily gave her 17 cents.

If any of these girls’ parents knew about the type of services I was buying from their daughters, they didn’t seem to care. They were just thrilled that my method of teaching math and reading was paying dividends. After about a month, each and every pupil of mine had made great strides in their schoolwork. Things were going so well, that I felt comfortable spending some class time with American geography and history lessons for the sake of variety. I deliberately avoided the Civil War as it was still a touchy subject in Alabama. Also, I didn’t dare mention that I had about a dozen relatives who had fought for the Federals.

There were three 18-year-old girls in the class. Every one of them was physically appealing to 36-year-old me. I figured it was only a matter of time before one of them heard about my buying sexual favors and wanted to get in on it. Sure enough, Alva Edwins slipped me a note that said she “would do anything to earn a quarter.” I walked by her desk and whispered in her ear, “Alva, I’ll pay you a quarter for a fuck. Stay after school today.” It occurred to me that most of my disposable income was being spent to satisfy my carnal lust for youthful females.

I thought I saw Alva nod, but I wasn’t entirely certain she had agreed to my proposition until I saw she wasn’t leaving with the rest of the students when school was dismissed. I set a quarter on the edge of my desk. Alva nodded and slipped out of her dress and her undergarments. She was a cutie! She had decent-sized, firm breasts and a very hairy vagina. Alva was petite, just a smidgen over 5 feet tall, but she was definitely a pretty, fair-haired gal. I got undressed in short order, attained an erection very quickly, and instructed Alva to climb onto my lap.

We began by kissing. Alva was quite good at it. Then I fondled her breasts until her nipples were rock hard. I then lifted her and set her down so that she was impaled by my stiff penis. Her pussy felt wonderful as it had been quite a while since I’d had full intercourse with any female. Hand jobs and feel-ups were fun, but nothing compared to a good old-fashioned fuck! I lifted Alva up and down on my rod for several minutes. I could feel an ejaculation mounting. I gave her one final thrust and exploded inside her pussy. Alva just cooed quietly and looked at me with a sense of awe and admiration. I thanked her for her services. She replied, “It was nothing really, Mr. Douglas. I regularly screw my cousin for nothing.”

Three days later, Maryellen Sims stealthily dropped another note on my desk offering her sexual favors for 25 cents, too. I readily agreed. She was a tall, lean girl who had undersized breasts, but she had a very sexy air about her. After school that day, I had her disrobe and bend over my desk so I could fuck her from behind. I felt her tits while rhythmically pounding her. She made plenty of noise—and so did I—until she had an orgasm. I followed shortly thereafter with one of my own that filled her vagina until some of my warm semen dripped onto the floor. As well as being the school’s teacher, I was the janitor too, so I made sure the evidence of my debauchery was removed before school began the next morning.

To my delight, two days later, the third and prettiest of my 18-year-old female students approached me for a fuck-for-pay. Mary Stuart wasn’t the best built girl in my class, but she certainly was the most attractive. Apparently, she was sexually experienced, too. She gave me a very sensual blowjob (that included her licking my testicles) before starting our intercourse. I lustily set her on the floor to give her a good screwing—right after I had fucked her perky tits. I came in about 10 minutes. Again, I had deposited a large load of jism into an eager 18-year-old beauty.

Three months later I had a lot of explaining to do when Alva, Maryellen and Mary all showed signs of pregnancy. I was the obvious culprit. When I heard rumors of a lynch mob assembling to visit my boardinghouse, I promptly took precautionary action and skedaddled with every possession of mine that I could easily carry. Luckily, I had just gotten paid for the previous month’s teaching, so I had a bit of much-needed cash in my pockets. I literally grabbed ahold of a slow-moving freight train that was passing through town. I clung to it for about 20 miles until it came to a station. There I bought a regular train ticket as a passenger and headed for central Texas. That’s where I resided for the next 30 years. I worked full-time as a journalist and part-time as a reading and arithmetic tutor. I married Deborah Nelson in 1905. She was nine years my junior and the widowed mother of one of my young male tutees. Together we had three children. I honestly don’t know how many children I had fathered with my large assortment of sex partners before I met Deborah. I calculated it could have been as many as a dozen across four states. None ever came searching for me—or at least they never found me in central Texas if any were looking for me.

One day in the late 1930s, I was at a social event with my wife, when I noticed a gentleman looking at me with great interest. Eventually he approached me to say that I had an uncanny resemblance to a cousin of his who lived in Alabama. He sincerely wondered if I was a distant relative of his.

I just smiled warmly and said, “Could be…could be!” Then I walked away.