Our lips pressed together, tongues intertwining, and Al's hands worked on my breasts. My nipples stiffened almost immediately, and I was ready to come again. But I also knew that I had to be fair. It was his turn now.
Sitting up, I pushed Al back against the pew, and he continued to play with my titties, unbuttoning my blouse and taking them out of my bra so he could cup the bare flesh in his hands. I had no time to luxuriate in the sensation, however, because I was unzipping Al's trousers and opening up the baggy boxer shorts he wore.
Inside the shorts his male organ was firm, hard. Al's cock was short, but it was thick ... I peered in the opening in Al's shorts, and his heavy young penis seemed to peer back at me, it's one eye watching me balefully. Reaching inside, I grasped the turgid stick in my hand and removed it from its binding surroundings, while with my other hand I reached up the leg of Al's shorts and rubbed his sack of balls ... Using my nails, I rubbed the head, watching it get redder and redder, and then I stroked the shaft, encircling it with my palm and going up and down, like someone trying to smooth all the wrinkles - wrinkles which were fast disappearing as the already swollen member enlarged still further.
Chapter One
The leaves were turning brown, withering, falling.
It was Autumn, late in September, with Labor Day just a memory, and the sun and the beach were like ghosts that lived only in my mind. Oh, there was some dim little orange ball up in the sky - I could just barely see it through the clouds whenever I could bring myself to open my eyes in the biting wind - but that small, cold circle couldn't have been the sun.
It had to be an optical illusion.
Where was the warmth? The brightness?
I huddled inside my leather jacket, wishing I was wearing something just a little less fashionable and a whole lot warmer, and I plunged onward into - if you know me you're going to find it hard to believe - into the Assembly Hall of the Northeastern University I was attending.
That's right, I said University.
Me, Hattie I was back in school again. Going to college.
Or about to go, if you want to be technical. This was the first day of registration, and I was about to see how I would be spending my time for the next semester. Hattie the freshman. Not bad for somebody who ran away from home and from school when she was sixteen.
But that had been a long time ago.
I was almost twenty-two now.
And running away again.
To one hell of a dismal spot, I was sure of it. Why hadn't I picked a school in the south, or in California, someplace like that? The University of Miami, with its playschool reputation and its courses in water skiing (or was that the University of Hawaii? All the wonderment fades together after a while.) Or UCLA, with its Los Angeles lifestyle?
The wind cut into me like a knife - or a whip wielded by someone new to the sadism game. New and coming on a little too strong. There was a very good reason I was here in Maine, at a University few people had ever heard of and fewer yet attended. There was a very good reason I was here in the cold, pushing into the crowded Assembly Hall and lining up to show my entrance permit. A good reason indeed.
For one thing, I didn't have to pay anything.
For another thing, no place else would let me in.
Not that I wasn't bright. I was extremely intelligent and had done very well on the entrance exams, up in the highest percentiles, whatever they were. No, it was because, well, it was because of my past.
I'd had what other people for some strange reason considered to be problems. But as far as I was concerned I'd been blessed.
Blessed with the most sexually responsive nature in the world.
Or at least in the history of the practice of the state psychiatrist I'd been sent to after being arrested with a motorcycle gang.
Everything I'd told the poor man had been true, but he hadn't believed me, not at first. He'd just clucked his tongue and shaken his head at our early meetings, when I'd told him how as a little girl I'd realized that the only thing worth living for in this world was an orgasm. Of course, later, when I'd been able to prove that I knew what I was talking about, ah, then the doctor's attitude had been different. Then he'd stopped saying, "poor, poor, little Hattie," and had started saying, "I'm a man! I'm a man!"
And proving it too.
He'd been instrumental in getting me out of the foster home I'd been placed in and into some school. He'd been instrumental in helping me run away from a situation that I didn't like without my having to really run. It had all been legal this time. Instead of having had to remove myself from surroundings that were uncongenial the court had done the removing.
A terrific deal all around.
Or so I'd thought until I got to the University.
And started shivering.
If it was like this now, what would the weather be in December?
The thought was too horrible. I shivered uncontrollably and stepped up to the table to present my entrance permit, get my registration materials, and get everything rolling at last.
Behind the table, working at what was obviously a part-time job, was a nice-looking boy of about twenty. He was slim and tall, with thick blond hair and blue eyes, and he had a good strong chin, very masculine.
Looking at him made me feel much better.
Warmer.
It even started me thinking, the way looking at a handsome boy always made me start thinking.
I was wondering about him-
"Your permit, your permit," he snapped suddenly. "Come on, let's go."
"Oh," I said, "I'm sorry. Here." I handed him the card, and he glanced at it, then started getting together the things I would need to register. This was the perfectly correct thing for him to do, but it bothered me. Something was wrong.
I realized what it was.
He hadn't looked at me.
Not closely anyway.
Not for a second time.
It was like I was just any girl, like I was average looking, or even plain.
And I wasn't.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again - I was beautiful.
I'm built small, petite, but my hair is - and was then - long and blonde and full, and my figure was curved perfectly, with good legs and breasts that were just a little too large for the rest of me. My belly was gently rounded, just enough to promise good things, and my face, well, it looked the way a beautiful face should look, with good cheekbones and a full mouth that was maturing into a sensuous one. And I knew how to use makeup effectively too, although for the most part I didn't need any.
So why wasn't he looking at me?
Why was the boy doing his job so efficiently with me standing right there?
Unless he was the kind of boy who wouldn't be swayed by somebody like me, the kind whose tastes went a much different way -
I looked at him. No, it couldn't be. He was too virile in appearance.
The boy noticed that I was staring at him. He looked up at me but still didn't smile. "I'll have everything together in just a minute," he said. "You don't have to be so impatient."
"I'm not impatient," I said. "You're the one who's in a hurry."
"Him and everybody behind you," said a voice from farther back in the line. "Let's go, Jack."
"My name's not Jack," said the boy.
"All right. Let's go, Charlie."
"It's not Charlie either."
"Shit."
I turned around to see who it was who was talking like that. The speaker was a short, rotund young man wearing a lumber jacket and a stocking cap. His face was full and fat, with thick lips and a kind of sneer. I found him extremely distasteful.
"You're not very polite," I said to him. "In fact, you're rude."
"You tell him, babe," somebody from the line called out. The fat young man just glowered at me and muttered something I couldn't hear. "What?" I said.
He repeated himself, still muttering low.
"What?"
"Forget it," said the young man. "It must've been dirty as hell," said another young man.
"No way to talk to a broad, God knows," another voice echoed.
" 'Specially no way to talk to a broad who looks like that," said yet another voice, making me feel better. "Well," I said, "no harm's been done -"
"The hell you say," said that third voice, and a big, strapping young man walked up to the fat boy. "You got a dirty mouth," he announced to him. "A very dirty mouth."
"Did you hear what I said?" said the fat young man.
"No," admitted the big one.
"Then how do you know it was dirty?"
"I know, that's all."
"Bullshit, you don't know at all."
"I know that was dirty," said the big guy, and he reared back and smashed the fat young man, right in the face. The fat boy staggered, then blinked, looking surprised. He blinked again and fell back, straight back.
We all stared at him. The strapping young man smiled at me. He turned to the boy behind the table. "You got her stuff ready yet, man?" he said.
The blond young man nodded, handed everything over to me.
