The Degenerates is like a necklace of magic charms discovered quite by accident in a dusty old trunk in the attic. Give it a rattle and up spring all those old demons of lust and degradation, those devilish companions of our youth who refuse to die-who deep arising from their trunks like the wives of Dracula from their coffins, sex-mad and bloodthirsty. The stage is set. Rattle the chains again and the full moon rises over the campus, transforming us into Boone and Dent and Roach and Mason, teenage werewolves prowling the barren, Puritanical corridors of Prunella Garfield's mind. Whether these manifestations arise from Miss Garfield's mind or that of Grant Dexter, the dean, or our own, makes little difference; they all come from that erotic pressure cooker of our sexually restricted youth. Writers like Miss Baxter exist solely as steam vents; they are witch doctors, skilled in the esoteric tradition of conjuring up these phantasmagorical archetypes of our memory, whether real or imagined.
Prunella Garfield herself, the prudish young teacher, with her fantastic body and her desolate soul-"Convent educated, disciplined to harsh self-denial, every instinct suppressed, . . . resigned to solitude, a confirmed spinster,"-Prunella herself is the very symbol and substance of the social environment out of which this book arises. Disregard the long hair of Boone and his gang and the single reference to a "love-in"; these are only futile attempts to update the old dreams. In essence the story takes place in the early forties, in a typical college town in the Midwest-the "Heartland", used by conservative politicians nowadays as the emblem of American tradition-meaning patriotism, morality, etc. But we know what it really is, don't we? We know about that beautiful teacher with the big breasts and the steel-rimmed glasses, Miss Garfield, whom we dreamt of catching one dark night in the woods; we know about the unyielding tyrannical dean who could not possibly have had anything between his legs but a cauterized scar; we know about his daughter, Phyllis, the "nice girl" whom no one could touch except with the imagination, and even then you ran the risk of frostbite.
We were with Boone and his gang that night, drunk as skunks, when they pinned Phyllis down in a dark room and raped her without mercy. And perhaps-even as we labored over her frigid, untouched beauty-perhaps we longed for something more: expiation, punishment, confirmation of our guilt, the guilt they handed out to us at Sunday school in return for a small donation. This dread apprehension is like the cherry atop the ice cream sundae that we used to eat down at the corner drugstore where they had those paperback books with the sexy girls on the covers-books which we weren't allowed to buy but which we sometimes stole, and then our mothers would catch us masturbating while reading them, exactly like Miss Prunella Garfield caught us raping Phyllis and made it all worthwhile. Yes, we know all about those dark corridors, those paths in the park where you could always see naked lovers in the bushes-or imagine that you could-those abandoned quarries outside of town where the girls always swam naked just so you would see them when you came creeping through the bushes, except that somehow you could never manage to get there quite at the right time. A better title perhaps would have been Middle America: Perversions of the Silent Majority.
So settle back and let Sharon Baxter rattle her charms and chant these magic incantations that transport us back into our sweet sexual darkness. Darkness!-that's what quickens our blood. In a short essay from his journals, Jan Kott, the Polish drama critic, says, "'Erotics always means being pushed into darkness, even if the act takes place in full daylight."* He means, of course, the darkness of the mind. He is one of us, you see-Jan Kott-a true "Heartlander." Because Middle America is not a geographical region, it is a condition of the over-thirty Western psyche. The open-air, sunlit lovemaking of the Flower Children does nothing for us. If the youth around us does not understand, if they seem healthier, if they fail to comprehend that sexual health is anathema to our erotic natures, that we need darkness and a measure of guilt for fulfillment, the hell with them. Let us not add to our frustrations by denying ourselves even the stimulation of our magic charms. At least now we can buy them openly, on the newsstands; true, it's a little healthier-and thus perhaps somewhat less stimulating-than those mimeographed manuscripts we used to pass around, but it's also more convenient, eh?
In this connection, I might mention that, to the dismay of my colleagues, I always keep a shelf of these books in my classroom-at the disposal of my students. Sometimes, to be sure, they show a marked interest, but to them it is just anthropology-source material from another culture. For us they are magic hymns to preserve the darkness.
In that same essay Kott gives the formula for these hymns. "Language goes back to its roots, to the moment of its birth. It is either non-articulated, a cry and onomatopoeic sound, as if it were only learning the names of things, actions; or it is articulated and then its function is magic, or close to magic. The difference between a concept and an object, between a token and a thing, is blurred or disappears. Language becomes action, as in magic; i.e., it causes a thing or action to exist just by naming it, and gives it qualities that have been expressed in words." And there is a very important requirement which these words must fill in order to cast their spell: "This erotic, or rather sub-erotic, language constantly breaks taboo."* There is our measure of guilt: the language, and hence our imagination, must break the rules.
In this respect, Miss Baxter's incantations are classic. Consider a few examples, taken at random. " T wouldn't mind sucking you off, John . . . but another time, eh? . . . 1 want to be fucked, lover. Real hard, my darling. I want all this lovely cock inside me. Ooooh, yes. Fuck me, John. I feel so terribly wicked tonight.' " (Italics mine.) " 'Do you like to hear me say it straight out, like that? Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! . . .' " And another-this from the lips of Prunella herself after discovering the joy of carnal sin: " 'I want you!' she rasped. 'I want THAT again, Paul, the way it was before. Oh, I know it's wrong. I KNOW! . . . Please, Paul! PLFASE! ...I'm burning up ... I MUST be mad ... I can't resist anymore. Fuck me, Paul. I want it. I want all the filthy things those teenage morons made me do ... I NEED you. Put it in, for God's sake . . . Damn you, fuck me! ... Take me. Enjoy me. Purge this dreadful agony from my body-' "
Dreadful agony, to be sure; but how sweet the pain when it finds its release. There are three phases: repression, release, and expiation. In the beginning, Boone and his werewolves are like fleshless phantasms, stalking their beautiful forbidden prey through the tortuous passages of Prunella's twisted mind, never quite breaking through into conscious desire. But her loathing of them is a necessary ingredient to her coming joy. And then, after the disgusting young rapists have been safely tucked away behind bars, leaving Prunella alone in her sexless desolation, fearful of the slightest intimacy, even from women, she and the equally unfulfilled dean, Grant Dexter, are walking in the woods, the forest of Limbo, talking of trivia, and dying inside with their secret desire for each other. We know Dexter's type more intimately than we would like to admit; we know this "paragon of virtue" from his first entry into the story-long before learning that the "infrequent and reluctant fornication permitted by his wife was insipid and uninspired . . ." and that she "had always made him feel degraded" afterwards. Nor do we need Baxter to tell us that "beneath the frigid crust a volcano seethed on the brink of eruption." Onto this scene of lacklove and bottled lust Boone and his gang descend like angels of mercy. They spring fullblown from the sexual needs of the spinster teacher and the timid, inoffensive dean as Athena sprang from the brow of Zeus. I think it was Henry Miller who said, "Where there is a need, it will be met." Hence we have Miss Baxter and The Degenerates, and the demons will always manage somehow to escape from the prisons of our repressions-so long as we have need of them.
And after the dark springs have been unplugged and the waters of lust have flowed freely for a time, then comes the third phase: the return of guilt-because the purge, too, must be purged. This is the meaning of Boone's parting shot-the dumping of a load of wet swine dung upon the naked bodies of his ravished victims. With instinctive logic Miss Baxter pursues our need-the need for the foulest most revolting punishment in return for enjoying our moment of carnal degradation. She goes further and tells us that even after washing "some of the manure smell still adhered stubbornly to her skin .. ." Yes, because the guilt must remain or else the pleasure dies. This foul inundation, I might also mention, comes precisely upon the heels of Prunella's first pleasant psychosexual stirrings at the sight of her future lover's exposed genitals.
How does Miss Baxter punish the dean? Simple: by sending him back into the onanistic world where we found him at the beginning-back to his cold wife and his sterile office. But we're not sorry for him; it was well worth it. Left alone in the woods after having been forced to make love to Prunella by those demonic angels-he actually smiles! The animal blood has at last rushed in his veins; if only briefly, never to be repeated-so what? All the better. "Utterly bizarre," he thinks, "altogether fantastic." We leave him there at the scene of the orgy, masturbating happily.
True, Miss Baxter has met the classical requirement and pinched her story off with a happy ending; Prunella, ostensibly, has shed her Puritanical hangups and run away with the gamekeeper. Magicians, too, have rules to follow. But to me the happy ending is a delusion. In the first place I don't see their relationship as a lasting one: much too healthy for the likes of Miss Garfield. Shell need some more pig shit somewhere along the line. In the second place the nature of Baxter's parody on the Lady Chatterly's Lover theme reveals the emptiness of this "final" happiness. Paul West and Lady Gloria are grotesque inversions-or I might say perversions-of the characters in Lawrence's book. (Not that we sexual occultists would have it any other way; nobody ever read Lady Chatterly's Lover for erotic stimulation except for lack of something better; and putting Lawrence and other great writers far aside for a moment, how much more honest are books like The Degenerates than those pseudopornographic prick-teasing novels that make the best seller lists every month?) But Lady Gloria and Paul West reflect Lady Chatterly and her gamekeeper like distorted images in a funhouse mirror. Lady Gloria and young Harry Golthorpe, with his "unhealthy preoccupation with sex," make a perfect pair, because the boy's withered arm precisely matches Gloria's withered mind. And what of Paul West? Healthy enough on the surface, eh? But compare him to Lawrence's gamekeeper, Olive Mellors. The latter in the end goes into farming-growing things; while West heads for a job in the timber business-cutting things down. These occupations reflect the personality of the two characters. And again: "My soul flaps in the little pentecost flame with you," Mellors writes to his Connie, "like the peace of fucking . . . How can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like Don Juan, and impotent ever to fuck oneself into peace, and the little flame alight, impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between-whiles, as by a river." Can you see Paul West fucking himself into peace? Peace, love, health-these are the kiss of death to our new-Puritanical erotic sensibilities. "Prunella's savage exultation [was] replaced by guilt and violent, panting reaction bordering on hysteria." There is the purge which refills the cloudy reservoirs of our eroticism.
So let the kids study us as though we were beasts in a zoo. We too can express our disdain, eh? It all depends on which side of the bars you're on-or which side you think you're on. Do what the monkeys do-throw crap in their faces. And let the degenerate magic of The Degenerates cast its spell.
Bad health and pleasant reading, brothers!
CHAPTER ONE
Miss Prunella Garfield, her eyes tightly closed, reached out, groping, found the faucet and turned it off. She stepped from the shower and moved briskly across the bedroom floor with her head swathed in a warm towel. Near the large closet she paused, stood in a slightly crouched posture, large, globular breasts joggling deliriously, shaking about, swinging from side to side and up and down as she toweled her dripping, jet-black hair.
Nature, by a cruel quirk of capricious fate, had endowed Miss Garfield with the body of a goddess while clouding her scholarly mind with Puritan ideas. Not yet thirty, she had a delightful, excitingly mature figure, ripely voluptuous, wholly desirable, the kind of body that drives men to distraction.
Her buttocks, fleshy but not in the least flabby, protruded seductively, imposing full moons of sheer delight, the heavy cheeks beautifully rounded, flawless, the dividing cleft deeply defined. A ravishingly fascinating bottom, from a male point of view, broad and impudently magnificent. When Miss Garfield walked her whole delectable ass quivered.
It was tragic that she was as frigid and narrow-minded as she was physically attractive, utterly prudish and entirely opposed to any display of sentiment or natural emotions.
She straightened. Her superb breasts, proudly jutting ovals, had never known the caress of a man's hand or the avid pressure of hot, lustful lips. The nipples were tightly bunched, dark buds of suppressed desire, protruding under the brief stimulation provided by the rough towel.
Miss Garfield had a slender waist, sumptuously robust thighs, sweetly rounded and velvety smooth. There was hardly a blemish on her white skin. Miss Garfield used no makeup. She considered cosmetics to be unnatural. She had very few bad habits, neither drank nor smoked, and thought of herself as a devout Christian.
The college, with its ancient tradition and wealth of history, was her whole life, its staid, musty environment the only one she had known since entering the teaching profession at the age of twenty-one. Convent educated, disciplined to harsh self-denial, every instinct suppressed, she was resigned to solitude, a confirmed spinster set in her ways. Men had no place in Miss Garfield's prim, orderly existence. They were, in her estimation, filthy, revolting creatures, with few exceptions, animals who, by obvious glances and knowing, superior manner, and by their lewd expressions and disgusting conversation, conveyed the sordid trend of their base desires, and often provoked palpitation and other alarming symptoms in Miss Garfield's regally splendid bosom through the coarseness and directness of lecherous remarks concerning her figure Miss Garfield derived no pleasure or satisfaction from her exceptional physical development, rather a feeling of dismay and resentment. She would have been content to be plain and unattractive. She was not particularly gifted with facial good looks. Her nose was long and thin, her mouth too big, her eyes, usually hidden behind the thick lenses of steel-rimmed spectacles, were of a peculiar pale blue color, as frosty as her general demeanor.
Prunella Garfield walked with a provocative wiggle. She could not help it-the undulating movement was quite intentional, a purely physical attribute wholly beyond control, and a source of constant embarrassment to her. did not flaunt her charms, but neither did she try to conceal them, and her clothing, although sometimes drab, followed the modern trend and was often extraordinarily revealing. It seemed that Miss Garfield was ignorant of her strong sex appeal.
But in the privacy of her dingy room, behind locked doors, Miss Garfield frequently revealed traits of human frailty and succumbed to petty vices despite the mental distress that always resulted. She knew the facts of life but chose to ignore them. Since puberty she had been increasingly aware of vague stirrings, subconscious desires she only partly understood and tried to disassociate from her agitated mind, without success. She fought a continual struggle against practices she considered disgusting and indecent but which she could not entirely subdue or overcome.
Yet even the sight and touch of her private parts offended her, though not sufficiently to curb the occasional overwhelming urge to seek relief from powerful, frightening inner cravings that sometimes prompted reluctant, furtive acts of genital stimulation and, ultimately, nervous masturbation that left her weak and trembling and completely unsatisfied, feeling dirty and depraved, a mass of nerves, shocked and horrified by her own filthy actions. At such times she punished herself severely, went without food, applied herself to work, and inflicted all manner of petty restrictions on herself in the vindictiveness of self-condemnation.
She toweled her flushed, delicately perfumed skin vigorously, coyly averted her head when she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror and saw the great bush of raven-black hair choking the junction of luscious thighs and gently swelling belly. That too, she thought, was an obscenity. Why must she be covered with hair like an animal? And yet, God had fashioned her in Eve's likeness . . .
She appraised her superlative breasts, sighed, squeezed them together, shuddered guiltily. The warmth concentrated between her "legs, generated by the hot shower, commenced a repetition of the peculiar but pleasant sensations that had plagued her since she yielded to the potent promptings of masturbation.
Miss Garfield sighed. What she did in the privacy of her secluded room was a matter between her conscience and God, something she had not the will to resist entirely. She hated the sordid demands of her own flesh, but could not deny that strong feelings existed or that she derived pleasure, however briefly, from obtaining relief. But nobody would ever know. It was her guilty secret, her's alone, and she could see no real wrong in what she did even though she felt degraded every time she indulged. How could she defeat a curse inflicted on the whole of her outraged sex? But at least, she thought with prim satisfaction, no man had ever touched her there, or had even seen her naked. And no man ever would.
She grimaced, rubbed the towel between her imposing thighs and over the great, yielding gash of her hairy vagina, up into the deep, dusky crevice halving her glorious bottom. She dried her large, wrinkled anus, probing delicately into it and around the taut, puckered hole, wiped her cunt again, then moved away from the mirror.
She dressed quickly, put on a light grey uplift bra, black pantie-hose and matching nylon slip, and a pale blue dress. It was late afternoon when she went out. Every Wednesday, on her day off, she walked in the park, whatever the weather. At weekends she went to concerts or the movies, usually alone, sometimes with Phyllis Dexter, the college principal's teenage daughter. On rare occasions Grant Dexter accompanied her.
Miss Garfield had great respect for the principal. He was an inoffensive, mild mannered man. The recent death of his wife had affected him deeply. Prunella Garfield admired him. Grant Dexter was one of the few men she knew whom she trusted and actually liked.
It was quiet in the park, secluded. Miss Garfield strolled aimlessly, listening to the birds. Boisterous laughter pealing from a dense clump of bushes brought a frown to her face and disturbed her train of thought. She glimpsed pale limbs thrashing, a girl's unclothed behind among the foliage, and quickly looked away. Hands clasped the girl's buttocks and drew her down, squealing and protesting.
Miss Garfield walked on. Beside the small lake she sat on a tree shaded seat and fed stale buns to the paddling ducks. The sun was sinking, shadows lengthening. There was a nip in the air. The silence was almost a tangible thing. Engrossed with serious problems, Miss Garfield did not realize she was no longer alone until she heard a stick snap underfoot. She looked up sharply then, uttered a low, startled cry. A tall, shadowy figure stood on the fringe of the brush, a man wearing a shabby raincoat and dark fedora hat pulled low.
As Miss Garfield looked toward him, he whistled. His head went back and she saw his face, unshaven, brutal, the eyes staring intently. The man's hands were thrust inside the coat, through the slitted side pockets, and he was fumbling with the front of his trousers. Abruptly, he withdrew both hands, quickly unbuttoned the raincoat and held it open, stepping away from the trees into the fading sunlight. His fly was undone, gaping open, his penis exposed, an enormous, bloated organ, straining and grossly distended, jutting from a forest of coarse, reddish hair.
As Miss Garfield watched, horrified but morbidly fascinated despite her acute revulsion, the man jerked his pants wider still and eased his bulging, wrinkled scrotum from the opening, cradled his testicles briefly, cupping them and hefting the dark, ridged bag, before transferring one hand to his turgid prick. He rolled the foreskin right back, causing the purple knob to swell and spread, mushrooming hugely, shook his fat penis obscenely, and chuckled when Miss Garfield recoiled in cringing disgust.
She got off the seat and retreated, almost running, stumbling along the path toward the distant exit. The man followed, rubbing and shaking his stiff roll, whacking furiously.
"Where you goin', you fat cow!" he shouted. "Come and put some cunt round this, you fuckin' cocksucker! I won't hurt you. How would you like my tongue round your hairy twat, darlin'? Come here and let me lick your asshole. I'll shove this so far up your stinkin' great quim it'll come out covered in shit."
Miss Garfield broke into a run. When she dared to look round the man had gone. She slowed to a walk, panting, breasts heaving. Then, as she passed a clump of willows, she saw the intruder again, standing there with his trousers down around his ankles and his shirt pulled up, legs wide apart as he masturbated vigorously with loins thrust forward and knees bent, an imbecilic grimace on his twitching features.
Miss Garfield was less than five yards from him.
"I'm comin', sweetheart!" he blurted. "You want it in your mouth, lady? All hot and slimy. Come here, you cunt, and bend over. Ill warm that sweet twat of yours, darlin'. God! I could eat your shit. Aaaaah!"
Prunella Garfield saw the milky rush of sperm spurt from the reddened opening of the man's dribbling penis. He was grunting and gasping, and chuckling at the same time, pulling at his jerking organ and squeezing its fat circumference, shaking drops of clinging semen from it Miss Garfield voiced a strangled scream. She fled, plunging blindly into the bushes, and did not stop running until she was outside the park railings. Traffic on the busy highway helped curb the panic gnawing at her entrails. She stopped, one hand pressed against her side.
She felt physically and spiritually sick. Her heart was pounding. There was a wet stickiness between her thighs, a painful tightness round her anus.
Presently, when her breathing was more regulated, she moved on, walking briskly. When she saw a police officer standing under the clock near the bus depot she hesitated, but could not face the ordeal of reporting, in detail, what she had witnessed.
She hurried on, gorgeous hips and haunches rolling and swaying, buttocks jogging, her high-rising breasts quivering and shaking with every vibrating step she took.
Every time she closed her eyes she could see that immense phallus pulsing and throbbing, the gluey sperm spattering. The man's vulgar obscenities lingered in her ears. She could not control the trembling of her limbs. The smell of urine rising from her sodden undergarments nauseated her.
CHAPTER TWO
"You four morons," Grant Dexter accused, "are the most irresponsible students in the entire college fraternity. You're a disgrace to Beeches, and if I have any more complaints of this nature it will mean expulsion. Is that understood?"
Fletcher Boone regarded the dean contemptuously. Dexter looked older than his forty-five years. His hair was turning grey and there were deep lines across his wide forehead. Boone, tall and powerful, barely nineteen and in the full flush of youthful vigor, sneered insolently. He nodded curtly.
"Then answer me, boy," the dean demanded. Boon shrugged.
"All right-sir. Message understood. Can I go now?"
Boone grinned at his companions, all of them about the same age as himself. Dave Roach, a stocky youth with ginger colored hair, removed thick glasses and blinked owlishly. Jim Dent, a tall, fat kid with blond hair cropped short, winked at big, squat "Rocky" Mason. Like Boone, Mason favored shoulder length hair. His was lank and lusterless, a dark brown, unkempt tangle framing a white, blotchy face covered with acne. He had long sideburns, a cruel, sensual mouth, and enormous hands. Boone's ugly features were similarly afflicted by spots and pimples. Of the rebellious quartet he was the biggest, the undisputed leader.
All of them were cynical, reckless egocentrics, utterly depraved. Mason was an arrogant, conceited bully, Roach a coward with a particularly vicious disposition, Dent just a fat, uncouth lout who did whatever Boone told him to do without question. Their entry into Beechers Technical had been gained largely through the influence of their respective parents, but Roach and Dent had average intelligence and but for Boone's undermining influence might have amounted to something.
Boone was thoroughly bad, without any redeeming characteristics whatever, and no ambition apart from his declared intention of screwing more women before he reached the age of twenty-one than his old man (a notorious libertine) had laid in his brief but turbulent lifetime. Amory Boone had virtually shagged and drunk himself to death. Fletcher's mother was responsible for his admission to exclusive Beechers. Camelia Boone was a whore, but a whore with half a million in the bank carries a lot of weight, and she had bailed Fletcher out of one scrape after another, but did nothing to discourage his corrupt behavior.
Boone was a bastard, literally. He was ugly as sin but had a certain rugged charm the opposite sex found stimulating. There were exceptions. Phyllis Dexter was one of them.
Boone's brag that he had the largest penis among the entire student body was no idle boast. During ten months at college he had seduced practically every girl student above the age of fourteen, and certain female members of the teaching staff as well. Generally, "Bragger" Boone was despised by both sexes, but that did not interfere with his sex life. He had a way with women, and especially young, uninhibited girls. Older women found his virile attraction compelling, a kind of animal magnetism. His awesome reputation merely intrigued instead of repelling. Curiosity often contributed to their downfall.
It was a fact, remarkable but true, that there was hardly a female at Beechers and in the nearby village who had not at some time, willingly or otherwise, seen or handled Boone's abnormal penis. It was his proud boast that he had fathered more bastards among the wives and widows of Rexford than he had placed bets on horses-and Boone liked to gamble. There were, of course, exceptions to his philandering conquests. Staid, prudish Miss Garfield was one of them, and despite her physical attraction and Boone's repeated attempts to arouse her sexual interest, he had never succeeded in penetrating her icy reserve and frigid indifference.
Miss Dorothy Tremaine, another female member of the teaching staff, young and attractive, a tall, slender brunette, timid as a deer, eluded Boone's lascivious attentions, but she lived in a twilight world of her own, an environment shared by pretty, vivacious Phyllis Dexter, the dean's teenage daughter.
Practically every male student at Beechers had designs on voluptuous, haughty Phyllis. Just seventeen, she was tremendously attractive, a gorgeous creature with softly glowing auburn hair sweeping her shoulders, large grey eyes, and long, slender legs that merged into sumptuously flared hips and exquisitely rounded buttocks, small but prominent. Her over-developed breasts were high and firm, and she wore the kind of clothes that accentuated her superb figure.
Phyllis Dexter was beautiful and she knew it. But boys did not interest her. She was Miss Garfield's star pupil, extremely intelligent, first in everything. She had no friends among the male students, but had only to pass the campus to stiffen every prick in the vicinity.
Fletcher Boone was thinking about Phyllis as he looked disdainfully at her father. "Bragger" Boone was unaccustomed to being ignored, and Phyllis Dexter's disdainful demeanor was a continually sore point. He talked about screwing Prunella Garfield, of her enormous breasts and proud, protruding bottom, of what he would like to do to her, describing in lurid detail his imaginary, wishful enjoyment of her luscious charms, involving the licking and smelling of her gorgeous ass, curling his tongue round and into her great, hairy gash of a cunt, and finally ramming his formidably distended cock between her fat, quivering thighs and thrashing it into her until she screamed for mercy .. .
Boone often indulged in such flights of fancy while accepting the harsh fact that the rape of Miss Garfield must remain just a lecherous longing at the back of his depraved mind. But Phyllis Dexter was a mare of a different color. Boone was resolved to have her, one way or another. It was common knowledge that "Braggcr" Boone was committed among his friends to fuck "the queer" as Phyllis was known among the other girls. Side bets were laid on the outcome. Even the staff participated, for they knew everything that went on among the student body, and the dean was not popular.
Little Miss Abigail, who had slept with most of the male staff, supposedly in secret, and often became so sexually frustrated she left her pupils to their own devices and masturbated in the washroom while peering intently at glossy photographs of nude men and women engaged in varied and highly erotic sexual activities, witnessed another of Boone's carnal triumphs when, returning along the deserted corridor to borrow a book from Miss Joan Banstead-a mature woman built on extremely generous lines, long suspected of engaging in more than friendly relations with some of the students to whom she taught mathematics-and finding the door of the classroom locked, she peeped below the edge of the lowered blind and saw Miss Banstead in a bent-over position, clinging to her desk, with her clothing lifted up above her waist and her majestic, bare bottom, thrust out-Miss Abigail could see no undergarment in evidence anywhere, and assumed Miss Banstead had discontinued wearing panties, as she; herself had, for convenience-while Fletcher Boonev positioned behind Miss Banstead with knees bent and trousers down around his ankles, displayed an enormous, grossly inflated penis ending in a monstrous, purple knob that pulsed and throbbed in the dark cleft of Miss Banstead's broad ass. As Miss Abigail watched, fascinated, shocked, excited, and ecstatically demoralized, she saw Boone enter his rampant organ and lunge violently, heard Miss Banstead cry out, and promptly experienced a copious orgasm when "Bragger" commenced ramming his huge, bloated branch furiously in and out of the moaning, squirming woman's dragging, squelching fissure.