"It's all self-explanatory," he said.
"Thank you," I told him.
The big youth took the cards from me. "Now get me mine," he said to the other young man. "This isn't your place in line."
"It is now," he said.
The blond hesitated, then took the other one's permit and started getting everything for him. Behind us I heard the fat boy moan. My "protector" glanced back at him, then looked at me.
He looked me over, his eyes taking in every part of my body. The jacket I was wearing was short, and so was the skirt under it. There was a lot of body to see.
"You're beautiful," my 'protector,' said.
"My name is Hattie," I said.
"I'm Ed. If you need any help registering I'll be glad to give it to you. I've been through this before."
"Is that why you took my cards?" I said. "So you could help me?"
"No," he said. "Not exactly."
"Then why?"
"So you'd ask me to," he said.
"Here's your materials, fella," said the young man behind the table. "Let's keep the line moving. Let's go. Next."
"We have to just go through this door here," Ed said. "Then I'll show you what to do next."
"No you won't," I said.
He took my arm, guiding me along. "I didn't mean that way," said Ed.
"Yes you did," I told him.
"Does that mean you like the idea?" he asked.
I took as good a look at him as he had of me. Then I shook my head slowly. "No," I said.
"But you will go out with me tonight so I can convince you?"
He was too big, too strong, the kind you had to feel a little afraid of. "No," I said.
"Shit," said Ed.
"You're talking dirty," said the fat young man, approaching from behind us. "You're talking dirty as hell."
And then he reached up and hit Ed, just as Ed had hit him.
Only nothing happened. It didn't even faze him.
"I don't know where you came from, or how you revived so fast," Ed said, "but it won't happen again."
This time I didn't watch when Ed's fist lashed out. I'd seen that show before, and it hadn't impressed me. Turning, I started walking around the Assembly Hall, looking for the tables where I could get the classes I needed as a freshman. Things were turning out well, and I was able to go right up to each table and get exactly the class I wanted at exactly the time I wanted to go.
Nobody got in my way, nobody at all. There weren't even any crowds to push through, in spite of the fact that there'd been great masses of people just a few moments before.
If you've ever gone to a big University you know that it can take hours to register. I went through the whole process, even to having my I.D. picture taken, in exactly nine minutes. No more.
Because everybody else in the place was gathered around Ed and the fat boy, watching them fight.
It was an auspicious beginning to my college career.
For once in my life I'd been lucky.
Events I'd had nothing to do with had come through for me, and as I walked out the back door I saw the campus police come charging around the corner toward the front entrance, and I made a mental note to go buy my books right away.
I made another mental note too.
I would definitely have to buy a student directory as soon as they were available.
So I could call up my protector and his victim and give each of them the thanks he deserved.
After all, it was the polite thing to do, and a little appreciation can go a long way.
If you play things right, that is.
And that's the way Hattie did things, you'd better believe it.
Hattie did everything right.
Chapter Two
I know, I know, I sound kind of hard, maybe even cold. But if you'd been through what I had - it would have left its mark on you, too. My normal kind, trusting nature had been subverted by -
Let's just say by my past, and let it go for now.
It's easier for me that way.
After I bought my books (they must've weighed twenty tons - it was lucky that I was able to find a guy working at the bookstore who agreed to take them out to my dorm for me. Nice people do exist in the world.) Anyway, after I bought my books I went back to my dorm. It was one of those monstrous housing units with like five hundred girls in it, all concrete and steel, with no style whatsoever. Very typical of something which had been built, according to the cornerstone, in the fifties.
No, the stone didn't give the specific year.
After all, it was an academic structure, and academics never let themselves be pinned down in writing.
"You've got to keep an opening, so you can salvage your reputation," one of my professors once said to me. (Of course, he meant that a little differently, saying it as he did while he was getting undressed. But I think the point is still made.
(It was made then, anyway.)
(But I'm digressing. So:)
I lived on the fourth floor of the building, in a two-person room, but even though it was registration day and school was to start the following Monday my roommate still hadn't arrived. Living alone was nice, though, so I didn't mind it. In fact, I kind of secretly hoped that she never would come, so I could keep my privacy.
Things didn't turn out that way, though, because when I got up to Eleanor Avenue Residence Hall, Room 407, there was somebody in it. With her back to me. Going through some drawers.
My drawers.
From the rear the only way I knew I was looking at a girl was by the clothes. The girl looking through my things was tall, absurdly tall, at least six feet, and she had broad shoulders, thick, heavily muscled legs visible where her long skirt ended. Everything about her was masculine, including her actions, the way she moved her arms and hands, the way she opened and shut the drawers, opened and peered into a low cabinet.
I didn't say anything. I just watched.
Inside I was groaning.
The day had been going so well. Was that only to prepare me for the fact that I was going to have to live with - this?
Finally, after what must have been only minutes but felt like hours the girl turned around, her hands wound around a pair of my nylons. Holding the nylons, she was starting toward one of the room's twin beds. Not mine, fortunately. Still looking at the stockings as if she'd never seen a pair before, the girl sat down, sighing, and her whole body kind of slumped forward, relaxed. Then she saw me out of the corner of her eye, and she stiffened.
No, to be honest she did a little more than that. She jumped.
And turned on me.
"What're you doing here?" a gruff, imperious voice demanded. "What do you think you're doing, watching me like that? Standing there and spying?"
I took a good look at the girl's face.
Long hair, bright orange in color, was wrapped around in a huge beehive, making her head look as if it was topped with nothing more than a giant bubble. The girl wore no makeup, but that didn't mean she had no need for it. Her eyes were small, beady, beneath straight eyebrows that extended out from bony ridges. Her nose was small, as was her pale mouth. The teeth were crooked when she talked. Beneath the mouth was a long, long jaw, making the girl look horse-faced enough to appear in any western television series or any rodeo.
In a word, then, she was ugly.
More than ugly.
Ughly, if you know what I mean.
"What're you gawking at, for chrissake?" the girl hollered. "I've been talking to you. The least you can do is answer! Well? Well? Well-"
"I just never saw anybody like you before," I blurted out unthinkingly.
The girl glared. "What does that mean? What the hell does that mean?"
Immediately I was sorry, and I tried to explain. "I mean, I've never seen anyone who, who-"
"Who what? Come on. Give!"
"Who could stand there, holding my stocking that she took out of my own drawer and have the nerve to be yelling at me," I said. "When it should be the other way around." Considering her size, what I was saying was very brave, and I felt proud of myself for being able to do it.
"Why should it be the other way around?" demanded the girl. "I must be the one who does the yelling. After all, you're the one who has all the explaining to do."
"Explaining?" I'd taken a few steps into the room, but now I felt nervous, and I started backing away.
"You can start by justifying these," the girl said, holding up my nylons. "As for that other stuff I found in your things-" She looked disgusted and angry, and she came toward me, brushed me aside and closed the door behind me so that we had privacy. A privacy I didn't especially want.
The way I saw it, she was crazy.
She had to be.
Standing at the door, the girl turned back to me. She waved the nylon. "Sinful!" she shouted. "Sinful!"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," I said. "Rifling somebody else's drawers, that's what's sinful-"
"Not when the Lord is with you," announced the girl. "Not when virtue and righteousness are on your side. As they are on mine." She looked at the nylon in disgust and threw it on the floor, stepping on it. "The devil's handiwork!" she cried. "The devil's creation. Nylon, nylon! Nylon was created as a war material, girl, you know that, don't you? It was created to help men kill other men in the nineteen-forties. And now loose women like you use it to kill men today. In a different way."
She rushed to my dresser and took out my underwear, threw it up into the air. "Nylon!" she yelled. "All nylon! Everything here. Shameless hussy, evil seductress, profane and scarlet-"
"Tanenger?" I said hopefully.
"What?" She looked suddenly puzzled.
"Scarlet tanenger. It's a bird!"
"Witch! Bitch! You can't joke your way out of this. Girls like you, I know why you wear nylon. I understand. Look at this - look!" To my complete surprise she suddenly plopped down on my bed and pulled up her long skirt, exposing her own underwear. "The fabric, harlot, what kind of fabric do you see?"
I took a good look. The panties had "Monday" written on them in blue scroll, but both the letters and the panties themselves were - "Cotton," I told her.
"Cotton," she echoed, nodding and looking pleased. "Cotton indeed. Good, serviceable, easy to wash, easy to take care of, warm cotton. The kind of material God intended for a young woman to wear against her skin."
The girl continued. "Fell it. Touch it. Smell it. Cotton is pure, cotton is good, cotton is wholesome. There's nothing sexy about cotton," she ranted. "Nothing that can arouse prurient interests, nothing that can cause anything awful or immoral or sinful or all three to occur. Nothing."
The girl took a deep breath and stopped for an instant. But only an instant. I still couldn't say anything to her. "Cotton is so - so plain," she said, as if that were the most wonderful thing in the world.
I didn't know what to do. I had to get this, this person out of my room, or else I had to get out myself, but I was afraid of her - and a little intrigued.
Well, I'd never met anybody virtuous before.
Not that virtuous anyway.
Getting up from the bed, the girl glared down at me. She reached out, putting both her hammy hands on my shoulders. When she spoke again her voice was soft, almost warm. It was the voice of a preacher offering hope and salvation, and I guess that's what she thought she was.
"There is still time, girl," she said to me. "All is not quite lost. You can still be redeemed."
"Redeemed? Now listen, you -"
Her hands bore down into the skin on my upper arms. I was helpless in the girl's strong grasp. "No, no," she said, still keeping her voice down, "it is not I who must listen, it is you. You are the sinner, girl. You are the one we must save." Now her voice started rising higher, almost glowing. She sounded positively transcendent. "You are the one I must save. It is my mission. I can feel it. I can understand now why I was sent here. Why I was brought to this school, and to this room. Why I had an overwhelming compulsion to go through your things and uncover your disgrace. God sent me, girl. God sent me to help you. Don't let Him down, girl. Don't disappoint the Redeemer. You must do as I say, so that someday you will be in the Promised Land. So that someday you can stand before Him straight and proud and true -"
"I thought that pride was a sin?"
"Straight and proud and true," repeated the girl, ignoring what I said. "You must do as I tell you, girl, so that you may lead a better life, the life the Lord had in mind for you when he created your immortal soul and sent it to earth."
"I didn't know that was how it's done," I said. With all the moving around I'd done, from family to family, as a youngster, and with the type of people I'd known and lived with, religion had never been a great part of my life or education. In fact, it had never been any part at all. So in spite of the situation I was in I found myself listening to the girl closely, indulging a curiosity I'd never known I had. The idea of somebody living up in the sky and sending my soul down to earth was fascinating to me. So this was one view of how the population problem got started, huh? And all this time I'd thought it was just sex, pure and simple -
"The Lord created your immortal soul and sent it down to earth for your threescore and ten," the girl said to me.
"Amazing," I said. And it really was.
"He sent it down to be used for good, not for sin. Sin is bad," said the girl. "Nylon is bad. Nylon must be destroyed. All those things which attract bodily attention must be destroyed. Together we will cast out your devil by tearing your underwear to shreds."
"Shreds? All of it? What will I wear?"
"What does that matter in view of the doom you face, the hell you could go to, girl?" She clenched and unclenched her hands in my flesh, and I knew I would be black and blue in the morning. "Hurry now, gather up your things so we can rip them all up."
She released me, spinning me around and sending me to my bed, where I picked up the underwear she had dropped on it. It all seemed so simple, so right. If my clothing was evil of course it had to be destroyed. But what about the underwear I was wearing right now? What about the nylon that already clung caressingly, provocatively to my body? Didn't that have to go too?
"We shall do what we must, girl," said the girl. "You must remove your outer clothing so that the nylon can be ripped from your person. Hurry, hurry!"
I hurried, but as I slipped off my shoes I suddenly stopped. Maybe it was the hardness of my perfectly formed feet on the cold floor, maybe it was something else, but suddenly the spell was broken. And a spell was what I had been under, too, I'm sure of that even now. The girl's appearance, her strength, the sound of her voice and the certainty in her attitude, all these things had combined to virtually hypnotize me. I didn't want to destroy all my frilly under things. I didn't want to stop being provocative. I didn't want to do what she said at all. I was being taken in. I was being controlled.
I was being used.
"Go on, girl, go on," said the girl. "Everything must come off. How else can we purify you?"
"No," I said. "No."
"No?" she said, taken aback.
"That's right."
"You refuse the grace I can offer you in the eyes of God?"
"I refuse whatever you think you're offering me, yes."
"But how can I do my job? How can I perform my duties if you won't cooperate? If you insist on remaining a bawd?"
"That's your problem."
"But I must fulfill myself. I must!"
As we talked I edged over to the door. Now I opened it and turned to her for just an instant. "You'll have to fulfill yourself somewhere else, honey," I said. "And with some other girl. I'm getting you kicked out of here right here and now!"
And then I ran like hell. I tore into the hallway and down past the other rooms, heading for the floor counselor's office. Each of the floors in the dorm had a counselor in charge, usually a graduate student. The counselors lived there and were available to help you with your problems, both academic and personal, and also to keep order in the halls. And the rooms as well. I'd only seen my counselor once, when she'd shown me my room and welcomed me, but she'd seemed like a good person, and I knew I could use her now. I needed somebody with authority to get that strange girl out of my room. And I needed her now.
I knocked on the door, and when the counselor opened it I spilled out my problem, telling her there was somebody in my room, somebody who didn't belong. "She was going through your things, Hattie?" the counselor said. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I am."
"You know, Hattie," said my counselor, "we've been told about you. We've been warned. I know you have a tendency to make trouble. Your background is right on file."
"But my background has nothing to do with it. This girl -"
"Please, Hattie, can you describe her?"
I did, quickly, and just as I finished there was a sound at the door. I turned, and there she was - "It's her," I said. "Keep her away!"
I tried to throw myself into my counselor's arms, but she would have none of it. At the door, meanwhile, the big girl spoke. "Hello, Miss Carson," she said. "I just wanted you to know that everything is fine and I'm settling right in."
Miss Carson nodded. "I knew you would," she said. She turned back to me. "You see, Hattie, nothing's wrong. Everything is under control. You just must have misunderstood Mathilda."
"Mathilda?" I said.
"Mathilda Pendergast," the girl said from the doorway. "How do you do? I forgot we hadn't formally met."
"Mathilda is your new roommate," Miss Carson said to me. "We thought the two of you would complement each other very well."