Back in her dismal accommodation, Miss Abigail promptly contacted Solomon Keys, who operated a spare-time bookmaking business, and (by proxy) speculated a whole month's salary, so confident was she on young Boone's ultimate success with Phyllis Dexter. She would, Miss Abigail decided, invite Boone to her room on some pretext and let him know she had seen him performing with Miss Banstead. Why, she thought, should that fleshy cow+ have all the fun? Thinking of Boone's penis dried her mouth and tightened her anus. God! He was magnificent! She was old enough to be his mother, but she had strong feelings, and anyway, what the hell? Everybody thought she was past it, but she. could still appreciate the phallic ritual.
Miss Abigail chuckled, gloating over her secret desires while kneading the slack, fleshy folds between her stringy thighs. Serve Dexter right if young Boone violated his daughter. Silly old bastard. What did he know? The girl was a bitch. A good, hard prick would do her the world of good. Miss Abigail squeezed her moist vagina, and sighed wistfully.
The dean, meanwhile, confronting Fletcher Boone and his three smirking friends, nodded curtly. He dismissed Boom: with an impatient gesture.
"Yes," he said irritably. "You may go. Get out of my sight. But a further word of warning, Boone. My daughter has complained again about your conduct. If there is a repetition of your disgraceful behavior I shall deal severely with you. Now go."
Boone slouched out ahead of his friends. Outside the closed door, they laughed boisterously. Boone mimicked the dean.
'TU leave the little cow alone all right," he declared.
"After I've fucked the ass off her. Every time she comes anywhere near me I get a hard-on. Her and that fat cunt, Garfield, they give me a bad time, but 111 get some prick into darling Phyllis one of these days even if Miss-cocksucking-Garfield is out of the-"
"Balls!" Dent interrupted scornfully. "They're all fuckin' Lesbians, her and Garfield and Tremaine. You'll never get near Phyllis Dexter, Fletch, unless you tie the cunt down."
"I might just do that, you fat bastard."
"You try it and you'll wind up gettin' kicked out on your ass, man."
"So what? You think I stay around this fucking morgue because I like it? I've had it-up to here. Who wants a career anyway? My old man left a fortune. If that tight-wad mother of mine would-"
Rocky Mason nudged him.
"Here comes Phyllis now," he said tersely. "Do your stuff, Fletch. Show her your "chopper". Flop your prick out and scare hell out of her."
"Get shagged!"
"You're chicken, man."
"I'm not fucking stupid. Ill show it to her soon enough, but not here, outside Dexter's study."
They watched the girl turn into a nearby washroom. Boone whistled, but she ignored him, slamming the door. Roach fingered the fat roll of his penis outlined against the front of his creased grey pants.
"I could do with my hole," he declared. "Let's grab that little cow when she comes out and take her to that waste lot back of the gymnasium. Well all screw her. Blindfold her and stuff a rag in her mouth. How about it?"
"I wouldn't mind slapping my roll between her ass cheeks," Dent agreed. "Let's do something. I'm bored stiff."
"She might even like it," Mason said, fondling his prominent genitals and sucking in his breath sharply.
"We'd never get away with it," Boone predicted. "Forget about her. Chase Jordan is showing that color movie tonight, the one he brought back from Denmark. It's a real whacker. Ill get around to Phyllis."
"I've got a bottle in my room," Mason said. "Real Scotch."
"What are we waitin' for?" Roach asked. "Let's go, man."
It was a lurid film. About twenty youths watched the screening of it, all crowded into Jordan's room. Several of them brought liquor. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke. After the first few frames were projected every youth present had his penis out and was masturbating. Some compared pricks and whacked each other. A few indulged in sodomy. Long before the movie was finished the room reeked of spilled beer and whiskey, farts, body sweat, and puddled sperm. One drunken youth pissed in a corner. Another, unable to gain entry to the John, opened the bedroom window and squatted with his bare buttocks thrust out over the sill, then spattered a trail of liquefied shit down the side of the building.
When Boone and his three friends left the humid, stinking apartment after the show they were all drunk but still capable of coherent reasoning and in possession of their faculties. Only their reflexes were slowed. Liquor inflamed their lecherous minds and intensified the violent sexual reaction aroused by the erotic film. They sought a natural outlet for their lust, and it was inevitable that their unanimous choice should involve the object of their mutual frustration. Whiskey provoked a contemptuous disregard for consequences. They lurched along the dimly lighted corridor in an aggressively dangerous mood, jeering, vicious, argumentative, obsessed with sex, deliberately seeking trouble, determined to find it, to vent their lust on somebody, anybody, but particularly the Dexter girl.
In their drunken folly they invaded all her usual haunts. And finally, in the deserted approach to the teachers' quarters, they found her.
In the security of her silent room, Miss Prunella Garfield lay reading on the crumpled bed, trying to dispel the memory of the disgusting creature she had encountered in the park and failing miserably. She would, she was convinced, see his leering face the rest of her life.
She shuddered. Sexual thoughts persisted, turned presently to wholly feminine associations. Miss Garfield had long suspected a Lesbian relationship between Dorothy Tremaine and lovely, doll-like Phyllis Dexter, and often wished she had the courage to approach Dorothy herself, for there was something about Miss Tremaine that stirred pagan longings in Miss Garfield's mature bosom, a yearning for closeness, for intimacy. But she had never dared make the initial advances, fearing the shame of a rebuff, quite unaware that Dorothy Tremaine regarded her in a similar light and with equal tenderness. So the delights of love that might have been Miss Garfield's were squandered on spoiled, wayward Phyllis, and Prunella went her own lonely, frigid way, a paragon.
Phyllis Dexter was very highly strung, an emotionally unstable girl who, especially since the death of her mother, had led a very sheltered life. Her regard for Miss Tremaine had ripened gradually into friendship and, nurtured by the young teacher's amorous disposition, eventual slave-like devotion, until there was complete understanding and sexual freedom between them and all lingering feelings of guilt had faded. Their physical association was very discreet, and Phyllis adored Miss Tremaine, but was not altogether Lesbian in her outlook. Yet she denied herself any male society whatever apart from her father, and considered normal sex utterly repugnant.
Phyllis scorned the student body. They were beneath her. But she knew the facts of life and could not completely ignore the sexual interest focused on her or the vulgarity of its expression. She complained repeatedly to her father and to Miss Tremaine about lewd, disgusting incidents and the use of obscene language in her hearing. Each day in class was an ordeal. She endured taunts, sneers, indecent exposure, crude jokes and filthy suggestions, longing for the day when she left that obsolete, crumbling cloister of corruption forever. Soon, thank God, she was going to Italy to study art.
There was one youth in particular, big, spotty faced, with long, shaggy hair and a mouth like a frog, who persistently annoyed her and caused her acute embarrassment. Filthy pig! Always messing about with his genitals in class, rubbing the front of his pants and drawing attention to his private parts, as if she was interested in his vile organs. Beechers, she thought, was becoming more depressing every day.
Phyllis emerged from Miss Tremaine's room and paused with the door slightly open.
"Ill see you later, darling," Dorothy told her. "After the theater. I think I'll lie down. I have a headache."
"Can I get you something, an aspirin?"
"No, thank you. Ill be all right."
The door closed quietly. Phyllis walked along the gloomy corridor. She turned the corner, gasped as the light, such as it was, suddenly went out. She heard scuffling sounds. Furtive figures surrounded her, chuckling cursing, clutching. A hand was clamped roughly over her mouth. She was picked up, carried kicking and struggling frantically to a shadowy doorway, the dark entry of an almost empty storeroom. The windows, one of which was broken, had been boarded up, but pale moonlight shafting through gaps in the timber revealed familiar faces, young, grimacing, flushed with drink and desire.
As the powerful youth who held Phyllis helpless over his shoulder put her down he spun her round and hooked a thick arm round her neck, dragging her head back and cutting off her outcry. A hand delved under her short frock, displaced her clothing and was resolutely thrust inside the leg of her panties. Linen tore. Coarse fingers grabbed the fullness of warm, tender flesh and painfully squeezed the girl's soft vagina, gouging brutally. She heard excitable gasps, oaths, hoarse panting.
Other hands were tearing at her clothing, fumbling, jerking, ripping the dress open and exposing her ripe young breasts, clutching the exquisite mounds, squashing them out of shape, tugging at the shrinking nipples.
Her arms were wrenched behind her back and firmly held. The frock was torn completely from her, her panties swiftly jerked down and removed, her legs pulled from under her. That choking arm never left her throat. In the gloom she could just distinguish shadowy figures crowding round her, jostling, grabbing, mauling, probing, grunting. The strong animal odor from exposed genital organs assailed her nostrils, unmistakable and terrifying, the sweaty reek of vile flesh thrust close to her pale, twitching face, eager young pricks rearing, swollen, straining, hairy scrotums dangling, protruding from gaping flies, bulging knobs butting, jabbing, leaving trails of slimy semen.
Phyllis was hideously conscious of hard, pulsing flesh whacking and beating against her bared bottom, prodding the deep cleft and puckering her anal cavity, thrashing between her trembling thighs, in the valley dividing her breasts, in the hollow of her throat as the arm shifted, even into the gaping maw of her distended mouth, stifling her cries. The savage intrusion of rigid cocks into the secret recesses of her abused body provoked further desperate struggles. Phyllis went berserk. But the four youths merely increased the fury of their combined assault.
Horror partly paralyzed her vocal cords. Naked, bewildered, pathetically confused and terribly frightened, Phyllis heaved and strained frantically, moaning and writhing, and finally succeeded in eluding the loathsome penis battering her tightly compressed lips, a brief respite. She voiced a despairing shriek, then the cavity was promptly plugged and the cry smothered, and the fat, nauseating roll was filling her mouth, butting and jerking to the back of her throat, throbbing and expanding hugely.
Simultaneously, punishing hands pulled and probed at her private parts, splaying the cheeks of her bottom and the hairy folds of her tight vagina, brutally displaying the dusky crevice. A thick forefinger intruded sickeningly into her anus, gouged deep into the stretching pit and was wriggled about, sucking and squelching, widening the wrinkled hole. The girl farted, breaking wind sharply round the probing blockage. Coarse laughter resounded. She heard jeering remarks, hoarse gasping.
An enormous, stiff penis was thrust against ,her imprisoned left hand and her fingers curled round the torrid branch and dragged up and down its bloated length. Each time the immense organ protruded beyond the enforced funnel of her clutching hand the great, broad knob thrust wetly into the crease of her bottom and down over the shuddering slit of her cunt.
Abruptly, the shoving, panting youths abandoned mere diversions and forced the girl down on the cold floor. Two of them held her arms, a third grasped her head. The fourth knelt astride her slender waist, his balls trailing against her bruised breasts as he leaned forward and brought his jutting penis close to her face. The warm smell filled her flared nostrils. A trail of dribbling sperm smeared her chin. Whiskey tainted breath wafted against her strained, distorted face. The hot, rigid core touched her lips, jerked, stiffening spasmodically, was plunged at the twisted cavern of her mouth.
Strong hands gripped her ankles, forcing her legs apart. The weight on her belly was removed, and instantly replaced by a greater bulk that, sprawling on top of her prone form, drove the breath from her lungs. A naked figure squatted with knees clamped either side of her head, virtually sitting on her forehead, the ridged mass of his scrotum squashed against the bridge of her nose. Sweating flesh blocked her vision completely. The youth's hot, damp anus kept opening and shutting like a clam, pressing against her brow as he lunged repeatedly, striving to ram his thick, rampant penis into the girl's mouth from that awkward position, shuddering with eager frenzy and presently spurting hot, reeking fluid all over her cringing features and into the cleavage of her breasts.
Sperm spattered her heaving belly-and the fat youth endeavoring to shag his corpulent prick into her widened split. Her spreadeagled arms were numb, her fingers bloodless. Choking, sickened, retching, she lay there helpless, heaving and wrenching futilely, sobbing when she felt the bursting intrusion of a great, steaming penis into her virgin passage, the fiercely burning, tearing friction of its relentless, ramming fury. Her whole tormented body convulsed, thrashed about violently. Her eyes bulged beneath the compressing mass of splayed ass cheeks and swollen scrotum.
She screamed again as the youth squatting on her head raised himself. He was whacking furiously, extracting the last dregs of gluey sperm from his thickened roll and squeezing them onto her flushed cheeks, shaking his gross appendage, slapping the wet glans across her mouth and nose, but finally straightening from his crouching posture, meanwhile that cruel prick screwed deeper, battering tender, ravaged flesh aside and hugely distending the raw, reddened slit, stretching it agonizingly, twitching and lashing inside her quivering maw and swelling immensely with each remorseless stroke, flogging in and out with increasing savagery until her whole flapping quim was a mass of aching, throbbing, palpitating torment sucking in and out wetly, following every plunging thrust of that frantically pi stoning penis, until suddenly its seething load gushed, soothing the ruptured channel, flooding it, washing round the elongated stump of her clitoris and escaping back past the slightly relaxing stalk.
The revolting organ was withdrawn. The cruel pressure on the girl's wrists eased, was instantly applied by other hands. Another bestial form squatted, turgid prick jutting, leaking semen, butting avidly into her wet, cringing quim and shagging right in until the coarse hair on the youth's pelvis was crushed into the soft down covering the girl's pouting cunt. Her knees were bent, her legs forced up high. The youth's chest pressed Phyllis's limbs into her breasts and belly, restricting her breathing. His balls slapped her protruding asshole every time he buried his glistening, slimy prick.
He was horribly violent, crazed with lust and frustrated by whiskey and the urine bloating his bladder, and raved like a maniac when his penis slipped out and in the instant of climax he spunked in the crack of the girl's bottom instead of her gaping, squelching twat.
Three times she endured, sobbing, her cries muffled, her strength gone. Although the reeking prick no longer blocked her defiled mouth its foulness remained. There seemed no end to the ordeal. She uttered another piercing shriek in the instant that an even thicker, much longer penis stabbed her anguished vent and seemed it would burst into her knotted entrails. She suffered, head lolling, eyes closed, a hand again clamped over her mouth. The pounding continued, the wet smacking of flesh against flesh, the explosive grunting, the farts, the fiery torrent of sperm jetting, filling her flaming split.
She was pulled and shoved, positioned, slapped, mauled, and writhed as a long, broad tongue curled repeatedly into the reeking cavity and a questing nose bored into her anal pit, the youth's bony features spreading the cheeks of her ass away from the dark hole and the surrounding crinkly area. His breath hissed loudly as he sniffed, inhaling powerfully, muttering and slobbering, wallowing in the ruttish recess.
Then the last of her tormentors was boring into her bleeding, gaping fissure, fucking with all the brutal urgency of his irrepressible need, crudely, amateurishly, ruthlessly, battering callously, indifferent to the girl's squirming agony, shagging furiously until every nerve and fiber in her jangling body shrieked in protest and her jerking limbs flailed violently with every bursting intrusion.
He came, mouthing obscenities, spewing milky sperm all over her thighs and in the brown aperture of her taut anus, masturbating to obtain final, additional satisfaction.
Phyllis heard urine splashing, smelled its sour odor. She lay sobbing, thinking it must be over now, too exhausted and shocked even to utter further outcry-until she was grabbed and hauled to her feet, and she realized what she had endured was only the beginning.
CHAPTER THREE
Miss Prunella Garfield dropped the hook she was reading and jerked to an upright position on the bed. The scream lingered, echoing through the building. She listened. The sound was not repeated, and she resumed her reading. But presently another desperate shriek reverberated. Several more followed, then sudden, ominous silence.
Miss Garfield swung her bare feet to the floor. She put on a robe, unlocked the door, padded along the corridor until she reached the unlighted stretch. Then she hesitated. She heard muffled sounds that seemed to come from behind the closed door of the disused storeroom. Her lips clamped in a thin, firm line. Whatever student folly was going on, she would soon put a stop to it. It was disgraceful the way some of the older students behaved. She could smell whiskey. Scuffling noises strengthened her resolve.
She flung open the door, recoiled from the combined odors of liquor, urine, and body smells. The moonlight no longer penetrated, and all she could see was blurred figures.
Miss Garfield groped, depressed the light switch. She uttered a sharp, penetrating scream then, stood as if petrified, gaping blankly, incredulous, horrified, at the spectacle of four youths, all of whom she recognized, two of them stark naked, grouped around a nude girl who, with long hair disheveled and hands tied behind her back, was draped belly down over a dust-sheeted vaulting-horse.
One youth, James Dent, held the girl's left ankle in one hand, his erect penis in the other. David Roach gripped the girl's other leg. He too was handling his inflated penis. Rockwell Mason, naked, crouched in front of the captive, whose face Miss Garfield could not see, and was pushing his grossly turgid organ into her distorted mouth, his buttocks hollowing and tensing with effort, his face convulsed in a hideous grimace. And Fletcher Boone, positioned behind the girl, between her taut thighs, grasped her hip* firmly and furiously thrashed his enormous, revolting appendage into the inflamed split so obscenely revealed. The girl's breasts hung down, flapping and jerking.
Utterly appalled, shocked beyond description, Miss Garfield stared. Her sudden intrusion provoked a tense silence followed by a frantic scramble. Amid oaths and startled exclamations, Boone whipped his steaming prick out, spunking in spasmodic, jerking spurts, and made a desperate lunge toward the boarded windows. Timber split, splintering before his berserk lunge. His dark figure hurtled through the jagged gap into the night. Rocky Mason followed him, clambering recklessly. Dent and Roach huddled in a corner, confused, flaccid pricks dangling. But their hesitation was brief. Dent picked up an empty-whiskey bottle and threw it at the light bulb, shattering it. Hot glass fragments spattered Miss Garfield. She was thrust violently aside and sent staggering against the wall, where she slumped in a faint. Footsteps pounded along the hall, faded, diminished, ceased altogether.
A pool of urine, trickling from the corner nearest the door, formed around Miss Garfield's outflung hand.
Sober, Boone and his friends had cause to regret their impulsiveness. Any of the other teachers might have thought Phyllis Dexter got no more than she deserved, anybody except Miss Tremaine that is, but not Puritan Miss Garfield, who considered the whole sordid incident a personal affront and blurted out the entire damning facts the moment she recovered consciousness.
Expulsion, of course, was inevitable. Boone and his friends expected that. But they were not prepared for more far reaching consequences involving police action and their subsequent trial for rape. Only the fact that Phyllis Dexter refused to give evidence saved them from prison. It was her father, the dean, who brought the matter into court and pursued it with vindictive aggressiveness. Miss Garfield, pale and austere, looking sexy as a nightclub stripper despite a somber grey two-piece and her thick spectacles, requested permission to give her testimony in writing.
The judge, summing up, stressed the seriousness of the offences. Defending counsel emphasized the amount of liquor consumed by the accused prior to what he called their "misguided folly and youthful extravagance." With the exception of Boone's mother the parents of all the youths were in court. The judge's ruling, two years detention at Borstal reform school, was received in shocked silence. Boone, as the self-confessed leader, received an additional six months. All four were heavily fined. They left the court looking sullen and defiant, obviously crushed by the sentence imposed. Boone, from the top of the steps leading to the cells, shouted abuse.
"I'll get you for this, you fuckin' squealer!" he yelled at Miss Garfield. "I won't forget you, Miss cuntlickin' Garfield! You'll be sorry. I'll get you . . ."
He was dragged away, but broke loose long enough to voice a threat against the dean.
"I hope your lousy daughter is pregnant!" he mouthed. "I hope the bastard is born with two fuckin' heads. And I'll make you sweat blood and shit when I get out, you sanctimonious old cunt!"
He disappeared from sight, leaving Miss Garfield white faced and the dean frowning and embarrassed. Miss Tremaine, sitting with Phyllis Dexter, met Prunella Garfield's blank stare and smiled sympathetically. The look was so obviously an invitation that a flutter commenced in Miss Garfield's hot groin and spread into her back passage then into her belly and formed a pleasantly tantalizing knot of concentrated sensation. She nipped her luscious thighs together and regarded Miss Tremaine with revised interest.
October passed, merged into the bleakness of November. For Miss Garfield, the approach of Christmas held no special significance-it merely involved seasonal formalities, dinner with the Dexters and Miss Tremaine, the latter now a close friend and confidante with whom Miss Garfield eventually reached a certain level of patient understanding that permitted endearments and caresses, kissing, and even genital exposure and mutual nudity, but Prunella Garfield could not finally cross the frigid barrier into the ecstatic realistic world of sexual expression and fulfillment. She played at sex, tormented herself and Dorothy Tremaine, merely increased frustration, weaving wildly emotional fantasies around Miss Tremaine but still masturbating in secret, guiltily, unrewardingly. Recently, while brushing her hair after emerging from a warm shower, Prunella had forgotten to lock the bedroom door. She had been posed, naked, in front of the closet mirror, examining her vagina, alarmed by a slight redness and irritation, when Dorothy Tremaine entered quietly, wearing only a flimsy negligee. Dorothy had stared, blushed, then turned the key in the lock and slipped the negligee from her shoulders. She had approached Miss Garfield and, yielding to impulse, kissed her on the mouth, and at the same time had dared to intrude her hand between Miss Garfield's sumptuous thighs.
Prunella had cried out, knocked the hand away, then instantly regretting her rejection of the younger woman tried to breach the gap. But the spark had gone out. When, a month later, Miss Tremaine accompanied Phyllis Dexter to Italy, the drab seclusion of Miss Garfield's sexless world was complete, her loneliness absolute.
It was a warm spring night. The sky was overcast but briefly shafting moonrays occasionally relieved the darkness. Where the freshening breeze stirred the drooping foliage of tall, spreading elm trees, an open sports car was parked beside a shallow stream. Two closely embraced figures occupied the rear seat, sighing, clutching, gasping, writhing in the throes of acute sexual excitement.
The girl, a slender blonde with small, compact breasts and prominent buttocks, was more amorous than the man, who seemed reluctant to reveal his inexperience yet trembled with eagerness as he fumbled under the girl's clothing, laughing nervously when she pushed him back against the red upholstery and deliberately grabbed at his distended fly, jerking the buttons undone, intent on getting his cock out.
Her rather pinched face was flushed, her eyes bright, the color of cornflowers. The front of her cream blouse gaped, exposing the swell of pale, fleshy mounds not yet ripened into maturity. Impulsively she seized the bulging front of the man's crumpled pants and gripped his genitals fiercely.
She kissed him, thrust her tongue hotly into his mouth. It fluttered, provoking, stimulating, teasing, curled against his teeth and the roof of his mouth. He groaned, slid down further, swore as the impetuous blonde ripped his pants open and delved her hand inside. He voiced a cry that was part protest, part ecstasy.
His penis reared, thick and swollen, the bulging head enclosed within the girl's clammy fingers. She opened his fly fully, pushed the flaps back and bared his hairy balls, eased them into view. She squeezed his penis, sucked in her breath. Her breasts lifted, thrust out.
"It's lovely!" she muttered. "God! You have a beautiful cock, John. I want it, darling. Oh, I want it. I want to kiss it and suck it and hold it in my mouth, all big and throbbing.
Like this-"
She leaned forward, across his supine body, with her shoulder digging into his stomach, pulled at his- prick, stretching it grotesquely, ridging the scarred foreskin, then bent her neck and touched the tip of her pink tongue to the tiny, gaping orifice in the center of the glans, explored the wet cavity before licking all round the straining knob and then fluttering her tongue rapidly up and down the long, fat shaft, still gripping it in her left hand and squeezing its spongy mass fiercely.
John Merton groaned. His penis jerked. Sperm oozed from the glans opening and was instantly licked away. The blonde nymphomaniac cradled the man's testicles, lifted his cock and buried her nose and mouth in the hairy folds of skin below the thick roots of his tremendous organ. Intoxicated with lust, she inhaled the musky male odor. It inflamed her senses even more, and she quickly captured his prick again and conveyed it to her large mouth, engulfed the pulsing knob and began writhing her loose lips up and down the tumid stem,-dragging them right to the broad glans and compressing the shiny, purple bulge, then taking the whole immense roll into her mouth and pressing down on it until the knob beat against the back of her throat and her face was forced into the warm, shuddering pit of his sweating crotch.
Merton thrust a hand inside her blouse and cupped each breast in turn, fondled the pointed cones and exposed their creamy lusciousness. He rubbed and tweaked the elongated nipples, but was unable to perform adequately because of his awkward position. He desisted, contented himself with lying there while the blonde sucked and massaged his bloated penis, watching it sliding into her distended mouth and studying the conflicting expressions twisting and clouding her reddened face.
"I'm coming!" he warned presently. "You'd better stop-unless you want it in your mouth."
The blonde rejected his tool promptly, but retained her hold on the rigid, straining member. She shook hair out of her eyes, smiled lasciviously.
"I would," she declared. "But I want it between my legs, darling. Was it nice? I enjoyed it. I wouldn't mind sucking you off, John. You know that. But another time, eh? Let's get out of the car. I want to be fucked, lover. Real hard, my darling. I want all this lovely cock inside me. Ooooh, yes. Fuck me, John. I feel so terribly wicked tonight. Do you like to hear me say it straight out, like that? Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! Oh, God-I'm burning up! Get out now, you gorgeous bastard. Fill my cunt, sweetheart. That's what I want, John. But first you must kiss it all over and lick it. You want that, don't you, darling?"
She laughed, pushed him. He opened the car door, slithered out, taking the blonde with him, flopped onto the long grass and rolled with her into a shadowy hollow, finished up sitting astride her stomach, but promptly moved back and freed her legs. She completely unfastened the blouse, removed it, then lay back and spread her thighs, hitching her skirt up. Merton raised the garment past her slender waist. He kissed her bare belly, then hunched forward and assaulted her naked tits, savaging the dark nipples and biting them, teasing the firm buds with his tongue.
The blonde reared up, intruded a slim hand between his legs and pulled his cock away from the impediment of gaping pants and shirt flap. Merton thrust her back;-Has hesitation was gone now, and his awkwardness. He hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of the girl's brief, pink panties and deftly eased the garment down over her hips as she helped by raising her bottom. Merton slowed the operation then, gradually exposing her gently swelling mound with its bush of glinting, golden hair, then, by degrees, savoring every exquisite moment, revealing the pouting lips of her deceptively small vagina.
Rocking back on his heels, he parted the fleshy folds, crudely inserted two fingers in the moist, ruttish cavity. The blonde moaned. She thrashed about, clutching her breasts, belly taut and quivering, her eyes pleading, staring fixedly. Merton tugged the panties right down, and again the girl raised her bottom to facilitate the removal of her flimsy briefs, murmuring passionate entreaties when Merton, tall and muscular, and much older than she was, tossed the garment aside and suddenly plunged his face into the dusky junction of quivering thighs and soft abdomen.
Dominated by lust, he slavered and grunted like an animal, licked her strong-smelling vagina eagerly, sucked the whole yielding organ into his mouth and closed his lips firmly on its rubbery mass, provoking wild, excited cries and savage convulsions. Presently, he held the vulva wide and exposed the elongated clitoris jutting like a reddened stump, stabbed his tongue repeatedly at it, then sucked the stiffening stem of erectile flesh voraciously, rolling his tongue around it.