"Roommate?" I said. "We're going to live together, all semester?"
"That's right," said Miss Carson. "I'm sure you'll get along fine."
I nodded dumbly, directed my gaze at Mathilda. Her face was stern, foreboding. She was looking at me as though I was a challenge to her. As if she knew everything there was to know about me and took my reformation personally indeed. I had the feeling our conflicts were going to be about more than just the materials in the garments I wore.
"Perhaps you would like to come back to our room now," Mathilda Pendergast said to me. "You've really left the place a mess, and we've quite a bit of cleaning up to do."
"A mess, eh?" Miss Carson said. I had visions of her turning to her records and writing that down. "Then I guess you'd better get back there indeed."
I nodded again and walked past Mathilda, toward our room. She fell in behind me. I could hear the clunking of her big feet. A semester, a whole semester. It was going to be very, very long.
Much longer, I was afraid than the orgasm I was having just then. The orgasm I was having just from the thought of the fighting that had already started today.
Chapter Three
Yes, I said orgasm, and that's what I meant. Everything that had happened so far that day, together with the future prospects, combined to make me come right as I walked through the hall. I didn't know if Mathilda could tell what was going on, but I really didn't care. All that mattered was that fantastic warm tingle that was growing and growing between my legs until finally it burst and I felt the greatest calm, the greatest goodness, the greatest sense of relief I'd felt since -
Since my last orgasm that morning, when I'd masturbated in bed, that's since when.
I wondered what Mathilda would say if or when she found out that there was much more to me as a sexual creature than just wearing nylon underwear.
"Are you all right, girl?" she said now, as I staggered with the effects of my bliss.
I couldn't answer. I was feeling too good. "Are you all right, Hattie?" she repeated, and she grabbed me to keep me from falling. My good sensation disappeared at her touch. There was only emptiness in my stomach, and below it, and I asked Mathilda not to touch me.
"I'm sorry I got so carried away before," Mathilda said, her face showing concern. But she did let go of me. "It's just that my father is an evangelist minister, and I've .been taught very carefully about what's right and what's wrong."
"And I'm what's wrong," I said as we entered our room.
"Yes," said Mathilda. "You're going to be quite a challenge, I can see that. But I'll whip you into shape, you'll see. You'll be a good girl before Mathilda is through. You'll help me make my father so proud!"
I didn't say anything but just plopped onto my bed. Now I noticed Mathilda's luggage in a corner of the room, and I watched casually as she started unpacking. All of her things were cotton or flannel, and while much of her clothing was new it was still totally out of style. Living with my new roommate was going to be difficult indeed - but I would endure. After all, hadn't I endured worse?
Oh, but you don't know about that. Not yet. I'll get around to it. Really I will.
But for now I have to talk about Mathilda and me. I watched her put her things away, and I expected the worst, and I began to get excited about it. The thought of things happening to me, of my having to struggle in some way, always gets me excited. But then most thoughts do. That's the way I am, the way I've been since I was eleven or so.
I had an urge to tell Mathilda all about what I'd done to myself that morning, but I suppressed it. Lying back, I merely thought about it instead.
It had been quite an affair, even if the only one involved had been me.
I'd awakened early because I was nervous about registering, and in my anxiety I'd reached down between my legs, to kind of absently rub the downy fluff that was there. I slept naked (although I didn't know if I'd be able to keep on sleeping that way with Mathilda here), and because the night had been so cold there was an extra blanket on the bed, pressing down on me, making my hand feel heavy.
At first I'd ignored the blanket, calmly rubbing myself and thinking about school. Slowly my hand probed, reaching down to my cunt as I bent my legs, spreading them. I stroked the lips of my pussy, going first in the direction of my opening, then the other way, so that in effect I was spreading them open. Bringing my other hand down, I pulled at my lips, opening myself up wider, and following this by flicking my clitoris. My clit was easily stimulated, and it enlarged swiftly, filling with blood from the excitement I was causing until the organ was almost as big as my little finger.
I encircled it and massaged up and down, while with my other hand I continued probing at my nether lips. Everything felt good, right, and I was getting more and more aroused, so I inserted my forefinger into my vaginal canal, pushed it inside me to the knuckle. Increasing the pressure, and the sensation, I kept working on my clitty while I placed a second finger inside my cunt and then a third. I moved them up and down, up and down, in time with the hand on my clit, and I could feel my long fingernails scraping against the walls of my pussy. As I pushed upward as far as I could, at the same time pushing down from my hips, I felt the tips of the nail on my longest finger gently touch my womb, and there was a surge of pure ecstasy.
I continued like that for about five or ten minutes, bringing myself closer and closer to the point of orgasm, tantalizing myself by going to the brink and then relaxing the pressure, slowing down the speed. I couldn't let myself come yet. Something was missing. Only I didn't know what.
Then I got an idea, and I took my fingers from my cunt, hating to do it but knowing this was the best thing. Continuing to work on my clitty, I pulled down the blanket, shivering, and took the edge, near the corner, in my hand. I folded it over into a triangle, feeling the itchy wool on my palm, and then I rubbed my pussy with it. Just slightly, enough to feel it like a delicate kiss.
I pulled the blanket away from my moistening spot, returned it again. The texture was rough against me this time, and I liked that enough to put the blanket in a different place - my anus. Arching up, I used two fingers to spread open my asshole, and then I tickled it with the blanket, tickled it again. Slowly I pushed the blanket into my rear end, tightening my butt's bud as if I were trying to go to the bathroom and thereby making it open larger.
The blanket went up inside me slowly, and I kept it there for about half a minute, then, moving in such a way as to make a snail seem like the fastest thing alive, I pulled the blanket out. Pushing it in again, I bore down, trying to see how far I could make it go, how much material I could accept this way before the triangle of wool got too wide and too thick.
It didn't take long before no matter how hard I tried to cram the blanket into my ass I just couldn't get any more in, so I took it out and brought it up to my face. I sucked on the triangle and put it into my mouth, trying to imagine that I tasted far more than I did, and that I smelled more than wet wool. But I'm very tidy and clean, and there was nothing else on the blanket, in spite of the fact that I wished there was.
Taking the cloth from my mouth, I brought it down to my cunt and pushed it inside me there, getting a lot more in than I could in my ass. Finally I felt as though I was going to burst, with all that thick wool inside me. There was so much that I couldn't move it anymore, couldn't feel the scratching of the rough material. Getting another idea, I held the blanket in place with one hand, continued flicking my clit with the other, and swung out of bed, going to the portable typewriter on my desk.
The typewriter had been a going-away present from the state psychiatrist. Reluctantly letting go of my pussy, I took the roller out of the typewriter, flexing the muscles in my cunt as I did so to keep the blanket in place there. Taking the roller back to the bed, I lay down once more and spread my legs as wide as they would go. Then I took the roller and brought it down to my hole, holding it so that the thing you turn to move the paper around was right up against my stretched lips. Using the wheel of the roller as a kind of tamper, I pushed against the blanket that was inside me, tamping it in tighter and tighter, until all possible spaces were filled. It would have been impossible to get anymore inside of me.
Sitting up, I leaned forward as far as I could so that I could see what I was doing, and how I looked so well stuffed. I gave my clitty a final tug and grabbed the blanket with one hand, yanking it out with all my might, the wool scratching and abrading as it whipped out, unwinding. I felt a terrible, yet wonderful pain, and involuntarily I closed my eyes, seeing everything become black. Forcing myself to open them again, I pulled out the rest of the blanket, scraping myself almost raw. Then I grabbed the typewriter roller in both hands and shoved it up inside me as far as it would go. The turning wheel hit my lips, paused, and then the passageway opened wider and the roller was in. I twisted and turned it, riding the thing like a horse, and as I gave one last turn, pulling and then pushing again so that I could see the ink from the roller hitting my tender skin, I erupted in the kind of orgasm that could only be equaled by a volcano spewing out its lava.
"Yeeaaahhhhahahahahahaaahhhh-"
Involuntarily I screamed, shuddering with happiness as my body writhed. Wave after wave of harmony and excitement spilled over me, through me, as I came and came and came, and ultimately I could stand it no longer. The pleasure was unbearable, and the blackness I'd seen when I closed my eyes before gave way to a star studded sky. Rockets burst, and I fell back, chest and belly heaving as I passed out.
It had been heaven. Bliss. The one thing I'd needed to face the day, to conquer the fear of what might happen when I chose my classes. And to conquer the cold and wind I had to be brave.
I don't care what the commercials say. Cornflakes or raisin bran just don't do the same thing.
There's only one real way, one good way, to start out each day.
* * *
But all that had been hours ago. Now I was becoming aroused just thinking about it, and I could feel myself starting to lubricate, could feel my clitoris becoming turgid. Across the room Mathilda was busy, but not so busy that I could just casually reach inside my clothes and relieve myself. I supposed that I could just let it happen naturally again, without any manual assistance, and hope she didn't notice, or that I could go out to the bathroom up the hall and lock myself into one of the toilet stalls, but that didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair. Why should Mathilda be able to keep me from doing what I wanted exactly the way I wanted it?
I wondered if maybe there wasn't some way she and I could get on neutral ground, if there wasn't something I could do to make her think - or see - that I wasn't what she thought I was. Or that if I was that still wasn't bad. I longed to play with myself, to touch myself right here and now. There had to be something I could do to improve the situation. Even if I stopped myself this time, what about the next? Would I always have to go running to the potty?
Mathilda seemed like the kind who would be in our room a lot, too, leaving me no time alone. After all, who would want to go out with somebody like her? What kind of friends could she have?
"Mathilda," I said, and she turned.
"Yes, Hattie?" said Mathilda. "Is there something you want to tell me, girl? Something that will make you better able to live with yourself, better able to sleep nights and be at peace?"
"You could say that," I said.
"Then tell me, faithless whore," she said. "Tell me. I'll try to understand. I'm certain that I'll succeed, too."
"Just like your father?"
She nodded. "He's a very understanding person, Hattie child. You must meet him some day. I think you would like him."
"Is he handsome?" I asked.
"Looks don't make the man," said Mathilda. "What matters a pretty face if your soul is rotten and decayed?"
"He's ugly then, right?"
"But beautiful inside. Beautiful." Her eyes misted over, and I could, see that she was retreating inside herself, thinking about something that only she knew. "A wonderful man," Mathilda said. "A saint. When I'm with him -" She saw me staring at her, and she shook herself out of her reverie. "Never mind, Hattie. What was it you wanted to tell me?"
"I wanted to make a deal," I said.
"A deal?"
"The two of us should get along," I told her. "We should learn to live with each other, at least until I can get you kicked out of here."
"I told you I was going to be nicer, Hattie," Mathilda said. "I won't rush you. You'll find God in your own time."
"But in the meantime shouldn't we have some privacy?"
"What do you mean?"
"I was thinking that maybe we should arrange hours, you know. A time when I could be alone in the room here while you went out someplace, and a time when you could be alone while I went out."
"Ah, you mean for contemplation."
"Whatever," I said.
"For spiritual guidance. A time to be alone with your thoughts and your soaring aspirations."
"Right," I said quickly. "What do you think? You'll do it?"
"Certainly," said Mathilda. "I would be glad to do it."
I started to get excited, pleased, but then I noticed her tone of voice. "What do you mean, you would be glad to do it? Is there a 'but' in that?"
Mathilda shrugged her massive shoulders. "It's just that one's room is not the proper place for contemplation of a spiritual sort."
"It's not?"
"Heavens no. Since you want to try and find yourself, since you've made the first move in the attempt, I'll help you. Instead of leaving you alone in our room, I'll stay by your side every minute I can, to help answer your agonizing religious questions, to show you why the best body is the one you are ashamed of, why things of the flesh are worthless. And we'll set aside a time every day, perhaps twice a day when you're ready, to go to the proper place for personal thought."
"Where would that proper place be?" I said.
"The chapel," said Mathilda. "Where else? That's the place where you'll find what you want. That's the place where you can discover release."
I looked at her, taken aback. What could I say? What could I do? My pussy was on fire, my body was tensing. I had to be alone to take care of myself. I had to be. But Mathilda's response, it was no help, no help at all. I looked down at myself. My hands were shaking. My right hand was even acting as if it had a life of its own, creeping down to my cunt. It took a supreme effort of will to keep myself from masturbating right in front of Mathilda, regardless of the consequences.
The bathroom. The bathroom was the place.
But sex, especially sex with myself, with someone as wonderful as me, that kind of sex was just too good to be done in such a dirty place.
Not to mention the constraints such confinement would bring.
What to do? What to do?
"Ohhhhh," I moaned. "Ohhhh," and Mathilda looked at me with alarm.
"You need the chapel more than I thought," said Mathilda. "You need it right now." Dropping everything, she rushed to my side. "I'll take you there. We'll go right now."
That was when I got the idea. It was a long shot, but if what I was guessing at was right-
"No," I said to Mathilda, "you don't have to take me. I can find the way. I'll go alone."
"To the chapel now, do you promise, girl?"
"Oh yes, yes indeed."
"To pray?"
"To do what I must do," I said.
"To find happiness and fulfillment?"
"Oh yes, Mathilda," I said. "Oh yes."
And then I threw my coat around my shoulders and tore outside, going downstairs and rushing to the non-denominational chapel as quickly as I could. What with the state of the world, and of most people, I had a certain hunch about what I would find there.
And when I arrived I found that I was right.
The place was deserted.
Nobody had any time for a building like this. Nobody wanted to sit around there.
It was perfect. It was safe. Foolproof.
Here was where I could be alone. Here was where I could indulge myself.
I checked the chaplain's office, found it empty, with a note saying he'd gone to some Chamber of Commerce affair. Smiling, I went back out into the pews and sat myself down on a back one, swinging my legs up onto the seat.
Reaching down, I yanked down my panties, slipping them down to my ankles, and I began manipulating my sweet, sugary twat.
As I reached my third climax, or series of climaxes, for the day, I threw my head back and laughed, looking up.
And saw the Eternal Light.
Gleaming down on me.
Causing:
A revelation.
You heard me. That's right.
I had a revelation there, as my hands ground into my cunt and my juices gushed all over the pew.
I saw my new roommate, Mathilda Pendergast, for what she really was. For what she had to be.
An inspiration.
Ah yes.
"Get rid of that nylon," she'd said to me, or words to that effect. "You mustn't wear nylon panties," she'd said.