Finally, he lifted the blonde's legs and she, anticipating his requirement, drew up her knees and spread her thighs wide apart to afford Merton an unrestricted view of her sweetly rounded bottom and small, wrinkled anus, exposing every lurid, intimate detail to his lecherous stare and avidly questing lips while he squatted with his bloated penis beating strongly, alternately whacking the grassy earth and the girl's extended arm, often encountering her groping, clutching fingers but throbbing just beyond her positive reach.
Abruptly, uttering a harsh, irritable complaint, she twisted erect, pushed the man away and fumbled with the buckle of the belt supporting his trousers, meanwhile gazing in rapturous fascination at the formidably jutting penis that shivered deliciously every time she touched its twitching massiveness.
In her desperate need she almost sobbed, moaning and panting with the seething fury of her carnal desire. She got the belt undone, jerked the man's pants down, pulled and tugged until she had them off, then stubbornly persevered until, with Merton's help, she removed his striped undershorts. He knelt there then, smirking, holding his stiff penis and flopping it up and down, shaking it, pulling the foreskin right back then rolling it forward to cover the glans, and immediately exposing the purple knob again.
"Now, darling!" the blonde urged. "Oh, John! Fuck me now. I can't wait."
She lay back, pulled him down on top of her and parted her supple thighs wide, grasped his penis and quickly guided it to her palpitating quim, gasping when he entered his huge knob and promptly thrust in urgently. The blonde relaxed then, lay back with eyes closed, but soon became tremendously agitated and clamped her long legs round Merton's narrow hips, entreating him to greater exertions. She was a coarse, vulgar little tramp, vitally alive and panting for love, but shrewd enough to combine business with pleasure.
She lifted the man's shirt and uncovered his white, bare buttocks. They gleamed in the pale half-light, smooth and hairless, rippling with muscle, emphasizing the great bag of his scrotum swinging and slapping against the crease of the blonde's ass as he battered his great stalk deeper into the hairy folds of her splayed, astonishingly resilient vagina, spreading the displaced split until it opened round his prick like some dark, exotic flower, then clung wetly, squashing and dragging, a hot, limpet-like sheath that gripped and clutched and sucked, insatiable as a carnivorous animal, a powerful clam endowed with a convulsive, contractile power all its own, swollen, pulsating, weeping mucus and moisture each time the frantic girl writhed and squirmed and impaled herself continually more violently, pleading and exclaiming, farting and snorting, digging crimsoned finger nails into her lover's naked back until they were cruelly embedded in his flesh.
The brown pit of her asshole fluttered, protruding like a tiny, puckered mouth. Merton's energetically laboring buttocks tensed and hollowed. His balls were drawn up now, the bag tight and wrinkled like an enormous walnut, the huge, slick rod of his penis plunging rhythmically, relentlessly, stabbing, slapping, screwing, withdrawing, trembling on the fleshy brink, poised and monstrous, then disappearing again with ponderous deliberation.
Sweat lathered his face and forehead. His tongue protruded. He was coming, jerking his spunk into the sobbing, gasping blonde in rapid, spurting gushes, furious spasms, hot and thick, incredibly copious.
The girl, nearing the second orgasm, even more intensely thrilling than the first, clung to him, blurting lewd appeals and frantic encouragement. The insides of her wet thighs were ridged and taut, the sinews standing out like violin strings. She increased the tension of her scissor-grip on the man's waist, and Merton swore with the sudden, painful contraction pinching his lower ribs and belly.
"I know, you bastard. But you've got to finish me." "I-I can't. It won't stay in. Maybe if I rest for a while." "NO! Don't pull out. Oh, damn you! AH right, lie still for a while. It's murder but I'll bear it. Hold me close, John. Play with my breasts, anything. You can get hard again. I know you can. It won't need much effort to make me come, darling. I'm almost there."
"Maybe if I put my finger in. Or I can suck you off." "No. I want to come round your prick, darling. The other is nice but . . . Just hold me. Think of all the nice things we've done together. I'll help you."
She reached past her glistening vagina, between her elevated legs, and grasped the man's testicles, massaged them gently, fingered the roots of his drooping penis. John Merton was not a young man. He was as virile as most men his age, but could not expect to equal blonde Kathleen Corbett's youthful vigor.
He rested, prick twitching, dribbling, and toyed with the girl's breasts, fondling the pale cones, concentrating his mental faculties and his vivid imagination, trying to force an erection and failing through over-eagerness, remembering other women he had known, the sight and feel and smell of delightful, naked bottoms and succulent, inviting twats, the touch of avid fingers on his penis, the thrill of exposing it to young, impressionable girls, his first sexual encounter with a virgin ...
The dormant organ stirred, responding sluggishly. It began to thicken. Kathleen clutched its dangling flabbiness. Merton nodded.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Toss me off. Make it stiff. I'm sorry, Kathy. I wish I was younger, the way I used to be. I could have it ten times a night then. Now if I manage once I'm exhausted. But if you play with it for a bit it'll stand up eventually. Help me, kid."
Kathleen nodded. She smiled, mindful of the money she intended to extract from Merton before they parted, another "loan". The stupid bastard would give her anything she asked for.
"You're the best, John," she lied blatantly. "The first time was wonderful. I'm never satisfied, that's my trouble."
She seized his penis impatiently and began rubbing it, rolling the foreskin back and forth, covering then exposing the glans, sighing at the slowness of the response. The seething vortex of clawing desire swirling in her own loins, the awful, gnawing torment, was as intense, as intolerably demanding. She smiled into Merton's strained face, and thought-damn the fool.
Grasping the flaccid organ tighter, she chafed it more rapidly, expertly applying friction and pressure, and finally, in sheer desperation, lowered her head and took the partly erect penis in her mouth.
Less than a mile away from where the lovers sweated out their mutual frustration, dark figures were scaling an ivy-covered stone wall. Four shadowy forms dropped lithely one by one onto the deserted highway screened by rustling bushes, and darted quickly into the dense growth.
Panting, chest heaving, Fletcher Boone paused in the shadow cast by a tremendous oak. He leaned on the gnarled trunk, scowling as he fingered his close-cropped hair.
"The fucking, lousy bastards sheared me practically bald," he complained bitterly. "It'll take months to grow out."
"Balls to your hair," Rocky Mason said. "Let's get away from here. I think you stiffened that guard."
"Serve the bastard right. You heard the cocksucking creep threaten me with what he'd do if I didn't drop my pants. He's a stinking queer. They all are."
"So where do we go from here?" Dave Roach demanded.
"As far as we can get, man," Boone told him. "We'll steal a car and drive south, maybe get across to France. But first there's some unfinished business to take care of, right?"
"What'11 we do for money?" Jim Dent asked.
"How the hell do I know? We'll make out. I've got what was in Dawson's safe, and my mother will help us once we reach Rexford, if only to avoid any more scandal. Come on."Back in the clearing John Merton was preparing to mount the impatient blonde, having finally attained a sufficiently adequate erection. Kathleen again spread her legs, swore at Merton's fumbling, and voiced hoarse pleasure when he eventually achieved entry.
Merton shagged slowly, concentrating, holding back, fighting hard to curb the flaming core of rapturous sensation already gathering in the swollen, reddened extremity of his penis.
Then, through the fog of reviving lust enveloping his brain, he heard a car start up, doors slamming, and recognized with an acute spasm of shock and agitation the sound of his own machine's powerful motor. He reared up, supporting his weight on stiffened arms, saw the sports car moving away and the grinning quartet occupying it, and scrambled to his feet mouthing vile oaths, ignoring the blonde's angry objections. Wrenching free from her restraining hands, he stood gaping, penis slack again, dribbling, and shouted threats and abuse as the car gathered speed and swiftly disappeared among the trees.
"The car!" he yelled desperately. "Somebody's stolen my car!"
He stumbled forward, dangling cock swinging about obscenely, trailing watery semen, but tripped and sprawled among the rank undergrowth.
Kathleen Corbett, sitting upright amid crackling ferns, almost in tears, red faced and seething with angry frustration, glared savagely.
"Fuck your bloody car!" she answered venomously. "And fuck you, John Merton-you useless bastard!"
CHAPTER FOUR
The newspapers carried a lurid account of the Borstal escape. But the brief interest it aroused quickly evaporated, and the youths were not apprehended. The homosexual guard Boone had clobbered with a garden spade recovered and was left with nothing more damaging than a few scars and wounded pride. Meanwhile John Merton's car was eventually found in a ditch two hundred miles from where it was stolen.
Fletcher Boone received no assistance from his immoral and indifferent mother. She left Rexford soon after the scandal, and put up the family residence for sale. Dean's parents had also sold and moved to Westmoreland. Neither Roach nor Mason were disposed to approach their respective families. It was, perhaps, significant that soon after the four youths escaped from Borstal the former Boone home was broken into and everything of value stolen. Immediately after this incident the fugitives disappeared without trace. Weeks later the police were still searching. Eventually it was decided that the youths had somehow left the country, and there, for the time being, the matter ended.
Janet Preen, short, plump, and heavily freckled, hitched up her short frock, impatiently pulled it, and the clammy panties underneath, away from the fleshy cheeks of her large bottom. She probed stubby fingers into the deep division.
"Stop picking your asshole and come on," Daphne Ross said sarcastically. "I thought you said we'd find loads of berries along here?"
Daphne was taller than most girls of her age, a voluptuous creature with jet-black hair and a sullen, willful disposition, pretty in a coarse kind of way, and utterly spoiled by doting, irresponsible parents.
A third girl, Connie Maxwell, a slim brunette whose looks were spoiled by small, close-set eyes and protruding ears, spoke from behind a gorse bush where she squatted with her dress raised and frilly panties down past her calves, urinating in steaming squirts with legs wide apart and her behind protruding ludicrously.
"I was here last year and the bushes were laden," she said.
"Maybe some of the villagers have already been. Let's go on down to the old quarry. Nobody hardly ever goes there."
"It's dangerous," Janet cautioned. "A girl was drowned in the canal. Margie Spencer. Somebody pushed her in."
"It's too much of a drag," Daphne declared. "All for a few pigging blackberries. Besides, I've got a date."
"Who with?" Connie demanded, peering round the bush. "Not that bandy-legged Crawford kid? He smells. And he's impotent."
"How do you know, you skinny cow? For God's sake stop pissing and cover that hideous thing. I can see it even from here. You've got a bigger gash than old "Granny" Abigail."
"Look who's talking! I heard Phil Harris tell Claire Randolph he'd had his whole fist inside your cunt."
'That's all he did get in," Daphne stated belligerently. "Don't sell Andy Crawford short. Maybe you don't do anything for him, darling. But he can raise enough of a hard-on to satisfy me."
"You must be easy to please then," Connie argued.
"For Christ's sake stop squabbling," Janet admonished. "We've got plenty of time, Daph, to get down to the quarry and back before dark."
Daphne shrugged. She watched Connie pull her panties up and straighten her back.
"All right," she agreed. "Let's go to the fucking quarry. Maybe I'll go swimming."
"It's dangerous," Janet repeated.
"I can swim, stupid. It's only dangerous for silly buggers like that Spencer kid. Say! Did you hear about Jeff Prowse and Mary Sheldon? No? Well, it seems there was this scruffy character waiting outside . . ."
They strolled on, talking and laughing. Janet, a natural blonde, youngest of the teenage trio, kept easing her undergarment away from her sweaty crotch.
"I wish you'd stop doing that," Daphne complained. "You make me feel itchy all over. Are you lousy, or something?"
"I think I've picked up a dose of crabs," Janet answered bluntly.
"Well, don't give the little buggers to me."
The girls wandered idly, collecting fruit, gradually approaching broken, rugged terrain walled in by towering ironstone and lime escarpments. In places, crumbling, flaky rock bulged in great, overhanging masses. Venturing onto loose shale, the girls began the steep, precarious descent to the disused quarry. Beyond a jumble of derelict, sheet-iron buildings and rusted, obsolete machinery, water gleamed, the old tidal canal along which, at one time, barges came from Corsham foundry to the quarry wharf to load iron ore. One barge still remained, partly sunken, its hull waterlogged, aground on foul mud at low tide and barely afloat even when the canal was full.
The place seemed utterly deserted, silent as the grave.
But when the girls passed beyond a darkly wooded ridge, even before they got an unrestricted view of the canal they heard loud splashing and shouts, exuberant voices.
Startled, they approached cautiously and peered down through the drooping foliage of stunted willows. Two youths were swimming in the canal, paddling strongly toward the shallows. The one in the lead, a big, fat kid, reached the bank yards ahead of the other swimmer. Grunting, he heaved himself up onto the soggy timbers supporting the weed-slimed cut, climbed out, stark naked. His white buttocks contrasted sharply with the rest of his richly bronzed body.
Janet giggled, uttered a loud exclamation when the youth turned and she saw his dangling penis, a long, fat prick, darkly wrinkled from immersion in the chilly water but still larger than average. His scrotum was shriveled up tight, the skin corrugated.
"The poor bastard looks cold," Connie remarked. Daphne sniggered.
"I wouldn't mind warming him up," she said pointedly. They watched the other youth clamber out. He too was nude, his stocky, muscular torso covered with reddish hair matching the close cropped growth on his curiously elongated heat. Janet nudged Connie.
"He's all prick and no balls," she observed scornfully. The ginger haired youth stooped, picked up a pair of spectacles from a pile of clothing, put them on. Connie tittered.
"It's you who needs glasses," she told Janet. "What are they hanging down?"
Now, in his bent over position, the youth's testicles, previously obscured by a shaggy, pubic beard, swung hugely below the great bush of dripping hair. Water trickled from the ends and ran down his penis and the insides of his robust thighs.
"They must be keen to swim in that," Connie remarked.
"The short one is shivering."
She tensed, frowned as furtive rustling sounds among the bushes indicated the presence of a lurking intruder. Turning quickly, she cried out when two more youths emerged from the shadowy growth and stood grinning derisively.
Both were tall, big and broad-shouldered. One was particularly well-built. He wore a black leather jacket studded with brass and silver, black jeans, and jack-boots. His hair, previously cut short but beginning to sprout untidily, was ebony, black like his glittering, emotionless eyes. His sensual lips curled in a contemptuous sneer that seemed a permanent affliction.
The other youth, squatting abruptly on a rotten log, uttered a low whistle. He also had black hair, and an unkempt mustache in addition to long, bushy sideburns, and he was similarly attired, but his jacket was fringed along the sleeves and at the shoulders. He flipped a cigarette butt away, stood up as abruptly as he had sat down.
"Getting an eyeful?" he asked mockingly. "You don't need to spy on Dave and Jim-they'll be only too pleased to show you everything they've got."
Janet giggled nervously. Connie, sprawled on her stomach in long grass, squirmed erect.
"1fou startled us," Daphne complained.
"We'll do more than that, kid," the youth threatened. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Alarm flashed across Daphne's sallow face.- Defiance followed.
"Just picking blackberries," she answered. "What's it got to do with you?"
Fletcher Boone grinned maliciously.
"Plenty," he said aggressively. "Tell her what we do to snoopers, Rocky."
His companion gestured, drawing his index finger across his throat with unmistakable meaning, smirking at the expressions on the girls' faces. Daphne recoiled. She swore, looked closely at Boone, studying his ugly visage intently.
"I know you!" she stated truculently. "You're the boy who was expelled and . . ."
She laughed boisterously, stood with one plump hip audaciously thrust out, her large breasts heaving and shaking deliciously.
"You're "Bragger" Boone," she declared. "The randy swine who raped that silly Dexter kid. I remember you. Oh, man, do I remember? You caused more excitement than a riot. Old Dexter was livid. And you, with the mustache, you're Rockwell Mason. The great "Bragger" Boone and Rocky Mason! What happened to your long hair, Fletcher? Did they cut it off in Borstal?"
Mason looked at Boone, shrugged. Scowling, Boone shouted to Dent and Roach. They came promptly, clambering over the rough ground hastily wrapping towels around their hips.
"What's this then?" Roach demanded. "Who are they?" "Kids from Beechers," Boone explained. "We caught them watching you and Jim. Sexy little whores. The point is, they know who we are. I don't recall .. ."
"Sure," Dent broke in. "I remember young Janet. I used to chat her up regular, didn't I, kid?"
"But got nowhere," Janet retorted. She licked her lips, glanced at Connie.
"You've been hiding here all the time," she accused Boone. "We read about you escaping from Borstal. Everybody thinks you've gone abroad, France maybe."
"We intend to do just that," Boone told her. "When the police stop looking for us."
Roach rubbed his genitals through the damp towel, squeezing his thick, restless penis.
"So what will we do with them?" he asked. "These three scrubbers? Get them inside the mill shed for a start," Boone replied. "They wanted to see some cock. Okay, we'll show them all they can take. Shag them ragged and then decide what to do. The tall doll is mine."
'The name is Daphne," the dark haired girl said resentfully. "And I'm not afraid of you. But there's no need to threaten us, or to get rough. We don't mind a bit of fun. Just so long as nobody gets hurt."
"You don't, eh? How old are you, baby?"
"Going on seventeen."
"I'm sixteen," Janet said defiantly.
"Me too," Connie voiced. "We know what it's all about. Ask that fat slob-he tried it on often enough with Jan."
Dent grimaced. He sucked his uneven teeth.
"Not so much of the 'fat', kid," he warned. "I've got a fat prick if that's what you're lookin' for."
"No need to tell her that," Boone said cynically. "I told you-they were spying on you and Dave."
"We were not! We just happened to come this way and saw you getting out of the water."
"Did you like what you saw?" Roach enquired. Connie smirked. She did not answer.
"You boys all have a nice tan," Daphne observed. "I thought a person got all pale and pallid in jail?"
"Reform school isn't prison," Mason corrected. "Not exactly. There was plenty of outdoor activities where we were.
He squatted on the grass near Janet. Boone hunkered down beside Daphne, deliberately lifted the hem of her dress and looked under the crumpled folds. She gnawed her lip, but did not move away.
"You've got nice legs," Boone said. "If you're not scared, prove it. Let me have a feel."
Daphne did not answer. Boone chuckled. He extended his left hand and touched Daphne's knee, then her thigh, quickly slid his palm over her quivering flesh right up to her groin. Daphne giggled, twisted away. Boone grabbed her, pulled her down, held her with his forearm across her throat. His other hand delved between her legs and entered the leg hole of her panties, thrust right in and roughly compressed a fistful of soft, warmly trembling vagina, provoking a shrill outcry.
"Leave her alone, you ugly bastard!" Connie shouted. She tugged at Boone's jacket. Roach grabbed her and spun her round, reached up her clothing. Connie gasped. The towel fell away from Roach's thickset body. His partly stiffened penis shot erect, jutted proudly, straining and pulsing. Connie mouthed a sharp scream, but when Roach seized her hand and closed her fingers round his rampant organ she clutched it fiercely. Roach placed both hands under her bottom and jerked her forward, trapping the hand holding his penis against the girl's pelvis and furiously ramming his cock into the hollow of her palm and against her lower abdomen.
She tittered, yielded to panic and tried to pull away, but Roach held her close. He relaxed his ferocious hold slightly and raised Connie's frock, exposing her white panties, tugged impatiently at them and dragged them partly down. Dent, meanwhile, moved quickly round behind Connie and passed a fleshy arm round her waist, lifting her off her feet and at the same time clawed the towel away from his middle and stood naked, fat penis jerking and rearing, prodding the pronounced cleavage of the girl's bared bottom as Roach hauled her panties way down past her hips and fully revealed the luscious cheeks.
Mason, his hair full of dried grass particles and thistledown, grappled with Janet who, laughing nervously, tremendously excited despite acute apprehension, allowed him to uncover her succulent, over-developed breasts. He flopped them out, mauled them roughly, bunched their ripe fullness into rolling folds, got Janet down on the ground and sprawled partly on top of her, pushing his face against the heaving mounds and tonguing the pouting nipples that poked like diminutive raspberries into his nostrils and mouth.
He fumbled with the zipper fastening her dress. His fly was undone, his penis hanging out, swollen and throbbing, a virile, spongy branch that trailed slimy semen across the girl's plump thighs each time the broad, pointed knob whacked and jabbed white flesh.
Connie, shrieking with vulgar laughter, her fears completely gone, entered into the lewd spirit of the carnal escapade and wriggled her bare bottom energetically against Dent's probing rod while furiously masturbating Roach's turgid shaft.
Boone had his enormous cock out and knelt astride Daphne's waist as she lay face down, alternately abusing him and pleading for consideration, then chuckling obscenely and mouthing crude expressions that brought even cruder response from Boone. When she bucked him off unexpectedly he cut his knee on a stone, but ignored the bleeding" gash and grabbed her ankles as she squirmed away.
He hauled her back. Her frock was rucked up high and her gorgeous bottom fully uncovered, the provocatively rounded ovals taut and quivering. Boone jerked her legs apart and crawled between them, resumed his kneeling posture, kneading the exquisite cheeks and forcing them wide apart to expose the girl's anus and the dark well of her moist vagina. He sniffed the damp pit, nosed into the dusky crack, finally shuffled forward until his great boom was slapping the tremulous, cringing vale and boring tentatively into the tense crotch, thrusting down among the folds between buttocks and thighs and past the prominent opening of the pouting vagina.
Daphne, emotionally unstable and sexually precocious, quickly shed what little instinctive caution and inhibitions the chance encounter had aroused. Faced with the moment of truth, she wavered, then succumbed to natural tendencies. Discovering that she knew the four youths, that they were not really strangers, more like old friends or, at least, formerly of the same student fraternity, dispelled initial doubts and lingering fears, and brought a sense of acute relief and physical well-being evidenced in a surge of wildly abandoned enthusiasm, an unrestrained, reckless exuberance shared by the other girls. To be noticed at all by the notorious "Bragger" Boone and subjected to his lust was in itself a triumph for Daphne, something she could boast about and describe in lurid detail.
She clasped him ardently, twisted partly round and groped until she found his formidable penis, grasped it avidly and ferociously punished the incredibly thick, distended stalk, uttering anguished moans and passionate vulgarities as she pulled and stroked, squeezing the massive circumference and longing to feel its savagely beating length inside her yet terrified of its appalling size.
Dent had Connie's panties completely off and was trying to insert his frantic organ into her from behind while the girl, confused and agitated but essentially willing, leaned over and protruded her buttocks invitingly without releasing her clammy hold on Roach's resolute prick. Roach promptly wound thick fingers into her glossy brown hair and pulled her head lower, attempting to put his cock in her mouth, but she resented that, and twisted her face away, increased the tempo of her whanking friction, hoping he would attain orgasm quickly and permit her to derive maximum pleasure from Dent. But Roach stubbornly persisted.
Dent, on his knees, licked and sniffed Connie's bottom, further distracting her, driving her wild. Nobody had ever done that to her before. She liked it, but was mildly shocked, and raved, laughing and squirming and gasping, until Roach, seizing momentary advantage, brought his penis close to her face and butted the hugely expanded glans at her open mouth. Frantic now, sexually tormented, tremendously aroused, Connie yielded to the fierce impulses flaying her senses, accepted the compulsive demands of her slender, trembling body, and allowed the fat penis to distend her sensual lips. Flaming desire overcame revulsion.
Dent was right inside her now and shagging deeper with every panting thrust. Roach, quick to realize the change in Connie's response, instantly plunged his bloated stalk as far into her stretching mouth as possible, crouching with knees bent and buttocks nipped together, teeth bared and tightly gritted as he stroked the rigid organ rapidly in and out, completely engulfing it each time, oblivious of Connie's hoarse, strangled protests and spluttering appeals for moderation.
Her lithe figure twisted and writhed as she worked her girlish quim onto the intruding shaft, maintaining her balance by gripping Roach's hips firmly. As Dent screwed into her squelching vagina from behind, his hairy pelvis repeatedly flattening her buttocks, so Roach rammed simultaneously into the contorted cavern of her mouth, and each time her face was squashed into his groin and framed by coarse, reddish hair, her nostrils briefly clogged.
Roach was coming, jerking hot sperm into the cloying cavity in a series of powerful, pumping strokes while holding Connie's face pressed tightly against his pelvis, her soft lips splayed round the pulsing roots of his disgorging penis.
Dent, feet apart, bare ass laboring strenuously, grasped rolls of flesh above the girl's padded hips and blurted excitable, anguished cries each time her clutching quim relinquished then recaptured his steaming roll. He spunked as she released Roach's wet prick, but delivered a few more pistoning thrusts before Connie straightened her aching back and his organ was squeezed out.
Janet, practically naked, lay under Mason, heaving and gasping, red faced, her eyes misty, fingers deeply embedded in the youth's flexed biceps. Every time he thrashed his great root into her capacious split she raised her buttocks off the ground and countered his lunge with a desperate thrust as fiercely violent.
Boone, meanwhile, had removed his jeans and held Daphne in a tempestuous embrace. He had several inches of stiff penis blocking her cruelly distended slit and she was responding with unrestrained vigor, long legs locked behind his back, her head moving jerkily from side to side, breasts flopping. She moaned and sobbed and panted, but resolutely endured the savagely screwing fury of Boone's assault, reveling in the sweet ecstasy and ignoring the tearing pain. Grit and sand rasped the soft cheeks of her broadly splayed bottom. Stones were digging into her back, gouging her shoulders. She clung dementedly to Boone, gazing adoringly into his narrowed, inflamed eyes, her mouth gaping, tongue lolling, renewed the wild thrashing movements of her head, uttering desperate cries of mingled torture and rapture whenever he lunged with especially brutal power and ruthless indifference.
Daphne, fast approaching a bursting climax, reeling on the dizzy, absolute pinnacle of carnal bliss, trembling and shaking violently, experienced clawing thrills hitherto alien to her adolescent love life. It was not her first sexual experience, far from it, but she had never known such fierce, demanding passion, so enormous a penis filling her belly. Frenzied lust dominated her primitive emotions, but twinges of fear kept intruding, and were swept aside in the flood of searing sensations tormenting her swollen vagina and jangling every nerve in her gorgeous body. Her arms were stretched out now, her hands balled into hard little fists, the knuckles gleaming white. Harshly conflicting expressions flitted across her blotchy face. Beads of sweat clung to her smudged forehead.
Mason finished amid loud groans, sprawled inertly across Janet's extended legs. She cradled his head against her flushed breasts, pressing his features into the dimpled mounds.
Connie sat on a moss covered rock, trying to fasten her torn dress and looking acutely self-conscious. She watched Dent, his jeans pulled halfway up his hairy legs, shrug into his shirt. He hauled the pants past his bony knees and over his flabby buttocks, fastened the top button.
Boone rolled off Daphne. She flopped over, lay on her stomach with her forehead resting on her forearms, muttering incoherently. Boone shook sperm drops from his only slightly deflated appendage, squeezed the broad glans.