And I saw that she was correct. The position I was in, because of the panties, because of having them down around me, was awkward, undignified.
That had to be changed.
From now on I would never wear my nylon underwear again.
In fact, I would never wear any underwear at all.
Things would be so much more comfortable. And so much easier.
And the orgasms - well, it took time getting out of your panties - the orgasms would be so much quicker too.
I would keep the nylon stockings, though. They were indispensable.
My mind made up, my soul at ease, I gave myself up to the sensations in my crotch and settled back, abandoning myself to an inner fire of joy.
* * *
Two hours later I was still busy enjoying the pew.
Having reaffirmed that salvation indeed was right there in my hand.
Chapter Four
Surprisingly, after our difficult beginning, Mathilda and I got along.
Not well, of course, but we were able to live together without tearing each other's hair out or scratching at each other's eyes.
I suppose each of us thought she had to put up with a lot. I had to endure Mathilda and her constant preaching, and she had to live with me and what she thought was my immorality. Not that Mathilda knew anything about whatever it was I might do, either alone or out on a date, but just because to her I had the wrong attitude and outlook as well as the wrong wardrobe.
But the fact that I went to the chapel every day, sometimes several times, softened Mathilda's pronouncements of my imminent doom, helping considerably, and after a while I learned to more or less completely tune her out. After classes started and I began meeting people, especially male people, I saw less and less of Mathilda anyway. I would study in the library, for example, since the books I might need were all there. And also, I admit, since it was something of a social center, the meeting place for literally thousands of young people, the place where names were exchanged and dates made.
By midterm everything had settled down fairly comfortably. I even had stopped going to the chapel so much, mainly because I had other releases. And also because the exciting prospect of exchanging violence with Mathilda had virtually disappeared. Our relationship no longer aroused me.
I felt sorry for Mathilda though. She was so, well, she was disgusting, I guess you could say. So big and cloddy and ugly. She was home all the time - in the room, that is - with few female friends and certainly no male ones, and all she did was study and pray and write long, long letters to her father. She would stay up nights, with a flashlight under her blanket (so as not to disturb me), writing to "Daddy," telling him ... I didn't know what she told him, really, but I did know that it took between six and sixty handwritten pages to say it in every time.
Once I tried to help Mathilda, to bring her out of the world she seemed to live in and into the real one, broaching the subject of male-female relationships, of just plain friends, of getting along with people. I talked about good grooming and minimizing one's bad points by choosing the right makeup or the right clothes. But all Mathilda did was groan and reach out to me, shake me until I thought all my bones were becoming disconnected, and call me a sinner.
After that I left her alone and went on my own way. Because I was older than most undergraduates I had some difficulty in finding young men my age to date, but I got lucky when my Freshman Rhetoric teacher let it be known that he was unmarried. Mr. Mogogdian was a big, strapping man, almost as big as the student who had helped me out during registration. Although he was in his forties and balding, Mr. Mogogdian was attractive in a rough hewn way. He was a man's man, a camper and hiker, a former wrestler who had even been a carnival strongman once. All in all I found him fascinating, but to Mr. Mogogdian I was just another student, another girl who spelled poorly and sometimes got her syntax messed up.
This had to be changed.
He had to see me as I was.
As Hattie.
But how?
I didn't want to be too forward, so I did nothing, contenting myself with going out with various graduate students and an occasional classmate who, although younger than I was, had a good sensible head on his shoulders. When we kissed I would sometimes imagine that whoever I was with was Mr. Mogogdian, and that made things better. A fantasy Mogogdian was better than no Mogogdian at all.
Most of my dates were fairly tame, though. We would study together, go out for coffee or beer, see a movie. There were few places to go in the town the campus was in, and since most students lived in dorms or fraternity or sorority houses it was difficult for a couple to be alone together. There seldom were even cars to go out in, since most of the boys couldn't afford them, so we walked to most places in the cold wind.
A few times, however, I introduced some young men to the chapel. It was open twenty-four hours a day, you see. I guess because the chaplain was a very optimistic man. (I had to guess about his motives at the time - on all the occasions on which I went to the chapel I had never seen him. Between teaching and proselytizing he was never around.) At any rate, there were three young men to whom I showed the wonders of the religious atmosphere, one of them several times.
His name was Al, which had also been the name of someone very close to me once, my uncle, and he was a graduate assistant in the physics department. Al's talk was about cyclotrons and splitting electrons and nuclear fission, but his body and his mouth never seemed to be coordinated. It was fascinating. He would be talking about the atom, giving me a lesson on nature's smallest particle, and even as he went into the theory of atomic numbers his body was shifting forward toward me, his hands working madly, trying to touch whatever he could.
Al's indirect approach was far from subtle, but he thought it was. Never in all the time I knew him did he ever say anything sexy or loving to me. Never, in fact, did he ever say anything which acknowledged that anything sexy or loving had happened between us. But the things did happen. We would sit in the chapel, and he would talk, and then I would feel his fingers on my knee, feel them closing around it, stroking lightly. Because of my limited background I would usually be engrossed in what he was saying, trying to learn from it, so it was easy to put up with the physical accompaniment. Also because of my background I enjoyed the accompaniment. But since he never told me he did, I never said anything about my own feelings.
All I would ever do, in fact, was thank him for the lesson.
Which was exactly what Al would say to me.
One evening, for example, we went to see some terrible Doris Day movie, where she was working busily to defend her virtue from Rock Hudson, that noted debaucher of women (at least in the film). The movie had all kinds of silly goings-on and was supposed to be a comedy, but I just didn't find it funny. I mean, the whole thing was about whether or not old Rock would get Doris into bed, and who cared?
After all, neither one of them seemed very sexy to me.
But Al and I sat through it, and afterward we walked back to campus while he told me of the marvelous new developments that had been made in the counting of neutrons. There were all kinds of recording devices, he explained, his arm around me to protect me from the chill wind. It was snowing lightly, and I shivered, started wondering if perhaps I shouldn't go back to wearing panties. The bottom part of me was cold!
As we walked Al brought up his other arm, putting that across my front. It looked as if he was just trying to insure my warmth, but actually he liked the pressure on it from my breasts, even through the thick coat. It also enabled him to get his head closer, so I could hear what he was telling me more clearly, above the howl the wind made. In the middle of a sentence Al nipped me on the ear with his teeth, but he hurried on to finish what he was saying, just as the action started to cause a rosy glow inside me.
We kissed several more times, and I was warming up considerably when we reached the chapel. Al swung open the heavy door, and we looked inside the dimly lighted room.
Empty.
Of course.
We walked inside, clinging to each other tightly as Al informed me of the fact that "a molecule can be likened to a miniature universe, or perhaps a galaxy, while the individual atom is like a solar system such as ours, with the nucleus as the sun and the electrons as planets circling around it."
"What about the neutrons?" I asked.
"Ah," Al said, "I'm glad you brought that up. I've been asked that many times, and many times I've brought up the question myself. What about the neutrons?"
"Yes?" I said.
We went to a front pew, sitting down and taking off our coats. The chapel was quite well heated.
"The neutrons are also present in the solar system that is the atom," Al said. "As you may remember from a previous discussion we had, their number is always equal to the number of -"
"I know," I said. "I remember."
"Good," said Al. "You're a good pupil."
"Thank you," I said. "You never know when physics is going to come in handy. A girl has to pick up what knowledge she can."
Al nodded. I was wearing a one-piece jumper with a thin blouse beneath it, and my skirt was very short, so that he could see the tops of my thighs as we sat alongside each other. I was wearing nylons on my legs, all sleek and shiny, and the stocking tops were also plainly visible. Al gaped at them, and at my garters, and he eased back as I swung my legs up onto his lap.
Slouching back, he looked at my legs some more, trying to see the point where they came together, trying to see my naked cunt. But it was too shadowy, and he couldn't. Although maybe he thought he could.
Why aren't you Mr. Mogogdian? I thought.
"You certainly never do know when physics is going to come in handy," Al said. "But there are so many practical applications of the theories I'm familiar with. In everyday life, I mean."
He took my calf in his hands, stroked it, top and back, and I sighed, wriggling my foot. "Tell me about them," I said. I vowed to listen carefully. "Please."
Al swallowed, continuing to massage my leg. "Well," he said, "without physics, for example, and the knowledge we have of the physical laws of the universe, there could be no electricity. No electrical appliances. No electrical power for communications. Nothing. And electricity, as you know, is thought by some to be created when-"
He launched into a detailed description of electricity and how it came about, theoretically and practically, and I heaved a deep breath and abandoned myself to his hands, sliding down so that I was lying on the pew, while Al petted and rubbed first one leg, then the other. His hands went down to my ankle, stroking the nylon there, and from there he went to my feet, my shoes.
Without even taking a breath or stopping in his sentence, Al bent down and kissed first the tip of one shoe, then the tip of the other. He kissed the sole of each shoe, and took off both of them, rubbing them and kissing the inside now, the instep, the inside part of the heel. I watched him, smiling. Somewhere Al had developed excellent, if slightly subservient habits. Absently, I wondered where, knowing that I would never find out. We never talked about those things, and we knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about one another.
That was part of the charm of it all.
Putting my shoes down on the floor in front of him, Al took my foot in his hands and bent down to it. I pointed my toes, arching my feet - with my high insteps it really looked grand - and Al fell too, licking and kissing my nylons, rubbing his tongue completely over my foot while he talked about generators and magnetos.
He took my toes in his mouth while his hand caressed my heel, and then he raised my leg and lowered his head still further, taking my heel in his mouth and caressing my toes. Al did the same for my other foot, and I loved it, feeling almost as if I was being given a bath. Feeling safe and secure and protected.
Even feeling sorry for Mathilda, who had never known the sensation of having somebody worship her. And who probably never would.
Shifting his weight, Al began to lick up my leg, sliding his tongue up until he came to my thigh. Now I wanted him to see what he was interested in, and I spread my legs wide, giving him room to slide his head up my skirt. Al did just that, pausing only to kiss the naked flesh just above my garter. Then he placed both hands on my thighs and gently kissed me right on the cunt.
I squirmed with joy and pressed my legs against his head, locking him in. "Ohh," I said, "ohh, Al ..." From between my legs and beneath my skirt came his muffled voice: "-While Benjamin Franklin was one of the first men to realize just what electricity was, it wasn't until much later that the force was harnessed for use. James Watt, in eighteen -"
I didn't listen, squeezing my legs still further together, and the voice faded out as Al thrust out his tongue, licking my pussy, lightly at first, then with more force. His mouth encircled my clit, and he drew on it, sucking, sending my own electrical surges through my body. "That's the way, baby," I heard myself cry. "Ah, ah, that is the special way -"
Al's mouth alternated between my clit and my cunt, his teeth nibbling on me as he drove his tongue deeper and deeper into my hold of wonders. His breathing was ragged, but whenever he could he continued his lecture, even as I came, my body going into a violent spasm. Al gave me one final lick, maybe for good luck, certainly for good measure, and then I released the pressure from my legs, allowing him to emerge from inside my skirt.
He sat up, my love-juice dripping from his lips, and I waited a moment, until I'd recovered from my orgasm, and kissed him, drinking as much of the sweet nectar from his mouth as I could. Our lips pressed together, tongues intertwining, and Al's hands worked on my breasts. My nipples stiffened almost immediately, and I was ready to come again. But I also knew that I had to be fair. It was his turn now.
Sitting up, I pushed Al back against the pew, and he continued to play with my titties, unbuttoning my blouse and taking them out of my bra so he could cup the bare flesh in his hands. I had no time to luxuriate in the sensation, however, because I was unzipping Al's trousers and opening up the baggy boxer shorts he wore.
Inside the shorts his male organ was firm, hard. Al's cock was short, but it was thick, with a very creditable diameter. There was nothing atom-like about it, although once I'd made (in my mind only) a little joke about it being atomic. (The way it exploded, you know.)
(Well, I didn't say the little joke was very good, did I? Hattie tries to please, but sometimes -)
Anyway, I peered into the opening in Al's shorts, and his heavy young penis seemed to peer back at me, it's one eye watching me balefully. Reaching inside, I grasped the turgid stick in my hand and removed it from its binding surroundings, while with my other hand I reached up the leg of Al's shorts and rubbed his sack of balls.
Al groaned and redoubled his efforts with my breasts, informing me that James Watt was quite renowned when he died, and I made a mental note of that and applied myself to the cock I was holding. Using my nails, I rubbed the head, watching as it got redder and redder, and then I stroked the shaft, encircling it with my palm and going up and down, like someone trying to smooth all the wrinkles - wrinkles which were fast disappearing anyway as the already swollen member enlarged still further.
Al's flesh was warm in my hands as I squeezed each of his testes and went on going up and down on his penis, and my hand too seemed to catch fire from the friction, as did my pussy, which began to lubricate as what I was doing excited me - what I was doing, in fact, excited me far more than what Al was doing to my breasts.
I was in control. I was giving a man pleasure, making him depend on me for his release. Lowering my head, I licked my lips so that they glistened, and I kissed the hole through which Al's vital fluids flowed. Al moaned, and I kissed it again, taking my hand and spreading it open, just barely touching it with my tongue. I licked the hole and then the entire tip of Al's cock, all around that wide, flowering part, then nipped it with my teeth. Al moaned again.
His body quivered, and I made it shake still more by licking down the shaft to Al's woolly mat of pubic hair. One of the hairs came loose, entering my mouth, and I took it out, replaced it inside his shorts. I licked all around the penis, every inch of it, making it shine with the moisture from my mouth, and then I opened wide and put my lips around first the head, then the shaft. My mouth formed a large "O" and I left traces of lipstick along the way as I slid up and back, duplicating the motions I'd made with my hand before. At the same time I sucked as if on a lollipop, while I inhaled his masculine smell.
Al groaned.
I did too, so much did I enjoy what I was doing. Al's hands dug into my nipples as he lost control of himself, but I didn't mind, going on with my sucking, trying to eat him, to ram the thick penis down my throat. I rolled my head and pushed forward as far as I could, so that the tip of Al's prick hit my tonsils and went past them into my throat.
Then I swallowed.
That's right.
I swallowed Al's cock.
The muscles of my throat constricted, and for a while I thought I would gag. That passed, however, as it always did, and I was left with just the fullness of it all, with the feeling of using my mouth and throat for what they were really made for. About half of Al's cock was down my throat, the other half in my mouth itself, and my teeth were against his hair. I bit at the kinky strands, and Al's body twisted and turned without rhyme or reason.