"Well?" he demanded. "That wasn't so bad, was it, kid?"
Daphne's legs opened and closed like scissor blades. The slow movements flexed her buttocks, accentuating the dark cleft, bunching the indented checks. She reached back, tugged her frock down to cover the pink, entrancing expanse.
"You've crippled me," she mumbled. "God! I thought I knew what it was all about. But it was wonderful, really fab. You're the best, Fletch."
She twisted round, sat up, adoration expressed in her shining eyes and reflected in every line of her flushed face. Her gaze centered intently on Boone's penis. He grinned, shook the gross roll, reluctantly confined it.
Mason slouched toward Boone fastening his fly buttons.
"She's all right," he declared, smirking at Janet who, squatting, was urinating copiously over a clump of stunted field daisies.
"I've fucked worse," Boone admitted, nodding in Daphne's direction. "How did you make out, Dave?"
"Swinging, man. Connie baby will do for me. Right, Jim?"
"She'll do. What I want to know is where we-" "When you've quite finished discussing our merits," Daphne interrupted. "Perhaps somebody will tell me if there's anything to drink around here, wherever you're shacked up. Where are you living, anyway? Not in that old building?"
Janet finished pissing, pulled her panties up. "We're on the barge, kid," Boone said. "It's not too bad down below. Real comfortable." "And the drink?"
"Vodka, or whiskey. Lager if you prefer." "With lime?"
"With whatever you want, doll. We're not peasants."
Boone stretched, flexed his arms, picked up his shirt, then discarded it.
"I don't know what I'm getting dressed for," he said. "We never did take that swim, Rocky. I'm going in. Who's coming?" How about it, you kids? Fancy a swim?"
"In the raw?" Daphne demanded. "Not bloody likely. Besides, it's too cold."
"Balls! I dare you."
Daphne shook her head defiantly. She looked at Connie, sniggered. Janet laughed. Mason felt her bottom, and she pushed him playfully. Roach polished his glasses on his shirt flap, put them on.
"You're chicken," Boone accused.
"I am not," Daphne denied vehemently. "It's just... Oh, ail right. I don't see how it matters anyway, now that you've had me, you dirty bastard. What do you say, Con? I'll strip if you will."
Connie shrugged, pouted.
"Don't look at me," Janet said. "I'm game for anything. But what about your date, Daph?"
"What do you think? Andy Crawford? I couldn't tackle that creep now. So far as I'm concerned he can drop dead."
"You been going steady with Andy?" Dent asked. "That bowlegged goon? He couldn't fuck his way out of a paper bag."
"He manages," Daphne declared. She jumped up, raised her frock and tugged it over her head, stood naked except for brief, stained panties. The nipples of her luscious breasts stood out round and hard. She crossed her arms over the milky ovals, feeling suddenly awkward and embarrassed.
"J must be crazy," she said. "That breeze has a bite in it. Let's get it over."
"It'll be exhilarating, once you're in," Roach predicted.
"Listen to him," Janet mocked. "Big words. Don't forget we saw you down there. You looked frozen, blue with cold."
"Quit gabbing and peel off the pants," Boone ordered. "Last one in is a stinking shitbag."
He dropped his jeans, kicked them off and ran to the water's edge, dived off the timbered bank. Roach and Dent followed. Mason removed his pants but hesitated, waiting for the girls to make a move.
"Don't worry," Daphne assured him scornfully. "We won't run away."
She stared at his semi-flaccid penis, giggled, nudged Connie. The slim brunette began to slip out of her frock. Janet only had to remove her panties. None of the girls wore a brassiere or slip. Connie pushed her panties down, shed them, darted after Daphne as the tall girl sprinted toward the murky canal with breasts flopping and heavy buttocks bouncing seductively. Mason's penis reared again. He fingered it, lunged at Janet. She dodged, fled swiftly, squealing with hysterical delight, willow wands lashing her agile, naked form.
Mason chased after her, overtook her on the canal bank and grabbed her round the waist, fell with her and rolled down the slope, hugging her close, his genitals pressed into the cleft of her bottom, one hand clutching the globular perfection of her left breast and causing the large teat to protrude between his forefinger and thumb. Laughing and yelling, they splashed into the bleak water. The cold shock broke Mason's hold. He floundered, gasping. Janet, an excellent swimmer, quickly stroked across the wind rippled flow.
Boone and Daphne were racing, youthful vigor evident in their every movement. Dent had Connie cornered in the shallows near the barnacle encrusted, green-slimed hulk. Roach swam strongly against the current veering toward distant sluice-gates that had remained closed for more than twenty years.
The oddly assorted teenage group did not stay in the water long despite their display of bravado. The old barge, so derelict on the outside, was reasonably well preserved below deck. The former living accommodation had been partly restored, and sundry items of small furniture and a large quantity of expensive bedding-undoubtedly from the country house owned by Boone's mother-contributed to an astonishing degree of comfort.
Sipping vodka, lager beer with lime, whiskey straight, or with water added, the noisy, boisterous group talked and argued. The immediate question, posed by Roach and concerning Boone's intentions regarding the girls, raised certain problems. Sex was fun, and the girls were easily influenced, a willing source of pleasure. But once they returned to Beechers .. .
"Suppose they talk?" Roach objected. "Then we're right in the shit."
"We wouldn't," Connie protested indignantly. "We wouldn't say a word."
"Of course not," Janet seconded. "We aren't like that."
"Maybe," Boone said. "But we can't afford to take chances. Why go back to Beechers at all?"
Daphne stared blankly. Then she smirked, nodded eagerly.
"Why indeed?" she agreed. "What is there to go back for? I'm sick of college anyway, fed up with old Dexter and the snobbish Miss Garfield, and all the other stupid bastards."
"We can't stay here!" Janet protested.
"Why not? Think of all the fun we could have, one glorious love-in from now until.
"And what happens when our parents report us missing and the police start looking for us? I know you don't care about your folks, but I wouldn't want to cause my father any real anxiety."
"What's he ever done for you? A good scare will do him good. Who cares about parents? They've got their own drab lives and we've got our whole future. Besides, we-"
"We can be long gone before anybody misses you girls," Boone interrupted. "We intend crossing over to France soon. Paris. Stick with us and well show you a real good time. I like you, Daph. No kidding. We'd make a great team."
"I don't know," Daphne said, hesitating. "It's a big step, when you think about it. Oh, I would come. But only if Con and Janet agree."
"You'd best think about it, all of you. There is another alternative, but you wouldn't like it."
"Such as?"
"Such as a fucking great rock tied round your pretty neck and another plunge in the canal, baby," Boone replied viciously.
"You're joking!"
"Like hell I am. We're fugitives from Borstal. If the police get us well go to jail next time. We didn't invite you here. Now that you have found us we daren't just let you go. You see that, don't you? What happens is up to you."
"He means it!" Connie mouthed. "And he'd do it, Daph. But I don't need to think about it I know what I'm going to do.
She smirked at Dent, puckered her lips.
"You wouldn't dare harm us," Daphne declared, frowning at Boone. "You're just trying to frighten us. But you don't scare me, "Bragger" Boone. If I stay it will be because I want to, not because of threats."
"Me too," Janet stated. "If I stay."
"Don't be a bitch, Jan," Connie said persuasively. "It will be a giggle. Think of it, Paris in the spring."
She leaned close, whispered. Janet laughed. She shrugged.
"That's the best argument," she said. "I suppose 111 have to go along. But no rough stuff."
"And no strings," Daphne insisted. "We cut out any time we feel like it. Agreed?"
Boone nodded. He unfastened his fly, flopped his abnormal penis out.
"Agreed," he said. "Now shut your damn mouth and get hold of this."
CHAPTER FIVE
It had been a dull evening for Miss Prunella Garfield. She had not particularly enjoyed the play, and regretted accepting Grant Dexter's invitation. But he was, after all, dean of Beechers, and she could not afford to offend him.
It was gloomy in the woods. With anybody but the dean Miss Garfield would have been nervous, afraid for her safety. Men were such beasts. She would have preferred to take the long way back to college, or engage a cab. But the dean wanted to stretch his legs.
They walked briskly, discussing the play, teaching schedules, vacation plans. Phyllis Dexter was doing well in Italy, Miss Garfield learned. The dean did not refer to Miss Tremaine, and Miss Garfield did not ask about her.
Wind rustled the foliage, creating eerie sounds. Owls hooted. Birds darted, swooping low. A bat veered close, startling Miss Garfield, drifted erratically away. The winding path was deserted, quiet, seemingly endless.
Beside a low, broken fence Miss Garfield paused to rest, complaining of breathlessness. As she expanded her chest her ripe, mature breasts strained against the restraint of her dark blue dress. She bent forward to remove her left shoe, massaged her aching instep. The broad cheeks of her gorgeous bottom spread beneath the tight garment like the two halves of an enormous plum, full and smoothly rounded, rich with succulent promise.
The intimate exposure was not wasted on the dean. He gazed, entranced, coughed discreetly and looked away, sighed. He did not altogether approve of such phenomenal physical development in a female person whose sole function was to teach highly impressionable teenagers. It was disturbing to the older students and to the staff. Very disturbing. Miss Garfield, Prunella, always made him feel awkward and self-conscious in her presence. He was acutely aware of her charms, and her strange philosophy, yet felt cheated and resentful, knowing the extreme folly of ever allowing himself to contemplate any form of sexual approach.
Grant Dexter was a normal man with ordinary desires, neither too old to appreciate the beauty of the female form, especially a figure as ravishingly alluring as Prunella Garfield's, nor too dried up to experience lust. Prunella's sexual aura was almost overpowering. At times Dexter had difficulty restraining his natural impulses. To Miss Garfield and the rest of the college staff he was a tolerant but stubborn, mildly inoffensive little man without chronic vices or really bad habits, as much a pillar of respectability as Prunella Garfield was a paragon of virtue. Nobody suspected him of harboring immoral thoughts. Prunella would have been horrified had she been able to read his mind.
He sighed again, risked another glance, breathed out slowly and heavily when Miss Garfield stooped lower. The temptation to touch her regal posterior, to thrust his hand up her clothing, was frighteningly strong, the urge to press his lips to the bulging prominence of her sweetly fascinating bottom almost more than he could bear.
Miss Garfield straightened, turned, her jutting breasts shuddering in a way that dried the dean's mouth. He passed his tongue round his lips, wondering how Miss Garfield could avoid noticing the ridged protrusion at the front of his immaculate pants. He voiced a startled exclamation when a tall figure suddenly stepped out from the bushes onto the path. His eyes widened in surprise when he recognized Fletcher Boone.
Other figures emerged from the thickets, youths and girls, giggling, insolently smirking. They surrounded the dean and his companion. Looking round at their grimacing faces, Dexter felt acute apprehension. Miss Garfield sucked in her breath sharply.
"Boone!" the dean exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this? I thought-"
"Surprised?" Boone jeered. "No more than I am, you old ram. You and "Gorgeous" Garfield tramping through the woods. Shame on you, old man."
Miss Garfield uttered an indignant gasp.
"You disgusting lout!" she snapped. "I'm absolutely astounded that you have the nerve to return after that disgraceful episode. The police-"
"Balls to the police," Boone retorted derisively. The dean tensed.
"Moderate your language, Boone," he protested. "There's no need for that. I am surprised. Astonished. I never thought to have the misfortune of seeing any of you again. And you girls. Preen. Ross. Maxwell. What are you doing in the company of these moral degenerates? They are nothing more than common hoodlums."
Daphne tittered. Connie hung back. Janet looked anxiously at Mason, smiled when Boone laughed mockingly.
"What do you want, Boone?" the dean asked.
"You'd never believe it if I told you," Boone answered. "So well just have to show you. Before we're through you 11 realize how bad a mistake you made-sir. I warned you what to expect when I got out, both of you. I said I'd get even. Well, you're about to be convinced I meant what I said. And as for you, Miss fucking Garfield, you fat cunt, I've got something special lined up for you. I'm going to do something I've waited for and thought about all those months in Borstal and a long time before that. Grab them, gang!"
Mason and Roach rushed at the dean, gripped his arms and shoved them up behind his back. Dent and Boone seized Miss Garfield in a similar manner. Dexter struggled furiously but was helpless in the grip of the powerful youths. Miss Garfield cringed, white-faced.
"What are you doing?" Dexter shouted. "Are you mad?"
"Simmer down, old man," Boone told him. "Get them over to that clearing."
Miss Garfield wrenched angrily, trembling more with indignation than fear, at first.
"Let me go, you monsters!" she raved. "How DARE you?"
"Bring her," Boone instructed. He and Dent thrust Miss Garfield roughly toward the open glade. Shadows were lengthening, but enough daylight filtered through the trees to reveal details. Boone helped Miss Garfield along with a hand on her bottom, his fingers delving into soft flesh, chuckling when she bucked and squirmed frantically. Dent mauled her breasts painfully. Gasping, terrified now, Miss Garfield hung back, twisting and tugging, jerking desperately, but was dragged along and finally pushed down onto the massive trunk of a fallen tree, held there with an arm round her neck and her left arm doubled up. Boone gripped her other wrist.
The dean was thrown to the ground. Roach sat on him, knees grinding into the man's biceps, and grinned down into Dexter's frightened face. Mason sprawled across Dexter's legs. The three girls hovered close, giggling and capering, awed by the youths' boldness but emboldened by Boone's contempt for the dean's status and Miss Garfield's austere person, unwilling as yet to participate actively but quite prepared to watch and revel in anticipation of the ordeal, and to share in the reckless quartet's defiance of authority.
"Please!" Dexter pleaded. "Don't do this. Whatever your reasons, Boone. Have you gone completely berserk?"
Boone ignored him. He had a hand inside Miss Garfield's dress and was teasing her breasts, easing the lush globes away from the rigid confinement of her brassiere, and hefting them, pinching the nipples, jerking her head back every time she attempted an outcry.
"What are you going to do?" Daphne asked excitedly. "Are you going to have her, Fletch? I want to see the fat cow get it"
"Damn right I am, kid. But not here," Boone said. "Not right now. He He nodded his head toward the dean, laughed derisively.
"What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Take his cock out Let's see what the bugger's got that "Gorgeous" Garfield is so interested in she took the old goat walking in the woods."
Miss Garfield managed a hoarse shout.
"You filthy animals!" she shrieked. "You vile fiends! Oh, dear God! Help me! HELP ME!"
Dexter heaved and writhed, but was still unable to grasp the odious fact that the youths actually intended to expose his genitals to Prunella Garfield's horrified gaze-until Mason adopted a squatting posture between the dean's wildly thrashing legs and, with a single swift jerk, ripped Dexter's fly wide open. Grinning wickedly, Mason groped into the gaping vent, seized the warm, gristly roll of Dexter's inert penis and pulled it out into plain view, leering triumphantly at Miss Garfield, who screamed and desperately renewed her struggles.
The girls moved closer, staring, tittering, exclaiming. The dean's organ was almost as big as Boone's, and exceptionally fat. Genuinely surprised, Mason held its flabby length, pulling at the circumcised glans and stretching the gross appendage like rubber. Daphne swore. She crouched lower. Janet leaned on Mason's shoulder. Connie, with both hands pressed against her vaginal mound, stood behind a tree, studying Miss Garfield's reactions.
"The old goat's bigger in the cock than me," Mason said grudgingly. "Hold still, you bastard! Take a good look, Con. Don't hide. Have a feel. He won't bite you. Come on, kid. Toss him off."
Connie shook her head.
"I will," Daphne declared. "I'll pull it out by the roots. I owe him something for what he told father about me."
The dean's face was red with effort. He mouthed vile threats, dignity and position forgotten. Saliva escaped the corners of his loose mouth. Mason unfastened Dexter's belt and opened his pants fully, pushed the flaps right back to reveal the man's testicles and the hairy roots of his thick penis which, under Mason's uncouth handling, showed signs of stiffening, symptoms that created considerable amusement among his captors.
Daphne pushed Mason's hand away. She seized the dean's penis boldly, tugged it viciously, held his balls and squeezed them in her other hand until he groaned and his whole body shuddered violently. His penis reared, jerking spasmodically erect, bloating, and the smirking girl applied more friction, whacking the wrinkled foreskin up and down, dragging it right back then forward over the throbbing knob, back again, rolling and stretching.
Connie emerged from hiding, gaping, pale-faced. Janet, on her knees, studied the fat prick with her face only inches from its pulsing, thickening mass.
"He's getting a hard-on!" she shouted delightedly. "Old Dexter's got a beat on! He likes it!"
"Bring Garfield over here," Mason urged, twisting his neck and looking at Boone. "Let her see what she's got coming. Make her suck it."
"Ooooh, yes!" Janet encouraged. "Make her."
She stretched out a pudgy hand and added her clammy grasp to Daphne's firmly clutching hold on the squirming victim's penis. His mouth hung open. His eyes were glassy, staring. Janet grimaced sardonically into his flushed, strained face.
Across the clearing, Boone and Dent had laid Miss Garfield over the fallen tree trunk.
"You bring Dexter," Boone instructed. "We've got her just right."
Dent held Miss Garfield in the obscene posture with rough bark gouging her soft belly and her dress lifted above her waist. He played with his exposed penis, stroking the turgidly throbbing organ while Boone, very gradually, pulled the sobbing teacher's white nylon panties down, sliding them over her rolling hips and alluring buttocks with deliberately provocative slowness, prolonging the delightful disclosure, baring the gently swelling mound where the cleft commenced, then the start of the dusky fissure and curving ovals of pink and white flesh, relentlessly uncovering more and more of the delectable cheeks until the whole perfect assembly was exposed to his lascivious gaze.
Boone also had his penis out, his original intention to refrain from raping Miss Garfield until she arrived at the old quarry having evaporated with the first sight and feel of her naked flesh. Dent had torn her dress from neckline to waist and her incomparable breasts protruded, white and quivering, the nipples standing out like dark red, tightly closed buds. Her brassiere lay among rank ferns together with one of her shoes and her handbag. Her spectacles had fallen off, and either Dent or Boone had trodden on them, splintering the lenses. She begged, raged, and indulged in hysterics, but her outbursts merely amused the youths and increased the fever of their lust.
As her bottom was fully revealed, Boone uttered a hoarse cry and, squatting, rammed his face into the shadowy cleft, burying his features completely, thrusting his nose into the tremulous, shrinking anus and curling his tongue into the sexily odorous recess below the bunched rolls of cringing flesh. He .wallowed, oblivious of Miss Garfield's frantic outcry, reveling in the musky smell of her secret parts until, eventually, alarmed by her wild shrieks, he stood up, wadded his handkerchief and stuffed it in her mouth, then resumed his depraved orgy, pulling the plump cheeks widely apart to bring the seemingly small vagina into pouting view-a tight, compact slit nestling among dense, almost-black hair curling in glistening tufts around the moist vulva and extending like a pointed beard below the exciting gash.
Roach shouted impatiently. Boone abandoned his lustful pursuit and mouthed a sarcastic retort, but got to his feet, impatiently dragged Miss Garfield's thighs apart and intruded his great stalk into the recess where buttocks and vagina merged. When the huge knob butted her nervous, quaking quim, Miss Garfield went berserk. Dent tightened his grip, used both hands to hold her down, but she freed one arm and struck out savagely, blindly, caught Boone high on the cheek bone with her clenched fist. The blow hurt but did not deter him, merely aroused his vicious streak.
"Hold her, you fat slob!" he shouted. "Leave your prick alone and keep her from kicking. You 11 get your turn. The bitch! She's cut my face. Ill really give her hell now."
He gripped Miss Garfield's shoulder and forced her down and across the log. Dent stretched both her arms painfully, increasing the acuteness of her draped posture. Boone thrust a hand between her thighs and grabbed a fistful of squashy vagina. He inserted his forefinger high into her cunt and probed avidly, withdrew the digit, and promptly forced it up the demented teacher's anus.
Daphne left Janet frigging the dean's stiffened, hugely jutting member, and approached Boone. Prompted by the urgency of her own sexual need she grasped his rampant penis and tried to pull him away from Miss Garfield. Boone flung her aside and she fell, got quickly to one knee and remained in that position, frowning, watching Boone's tremendous branch bursting into the helpless woman's vulnerable split. Shrugging, pouting, she returned to Mason and the prostrate dean, sidled up to Roach, who was still sitting on Dexter's chest and kneeling on the numbed arms. Janet, steadily whanking Dexter's penis, now enormously inflated, grinned derisively at her. Suddenly, Daphne raised her frock, pushed her panties down and removed them, then lifted the dress again so that Roach could see her vagina. She protruded her pelvis obscenely. She did not speak. There was no need.
Roach understood. He extended his neck, thrust out his tongue and licked the girl's hot, wet vagina. She stood with legs wide apart, pushing the dark folds against his mouth, but even in the heat of his lewd debauch Roach did not relax his punishing pressure on the dean's biceps.
Boone, grinding relentlessly, flogged his brutal rod ecstatically into the virgin cavity, grunting with pleasure and the tense, clawing friction of each convulsive spasm, but spunked before he completed more than a score of tempestuous strokes.
Frustrated and resentful, he took out his spite on Miss Garfield, dragged her away from the tree and flung her to the ground near Mason and the dean. Mason promptly grabbed her and put his hand up her crumpled dress. Boone seized her long hair, forced her to her knees and savagely twisted her arm behind her back. He thrust her down until her hanging breasts were squashed against the fronts of her thighs and she could hardly breathe.
Daphne suddenly left Roach. The insides of her thighs were wet, her vagina throbbing and slimy. She felt tremendously excited. Roach, jerking his head round, lost his glasses. He retrieved them, but put them in his jacket pocket, then wrestled Dexter into submission again. Dent captured the dean's left wrist and bent the arm callously. He and Boone dragged her over the ground on her knees, and Mason, anticipating their intention, forced the dean's legs apart and held them wide while the youths pushed Miss Garfield, still on her knees, inside the spread of Dexter's limbs. \ As they held her down with bottom grotesquely thrust out and her anguished face close to the dean's genitals, fear and loathing activated her compressed bladder and she urinated, puddling the area and wetting her legs. The pools soaked rapidly into the sandy soil. Amid coarse, mocking laughter, Boone clutched the teacher's hair and forced her head still lower, bringing her mouth nearer to Dexter's jerking penis which, as Janet released it, reared and pulsed with tormented vigor.
"The poor bastard's really suffering," Janet remarked. "I don't know how we dare."
She thwarted Daphne's attempt to seize the dean's penis and grasped it herself, guided the straining glans toward the grimly compressed gash that was Miss Garfield's bloodless mouth. Sick with shock and horror, the captive teacher retched when the male smell of the throbbing organ invaded her flared nostrils. Then the knob touched her lips, and she recoiled from it as though burned by a white-hot iron. Her head whipped from side to side.
Boone exerted all his strength and the slimy, dribbling prick wiped several times across Miss Garfield's face and mouth, jabbing her nostrils and poking into her eyes, but she resisted its entry past her lips, and eventually Boone, defeated in his degrading objective, tired of the futile attempt and issued curt orders, hauled Miss Garfield erect and spun her round. With Dent supporting one thigh, a hand under her buttocks, and Mason the other, and Roach keeping the dean flat on his back, Miss Garfield was lifted bodily and held poised above Dexter's torrid shaft, facing his feet, then slowly lowered in accordance with Boone's concise directions until that jutting rod intruded into the extreme opening of her vagina.
Daphne guided the fat prick into the hairy gash, ignoring Janet's petulant cry of: "Let me put it in! I want to do it!"
The youths lowered Miss Garfield further, sitting her on the rigid shaft, impaling her yielding aperture, screwing the thick stalk cruelly in. Despite the wadded handkerchief gag, Miss Garfield voiced a gasping shriek that echoed resoundingly. She was raised and lowered awkwardly, ponderously, breasts flopping, distended vagina dragging, squelching, creating wet, sucking noises and leaving moist imprints against the spreadeagled dean's wrinkled pelvis and around the roots of his straining penis. There was a tinge of crimson in the sticky residue.
She was heaved remorselessly up and down, her captors lifting, thrusting, bearing down, maintaining the surging motion, doubling her voluptuous body into vulgar, incredible contortions. Sometimes when she was hoisted the slippery penis escaped. The dean, observing the spread of her magnificent buttocks, gazed right into the splayed fissure where cunt and anal cavity merged. The effect on the carnal senses was shattering, the burning tension in his tormented penis becoming unbearable. Completely dominated by the incredible sequence of events undermining his moral fiber, he arched his spine repeatedly, bucking his loins upward to meet each pounding descent of that slippery, gaping maw and straining desperately, groaning and panting in the throes of intense sexual excitement that was both ecstasy and shuddering torment.
Now, he too was all animal, ferociously aroused, the dominant, lusting male, still a captive but fiercely co-operative and savagely responsive. His frenzied movements delighted his teenage persecutors. Daphne especially demanded even greater exertion, agitating until Boone, grinning fiendishly, left off handling his penis and helped in the obscene performance.
The dean, sweating, teeth gritted, eyes hotly inflamed, stared fixedly at the broad expanse of Prunella's exquisite behind and the hairy cavern of her vagina, no longer small but a reddened, glistening pit into which his near-bursting branch slogged ravenously. The dean's innermost feelings defied description. The ordeal was entirely alien to his limited experience and conventional sex life. The infrequent and reluctant fornication permitted by his wife was insipid and uninspired by comparison. She had always made him feel degraded. But this... He experienced conflicting emotions that - .t to the very core-he was deliriously elated, gloating over his masculine accomplishment yet tortured by shame and inborn scruples, swept along on a swirling tide of carnal bliss, rushing furiously toward a jerking, spurting climax, stringy muscles quivering, sinews standing out like knotted cords.
Abruptly, Boone voiced a curt decision.
"Let him go," he commanded. Roach stared, uncomprehending. He had shifted his position so that he could watch the crude action, and sat on the ground behind the dean with his feet either side of the man's head, pressed against his shoulders, keeping Dexter's arms fully extended.
"Let him up," Boone repeated. "The old goat's hooked, foaming at the mouth. You couldn't pry him loose from darling Prunella now with a crowbar. So why pin him down? Let him perform. Let's see what he does without persuasion."
Dent and Mason lowered Miss Garfield to the ground, stood her on her feet but kept a firm grip on her arms, and immediately forced her to adopt an ignominious stooping posture. The dean, deprived of her soft, yielding quim, uttered harsh croaking sounds of frustration. The moment he was released he clambered to his feet, displaying remarkable agility, and rushed at Miss Garfield amid uproarious laughter and jeering remarks, oblivious of everything except the urgency of his unrequited need, the corrupting influence of scourging passion completely dominating his thoughts and reflexes, fat prick jutting and swinging, shirt flapping, pants trailing round his ankles, impeding his movements and almost tripping him.
"Sock it to her, dean!" Boone yelled. "Thrash it into her!"
Daphne squealed with delight, shoving closer with Connie jostling her and Janet shouldering between them both, flushed with lascivious excitement and exclaiming hoarsely as Dexter, gripped in the insane fervor of uncontrollable lust, seized Miss Garfield's hips and jerked her backward onto his rampant organ. He found the slimy hole and rammed in furiously, embedded his tool completely, shagged with berserk fury, jaw protruding, mouth slackly open.
Connie lifted his shirt flap and uncovered his smooth, white ass, pushed against his buttocks, vigorously aiding the momentum of his thrusts. Roach, holding his rigid penis, scuttled round in front of the captive teacher and, grasping her hair, dragged her head up and again attempted to put his cock in her mouth. This time, all Miss Garfield's violent, sobbing efforts failed. Roach pried her lips apart, using his thumbs, and succeeded in forcing the swollen knob past the writhing opening but was defeated by the barrier of clenched teeth. Unable to control shattering orgasm, he shot a stream of thick, milky sperm against her face. The nauseating ejaculation filled every cranny of her shuddering features. Some of it, sliding down her chin, puddled on her glorious breasts.
Miss Garfield's reaction to the loathsome contact was mind-crushing. Stark horror wrenched at her reason. Terror, shock, insane fury, stomach-churning disgust-all combined to dispel the brief flicker of subconscious physical response her abused body had instinctively displayed and now violently rejected, strangling the faint stirrings of desire and reinforcing frigidity jjp0khtcuwbole superb being shrieked in awful, violated protest and provoked repeated gushes of urine that, squirting hot and .salty past the cruel blockage, wetted the dean's hairy pelvis and washed around his tightly wrinkled scrotum.
But her agony was almost over. Dexter screwed into her like a madman, deaf to taunts and lewd, mocking advice, clutching Miss Garfield's hips and ramming belligerently. Finally, uttering a series of loud, agonized groans, he spunked, hugging the almost demented teacher tenaciously, clinging like a burr with eyes glazed and buttocks nipped together. The sexual fury drained from his loins. He stumbled away from Miss Garfield and collapsed on the grass, limp and exhausted, dazed and utterly bewildered, his haggard face twitching, Boone chuckled.
"I never thought the old bastard had it in him," he said with grudging admiration. He restrained Dent, who was intent on duplicating the dean's performance.
"Later," Boone said. "On board the barge. We've hung around here too long already. Take dear Prunella to the car."
He approached the dean who, sitting slumped with his back against a tree, remained inert until Boone prodded him in the stomach with a pointed shoe toe.
"We're taking Miss Garfield with us," Boone told Dexter. "For insurance of a sort, among other things. She's only had a sample of what she's going to get. Nobody rats on me and gets away with it. A word of warning, dean. Don't go to the police, otherwise something really unpleasant might happen to darling Prunella. Understand, old man?"
The dean nodded dumbly. He watched the teenagers hustle Miss Garfield into the bushes. Presently, he heard a car motor start up. Staring toward the waving shrubs, Dexter clambered slowly to his feet. He hauled his pants up but left his penis protruding. His tension seemed to evaporate the moment the youths departed. He actually smiled, fingered his drooping organ, began to masturbate, gradually quickening his movements until his semi-flaccid prick dribbled a weak, minute flow of watery semen. His reddened face relaxed.
"No," he muttered thickly. "I won't tell the police. I won't say a word, you young bastards. I've dreamed of doing that to Prunella Garfield for fifteen years but never had the courage to even hint at such a thing. God knows what will come of it Right now I don't give a damn. Oh, but she was absolutely wonderful. Magnificent. Why was it never like that with Margaret? I shall see Prunella's luscious behind displayed in front of my eyes for the rest of my life. And that divine cunt! My God! I'm shaking like a leaf. It's all too utterly bizarre, altogether fantastic. But at this moment I could forgive young Boone everything-almost everything, even the humiliation."
CHAPTER SIX
A mist hung over the canal. The sun had not yet appeared above the escarpments. On board the old barge, below deck in what had once been a cargo hold-a damp, hollow-sounding cavern illuminated only by the daylight admitted through a small hatchway from which the cover had been removed, Miss Prunella Garfield sat on a heap of moldy sacks. Her clothing had been removed. Her wrists were tied together, the end of the rope passed through a rusty ringbolt embedded in the split, gnarled timbers. Noises from the adjoining compartment echoed loudly.
No water leaked into the hull-a tribute to the barge's solid construction and the quality of the tar covering a thick sheathing of iron protecting the entire planking. There were square portholes opening off the former living accommodation, but only very limited ventilation. Aft of the upper deck a squat wheelhouse loomed, bleak and isolated, gloomy, the windows starred with cracks and thickly grimed. The woodwork was warped and rotten.
A gag bulged Miss Garfield's cheeks. She occupied a slumped position with her back against cold metal. Twice more she had endured further outrage. All four youths had raped her. Even the girls had molested her sexually, encouraged by Boone. She had been reviled, pinched, slapped, drenched with urine, forced to witness lurid sex acts involving the three utterly depraved teenage girls.
Connie had paired off with Roach but encouraged Dent to take liberties. Mason and Janet remained together. Boone considered Daphne his exclusive conquest and treated her like dirt, but his uncouth treatment and sadism merely increased her adoration.
In the surprisingly spacious living quarters Dent squatted on a fusty mattress, part of the original furnishings, preoccupied with blowing through a straw inserted into a frog's anus, then watching the unfortunate creature, bloated and in agony, clop across the deck. Roach munched an apple. Mason had a large eel coiling and writhing on a length of line, and kept trailing it against Janet's bare leg, teasing her. Boone and Daphne occupied a low sofa. Its rag-gnawed upholstery was covered with a fleecy white blanket Daphne had a hand inside Boone's unfastened fly, but his interest was obviously elsewhere. He kept looking toward the cargo hold. With an irritable gesture he knocked the girl's hand away.
"Let's have Prunella in here again," he said. "It was over too quickly before. I'm ready for another stab at her. And this time I'll make it last."
"What about me?" Daphne complained. "What's so special about her? I thought you fancied me, Fletcher Boone."
"I do, kid. But you and me can have it any time. Darling Prunella won't be with us very long. I don't want her to feel neglected. And remember, what we're doing to her isn't supposed to give the bitch pleasure-it's grudge fucking. We want her to sweat blood."
"You're a vicious swine."
"I am, and don't you forget it. She got the four of us a stretch in Borstal, remember? We've rubbed the dean's nose in the shit. Now it's her turn. Bring her in, Dave. If you girls don't want to watch then go swimming or something. Or fuck off back to Beechers."
"Who's complaining?" Daphne protested. "I was just saying-"
"Well don't. You 11 get all the cock you want when we get to Paris, and I'll still have some left for you, kid, after I get finished with Prunella. So behave."
He slapped her bottom, stood up, took his penis out and forced the foreskin back.
"When I shag 'em they don't forget it," he bragged. "Get her in here."
Mason, too, opened the front of his jeans in lewd anticipation. Janet promptly seized his lifting organ and played with it until, submerged in the morass of swamping lust, he forgot about Miss Garfield and allowed Janet to convey his stiffening roll to the enticing slit already wantonly exposed to receive the fat tool. Mason instructed her to turn round. Janet obeyed, bent over, laughing as he effected crude entry and thrashed his huge stalk deep, blocking her avid quim almost before she had time to brace herself and jerk her frock up out of the way. They fornicated quite openly, with brutal candor, oblivious of the other kids. Janet did not even drop her panties but merely pulled the wide leg-hole away from her vagina.
They were still locked together when Roach and Dent reappeared dragging Miss Garfield between them. Naked, she was magnificent, beautifully proportioned, radiating sex from every shadowy hollow and exaggerated recess, every plump, white curve and protuberant mound. Haggard, filthy, cheeks tear-stained, hair tangled and matted, her proud flesh smelling strongly of sweat and urine and the clinging odor of drying sperm, she was thrust into the cabin and supported by the grinning youths.
Roach had his penis out. His nostrils were flared, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the compelling attraction of the teacher's beautifully rounded bottom. Her reddened breasts bore the imprint of bruising fingers.
Dent put his hand between her thighs from behind and mauled her deliciously pouting vagina, mouthed excitable demands, ripped his fly buttons undone, resumed his rough handling. The captive jerked forward spasmodically.
Boone tripped her so that she fell on the sofa. He thrust her face downward, held her. Roach fumbled, striving feverishly to enter his gross penis. Dent flopped his prick out, but abruptly left Miss Garfield and grappled with Connie, pulling her down on the deck. She received him joyfully, squealing with delight, and they squirmed behind a heap of miscellaneous junk, instantly oblivious of the sordid spectacle being enacted across the squat, low-beamed cabin, conscious only of their violent, youthful passion.
Prunella Garfield was twisted over, dragged from the couch and forced to lie on her back. Legs thrashing wildly, she was subjected to a repetition of vile debauchery intended to plunge her continually deeper into the cesspit of degradation and despair, and abject humiliation. Roach attacked her like a ravenous beast. Her wrists were still tied and she could only toss and strain helplessly, mumbling and choking behind the gag, while the youth satisfied his lust.
He finished quickly and pulled out, flopped on the sofa, deaf to Boone's sarcasm.
"You s ire you're all through?" Boone demanded. Roach grinned.
"I'm screwin' myself to death," he declared. "But what a way to go! She's all yours, Fletch. I'm bushed."
Boone pushed him aside and approached the prone teacher. He knelt, removed the wadded handkerchief from her mouth.
"Go ahead," he invited. "Scream all you want. Nobody will hear you."
Miss Garfield's mouth opened, but only hoarse, rasping sounds issued. She had lost her voice, strained the vocal cords raw through the violence of earlier outcries. Boone chuckled.
"Can't talk, eh?" he jeered. "That's a change, darling. You talked all right before you cow! About prick-shy Phyllis Dexter. I said you'd be sorry."
He brought his left hand into view and displayed the large eel Mason had been tormenting Janet with, holding the lashing eel behind its head, the powerful, snakelike coils whipping round his wrist and forearm, and brought the slimy, elongated tail close to Miss Garfield's genitals, gloating when she recoiled frantically.
Crouching low, Boone turned her over again. He sprawled across her body, lying partly on her buttocks, and while Roach held the shuddering woman's legs apart mauled and kneaded her luscious bottom. Then, broadly splaying and separating the cheeks, he dangled the writhing eel so that it touched and coiled against Miss Garfield's anus and cringing vagina. Boone hoped the eel might wriggle into the lower opening, but it disappointed him. Swearing, he hurled it across the cabin.
Roach released the teacher's ankles long enough to pick up a stinking, long-dead mackerel and toss it to him.
"She was always a bugger for fish at meal times," he said, grinning maliciously. "Try this for size." "Hold the twat still then."
Roach endeavored to restrain the violent movements of Miss Garfield's limbs. Boone used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to separate the lips of her quim, obscenely displaying the round, crimson maw, and attempted to insert the narrow head of the fish, laughing uproariously when the slippery object entered without difficulty. He fed more of it into the wet split, kept ramming until only the tail protruded.
"Let's see you piss now," he taunted. He rubbed his inflated penis, masturbated vigorously but desisted when his organ attained maximum erection.
"I've been saving it up for you, Prunella," he mocked. "But now you're going to have it, darling. Every bloody inch, and right up your juicy brown asshole."
To emphasize his threat he parted the quivering, pink and white cheeks and stretched the dark pit of her anus, poking his index finger at it and laughing when the hole shrank in on itself like the darkly closing petals of a soft, purple-brown flower.
"Drape her over the sofa," Boone ordered. Roach, whose penis was already stiffening again, stopped pawing Prunella's thighs and the glistening fissure partly embedded in the thick rug she and Boone were lying on. He helped Boone trail Miss Garfield to the couch. They draped her belly downward over the low back. With her hands tied she was unable to offer much resistance, and incapable of shouting or even speaking above a whisper. She jerked and flopped ludicrously, increasing her pathetic struggles when Boone forced her legs apart and kept them wide with his hips. His large hands ridged the yielding flesh of her buttocks, forcing the cheeks tightly together, emphasizing the deep, dusky cleft, then stretching them and bringing the anus into full view, gouging his thumbs into it.
Daphne, attracted by Miss Garfield's frantic plunging, left off watching Dent and Connie copulating and lurked behind the sofa, sipping Coca-Cola from a bottle. She did not voice excitement or extend suggestions, but merely gaped, regarding Boone's lewd antics with mild disgust and obvious resentment.
Boone, completely preoccupied, was on his knees, sniffing the resilient hole he intended to fuck, tonguing it, moistening the crinkled rim with saliva.
Mason reached his climax but lingered, relaxing with Janet on another luxurious rug that had probably cost Boone's mother the equivalent of a hundred dollars. Roach, obsessed with the urge to violate Miss Garfield's twisted mouth, made another attempt, and this time she was too exhausted and sickened to prevent him, barely conscious as she hung over the back of the creaking sofa with the blood rushing to her throbbing head, her bottom obscenely elevated, while Boone thrust resolutely at the stubbornly resisting aperture.
The torn upholstery chafed her breasts. Her hands were white and bloodless from the cruel restriction of the thin cord cutting deeply into her wrists. Roach, abusing her mouth, made the interesting discovery that Miss Garfield wore artificial dentures and that the teeth were loose in the gums now that her jaws gaped slackly. Surprised but elated, Roach thrust his thumbs against Miss Garfield's cheeks until the dentures were forced out. He put them in his jacket pocket then, gloating, grimacing, knowing he had overcome the last barrier hampering his disgusting purpose, he butted his swollen penis at the wrinkled, sunken cavity, grunting triumphantly when he encountered no resistance whatever. His tumid roll beat right in, displacing the writhing lips enormously, and bludgeoned effortlessly to the back of his victim's retching throat. Delighted, Roach withdrew, quickly thrust in again, and groaned at the hot wave of excruciatingly rapturous feeling traveling along his violating shaft.
He commenced a rhythmic undulation of hips and buttocks, gripping Miss Garfield's head, grimacing like an imbecile, gasping, grinning lecherously at Boone who. with the broad, pointed glans of his penis embedded in the taut, quivering pit of the sobbing woman's anus, strove to overcome the burning restriction and force his bulging knob past the stubborn obstruction, gaining a fraction more each time and, encouraged, ramming recklessly, disregarding tearing friction and the sharp, tugging pains round his foreskin, gouging into the already abnormally widened aperture with stiffened thumbs, ferociously stretching it and jerking his huge cock frantically deeper until, quite suddenly, the tension lessened considerably and the rim yielded, splitting and tearing the skin but allowing the brutal prick to intrude slightly before closing firmly round it, behind the glans, and gripping with a fierce, clutching contraction that created demoralizing tempestuous sensations and hardened Boone's furiously jabbing rod to the rigidity of a thick iron bar.
Miss Garfield heaved, uttering muffled, strangled sounds. With teeth clenched, Boone resumed the assault. Roach was nearing orgasm, dragging at Miss Garfield's hair in the frenzy of crude excitement flaying his stocky body. He came, shooting his seething sperm load to the back of her mouth, partly withdrew, and watched semen pump from his wet prick past Miss Garfield's flabby lips. The milky flood kept spurting in short, furious gushes, filled the soft, sunken cavity and oozed down the spluttering, retching woman's chin.
But the nauseating horror of the vile act paled into insignificance compared with the raging, burning torture in her rectum. Roach pulled out completely, wiped his organ round Miss Garfield's nostrils, then grasped the deflating roll and squeezed a few more drops from the reddened knob, smeared them down Prunella's hollowed cheek.
Her throat worked spasmodically, the defiled mouth opening and closing like that of a fish, but the only outcry produced was a hoarse, whistling sound.
Boone dragged her toward him. He had several inches of rocklike penis into her cruelly distended back passage, and was determined to bury the whole formidable length. Arid now that his knob was past the initial obstruction he could maintain a regular movement without dragging friction destroying the acute, ecstatic pleasure. The hot orifice responded to the surging strokes like a tiny, clutching vagina, oozing a brown accumulation of excrement and blood.
But Boone did not complete the massive intrusion. A third of his cock remained beyond the agonized ring of torn flesh when he uttered a loud groan and tried to pull out. He was too late. A jetting flow of semen spattered the swollen aperture, leaked down into the hairy folds of vagina and crotch, glistening round the ragged anus. Boone swore. He had not wanted to spunk so soon. He had intended to prolong the vile act.
Miss Garfield slumped, slid sideways and toppled from the back of the sofa to the cabin deck, collapsing on the rumpled rug.
"You've killed her!" Daphne exclaimed awesomely.
"Balls!" Boone answered scornfully. "Give the twat her dentures and toss her back in the hold. Wait! I've got something else she can have, something I've been saving since lunch."
He dropped his jeans, squatted astride Miss Garfield and flopped her over on her back. With white buttocks poised above her pale, twitching face, he contracted his bowels and squeezed out an enormous turd, twisting round, red-faced with effort, to aim the dangling coil at Miss Garfield's mouth. But he misjudged, and in that moment, recovering from her faint, shuddering with nausea, her whole system churning and upheaved, seeing that odious evacuation about to drop and then feeling its warm, soggy impact between her breasts, Miss Prunella Garfield experienced the first really satisfying orgasm she had ever known.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The night was dark. Rain was falling. Along the murky river frogs croaked dismally. Fish leapt. Close beside the water, beyond dense reeds, lights glimmered behind the drawn curtains of a gamekeeper's lodge.
The front entrance, screened by elderberry bushes, was illuminated by a storm lantern suspended from a chain.
Suddenly, the heavy, studded door was dragged open so violently it banged against the inner wall. A completely naked woman darted through the opening and ran, laughing, shouting taunts, toward the river. She plunged into tall, crackling reeds, tripped and sprawled headlong, slithered in mud and shallow water, lay gasping and giggling until footsteps sounded close by, squelching in the ooze. She scrambled up then, and fled swiftly.
But the dark figure of her pursuer loomed-a tall, muscular man, young and darkly handsome, the rugged lines of his face emphasized by a thin mustache. He, too, was stark naked, and endowed with a dangling, semi-erect penis the size of a mule's incredible branch rather than a man's tool, a monstrous, wrinkled roll thicker than the woman's forearm at its base, and almost as long.
She crouched, pretending to hide, but the man had seen her. He pounced, fell with her under him, pounding her into the mud, slithering, crushing reed stems, laughing and panting, the woman remonstrating, voicing mock protest.
They finished up in a shallow, rainwater-filled trench, wrestled from it onto higher ground where the reeds yielded to coarse grass. And there, roughly, callously, the man took her, his great branch massively swollen now, rigid, grinding into the woman's capacious vent with ponderous deliberation indicating a wealth of experience.
Gasping, Lady Gloria Mayne clung to her straining lover. She was several years older than Paul West, a natural blonde-although it was impossible to distinguish the color of her hair through its daubing of mud. Paul had worked as a gamekeeper on her husband's estate for almost a year, during which time Lady Gloria had remained unaware of his existence until quite recently. Lord Mayne was elderly, impotent. He lived in a world of his own.
Lady Mayne had an obsession with sex. She could not help it-she merely responded to the insatiable demands of her amorous nature. Paul West was merely the latest in a long sequence of youthful, virile lovers.
West was not yet thirty, a former guardsman. He neither drank hard liquor nor smoked, but had a reputation for promiscuity and enjoyed a certain notoriety. Women adored him. Men envied him. His only qualifications in addition to his knowledge of wildlife and firearms were the size of his penis and his sexual capacity. But he was a generous, easy-going man, and popular.
Lady Mayne was a vain, voluptuous beauty who expected a lot from life and went out of her way to get it. She had a private income, expensive clothes, jewels, two cars, everything any woman could possibly want or need-except what she most desired. In Paul West she had, for the time being, found her ideal.
Lady Gloria quickly became bored, but she was convinced she really loved Paul. He was everything she desired in a man. Their clandestine affair was a glorious adventure.
They lay panting, outlined in a faint glimmer of moonlight piercing the dispersing clouds, the fleshy blonde moving in unison with the man, clutching him with fierce possessiveness, moaning and pleading.
"Oh, Paul! Darling! Fuck me, my sweet! My precious! Ooooh! Dear lover-hurt me! I want to suffer. Oh, God! I love it! I LOVE it! Darling! Aaaaah! Oh, Paul! That's wonderful! I can't stand it! I'm coming already! I'M COMING! DARLING! Hold me tight!"
They thrashed in carnal ecstasy, wallowing in primeval passion, oblivious of the pelting rain, coaxing and murmuring, crying out, grunting, and finally flopped limply, the center of a deep depression rapidly filling with rainwater.
They lay quiet for a long time. The downpour diminished, trailed off, ceased altogether. The moonlight gleam spread, became a silvery sheen across the lapping water.
"Let's get back," West said. "This wet ground will give you a chill."
"Won't you catch cold, darling?"
"I never catch colds. But I'd rather be comfortable in bed. Let's go."
"Randy bastard. Haven't you had enough?" "Have you?"
"No, of course not. I can never get enough of you, darling, of this gorgeous thing. You never cease to amaze me."
She played with his relaxing organ. He laughed, knocked her hand away.
"Come on," he insisted. "Or you'll have me all worked up again and we'll be stuck here all night. Won't his Lordship wonder where you are?"
"No. He thinks I'm visiting friends. Besides, he's got his own interests. He seldom bothers me."
She squeezed his penis, relinquished it reluctantly, waited until he was on his feet and then extended both hands toward him. He pulled her up, swung her off the soggy ground into the cradle of his muscular arms, and carried her effortlessly through the bushes and along the path that led up to the small cottage.
He put her down just inside the entry, thrust the door shut with his foot.
"If anybody saw us they'd think we were crazy," he declared.
"Well, aren't we? Who is there to see us?"
"Poachers. The woods are infested with the bastards. And courting couples. If Lord Mayne ever finds out about us and I lose this job 111 crucify you."
"He won't."
She came close, smiling up into his face, put her arms round his waist.
"Why don't we just go away together?" she asked. "I've got enough for us both to live on, and ..."
"We've been all over that before. I'm no whore. Soon 111 have enough saved to buy into that timber business in Milford Haven. Then maybe well go away."
"Only maybe?"
"What do you want-a written guarantee?"
Lady Gloria sighed. She pulled at him, reached down and captured his tremendous, fleshy roll.
"Right now all I want is more of this," she said. Her mood changed, brightened. She kissed him, moved quickly toward the bedroom. West overtook her in the doorway, grabbed her round the waist. The impetus of his rush carried them into the room and they sprawled together on the wide, luxurious bed-not at all the kind of bed one would expect to find in a gamekeeper's lodge. Lady Gloria's money had paid for the bed. She liked comfort with her pleasure.
The springs creaked. West lay on his back, following an accepted routine, procedure. Lady Gloria cuddled up beside him, and for a while he contented himself with kissing and fondling her small but exquisitely formed breasts, stroking her bottom, and feeling between her thighs. Eventually she altered her position, kneeling astride his stomach with her buttocks flattened against his chest, then lifting her haunches and presenting a bold view of her large, elongated vagina to his admiring gaze.
West craned his neck, kissed the wet fissure, plunged his face into it. His fingers tightened convulsively on her hips, moved quickly to her buttocks, were deeply embedded in her flesh. When she took the glans of his penis into her mouth-no small accomplishment despite the size of her cavity-he groaned.
They sucked each other's genitals, working themselves up into a frenzy of sexual tumult, licking, kissing, probing, sniffing, squirming. West knew exactly what delighted Lady Gloria Mayne most. He tongued her clitoris, sucked it, closed his mouth over the loose folds of her quim. She responded by alternately sucking and whacking the great boom rearing past the pointed cones of her jutting breasts.
Presently, trembling with eagerness, she slid down the bed until her head rested between West's feet and he was looking into the depression of her succulent behind and pulsating vagina. She raised herself slightly then to allow him freedom of movement to curve his penis and push it into the inviting furrow, then relaxed and encouraged him to screw right in, stretching her legs out either side of his head, her bottom jogging up and down, assisting his entry.
It was an awkward position, impossible for most men, but the gamekeeper was more than adequately endowed to achieve it successfully. With both hands spread across the rising and falling ovals, feeling the tense rippling of firm muscles under the satiny skin, he abused her exposed anus, eventually worked his thumb into it and left the digit deeply embedded, the index finger lying along the tight crack of her ass, his palm cupping the agile buttock, and watched his thick penis gliding smoothly in and out, occasionally applying pressure to the bulging curve of his bent prick to maintain penetration.
Lady Gloria's response was almost immediate orgasm. A second emission followed, but still she shagged, pushing back firmly, straining against her lover's regulated thrusts. Flushed and triumphant, she twisted partly round.
"I've come twice!" she exclaimed. "Let it go, darling. Don't hold back now."
West, on the brink of ejaculation, withdrew to the extreme fringe of the splayed, rounded opening. Then, keeping the lips widely separated with his thumbs, he gazed at his knob pulsing in the outer folds of the glistening slit, and fucked slowly, with restricted, short strokes, deriving maximum enjoyment, and eventually deposited a pool of sperm just within the dark red, clamlike cleft.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Daphne stood poised on the barge's rusted upper deck, naked, laughing as Boone, also unclothed, walked along the corroded topmost iron rail, balancing. He tottered, uttered a wild yell, and fell overboard.
Daphne dived in. She swam round the barge. In places the water was so shallow she could touch the muddy bottom. Wary of broken glass and jagged cans, she kicked out, ploughed ahead of Boone who, surfacing close by, immediately gave chase.
The girl glanced over her shoulder. Boone was gaining. She submerged, swam under the water, deliberately slowed her strokes. Boone, coming up behind her with eyes wide open, air bubbles streaming from his mouth corners, could see her vagina opening and closing, her buttocks separating then pinching together again, the swinging movements of her heavy breasts as they responded to the action of the water.
He overhauled her, nosed between her legs and pushed his face into her crotch, grabbed her round the hips when she wriggled away. They sank, wrestling, embraced, started toward the surface. Daphne, bobbing up first, shook hair from her eyes. She headed for the bank. Boone caught up with her in the shallows. They kissed, tongues entwined. With her hand on Boone's penis, guiding it between her parted thighs, Daphne fell backward, splashing water in his face as he lunged. Boone sprawled on top of her and Daphne drew her legs up, bending her knees and protruding her vagina. Impatiently, she entered Boone's torridly beating stalk into her eager quim. Lying in water several inches deep, they fornicated furiously, ignoring shouts and derisive comments voiced by Mason and some of the others.
"Come on, you randy pair of cocksuckin' ass-bandits!" Mason called. "You can screw any time but that village store shuts at five-thirty. Let's go."
Boone spunked, was promptly pushed off and floundered off-balance. Daphne waded, giggling, until Boone clutched her ankle and brought her down. He dragged her through the shallows and dumped her on a sandy knoll.
When she got to her feet he was urinating, squirting the glittering stream high over the bushes.
It was getting dark when Paul West completed his routine patrol and started back toward his cottage. He had arranged to meet Lady Gloria at seven-thirty. When he reached the log bridge spanning the river he discovered part of it had collapsed during the night. Annoyed and impatient, he turned off along the old canal path. It was further, and he had not passed that way in months.
When he neared the derelict barge and saw a light gleaming through one of the portholes aft of the wheelhouse, he frowned. Poachers again, he thought, or some amorous whore encouraging one of the village layabouts. The old hulk moored above the sluice-gates was a favorite haunt for lovers, but West had never seen a light there before. Whoever it was, they were trespassing.
The gamekeeper hesitated. He shifted the shotgun he was carrying from his right hand to his left. He did not wish to be late for his date with Lady Gloria-she was a demanding bitch but careless with money, but he had his job to do and he was conscientious. He decided, broke open the gun and reloaded the shells he had removed earlier, then approached the shadowy barge.
With a foot on the sagging boarding-plank, he listened. Not a sound disturbed the placid twilight. West tried to peer in through the lighted porthole but something blocked his view, and the gap between hull and shore was too great to allow him a close look. Shrugging, he went on board, shouted, and thought he detected a muffled cry from below deck. He called again. A vague thumping sounded. Scowling, West descended the few narrow steps, paused below the hatchway when he saw nobody in the cabin. Then he heard a faint, husky whisper: "In here! For God's sake hurry! They might come back any moment."
Ducking through the connecting bulkhead aperture, West peered into the gloomy hold, and swore when he distinguished a blurred figure huddled in a corner. He pulled an electric torch from his coat pocket, switched it on. The probing rays picked out a naked woman crouching on a heap of filthy, stinking sacks. Her wrists, West noticed, were tightly bound, and a rag was crammed tightly in her mouth. Her eyes, staring fixedly, held a desperate look of mute appeal. She made strangled animal noises.
West crossed quickly to where she squatted. He knelt, placed the torch on the deck, removed the foul gag.
"What the hell's been going on?" he demanded.
"Thank God you've come," Miss Garfield croaked. "I've been going insane down here. Help me! Please help me!"
"Of course," the gamekeeper said. He delved into the other coat pocket, produced a clasp-knife, opened it, cut the cords binding the captive teacher's wrists. Her immediate reaction was to try and cover herself. West swore.
"Never mind that," he said brusquely. "It isn't the first time I've seen a naked woman. What happened? Who did this?"
Miss Garfield swallowed. It was a while before she could speak coherently, then only in a strained whisper. Bit by bit she husked out the astonishing facts. West gaped. Conscious of her agitation he looked round for something to cover her nudity with. Seeing nothing suitable, he removed his coat and held it out to her.
"Put this on," he said. "It's better than nothing. I'm sorry I can't offer you a drink or even a cigarette. I don' use them. Those bloody kids will be in real trouble this. Where are they now?"
Miss Garfield slipped the coat on, managed a weak smile of gratitude.
"Gone to the village, I think," she told him. "I still can' believe all this has really happened. It's like some hideous nightmare. When I think of it-when I remember the dreadful, sickening things those filthy monsters did . Oh! I feel so desperately ashamed. Nauseated and shocked to my very soul. How can I-"
"It's over now," West comforted. "Let's get away from here. I'll take you to my place and get you cleaned up, then we'll drive into- What was that?"
Terror replaced the hope in Miss Garfield's expression. There was nothing wrong with her hearing.
"A car door!" she wheezed. "They're back! Dear God! They must not find you here! Go quickly! Bring the police."
West nodded. He moved toward the cabin, swore when feet clumped on the deck above. A lithe figure swung down through the hatchway. The gamekeeper emerged swiftly from the hold and darted across the cabin, made a desperate attempt to reach his shotgun, but the weapon was no longer where he had left it. Boone, smirking contemptuously, held the gun with the barrels pointed carelessly at West's stomach.
"Don't do anything foolish," he warned. Other figures swarmed into the cabin, completely blocking the gamekeeper's escape, hemming him in. West's eyebrows lifted. He had not realized the captive had been referring to teenage girls among her abductors. Boone opened the shotgun breech, deftly removed the shells.
"Don't want any accidents, do we?" he drawled. "Who are you, tall man? Watch him, gang. He looks real tough."
He laughed. Mason grinned, flexed his biceps. Dent moved closer. Roach sidled round and got behind the gamekeeper.
"I asked you a question," Boone snapped.
"Now 111 ask you one," West answered promptly. "Then 111 give you just ten seconds to move away from that hatchway."
"And if I don't, dad?"
West sprang, thinking to take the youth unawares, but Boone sidestepped and swung the gun stock in a swift, clubbing arc to the gamekeeper's bristly jaw. West went down, hurt and dazed, barely conscious. By the time he recovered his faculties his wrists were roped together behind his back and he was lying on a grey wool rug with Miss Garfield beside him. The teenage hoodlums had trussed her up again. She stared blankly, a vacant, hopeless expression on her haggard face, offering no resistance.
Boone lit a cigarette, flipped the pack to Mason.
"What'11 we do with him?" Roach asked. Boone shrugged.
"Keep him here until we're ready to leave, I suppose," he answered. "Unless you have any bright ideas. We'll be gone soon. Just keep the bastard quiet."
"Let's have some fun with him," Daphne suggested. "Like we did with old Dexter. He looks-interesting. The strong, silent type. If he performs anything like old Dexter, darling Prunella should really appreciate him. Let's find out."
"Yes," Janet seconded. "Let's have a look at what he's got."
Boone nodded enthusiastically.
"Why not?" he agreed. "It's time we livened things up a bit for Miss fucking Garfield anyway-she hasn't had any cock all afternoon."
Laughing, he turned up the wick of the reeking kerosene lamp-the battered, hanging lamp that had attracted West's attention in the first place, then perched himself on the sofa arm.
"Who left the bloody lamp burning?" he demanded accusingly. "I told you to turn it out before we went to the village, Con."
Connie did not reply. Boone shrugged, dragged thoughtfully at the cigarette, watched amusedly as the girls jostled round the gamekeeper, tittering and exclaiming as they plucked at his clothing. When the dazed intruder mouthed profane threats a filthy rag was stuffed in his mouth. Diane, sitting on his stomach, quickly opened his fly, and shrieked with triumph as she pulled his tremendous penis out.
"My God!" Janet exclaimed. "What a chopper!"
Connie, who was wearing tight yellow jeans bought in the village, whistled. Mason frowned, then sniggered derisively.
"Christ!" he blurted. "I thought you were well hung, Fletch. But this character . .. Man! He's all prick!"
He glanced at Miss Garfield. She was staring at the exposed organ which already showed signs of stiffening. Daphne had West's shirt tugged free of his pants and was pulling viciously at his bloating cock, chuckling obscenely, her face flushed with mounting excitement. Mason grinned.
"Prunella is interested," he jeered. "She'll fuck like a rabbit with that thing up her minge. Get that jacket off her-she won't be needing it. Don't rupture the poor bastard, Daph."
The tall girl poked her tongue out, kept tugging and mauling. Janet unfastened the gamekeeper's belt. Connie jerked at the cuffs of his cord pants-she had already removed his boots, and dragged them down the instant Janet released the belt buckle. West uttered furious choking noises. Muscles bulged across his chest and back, swelled his bound arms. But he could not break the rope cutting into his wrists. He aimed a savage kick as the girl hauled his pants right off, and almost connected with Dent's testicles. The fat youth swore, bore down heavily on the thrashing limb, pinned it under his belly. Roach secured the other leg. Mason picked up a boathook and held the rusty steel point against West's hairy throat "Keep still or I'll skewer you," he threatened. "Oh, man! Prunella will take off when she gets that bloody great stalk inside her."
Boone quit the sofa arm and stooped over Miss Garfield. He grabbed her left ankle, shoved Dent aside, dragged Prunella further away from the bulkhead and pushed her shoulders down until they were pressed against the deck. He held her.
The struggling gamekeeper's incredibly enormous penis jutted proudly, pulsing turgidly within the firm grasp of Daphne's masturbating hand. Sometimes she used both hands to enclose its gigantic circumference. Janet handled, the wrinkled scrotum, stretching the bag and causing the huge testicles to bulge, stressing their size. Leaning forward, she impulsively kissed the throbbing, purple glans, and tried to take it into her mouth, but could not get her lips round it. Moaning with fierce excitement, she curled her tongue round the hard knob, put her hand above. Daphne's clutching fingers and jerkily helped frig the superlative prick, impeding Daphne's movements.
"That's enough," Boone said. "Get him turned over and lift him on top of her."
"Aren't you going to sit her on it?" Daphne asked. She sounded disappointed.
"Not this time. I want her to see his face while he's shagging her."
The youths heaved West up and dragged him toward Miss Garfield, lowered him onto her spreadeagled figure. H~ did not resist. Nothing about the fantastic situation mad any sense to him-except what he could see between Prunella Garfield's sumptuous thighs. If that bunch of crazy kids wanted him to screw her it was all right with him. She was gorgeous, a real sex-pot despite the smeared filth and her smelly, disheveled condition. It was what the teenage thugs proposed to do afterward that bothered the gamekeeper. Kids could be vicious, and that crowd was as depraved as any he had ever encountered, perhaps not violently disposed, but certainly callous and devoid of sentiment, motivated solely by instinct and moods.
Roach and Dent held Miss Garfield's legs wide apart. West could see every scrotum-tightening detail of her fabulous buttocks and enlarged vagina. His twitching penis reared, standing up monstrously rigid, a stallion's prick.
In his eagerness to mount the trembling victim he dragged his captors down with him, evoking sarcastic humor, conscience and sympathy melting in the flaming heat of mounting lust. The youths laid him on the prone woman, positioned him between her tense limbs, and he co-operated as best he could with his hands tied. Unable to support his weight, he slumped on Miss Garfield's bosom, squashing her robust breasts, stubbled cheek pressed against her pulsing neck, and felt a surge of searing excitement when girlish hands again seized his immense branch and roughly conveyed it to the vulnerable vagina pouting close to his dangling testicles. A moment's fumbling preceding entry brought intense frustration, then the huge, blunt knob was distending the slit and hands were pushing vigorously against the gamekeeper's buttocks, assisting the savage intrusion of his penis and forcing it past the widening splay of the vulva deep into the writhing cavity.
CHAPTER NINE
For Miss Garfield, wincing and shuddering as that awesome organ burst into her ravaged parts and battered the raw, tender fissure, the violent ordeal held no real horror, no actual significance whatever.
She lay there, enduring, trying to close her ears to sounds and her nostrils to smells, to blank her mind from the repetition of revolting motions her body had become inured to. Rape was a futile, meaningless gesture now, a function that no longer had any sinister portent. Sex had lost its symbolic revulsion. Miss Garfield's last defenses were shattered, her ultimate weapon-indifference-rendered impotent.
She had known the brutal demands of the male phallus in every conceivable form, the ultimate degradation. But somehow the effects were not altogether crushing, the shock not completely devastating.
At first the sickening reaction threatened her sanity and thrust her continually deeper into the abysmal depths of abject despair and utter loathing. Then, subconsciously, her indomitable spirit fought back and she developed a mental resistance which, with the assertion of stubborn objectiveness combined with quite remarkable resilience of the flesh, created acute internal conflict. Eventually she became increasingly conscious not only of partial reconciliation to the vileness of her appalling situation, but of actual physical response, an awareness that neither shock nor degradation nor suffering could entirely suppress.
She was forced to the shattering realization that while her mind rejected sex her body was perfectly capable of adjusting, that her alien flesh harbored powerful emotions and stresses over which her clouded brain had no control. After the initial reaction of her ordeal in the park and the rending, soul-destroying shock of seeing the dean change from a meek, dignified department head to a slobbering, lusting animal, Miss Garfield quickly reached the conclusion that whatever sordid indecencies were perpetrated on her person no actual physical harm was intended. Fear was only in the mind.
Thereafter, regardless of what squalid acts were inflicted, she endured with contemptuous stoicism, firmly resolved that her spirit would not be broken. At times the agony of despair weighed unbearably heavy, but she knew that eventually there must be an end, and she tried to maintain a pretence of courage, even dignity in a pathetic way, clinging grimly to the hope that the police would ultimately find the youths' hideaway and resolve her predicament, convinced that the authorities must be looking for her.
As the grind of debasement and sexual abuse continued, her mind rejected even that small ray of hope and expectation. Apart from being a prisoner, discounting the humiliation and the torment of shame, the constant demands on her body, her treatment was not sadistic. She was given food, and milk, coffee and sometimes brandy or vodka.
The functions of her bowels presented agonizing problems and created embarrassment that was actual mental torture to a person of Miss Garfield's refinement and breeding. She was not allowed up on deck but obliged to urinate and evacuate into the bilges traversing the hold, squatting in the gloom, horribly conscious of every gurgle and fart, hearing the raucous comments from her youthful captors who derived morbid delight from witnessing her mental anguish and often contributed greatly to it by playing the revealing beams from electric torches into her dark prison during her most intimate functions.
The offensive smells pervading the hold sickened Miss Garfield but appeared to have scant effect on her abductors, one or other of whom occasionally sloshed a bucket of water into the bilges and washed the foul accumulation out through the scuppers.
Despite all this, the discomfort, tension, squalid acts, the awful suspense and continual interference, gradually, inexplicably, a hint of expectancy crept into the pattern of her stolidly feigned indifference, a tense, nervous excitement prior to each ritualistic assault, alien impulses Miss Garfield refused to recognize as the awakening of dormant physical and emotional needs hitherto confined to the mediocre fulfillment associated with mild stimulation produced by furtive masturbation.
She watched sex enjoyed and performed in its most frank and sensational forms, experienced every conceivable outrage, without once identifying the stresses she felt as the subconscious cravings of her young, vital body, the stirrings of long neglected desires. She was too absorbed with misery and condemnation of those contributing to her plight to appreciate the insidious growth of natural tendencies prompted by constant intimacy, however crude and forcibly applied.
When Paul West discovered her situation much of the sick depression lifted from her mind and soul. She knew that every sordid incident, every obscene detail, would remain indelibly imprinted on her memory. But she could live with her shame, and what was most important, nobody need ever know. Her awful secret would be kept. The dean, poor, distraught man, would not dare report the full facts to the police. He had to preserve his own image. Miss Garfield shuddered to think of how she would react when she returned to Beechers and was confronted by the dean. She would, of course, have to resign, to leave the college immediately.
Then, through her mental meanderings, harsh reality intruded. Seeing the gamekeeper struck down, overpowered and tied, and now subjected to disgusting abuse, reduced Miss Garfield to tears. All the horror returned, crowding back. She succumbed placidly, at first, praying that what was intended would be over quickly, but the sight of West's formidable penis aroused intense disgust mingled with incredulity-and vague feelings she could not define, and created a wave of shock so severe she experienced a feeling of horrible faintness.
She could see West's face, and was appalled by his obvious enthusiasm for the act. She felt betrayed, resentful, savagely furious. Dizziness threatened to engulf her numbed brain.
Then Boone doused her with cold water from a bucket, and the icy deluge jerked her back to sensibility and prompted a flood of urine.
The gamekeeper's flesh was hot and clammy against hers. She moaned as that phenomenal penis screwed still deeper, slogging into the saturated chasm, churning piss and mucus, shagging with brutal insistence. West's hips forced her legs wider apart. Thrusting, clutching hands controlled his urgent movements, shoving so strongly against his hollowing, surging buttocks that his massive tool battered repeatedly against some spongy obstruction at the entrance to Miss Garfield's womb, and his hairy belly smacked loudly against the quivering bulge of her broad pelvis.
Miss Garfield bucked and thrashed wildly, her docility quickly evaporating once that huge prick penetrated, but her agony was not entirely related to pain or revulsion. Through the feeling of helplessness recurring spasms of fluttering excitement penetrated, the gnawing, stabbing sharpness of internal upheaval, a hot, clawing fury that grew swiftly into a repetition of the alarming but torridly pleasurable symptoms experienced during enforced copulation with the dean.
She was insensible to pain, oblivious of everything except that plunging rod, impervious to ridicule and disgust, not yet understanding her vague emotions or even aware that she had ceased to struggle and her violent contortions indicated avid complaisance rather than subjugation, condonation of and carnal response to the crude fornication. There was, in effect, more rapture than rape in the vehement battering of Paul West's pistoning prick. Not that Miss Garfield, appreciated this demoralizing truth. But she was more distressed by the tumult seething in her genitals than by the pounding her breasts and stomach were receiving and the wrenching pains in her roped arms which, had they been free, she would undoubtedly have clamped around the man's thick neck the way her legs instinctively attempted to fasten round his hips.
She was no longer afraid, merely defiant, in a state of mental stupor and tremendous physical vitality, hopelessly confused and yet, while not exactly a willing tool, unconsciously accepting the role forced on her and endeavoring to intensify the tormenting friction of that belligerently slogging penis.
But although Miss Garfield was unaware of the significance of her actions, her failure to fight against the savage intrusion completely robbed the act, so far as the teenage onlookers were concerned, of its intended reprisal motive. Her active participation, whether unintentional or deliberate, defeated Boone's purpose.
Realizing this, Boone stopped grinning. He grabbed the big gamekeeper's long, thick hair and used it as a lever to drag him off the woman in the precise moment when West reached his furious climax. Spurting semen spattered the leg of Connie's new jeans. She swore, wiped the gluey blobs away with the flap of West's shirt.
Miss Garfield, obviously in the throes of intense orgasm, jerked her head violently from side to side. Her legs, free from West's sprawling weight, lashed about.
"The fat cow's come!" Roach exclaimed resentfully. "She enjoyed it, for God's sake! I thought the idea was to give her a bad time, Fletch."
He got astride Miss Garfield, buttocks squashing her breasts, his knees clamping her head, and furiously masturbated his fiercely jutting penis, thrusting the organ close to her mouth, captured her clenched jaws in his other hand and left off abusing his prick long enough to repeat his procedure for ejecting the teacher's dentures. This time he left them carelessly on the deck, and thrust his loins forward, intruding the rigid penis into the sunken cavern of the woman's mouth while keeping her head firmly imprisoned between his knees. Obsessed with lust, he shagged frantically, burying the whole length of his organ each time, and voiced a shout of triumph when his gushing sperm filled Miss Garfield's slavering mouth. With his cock still bulging her cheeks he pinched her nostrils together, forcing her to swallow, and chuckled evilly when the slimy deposit slid down her spasmodically undulating throat.
Dent, meanwhile, had Connie's jeans down and jerking into her from behind, watched intently by Jane who, hot and flushed, encouraged Mason, distracting fascinated absorption with Miss Garfield's naked charms.
Roach's outburst evoked no immediate response from Boone, who was preoccupied with his own intense sexual urge and determined to exploit Miss Garfield, whatever his personal revision of emotions. He allowed Daphne to handle his penis, but the moment Roach abandoned Miss Garfield and flopped on the sofa Boone eluded the girl and dropped to his knees between the teacher's outstretched legs, which he raised so high she almost toppled over backward. He reared up then, his shoulders pressing against the backs of Miss Garfield's knees, and fell forward until his palms were flat against the deck either side of her neck, forcing Prunella's thighs onto her stomach, and in that awkward, grotesque position speared her gaping vagina and embedded his gross roll in a single, powerful lunge.
Daphne, frowning, muttering abuse, fell over West's sprawling legs and floundered, clutching wildly as she went down. Purely by chance her grabbing fingers encountered his penis, still hugely erect. She promptly tugged her panties down and, crouching with her bottom protruded toward the sweating, red-faced gamekeeper, flipped her dress up and deliberately sat on his thick, wet organ. Face twisted in a lascivious grimace, she began jogging up and down, made a rude gesture when Boone, quickly achieving orgasm, withdrew, allowed Miss Garfield to lie fully extended, and got to his feet.
"Balls to you," Daphne said thickly. "This is better."
Boone grinned, a deceptively genial smirk. His hand lashed out, slapped the girl across the face and flung her off West and against the hatchway steps. Boone regarded her contemptuously.
"Let's put Prunella back in the hold," he said, finally condescending to answer Mason, who was clambering to his feet "How was I to know she had the makings of a successful whore? Those quiet, demure birds are all the same-protest like hell until they get a touch of prick, then there's no holding 'em."
He pointed a stiffened forefinger at Daphne.
"Next time you step out of line 111 do more than muss your hair," he warned. "Go make some coffee. We'll split from here tomorrow. There's no point delaying any longer, and I'm sick of the sight of Prunella, and the way she smells. Besides, we've got him to consider. Nobody will miss her, but they will him."
Dumped roughly in the cold, damp cargo hold, plunged into stygian gloom again, Miss Garfield lay against the tarry bulkhead, sickened by the stench of her own urine, and sobbed, overcome with shame and anger, guilt and self-pity, and by the apparent hopelessness of her predicament. She heard Boone say he planned to leave, but did not believe he would. The nightmare was endless, and now another human being shared her plight.
Miss Garfield felt a flood of sympathy toward the gamekeeper. Then, remembering the expression on his face as he was brought close to her, and his bestial eagerness, her mood hardened and she felt only repugnance and bitter frustration.
CHAPTER TEN
Daylight, filtering through the open hatch cover into the hold, illuminated Prunella Garfield's white, haggard face. She stared intently at the sleeping man, transferred her gaze, quite unconsciously, to his drooping penis, wondering how he could sleep in such chronic discomfort, with his hands tied and insects clustered on his flesh. Occasionally, he snorted, stirred uneasily, mouth twitching.
From the adjoining cabin came sounds indicating the imminent departure of Boone and his associates. Miss Garfield had not been further molested. Apart from one intrusion when her dentures were returned and the tightness of the gamekeeper's bonds checked, the teenagers had left her, and West, strictly alone. They had not even bothered to replace the gag in Prunella's mouth.
Her thoughts as she leaned against the cold iron and tried to relax her cramped limbs were chaotic. The ordeal was almost over. But the memory of it would remain fixed in her mind forever. She would never be able to erase the hideous train of events following her compulsory violation by Grant Dexter. Thinking about that, remembering how the dean had responded in his temporary insanity to primitive, bestial passions, Miss Garfield shivered, but not entirely from disgust.
She looked at West again, and could not refrain from staring at his genitals. The enormous, flaccid phallus held a morbid fascination for her, a kind of hypnotic attraction stronger than revulsion. Vividly recalling the tumultuous upheaval created in her belly by that monstrous, fleshy roll, Prunella closed her eyes tightly-and saw every squalid detail as if reflected in a mirror.
Involuntarily, her thighs came together, elongating the thickened lips of her vagina into a more pronounced slit. She did not understand what was happening to her. The past forty-eight hours seemed to have wrought a complete change in character and personality, as if the very things she abhorred had opened doors in her mind to admit stark reality, and now remained permanently open.
She could look upon the sleeping man's hirsute nudity without more than a brief flicker of the burning self-consciousness which, until so recently, she had accepted as an integral part of her inbred nature. Her primary reaction now was, she had to admit, interest, and curiosity, and a certain amount of awed apprehension, remembering where that great branch had been. Nor could she deny the hasty but satisfying experience of orgasm achieved in the moment prior to the abrupt termination of the gamekeeper's obligatory fornication.
Miss Garfield sighed. Her drab, conservative world had been turned inside out, revolutionized. She could no longer ignore certain brutal facts that filled her clouded mind with doubts and misgivings. And now she had another acute problem-the complex enigma of adjusting to a new and alien environment coupled with the dread of facing Paul West (as yet an unknown identity to her) when he awoke and found himself alone with her on the abandoned barge. Would he, too, revert to primeval behavior?
He was so youthful, Prunella thought wistfully, so big and strong, yet so helpless with his wrists cruelly roped. There was a large, livid bruise on his jaw where Boone had struck him with the shotgun stock. Would she, Miss Garfield wondered, ever know complete peace-of-mind, a normal, healthy relationship with a man? The idea seemed ludicrous. A few days ago it would have seemed obscene, almost irreverent. She could not understand why she was not utterly revolted by what West had done to her, under duress, but then with brutal willingness, or why the sight of his gross, sprawling nakedness and the limp symbol of his rugged masculinity did not appeal her. Actually, his condition seemed quite natural, and her own state of nudity afforded only minor qualms and slight concern.
She heard Boone shouting, coarse laughter, and wondered what final indignity was being planned. Sounds of a car approaching the wharf reverberated hollowly. The motor stopped.
"All gassed up and ready to go," Prunella heard Mason report. "What's the idea of the wheelbarrow and the spades, Fletch?"
"Take a deep breath," Boone answered. "Smell it?"
"Smell what? Oh, that. Yes, of course. It isn't hard to detect, for God's sake! Every time the wind blows from the south that reek comes down the canal. What is it? "
"Pig shit. Over there, a trench filled with the sloppy muck. Somebody used to keep pigs in those ruined brick buildings, probably the sluice-gate keeper. They are right adjacent to the canal, handy for shipping hogs to market. That foul mess has lain there for years, but you don't notice it so much until the wind disturbs the surface."
"AD right. So what do we want with an accumulation of pig manure?"
"A good question, Rocky. I thought, as a parting gesture, we might tip a few barrow loads in on Prunella and her boyfriend."
More boisterous laughter followed Boone's obnoxious suggestion. Horrified, Miss Garfield thrust out a bare foot and prodded the gamekeeper vigorously in the stomach.
"Wake up!" she whispered, her voice restricted to a husky rasping. "They're proposing to do something awful."
West came awake slowly, grunting, shaking his head. He sat up, tried to stretch, and swore through the wet gag when he realized his hands were tied.
"Get away from the hatch opening," Miss Garfield warned urgently. "Those fiendish ... Oh!"
She paused, sniffed. Her nose wrinkled with disgust. A strong, nauseating stench seeped into the hold. It seemed to cling to everything, thickening until the humid air was saturated with its appalling reek. West's eyes widened. He stared up at the square opening as a shadow blocked the daylight. Boone peered down, grinning derisively.
"Bloody awful, isn't it?" he observed cheerfully. "And that's only what Jim and Dave have kicked up scooping out a few dollops into buckets. But you're going to get the full benefit. They say shit is good for the complexion, Prunella darling. If that's true you'll finish up a raving beauty. Well, raving anyway. Here comes the first barrow load now."
Presently, the captives heard the rumbling sounds of the barrow being trundled across the deck, then Boone's mocking voice.
"Tip 'er in, Dave."
"All right," Roach answered sullenly. "But you can fetch the next lot."
"I thought Jim was getting it?"
"Like hell," Dent declared truculently. "I'm not hanging over that pit. The stench of that slimy much knocks me sick. If you want any more get it yourself."
"Chicken! AH right, this will do. Maybe just one more, eh? Phew! It does pong. Slosh it in there."
There was a scuffle of movement, grunting exclamations. A rile, reeking mess descended, cascading onto the squirming woman and the equally helpless gamekeeper, spattered them both from head to foot and puddled all round them, plastered hair and heads and filling mouths, ears, eyes and nostrils.
Spluttering, choking, retching, they groped blindly. Miss Garfield crawled frantically from below the opening, but the rope round her wrists, again secured to the ringbolt, prevented her from retreating more than a few feet. West slithered and sprawled, wallowing.
The rumble of the wheelbarrow returning to the odious trench vibrated overhead. Youthful heads appeared, framed in the hatch opening, nostrils clamped shut between forefingers and thumbs.
West writhed across the deck. His shirt became caught on a projection, and tore as he jerked. Shaking his head furiously, he dislodged the wadded rag from between his filth daubed lips, voiced a frantic bellow of rage and protest as the light was again blocked and another load of pig dung was dumped through the aperture. His wild yell was abruptly stifled.
Through the commotion the unfortunate captives heard Connie shouting.
"I can't stand any more of this bloody stink. Let's fuck off."
"She's right," Roach declared. "Let's split away from here before I spew my ring up."
Somebody shoved the wheelbarrow violently and sent it skating across the deck. Feet pattered, receded. The car motor started up. A blast on the horn conveyed a final, derisive gesture. Then the vehicle moved off with its whooping, jeering occupants scattering toilet rolls into the wind and hurling bottles and all manner of objects toward the canal.
The loathsome smelling objects imprisoned in the hold crawled and slithered among the spreading filth. West shouted repeatedly, his voice echoing loudly. He renewed the struggle to free his hands but was defeated, and presently concentrated on releasing his snagged shirt and clambering to his feet. Standing, he shuffled precariously to where Miss Garfield lay, and attempted to loosen the rope where it was looped through the ringbolt.
Eventually the corroded ringbolt tore from the rotten wood, and the exertion of his jerking effort sent West sprawling on his back again. It seemed an eternity before he succeeded in dragging himself through the gap in the bulkhead and into the cabin.
He assisted Miss Garfield through, and they flopped together on the muddied, rumpled rugs, scattering gobs of stinking green manure.
For a time they just lay there, spitting and coughing. Then West squirmed to his feet. Nothing, with the exception of his shotgun, had been removed by the teenage gang. They had not even bothered to take the blankets. Writhing, cursing, contorting his lean, muscular body, the gamekeeper strove again to slacken his bonds. The effort was futile. Finally he hit upon the idea of sawing the rope against a projecting iron angle.
It was a long, torturously slow operation, but West persevered. His wrists were chafed raw when he was eventually able to snap the weakened strands.
He chafed circulation back into his hands, blew his nose violently, probed pig manure from his ears, then dropped to his knees beside Miss Garfield and struggled to untie the wet rope embedded in her white flesh. The knot was drawn tight, the cord thick and new, but he tugged and pried until the stiff hemp yielded, then assisted Prunella to her feet and helped her to the sofa. But she shook her head, preferring to remain standing.
"Never mind the mess and the stench," West said. "Well get cleaned up in a minute."
Prunella Garfield shook her head again.
"No," she muttered thickly. "Now. I can't bear this awful, clinging foulness a moment longer."
"Take a plunge over the side," he suggested. "That will wash it off.*"
"I-I can't swim."
"You can't? All right, 111 swill you down in the shallows. Let's get out of here, for God's sake!"
Prunella preceded him to the hatchway steps, mounted stiffly. West, oblivious of the sexy appeal of the broad exposure of buttocks and vagina in his desperate need for fresh air, pushed impatiently at her yielding bottom, practically lifting her up the ladder.
The moment he r[ ached the deck he approached the rail and vaulted over it into the canal. Miss Garfield was too busy vomiting to notice what he was doing. He swam round the stern of the barge where the water was deepest, and surfaced several yard" away, blowing and spluttering, and trod water, grinning at the distressed woman as she clung to a stanchion red with flaky rust.
West clambered back on board, scattering chilly water. He shook lank, dripping hair from his eyes, picked up a battered bucket lathered with pig manure, and tossed it into the shallows. He indicated the warped boarding-plank.
"Get down there," he instructed. "Away from the. stench."
"Suppose somebody comes?"
The gamekeeper stared, momentarily rendered speechless by her incredibly artless simplicity.
"Who the hell is likely to come here?" he demanded scathingly. "You've been stuck in that bastard barge for two days, and God knows how long that bunch of juvenile morons have been shacked up here. Nobody disturbed them. Go on. Don't be so damned naive."
Prunella moved sluggishly, padded reluctantly down the sagging gangplank shedding blobs of semi-liquid filth. West followed, grimacing, seemingly unconscious of his nudity, or Prunella's, Miss Garfield equally indifferent. Standing in shallow water up to her calves, Prunella splashed herself, recoiling from the chill contact but persevering.
West rinsed the bucket out, filled it and doused Miss Garfield, scooped the bucket full again and repeated the deluge. He threw several more lots over her while she slowly turned round. Finally, gasping, invigorated, her torso and back cleansed, Prunella stooped forward, facing away from the gamekeeper, and began washing manure from her matted hair, apparently without giving a thought to the delightful combination of splayed buttocks, puckered anus, and dark shrouded vagina thus provocatively revealed.
Paul West, confronted with the startling display, was suddenly very conscious of his condition, and especially Miss Garfield's rosy charms. Instinctively, his hand went to his penis. The organ reared, lifting in a series of powerful jerks, coaxed by firm handling and stroking. West licked his lips, stared at Prunella's luscious behind, captivated by the pouting gash of her quim, and was on the verge of yielding to the rapidly mounting urge to batter his turgid erection into the murky pit when Miss Garfield straightened up and, turning, saw the hugely distended phallus. The almost immediate reaction was a flood of tears.
Surprised and dismayed, feeling awkward, West attempted to console her. He drew her into an uncertain, tentative embrace. Prunella, trembling, sobbing, did not try to pull away but came into his arms hesitantly, reluctantly, and allowed him to hold her close. His jutting penis jabbed into the junction of her thighs and crotch, ploughed a furrow through the mass of pubic hair and, lying turgid and swollen against her lower belly, beat fiercely, the knob reaching to her navel. Her nearness, the exciting warmth of her naked body shuddering in his arms, stiffened West's superb prick still more.
"Come on," he coaxed. "Don't go to pieces now, and don't pretend this thing shoving against your belly doesn't exist. I can't help it, if that's what's bothering you. Look, I'm sorry for all you've been through. I'm sorry for what those bastards made me do to you. But I'd be lying if I said it was anything but pleasant. All right, so I was a willing party. I got carried away. It was too much for any man to resist, just like now, seeing you the way you are. I'm only flesh and blood, Prunella, and you-you're all woman. I'm only sorry we didn't meet sooner, in very different circumstances. My name is West, by the way. Paul West. It's a bit late for introductions, but-. Anyway, a week from now, a month at most, and you'll be able to laugh at the whole absurd escapade."
Prunella clung to him, lips quivering.
"They-they broke my glasses," she whispered evasively. "I can't see very well without them."
West raised her head with a hand under her chin, looked into her eyes. There was a peculiar look in the smoldering depths, an expression that seemed to indicate silent pleading, an effort to convey some vital, tormenting need.
"I didn't notice before," West said. "You have lovely eyes. It's a shame to hide them behind glasses."
Impulsively, he kissed her on the mouth. Some of the manure smell still adhered stubbornly to her skin, but he ignored it. The muscles of his thighs and stomach ridged when Prunella's tongue probed unexpectedly between his lips, fluttering nervously.- She pushed against him, timidly at first then with increasing boldness. His penis chafed her soft belly, prodding, pulsing, and she moaned softly. He felt the tension in her body, the acute trembling of her limbs.
"Don't!" she whispered hoarsely. "Please don't. You mustn't. We-"
She groaned. Suddenly her hand was between his flesh and hers and she was gripping his penis convulsively, her mouth still crushed against his. West released pent breath in a long sigh. He slid both hands down the smooth curve of her spine to the flared perfection of her buttocks, cupped the taut cheeks-heavy, vibrant mounds that heaved and strained and writhed under his probing, exploring fingers, and presently closed together with a warm, clutching tension to trap and squeeze his hand when he groped into the deep, damp division.
Desire lashed him. The grasp on his penis tightened. He relaxed his left hand, moved it quickly, slid it palm down over Prunella's gently swelling belly past her tense forearm and into the pelvic nest harboring her vagina.
She went wild then, clung and panted and pressed her thighs together, straining and tugging at his rampant cock, wanting him, sick with longing but unable to take the initiative further, beyond the bold, preliminary stage, stubbornly resisting, even now, a force greater than her will-power and all the combined influences and restrictive prudery of a mind and body steeped in scruples and misconceptions established by years of sexual suppression.
West knew and recognized the symptoms, realized that beneath the frigid crust a volcano seethed on the brink of eruption. Removing his mouth from Prunella's clinging lips, he captured the white oval of her mature left breast and pressed his mouth repeatedly into the yielding mound, teasing the large nipple between his teeth, sucking, pulling, rolling it against his tongue, and growling with all the savagery of a snared beast when Miss Garfield rubbed the bulging glans of his penis avidly but amateurishly in the moist split of her palpitating cunt.
Her carnal hunger was pathetic, almost frightening in its demanding urgency, the clutching hold on his bloated organ painfully intense, the desperate, distraught, self-debasing gesture of a woman driven to the borderline of complete nervous breakdown through sheer sexual frustration, and now, at last, surrendering scruples to the unleashed fury of her explosive temperament.
Her cracked, strained voice grated hoarsely, pleading, goading, frantic with irrepressible craving. In her mental and emotional stress she mouthed words the meaning of which she had not even known a few days ago and which even now remained void of lucid significance. Her quivering thighs clamped West's hand with clamlike strength.
"I want you!" she rasped. "I want that again, Paul, the way it Was before. Oh, I know it's wrong. I know! Don't look at me, not at my face. Just make-make love to me. Please, Paul! PLEASE! Maybe I'm mad. I don't know. I only know I'm burning up, that I can't fight this awful gnawing compulsion, this exquisite, tender passion. I must be mad. But I don't care. I can't resist any more. Fuck me, Paul. I want it. I want all the filthy things those teenage morons made me do. Morons? Oh, dear God! What am I? They didn't know what they were doing to me. Help me, Paul. Sweet, wonderful man, so big and strong, and so understanding. I need you, my darling. I NEED you. Put it in, for God's sake. Why must you torture me too? Damn you, fuck me! Oh, Paul! Paul! Forgive me. I don't know what I'm saying. Just love me. Take me. Enjoy me. Purge this dreadful agony from my body before I go completely out of my mind and-"'
West checked her impassioned outburst with another torrid kiss, then spun her round and positioned her in an exaggerated stooping gesture. Prunella Garfield parted her legs-a purely instinctive gesture, and groaned in savage ecstasy, writhing and jerking, when West leaned forward and, separating the cheeks of her quivering bottom, plunged his face into the incomparable cleavage. She shuddered violently each time his tongue probed the crevice and his nose delved into the dark area round her subconsciously cringing anus. Her stance was ludicrous, utterly absurd and obscene. West could not get enough of her.
He kissed her vagina, licked the wet, gaping fissure and sucked the hairy vulva, agitated the torridly erect clitoris. Miss Garfield's eyes were closed, her teeth gritted together. The breath gusted through her flared nostrils.
With an abruptness that wrung a Cry of frustration from him, she twisted her reddened, throbbing parts away from West's ravenous mouth, increased the angle of her posture and quickly reached between her thighs to grasp the gamekeeper's hugely inflated penis, guiding it unerringly to her glistening split and then fumbling, trying desperately to insert the straining glans.
West helped her put it in, completed the operation and squirmed in deep until his belly merged with Prunella Garfield's rolling, squashing buttocks and her eyes bulged enormously.
The compelling inroads of his relentless rod butted Prunella forward, destroying her balance and moving her bodily through the shallow water, stirring up clouds of mud and silt. She tried to brace herself but failed, and finally stumbled forward and collapsed with West on top of her, squatting on her back like a gigantic toad.
His penis escaped the warm, clutching sheath, and he seized her shoulders, turned her over with impatient strength and no visible effort, and spreadeagled her. As she opened her legs wide, her feet lashing the muddy water, buttocks surging up and down in eager anticipation, creating a continually widening flow of ripples and resounding impacts, he re-entered, shagged furiously, forging resolutely into the partly submerged quim with water lapping round his asshole and cushioning the vigorous movements of his testicles, his knees gouging into gritty ooze, both hands cupping Miss Garfield's energetically undulating bottom.
A miniature tide-race swirled through the valley dividing her flopping breasts, washing over and round the firm, swollen nipples, isolating then submerging them like tiny coral atolls, and drifting her trailing hair in floating ma round the pale island of her grimacing face.
Suddenly it was all over, West sated, indifferent, Prunella's savage exultation replaced by guilt and violent, panting reaction bordering on hysteria. She lay with arms fully outstretched in the water, frightened and terribly confused. Gradually, as the tumultuous aftermath subsided, inhibitions returned, crowding in. When Paul West eventually heaved his weight off her belly and squatted with knees bent and his balls dangling in the water, Prunella could not meet his cynical gaze.
He angled her face round until she was looking directly into his eyes, but she immediately averted her head again the moment he removed his hand.
"What's wrong now?" he demanded irritably. "I've never known anybody with so many conflicting moods. You ebb and flow like a spring tide. What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Oh, everything. Ill be all right. Just leave me alone. Oh, I wish I could speak."
"It's what you wanted," West persisted. "You practically bulldozed me into-"
"I KNOW. That's what makes it so awful. I said I'd be all right. Just give me a moment. How can I make you understand, Paul? All this is, well, alien to my nature. I used to be reserved, so utterly opposed to anything physical. Quite frigid. Suddenly I'm involved in rape and disgusting perversions, and almost immediately afterward indulging voluntarily in sensational sexual relations with a man I hardly know, copulating stark naked and actually reveling in it, wallowing in debauchery like a common prostitute, no, something much worse, doing it out here, openly, regardless of who might be watching, or could be for all we know, allowing pagan emotions to over-rule reason, and letting vulgar desire dominate all my principles and over-ride all my beliefs and upbringing. How do you EXPECT me to feel? I should be sick with the cheapness and sordidness of everything. In a way, I am. But only a small part of me. The rest-."
She shrugged, sighed.
"It was rather wonderful," she admitted. "My God! What a fool I've been. It was so absolutely ridiculous to be afraid. I realize that now. How little we really know, Paul. And how much we sacrifice in our ignorance. I'm almost twenty-eight, Paul, but until two days ago I was a-a virgin.
Now . . . Now God alone knows what I am. I feel like a whore, yet gloriously alive and relaxed. I didn't, a moment ago. But the reaction is passing now, and being immoral just doesn't seem all that important any more. If only I could convince myself and rid my stupid mind of these stabbing twinges of conscience."
"You talk too much," West told her. "After a time you'll find that doing what comes naturally brings peace-of-mind anyway, without you striving for it. Sex: is a God-given gift. You, me, the whole human race, we're supposed to enjoy it and appreciate it. You've got a gorgeous body, Prunella. Be proud of it and its functions. Enjoy every moment of being a woman while you're young."
Miss Garfield nodded slowly. She forced a smile.
"What you say does make sense," she agreed. "You're a remarkable man, Paul West. And so right, of course. I suppose, in a way, I should be grateful to Fletcher Boone. Oh, my throat! It's red raw. It's rather funny, about young Boone. Not what he did-that is unforgivable. But he set out to shame and humiliate me, and in succeeding he also succeeded in making me appreciate sex and realize how beautiful it Can be, not the way Boone and his monstrous, adolescent friends contrived it, but the way it was just now-darling. I simply can't get over the wonder of it all."
"It will be even better next time," West promised. "Those crazy kids. What makes them like that?"
"God knows. I shall never understand those three girls. They always seemed so respectable."
West stood up, water cascading in rivulets down his lean thighs, and helped Prunella to her feet. They splashed toward the canal bank. Prunella, with one foot on the timber shoring, uttered a croaking exclamation.
"Our clothes!" she wheezed. "What about our clothes? Oh, this stupid voice of mine. I can hardly make myself heard."
"Clothes!" West echoed. "Those shit soaked rags? If you think I'm going back on board that stinking scow you are crazy. Leave them. It isn't far to my place. I've got plenty of clean, dry clothing, and-"
"But-somebody will see us!"
"That's unlikely. Poachers work at night, and nobody else comes up here during the day, except-" He broke off, frowned.
"What's wrong?" Miss Garfield demanded anxiously.
"Lady Gloria Mayne, that's what's wrong," West answered pensively. "Ill explain as we go. Hell! I'd forgotten about her. Shell have my guts for garters. Balls to her, anyway. I've got you now. Come on."
He preceded Prunella through the bushes and led the way along a narrow track hemmed in by flowering rhododendron shrubs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lady Gloria Mayne glanced impatiently at her platinum wristwatch. Seven-fifty. Where was Paul? He was usually so punctual.
She went to the cottage entry, looked out, along the grass fringed path. Not a sign of Paul West. Frowning, Lady Gloria went out, banging the door.
She walked quickly toward the river, calling the gamekeeper's name repeatedly. Only bird calls and the sighing of the wind in the reeds answered her.
Becoming more and more annoyed, then alarmed and agitated when West failed to respond, she quickened her steps. Eventually, having covered most of the distance involved in Paul's usual evening patrol, she paused by the broken bridge. She was really worried now. It was after eight o'clock. Then, seeing the extent of damage to the bridge, she thought it possible Paul might have gone the longer way round, by the canal, and she hurried in that direction.
As she emerged from the trees near the sluice gates she heard a car approaching along the narrow path leading to the village. It hurtled out of the gloom, swerving erratically, and almost ran her down. Lady Gloria leaped back. Bloody teenage idiots! She watched the car disappear into the woods further along.
Unable to locate Paul, she slowly retraced her steps to the cottage, entered, and flopped exhausted on the sofa. The place was as she had left it. She frowned. If Paul was with another woman she would- She heard a sound, got up quickly and ran to the door. Nothing. Only the rising wind stirring the trees.
Lady Gloria waited another half hour. Then, frustrated and angry, and desperately anxious, she stamped from the lodge and started the long walk home. Her husband was attending a political meeting in London and the servants had been given the evening off. The big house was quiet and depressing.
Lady Gloria watched television, mixed herself a cocktail, munched roasted nuts. She kept eyeing the clock, expecting Paul to telephone, praying that nothing was seriously wrong, that he had not been involved in an accident.
The phone did not ring. She sat there until long after midnight. Lord Mayne was obviously staying overnight in Westminster. Eventually, Lady Gloria went to bed. Unable to sleep, tossing and turning, she got up, made coffee, read for an hour, played a stack of classical phonograph records.
Finally, she got dressed and made her way back along the moonlit path to the gamekeeper's lodge. The place was deserted. Nobody had been there in her absence.
Completely puzzled, Lady Gloria again returned home. It was quite alien to Paul West's usual behavior pattern. Normally he was altogether reliable, and fixed in a set routine from which she had never known him to vary. What then could have happened to him? He was hardly the type to fall in the river and drown, and so far as Lady Gloria knew he never touched liquor. If he had been hurt somehow and was lying in one of the innumerable gullies on the estate he would have fired his shotgun-a series of shots representing the emergency signal generally accepted by outdoor men everywhere and which any villager in the vicinity would recognize. A horrible thought crossed Lady Gloria's mind. Suppose Paul was unable to fire the gun? He always carried it on his patrol, but what if he was dead? Maybe struck down by a vicious poacher?
She tried to dismiss the morbid possibility. Paul was more than the equal of any two men in the village or anywhere in the district. He must be all right. But where was he?
Baffled, Lady Gloria undressed and got into bed. Surprisingly, considering her state of mind, she slept, but awoke in the early hours with a splitting headache. She took some pills, had a warm shower, and felt better. She ate breakfast, just buttered toast and half a grapefruit, and coffee with cream, then got dressed. By seven-thirty, wearing a frilly lace blouse and fawn colored cord pants, riding boots, and soft felt hat canted over one eye, she was again striding resolutely along the misty path toward West's cottage.
This time, as she emerged from a clump of elms and the lodge came into view, she saw smoke wisping from the stone chimney. She kept walking, relief quickening her steps, and kept whacking the riding crop she carried against the high leg of her boot-an indication of her nervous tension.
She was in a strained, apprehensive mood when she turned in at the white-painted gate and approached the cottage door. She made very little noise. She grasped the door handle, and was about to push the door open when, acting on a sudden impulse, she moved on past the small porch and paused outside the latticed window. Putting her face close against the glass, she peered into the spacious room through a wide gap in the drapes.
What she saw caused' the breath to blast explosively from her lungs and brought her full, ripe lips together until they compressed into a thin, bloodless gash. Disbelief was reflected in her large, wide-staring eyes.
Paul West stood with his broad back to a blazing log fire. He was completely unclothed. On her knees in front of him, also quite naked, her wide, splayed bottom indented by her heels, both hands clasping the gamekeeper's heat reddened buttocks, was a dark haired woman with a truly magnificent figure, a large, imposing female who was a total stranger to Lady Gloria Mayne. But what concerned Lady Gloria most, and caused a distinct shock to travel from the pit of her stomach into her genital organs, was what the woman was doing. She was avidly sucking Paul's stiff penis, deeply engrossed in the intimate act, dragging her enormously distended lips up and down the monstrous phallus and taking several inches of fat prick into her mouth each time she bore down.
West, one hand cupped behind the woman's head, the other preventing his penis from escaping the hot, wet cavern, kept pulling her face toward his groin, endeavoring to achieve greater penetration but often defeating his own purpose through virtual suffocation. He was smirking, gloating down, watching the lewd ritual and mouthing words Lady Gloria could not hear but assumed were crude forms of encouragement.
Wounded pride and outraged vanity combined with disillusionment banished anxiety and flooded Lady Gloria's mind with savage fury. For a while she just gaped, too shocked and stunned to move, incredulous. Then she darted to the door, flung it open, stormed into the lounge and commenced lashing Miss Garfield with the riding crop, raising crimson weals on her bare back and shoulders, striking blindly, viciously.
Startled and cruelly hurt, Prunella cowered away, arms raised to protect her face and bosom. The whip slashed across her elevated bottom and left a series of red ridges, cut into cringing flesh again as she shrank back against the wall, uttering harsh cries, writhing.
Lady Gloria turned on Paul West like a raging tigress. The riding crop slashed down on his jutting penis, missed the wet stalk by a fraction as he avoided the demented blow with a feat of contortion that would have done credit to a circus acrobat. He grappled with the infuriated blonde and finally succeeded in wrenching the whip from her grasp, receiving a cutting welt across his neck in the process. Cursing, he threw the whip into a corner and pushed Lady Gloria violently down onto a wide lounge chair.
"Simmer down, you bloody lunatic!" he shouted.
"Damn you!" she raged. "You dirty, cheating bastard! How could you? After all we've been to each other? Oh, Paul! PAUL! Why, for God's sake? Ill kill that smirking bitch!"
She bounced from the chair. The expression on her face was murderous, her slim fingers hooked like claws. West slammed her back against the upholstery.
Reaction came then, a flood of tears. Some of the tension left Lady Gloria's voluptuous body. She clutched West fiercely round the knees, hugged his legs, kissed the whip marks on his chest and belly, then kissed his penis and pressed her face passionately into the soft, spongy mass of his genitals, sobbing hysterically.
"Damn you, Paul!" she repeated. "You've no right to do this to me, no reason. You're mine. MINE! Send her away, whoever she is. Please! Don't let her come between us, Paul. Please, darling! PLEASE!"
West tried to pull away but she held on grimly.
"For God's sake!" he protested. "Get a grip on yourself, Gloria. You're acting like a hysterical kid. All right, so you've caught me with another woman. I didn't plan this-it was wholly unintentional. It just happened. I can explain."
"Explain, you swine!"
"I never wanted to hurt you," he continued patiently. "Look, it's been a lot of fun, Gloria, really wonderful. But now it's over, finished. You've got to understand."
"Over! Over! Just like that? Oh, I understand all right. You deceived me. You're everything people say about you-a lousy whoremonger. I thought you loved me. But you're just like the rest. I've given you everything. EVERYTHING! Now I find you here, like this, with that fat cow. You bastard! We had a date, remember? I waited for you, looked all over for you, walked miles, worried all night. And all the time you were with her-"
"All right," West admitted. "But you don't know the circumstances."
"I'm not interested."
"Maybe not. But you don't own me either. I've never pretended with you, Gloria. I always said if I ever met someone I really felt I could-"
"Yes. Oh, my darling, I know. But I never dreamed it would happen. Paul! You can't mean it. It can't be over. All those glorious months together. I'm right for you, darling! You can't leave me. Oh, why are you torturing me like this? And what's she got that I haven't?"
She raised her head, glared resentfully at Miss Garfield.
"I'm still young," she blurted. "Attractive. What more can I give you than I already have? I love you, Paul. Don't you understand? I love you! If you leave me 111 do something desperate. I mean it. I'll kill myself!"
Clinging to him, tearful, trembling, she presented a pathetic spectacle. But the young gamekeeper was unmoved. He had made his decision long before he reached the cottage. Paul West was no fool. He knew the flaws in Lady Gloria's character, and realized the depth and warmth underlying Prunella Garfield's tempestuous exterior, the sincerity in her passionate nature. Lady Gloria was a vain, shallow creature, a good screw but too possessive, too demanding, too ready to remind him of his lowly position. There was no sort of a future with her. West had no illusions about Lady Gloria Mayne. She was utterly spoiled and self-centered. While he was the big thing in her life she would keep tossing him crumbs, but the moment she tired of him he would be out on his ass. He knew her sort. His previous employment had terminated abruptly for the same reasons.
In any case, he had made his choice, knew the moment he thrashed his prick into Miss Garfield which was the better proposition. He frowned at her persistence.
"Do what you damn-well like," he said callously. "But do it some place else. I was prepared to be reasonable, to offer explanations, let you down lightly. This has been building up for some time. Now you can go to hell."
Lady Gloria held on grimly as if she had not heard a word he had said. Prunella Garfield stood near the fire, white-faced, wincing, one hand on her breasts, the other covering her vagina, instinctively modest gestures.
West firmly disengaged Lady Gloria s fingers, forced her to sit back in the chair. Anger was again superseding sorrow and self-pity, the tears already drying on the blonde's cheeks. Suddenly the vicious streak in her nature took command and her emotions were predominantly vindictive.
She flung off West's restraining hand and surged to her feet, rushed at Miss Garfield, bore her backward, almost into the fire, and, pinning Prunella against the wall, grabbed a double fistful of glossy, black hair and tugged with agonizing force. Gasping, squalling hoarse protest, Miss Garfield retaliated spiritedly, slapping the blonde's flushed face repeatedly and, when Lady Gloria refused to relax her punishing hold, punched her in the stomach. But Lady Gloria would not let go, and Prunella screeched with pain as some of her lustrous hair was torn out by the roots.
Pummeling and clutching desperately, she wrestled the blonde to the floor and, seizing her fragrant curls, applied the same cruel leverage as the frantic aristocrat relentlessly maintained. One savage hold countered the other. Clawing and kicking, the two venomously agitated females thrashed about, rolling over and over, banging against furniture and upsetting vases and ornaments, toppling chairs.
A tall reading-lamp went over with a resounding crash.
Glass shattered, littered the carpet. Flimsy material tore as Prunella grabbed at Lady Gloria's blouse and jerked maliciously, exposing pale flesh. Miss Garfield uttered a croaking gasp of triumph, then cried out sharply and recoiled from the impact of a hard palm across her heaving buttocks. A knee gouged into her soft belly, rammed lower, thrusting at her vagina. Her wildly waving legs overturned a small table, sending a red telephone jangling to the floor.
The knee connected, drove into Prunella's pelvis arid squashed the lips of her cunt inward, splaying the hairy vulva. Sickened by the dangerous blow, Miss Garfield flopped, momentarily overcome. A hand groped into the throbbing cleft, grabbing lewdly, squeezing, fiercely punishing. Impeccably manicured fingers plucked at the tufted pubic hair. A gouging thumb nail raked into her anus.
Pain expedited Miss Garfield's recovery. She brought her knee up sharply, inserted it between Lady Gloria's widely parted thighs, and gave her some of the quim-jangling treatment. Lady Gloria did not like that. She relished it even less when Prunella, gaining a temporary advantage, got astride the blonde's waist, sat on her, and began slapping her breasts about, cuffing the luscious globes from side to side, tearing at the already ragged blouse until it gaped open to Lady Gloria's navel and exposed her tingling bosoms completely.
Prunella would have transferred her attentions to the blonde's cord pants then, and was intent on ripping them also when Lady Gloria bucked her off and, after a brief tussle, reversed their positions. She pinned Miss Garfield's arms against the floor, kneeling on her wrists. Breasts heaving, glaring through a trailing curtain of damp hair, the blonde gloated, smirking maliciously.
Deliberately vindictive, she pinched Prunella's large nipples between forefingers and thumbs, pulled at them savagely.
"Now, you fucking, cocksucking whore!" she panted. "Ill show you what I really think of you."
Lady Gloria strained, farted, chuckled lecherously. She looked down at her crotch where the seam of her cord pants was split for several inches. Deliberately she tore the gap wider, opened it until the whole of her pouting vagina was revealed, then thrust her pelvis forward and brought the gaping, fleshy folds close to Miss Garfield's flushed, sweating face.
"You were keen enough to suck his prick," she hissed angrily. "Now lick my cunt, you bloody tramp. Lick it, you bitch, or 111 pull your flabby tits right out by the roots."
"That's enough!" West' shouted. He gripped Lady Gloria's shoulders and tried to remove her from Prunella, but the blonde resisted strenuously. Frustrated in her obscene objective, she clutched Miss Garfield's hair, and as the cursing gamekeeper wrenched at her forced a squirting flow of urine, laughing demoniacally when urine splashed Prunella's chin and breasts, and puddled in the hollow of her throat.
The steaming rivulets soaked into the carpet, dribbling down the insides of Lady Gloria's thighs as West dragged her off the choking, spluttering teacher and finally separated the combatants by sheer, superior strength.
He flung Lady Gloria on the sofa, sent Miss Garfield sprawling on a thick, white rug.
"Cut it out, you destructive, vindictive bitches!" he shouted. "Before I knock some sense into both your heads. And you, you bloody misfit, get out. We're finished. This really puts the lid on it, Gloria."
Prunella Garfield remained propped up against the wall, bosom heaving, her breath spasmodically fluttering wisps of straggly hair hanging down over her eyes. Lady Gloria, exhausted and trembling, sobbed. Her legs were spread white apart. Pale, smoothly rounded flesh and the dusky cleft of her wet vagina showed through the long split gaping right down the center seam of the mutilated, urine-saturated cord pants.
Prunella's left breast bore a series of raw scratches caused by dragging finger nails. Panting, she cradled her sore head in her hands.
Lady Gloria Mayne was calmer now, white and drawn, still furious but controlled. She stood up, and attempted to draw the torn blouse together to conceal her blemished breasts, but the covering was totally inadequate. She tossed her head defiantly.
"All right," she said. "I'll go. But you'll be sorry, Paul. Ill make you regret treating me like this. No common lout of a gamekeeper can make a fool of me. I've got friends who'll-"
"Get out," West repeated. Lady Gloria ignored him. She sneered, regarded Miss Garfield contemptuously, puckered her lips and spat, spattering saliva on Prunella's white skin. The sharp impact of the teacher's palm slapping Lady Gloria's face resounded through the room. The blonde staggered, uttered a resentful cry. She held her reddened cheek.
"You fat, ugly sow!" she hissed venomously. "How long do you think you can hold him? If I can't keep the bastard what chance do you have? You fool! I've given him everything, money, expensive gifts, clothes. I even furnished this cottage especially for him. I've given him more than-"
"Everything except the most important item, perhaps," Prunella interrupted. "Have you given him genuine love and respect? "
"Love, you stupid whore! What do you know about love? I remember now where I've seen you before. I knew there was something familiar about your silly, bovine face. You're one of the teachers up at the college. The one I've heard some of the students talk about. My God! And this hulking apology for a man with a stallion's prick that gives him the idea he's God Almighty-he prefers you to me-?"
She sneered again, pushed hair from her eyes.
"Wait till I see Sir Giles at the next meeting of the college governors. You'll pay for this. Ill see that the Sunday newspapers get to know about you and this rotten swine. I'll-"
"GET OUT!" Paul West bellowed. He made a threatening gesture that caused a tremor to pass along the wrinkled length of his slack, dangling penis.
Lady Gloria flinched. She moved quickly to the door, dragged a chair out of her way and darted through the opening as Miss Garfield threw a vase at her. The porcelain shattered against the swinging, vibrating door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Harry Goldthorpe was barely fifteen, a tall, good-looking kid with thick, curly, chestnut colored hair, a fresh complexion, and an exceptional physique marred by the deformity of a withered left arm-a severe handicap which excluded him from many sports and functions enjoyed by his small circle of friends.
Girls especially were repulsed by his affliction. The stunted arm ended in a shriveled claw of a hand that added considerably to the repellent aspects of the grotesque limb.
Harry was reasonably intelligent. There was nothing backward or retarded about his mental processes, but he was sullen and reticent, inclined toward chronic self-consciousness. Other kids mocked him mercilessly because of his deformity, reacting with the thoughtless cruelty and spitefulness common among the very young. At school he was the target for stupid pranks and bullying tactics, at play an object of ridicule exposed to jeering abuse, in consequence of which Harry had developed an acute inferiority complex.
But there was one vitally important factor concerning which Harry Goldthorpe experienced no self-consciousness at all, quite the reverse-the size of his penis. Even at that age his genital development was extraordinary, abnormally precocious. Harry did not particularly resent the additional persecution resulting from his exceptional endowment. He recognized the petty jealousy motivating the older boys who regularly assaulted him sexually, often in the presence of smirking girls, some of whom delighted in handling and mauling his private parts. Harry was strong, but at a decided disadvantage due to his disability, and it was an accepted form of lewd and amusing diversion to expose and play with Harry Goldthorpe's remarkable prick.
Inevitably, the pattern of Harry's adolescent sex life was continually disturbed and enormously affected. At fifteen he had a more profound sexual experience than many adults, most of it perverted and associated with compulsion or secrecy. It was hardly surprising that he developed strong, unnatural tendencies, and an unhealthy preoccupation with sex.
Sometimes he masturbated several times a day. His penis was the one part of his body about which he was insensitive, proud, often arrogantly boastful among a certain type of degenerate who tried to cultivate his friendship. Harry was not an easy boy to form an attachment with, except in sexual matters, then he emerged from his shell and, for a time, assumed a dominant role.
His penis was the essential core, the hub around which his whole drab existence revolved, a kind of safety-valve in some ways, an emotional outlet. Much of his time was spent in the woods, sometimes in the company of perverts and homosexuals, more often spying on the lurid antics of lovers. His room was cluttered with pornographic books and photographs, safe from discovery because he lived with his grandmother who was too crippled with rheumatism to climb the stairs.
Harry had five more months schooling ahead of him before going- to work on his uncle's farm, meanwhile he earned pocket money by running errands and doing odd jobs. The old barge on the disused canal was one of his favorite haunts, but for the past two weeks he had been fully occupied, for once, helping to paint his uncle's barn, a task that, although amply rewarding, had kept him out of the woods and away from the quarry.
On the morning when Paul West escaped from the gloomy hulk with Miss Garfield, and the recent occupants departed, driving recklessly toward the village and the coast beyond, young Harry, again free to follow his own inclinations, was sauntering through the pine-scented woods near the gamekeeper's cottage, blissfully unaware of the temporary invasion of his secluded retreat.
Harry was bored, listless. He slouched aimlessly along the fern banked path, swiping at wasps and flies. But his inertia vanished instantly when he heard a man's voice.
Harry pushed quickly into the bushes, and crouched. From his hiding place he saw the naked man and woman hurry past. Surprised, immediately inflamed by tremendous excitement, flushed with eagerness, Harry followed them, not daring to venture too close but impatiently thrusting aside obstructions that, even briefly, obstructed his vision, his glorious, guilty view of the woman's bare, bouncing buttocks and robust, quivering thighs.
Bubbles of saliva gathered and burst in the corners of the boy's loose mouth. He wanted to stop and divert some of his tense excitement into relieving the growing ache in his rearing, throbbing penis, but resisted the urge and hastened on, careful to avoid excessive noise, repeatedly clutching his genitals through the faded blue of his crumpled jeans.
He knew the tall gamekeeper well. They were not exactly on friendly terms. West had often evicted Harry from the private estate and warned him about coming back, and about associating with poachers. Harry was quite an accomplished poacher himself. The woman, Harry thought, seemed vaguely familiar. He had seen her in the village on several occasions, usually with a group of silly, giggling girls from- Harry chuckled. Yes, from Beechers College. He had got a good look at Prunella Garfield's face, and he remembered her. The crafty cunt, he thought, sneaking about in the woods without a stitch of clothing on, and with a man. Maybe she was a nudist. At least, she had picked the right character to open her gorgeous legs for.
Harry grinned ruefully. He wished there were teachers like Miss Garfield at his school. He had often watched the big gamekeeper and Lady Gloria screwing, sometimes in the woods, usually at the cottage. They thought nobody knew about them, but Harry could have described every delightful curve and protrusion of Lady Gloria's mature body. At times he had been so close he could almost count the hairs on her luscious twat and the wrinkles round her fluttering asshole, and the gamekeeper's great branch held an awesome fascination for Harry that drew him back to the cottage at every opportunity. Obviously, he reasoned, Lady Gloria did not know that Paul West was shagging the teacher. The Garfield woman was new, Harry decided. He had never seen her and West together before. Trust West to find any hole that had hair round it.
The boy arrived at the lodge moments after West and Miss Garfield went inside. Crouching under the closed window, listening intently, Harry slowly raised his head until he could look into the room. The close-up display of the woman's plump nakedness caused a tightness in the boy's anus and the skin round his testicles. He clutched his organs convulsively, sucked in a noisy inrush of air, expanding his broad chest. The fingers of his withered hand hooked into his fly and jerked the buttons undone, his sound hand pulled his impressively large penis out.
He commenced pulling and rubbing the fat, circumcised organ, shaking it about, thrusting the broad knob against his clammy palm, staring avidly as West fondled the woman's body, delving into her most intimate parts, and she played with the gamekeeper's huge, thickening roll.
Harry's penis stiffened until its near-bursting dimensions distended the clutching funnel formed by his fingers. The fiercely beating prick was bigger than most men could boast, absolutely rigid, iron-hard. Harry could have come after the first few rubs, but he prolonged the exquisite, itching torment, judging control to a nicety, content to maintain the erection. Even when Miss Garfield crouched and took the pulsing glans of West's turgid member in her mouth, after considerable difficulty, and the boy's feverish excitement provoked severe trembling and drooling spasms, he still managed to control the flaming sap rising in his reddened, jerking cock, pausing in the torrid act of masturbation whenever the delicious feeling became more than he could bear.
He was so engrossed, so wholly captivated by the carnal activity beyond the latticed window, that he failed to notice Lady Gloria Mayne approaching until she was close to the garden gate. He promptly retreated into the bushes, confident that she had not seen him, and observed her take up the position he had vacated, chuckling quietly at the thought uppermost in his depraved young mind concerning Lady Gloria's reaction when she witnessed what he had been watching, but resentful of her intrusion. The moment she entered the cottage he resumed his crouching stance outside the window, neglecting to masturbate in his keen enjoyment of the scene being swiftly and dramatically enacted within the scope of his vision.
Wide-eyed, grinning, fingering his twitching penis, he saw the entire sordid incident, the whipping, the fight that almost immediately followed, everything. The impression on his mind when Lady Gloria urinated over Miss Garfield was etched deep, his feelings reflected in a combination of wild jubilation and utter astonishment.
He overheard most of what was said. Nobody noticed his grubby face pressed against the panes. When Lady Gloria disappeared for a time beyond the range of his vision, he concentrated on Miss Garfield and the gamekeeper. He did not realize that Lady Gloria was on the verge of leaving the squalid scene, and he was not prepared for her sudden, stormy departure.
He began masturbating again, wishing West would get stuck into the teacher instead of gaping at the doorway. Lady Gloria, emerging abruptly at that moment, saw him, saw the enormous protrusion of his incredibly large penis, the busily whanking fingers, and realized instantly what the boy was doing, and what he HAD been doing.
His lurking presence aggravated the savagery of her mood, but almost immediately anger was replaced by appreciation of the boy's penis, and her seething fury evaporated. She uttered an exclamation of mingled surprise and acute pleasure. In her present state of mind the gross appeal of that youthful phallus was more than she could endure.
Harry, alarmed, began to edge away. Lady Gloria opened her mouth to call his name, for she identified him instantly, but checked the impulse and made a swift grab instead, clutched the collar of his ragged coat. Harry struggled.
"Quiet, you little fool!" Lady Gloria hissed. "I won't hurt you. I know you-you're Harry Goldthorpe. Don't be afraid. It's all right. Ssssh! Don't let them hear. Move away from the window, into the bushes. Hurry!"
Wondering, hesitant, Harry obeyed. His mouth was dry and he was torn between anxiety and the urge to exploit the situation to his advantage, for the blonde's interest in his penis was too obvious to be confused with any other motive.
Lady Gloria led him deep into the bushes, then paused. She turned, clutched the boy fiercely, with a vibrant hunger, in a way that quickened his pulses and sent the blood surging through his veins.
"Don't be afraid," Lady Gloria repeated huskily. "I saw what you were doing back there, and I understand."
"You-youdo?"
"Of course. All boys do it, don't they? But very few have a lovely cock like yours. You do have a beautiful prick, darling. Let me hold it. Here-give it to me, in my hand. There. Isn't that nice? Now listen to me. You were spying. Oh, I don't mind. But you must have heard everything."
Harry nodded in agreement. His apprehension was slowly yielding to torrid excitement and chronic amazement.
"I didn't mean any harm, Lady Gloria," he blurted. "I only wanted to see what they were doing, and-" "I know, Harry. I understand."
She squeezed his penis, forced the foreskin right back. Harry, feeling awkward and embarrassed but ecstatically thrilled, squirmed rapturously.
"You're old enough to know that people say and do the most awful things when they are upset," Lady Gloria said. "And especially when they are all worked up the way I'm aroused right now. God! If I don't have sex soon I shall go mad. Help me, darling."
The boy stared vacantly, writhing under the sweet torment created by the slow, frictioning movements of the woman's left hand on his stiffening penis. He started to tremble violently.
"Me?" he questioned. "Help you?"
"Yes, darling. With this."
She pulled his prick, kissed him on the mouth, probing her fluttering tongue between his teeth, against the roof of his mouth. She placed her other arm round his shoulders, drew him closer* "I know you can help me," she whispered hoarsely. "You like what I'm doing, don't you? Sex is nice. You've been with girls, haven't you? Lots of times. But girls are silly. Have you ever had a woman, Harry? Somebody like me? Wouldn't you like to see my body, darling? To feel my breasts, see me naked, like that fat bitch? Wouldn't you like to put your lovely cock in my soft, warm cunt and fuck."
She moaned, inflamed by her own obscenity, grasped his proud organ spasmodically.
"You can, darling!" she exclaimed. "You can. I'll show you everything and let you do everything, anything you want. But you must promise never to tell a living soul, or breathe one word about what you've seen and heard. Promise?"
Her clutch on his cock tightened still more. Harry nodded vigorously. He did not fully understand. He did not need to. At that moment he would have agreed to anything. Girls had played with his penis often, frigged him, urged on by mocking, derisive friends, secretly longing to feel its throbbing length in their grubby slits but lacking the courage for actual intercourse, afraid of ridicule, of consequences, of screwing with a cripple, even of the Herculean phallus itself. But nobody had ever spoken to Harry with such crude, intense feeling, or handled his penis with such masterful, wanton experience.
The wonder of it fogged his brain. A rich, aristocratic lady, sweet-smelling, beautiful, elegant, with practically every male in the district trailing after her with his tongue, or his prick, hanging out, and she wanted him to make love to her, Harry Goldthorpe, the village freak . . . She must be mad, but whether she was insane or not, what she was doing to him was excruciatingly delightful, and if that was what she wanted she would get no argument from him.
Emboldened, awakening at last to the vital reality of the bizarre situation, the boy put his hand inside the torn blouse and felt the heavy, palpitating mound of a warm, soft breast. The startlingly intimate contact seemed to burn his palm and the tips of his fingers, as if the woman's flesh was red-hot.
Lady Gloria gasped, moaned, ferociously pushed the white oval against his hand. She kissed him again, frigged his hard young penis faster, sweeping the foreskin right back, then fully forward.
Harry's other hand groped, found the split in her cord pants, intruded, avidly clutched the moist, quivering folds of her vagina. He uttered a desperate cry, repeated it when she released his shuddering prick, but she was merely unfastening the side zipper fastening the pants. She pushed them down, tugged feverishly to get them past her hips, then kicked them partly off and stood with the crumpled garment clinging round her left ankle. She wore neither panties nor brassiere. The sweetly rounded orbs of her bottom came together tightly, emphasizing the crease and putting dimples and hollows in the luscious cheeks.
The boy almost sobbed with relief when she recaptured his straining cock. He was confused, utterly bewildered, surprised and agreeably shocked beyond anything he had ever experienced, and at the same time delighted, shaking with eagerness, panting, incredulous, becoming more adventurous as excitement grew and vague fears vanished, and the exhilarating sensations gathered in his virile loins.
The woman tugged his fly fully open, handled his testicles, eased them out so that they hung free. She massaged the wrinkled bag, probed beyond, into the cleft of his bottom. Her darting tongue demoralized the boy, and he relinquished the clutching quim.
He put both hands on her bared buttocks, pressed the cheeks, squeezing gently as if afraid she would repulse him and then, when she murmured lewd encouragement, indulged in a frenzied bout of kneading and gouging, pulling her flesh out of shape and working the tips of his fingers deep into the hot, clammy recess.
Lady Gloria clung convulsively, blurting passionate pleas, vulgar entreaties that removed the last remaining shreds of Harry Goldthorpe's control and completed his transformation into a lusting, panting young animal.
"Fuck me, darling!" the woman exhorted fiercely. "Fuck me, damn you! I want your lovely cock between my logs, right inside my hot, shivering cunt. Can't you feel it, darling, all hot and wet and throbbing? Not there, you idiot! Lower. That's it. There. Like a soft, furry pussy. I'll help you, darling. It's what you want too, isn't it? Oh, you clumsy little bastard! No, darling. I'm sorry. You hurt me. Here, let me."
She conveyed his turbulent penis urgently to her pelvic gash, rubbed the hard knob in the tense slit below the bush of blonde hair, voiced desperate instructions.
"Push, darling. Push hard. Ah! That's right, Harry. It's nearly in Ooooooh! Darling! It's IN! Right in. Oh, lovely! Keep pushing. Yes, in and out. Faster! Ooh, yes! That's wonderful!"
She co-operated, rotating her hips furiously, driving the willing but amateurish prick further into the clinging sheath, cried out sharply as if in physical pain with the seething, clawing torment of intense, flooding orgasm.
The boy, brashly confident now, kept jabbing and thrusting awkwardly, whimpering as the concentrated fury gathering in the jerking tip of his embedded penis seemed to suck the very sap from the roots of his swollen balls. Lady Gloria, only partly sated, sank down on the ground, pulling him down on top of her, ignoring his bleating protests, spread her legs wide and quickly guided his jerking organ back into the slimy maw. Harry, able to perform more adequately, resumed the assault with renewed vigor.
Lady Gloria, sighing deliriously, drew her knees up, began raising her buttocks off the ground to meet each frantic lunge, and maintaining rhythmic co-ordination, gasping as the plunging prick rammed right in. Already she was experiencing the swiftly mounting ecstasy of another emission, and urged the boy to greater efforts, uttering frightening moans and animal noises in the tempestuous moments before Harry, tongue protruding and head lashing wildly back and forth, his spine arched, spunked simultaneously with the bitter-sweet completion of the woman's fiery, pungent orgasmic deluge, then held her tightly with his hot face buried against her throat, and wriggled his belly against hers until his dwindling penis slipped out.
Delighted, Lady Gloria hugged him.
"You darling!" she praised. "That was divine. Grade, but quite charming.. You really are a sweet boy, Harry. And you won't find me ungrateful. You must think me quite mad, behaving in this awful manner. Now that it's over 1 feel terribly awkward."
"I think you're smashing!" Harry declared. "I've never done it before, not with anybody like you. Not with a real woman. Girls are stupid, and they make fun of me because I've got a withered arm. I don't have much to do with girls."
"I won't make fun of you, darling. You've got something those village louts would give their eye teeth to have. 1 must go. You must come home with me. I'll give you a nice lunch, and some money. Would you like that?"
"Sure would. Can we do it again?"
"Eh? Not right now, dear boy, although I appreciate your enthusiasm. But soon. Very soon."
"Tomorrow, maybe? Here, in the cottage? .Old West won't be using it."
"No, he won't." Lady Gloria's expression hardened. She pushed the boy off, rolled over, got to her feet, pulled the torn riding pants up and fastened the zipper. She watched Harry clamber off his knees. He buttoned his fly, looking sheepish, suddenly shy, fumbling. Lady Gloria ruffled his hair.
"All right, darling," she promised. "Tomorrow. We'll do it properly, in bed. I'll really give you a thrill, young Harry. Oh, but you're lovely. Come along." She gripped his sound arm lightly.
"Remember," she cautioned. "Not a word. I've got your promise?"
Harry nodded. Lady Gloria kissed him, moved through the bushes leading him by the hand.
Paul West picked up the broken lamp, straightened his back.
"I'm glad that's over," he said. "I wouldn't want to go through a similar experience. I expected Gloria to be a bit cut up, but I never thought she would explode like that. I intended to go up to the big house and see her, and explain. She didn't give me a chance."
Prunella Garfield inspected a bruise on her hip. The twisting movement distorted the cleft of her bottom, making one cheek seem larger than the other.
"I won't ask awkward questions," she whispered hoarsely. "At least not until I can talk properly. Not about her. I assume that was Lady Gloria Mayne? But I said no questions. It's perfectly obvious, anyway. But I would like to ask what you intend to do now?"
"Go to Milford Haven," West answered. "I've got chance of a partnership in a timber business. You 11 come with me?"
"If you want me."
"You know I do. Why do you think-?"
"All right then, just so long as you're sure. So long as I know you want me that's all that matters."
"You're not bothered by what she said?"
"Not particularly. Maybe she was right. Maybe it won't last. I'm not a child, Paul. I don't believe in miracles. I've been very stupid, perhaps wicked. But I'm not incapable of understanding, or adjustment. I'll do my best to make you happy. I'll be anything you want me to be for as long as you need me. After that-"
She shrugged.
"My life here is finished," she added. "I believe that much of what she said, even if I didn't personally consider it would be quite intolerable for me to remain at Beechers after what has happened, involving the dean, and those dreadful girls. If they ever came back, how could I face them? How could I face the dean? No, Beechers is a closed book. It doesn't really matter where I go now, so long as it's with you, Paul, far away from Rexford. Hadn't we better put some clothes on? If Lady Mayne comes back, or anybody ..."
1 West nodded. He indicated a closet.
"There are some things of hers in there," he said. "Take your pick-Gloria won't miss them. She's had good value for everything she's given me."
Miss Garfield did not answer. She went through into the bedroom.
Shortly afterward, bathed and refreshed, wearing a light grey tweed suit and shoes with stiletto heels, and a smart, matching hat, Prunella climbed into the gamekeeper's Landrover. She was laughing at something West had said. She looked youthful, vitally alive, a different person altogether.
Paul West came out of the cottage, slammed the. door, checked to see if his billfold was in the inside pocket of his olive-green sports-jacket.
Prunella was having difficulty lifting her leg high enough, because of the tight skirt, to enter the vehicle. West, responding to her appeal, approached and afforded her the support of his muscular shoulder. On the pretext of helping her by pushing at her protruding buttocks, he put his hand up her clothes and felt right up to the velvety softness of her vagina. He grinned when she bucked violently.
"Don't forget you don't have any pants on," he reminded her. "That's one item Gloria never left behind for the simple reason she never bothered to wear any when she came up here." .
"You're a horrible man, Paul West," Prunella Garfield admonished. "But I love you."
She laughed, squirmed, eased her quim away from his disturbingly active hand and sat down, blocking the approach to the inviting fissure and tucking the skirt under her thighs.
"I'm rather sorry for her," she intoned huskily.
"Don't be. Feel sorry for yourself, school teacher, because when we get away from here and we're clear of Lord Mayne's estate I'm going to stop this truck and belt some prick into you until your eyes come out on stalks."
Miss Garfield poked her tongue out sarcastically.
"Is that a threat, darling?" she asked. "Or a promise?"
West swore. He slammed the door, walked round the vehicle and climbed behind the wheel, started the powerful motor.
"One for the road," he said, and kissed her, keeping the clutch pedal depressed and the handbrake on. Miss Prunella Garfield sighed happily, responded, parting her lips to receive West's questing tongue, and detected in that fierce, probing contact a wealth of promise, an assurance for the future which, however uncertain, would, she knew, be amply rewarding.
And with that conviction at the back of her mind, Prunella was perfectly content.