There was only one thing he wanted.
I gave it to him.
Opening my mouth still wider than it had been, I coughed, bring up that part of Al which I'd swallowed, and then I closed my mouth swiftly, catching it again. One hand squeezed Al's testes, hard, the other grabbing his waist. I gave a final pull on Al's cock with my mouth, clamping my teeth down on it, and Al cried out, "Electricity! Electricity! Power, power! Oh, power, power, power, power! What a generator, what a generator, what generation!!" With an incoherent shout, he exploded in my mouth, the thick white liquid smashing outward from his organ like water from a high pressure hose, driving my head back.
I fought to keep my mouth on Al's cock, and I succeeded, swallowing all his sperm with gusto. The taste of it, well, the taste is indescribable really. You have to experience it to know what I'm talking about. Those gooey gobs of white come, just inundating your mouth with their sour smell, they're the kind of thing you don't want to end, that's all. And the texture; creamy, lumpy, and smooth, all at once! I drank and drank as Al poured his come into me, and when he was finished the two of us sank back, separating.
I gasped for air, and I listened to Al's heavy breathing, and I realized that something was wrong.
That's all he was doing. Just breathing.
His lecture, the latest in my series of lessons physics, it had finally stopped.
Chapter Five
I couldn't believe it. It was unheard of.
Why was Al silent?
"Are you all right?" I asked him. "Al, darling, are you okay?"
Silence. I stared at him. Al seemed to be in good physical shape. He was definitely alive. "Al? Al?"
Slowly, he turned to face me, and he winced. "My pocket," he said. "Can you reach into my pocket?"
"Can't you?"
"Hattie," said Al, "I'm so damn tired I can hardly move. Believe me, I would if I could. But what you did for me, it was the best yet, the very best ..."
"Gee," I said. "Thank you."
"I don't know when I'll ever recover. Or if. Now, please, my pocket. And don't hold it against me, all right?"
"Hold it against you? Hold what? Why?" I couldn't imagine what he was talking about. "Which pocket, Al?" I said.
"My back pocket. On the right side."
The left would have been easier to reach, but I managed. Al squinched over just enough, and I put my hand into his pocket and took out - "A tape recorder!"
It was small, tiny, with a wire that led from it back into the pocket, but which, from the tension in it, obviously didn't end there. It went - someplace.
"It's one of the new ones," Al said. "Fully transistorized and miniaturized. Imported from Japan."
"No kidding? It doesn't look Japanese."
"Tape recorders never have slanty eyes, Hattie."
"I meant the styling. It's very western, very modern."
"The Japanese are way ahead of us on those things," said Al, "that's why it looks the way it does. Works great, too." He groaned, a different kind of groan than the one he'd let out before, and he turned away from me as if unable to face me. "That is, it worked great," he said. "I'm so embarrassed."
"Embarrassed?" I didn't understand. "Why?"
"Check the switch, will you, Hattie?" Al said. "Is it on?"
I checked. "Yes," I told him. "But you haven't answered my question. And where does this wire lead to? What's going on?"
Another groan. Al was silent, thoughtful. Then: "I've been fooling you, Hattie," he said. "I'm not what I pretended to be."
"You're not a graduate student in Nuclear Physics?"
"Oh, I'm that all right. Only - only I'm not a brilliant graduate student."
"You're not?"
"I wish I was. I try to be." He shuddered, lowering his head and catching sight of his crotch. Hurriedly, he stuffed his cock back into his shorts and zipped up his pants. "I'm doing fairly well," he said to me, "but I don't really know as much as you think I do. I can't really recite all those great long spiels I've been giving you, all those lessons."
"But you have recited them, Al. I've heard them."
"Only with the help of what you've got in your hand. "I record all the lectures I attend, and when we're together I play them back. The wire is attached to the tiny little microphone, and the mike is here in my ear, see?"
I looked, and I saw. "So that's why you never let me nibble your ear," I said.
"That's right," Al said sadly. "I would listen to the lecture and repeat it back to you. It took a lot of concentration, but usually I could manage. It was hard though, damn hard."
"Then why did you do it?"
"For you," he said.
"For me?"
"You thought I was intelligent. You said you loved intelligent, brilliant, erudite, scientific men."
"That was because you were talking like that when we met in the library," I said. "Remember? You were sitting at the table muttering 'E=MC2' to yourself!"
"I was studying," said Al. "I had the recorder plugged into my ear, and I was trying to memorize what I needed for a quiz. When I saw that it impressed you I kept it up. I'm a fake, a goddamn fake!"
He put his head in his hands, and I thought I heard a sniffle, like he was crying. I felt helpless, not knowing what to do, not even knowing how to react. Our relationship had been built on a crooked foundation, or worse, perhaps even a foundation that didn't really exist. I didn't know how to react. I'd been fooled, fooled, taken advantage of. If Al hadn't talked as he had I never would have dated him. I never would have shown him the chapel -
And yet he was so gentle, so good. His lips, his teeth, his mouth, his hands-
"The battery had to go dead," he mumbled to himself. "Tonight, here, now, it had to go dead. Those damn little Japs had to screw me up, leave me in the lurch ... You can't trust foreign-made products," he said, "no way. The battery was supposed to be good for a hundred and fifty hours of playing time, and it hasn't been used nearly that much ... Damn, damn, damn ..."
"Maybe you'd better take this back now," I said to Al, giving him the tape recorder. "Maybe you can complain at the store and get your money back."
"I don't want money," he said. "My faith is shattered. If you can't believe in the precision of Japanese-made goods, what the hell can you believe in?"
"I don't know," I said. "Are you sure this is the place to discuss it?"
He looked around the chapel. "Can you ever forgive me, Hattie? Is there anything I can say or do? I'd like to make it up to you. Please, if you'll just say it isn't too late. If you can give me a chance -" He broke off, getting an idea. "Wait, wait. Maybe I can remember. Maybe I can really do it. Maybe I can become the kind of a person you want me to be. 'The molecule can be compared to a small universe,'" Al recited haltingly, " 'or at the least to - to a galaxy, while the atom itself, the atom, uh, uh, the atom corresponds to a solar system, you know with the sun and the planets being like, like the nucleus with its protons and the electrons and neutrons and -' "
"Al, please, please, stop."
"Stop?"
"It's no good," I told him. "I'm sorry, but it's just no good. You're not as clear as before, and you have to stop and think about what you're going to say. It's just not the same thing."
"How about if I get new batteries and we forget all about tonight?"
"I can't forget about tonight, Al. I wish I could, but I can't."
"But there must be something I can do," he said. "Anything."
I wasn't sure. But I was curious about where he'd learned to do what he did to me, with me. If I could know about that, maybe I would know more about Al as a person and like him enough so that his deception wouldn't matter. I told this to him, and he smiled, like a child grasping at a straw.
"Okay," said Al, "okay. I'll tell you. I'll tell you whatever, whatever you want to know." Pause. "Only, could I touch you while I talk? Just a little touch, huh?"
"Now Al," I said.
"All right, all right," he said. "No touching. I understand. I understand the position you're in."
And so saying he settled back, gazing up my skirt, and he told me about his past. And the highly liberal education he'd had.
* * *
"I guess I learned all about sex when I was just a kid," Al said. "I was maybe seven or eight. My mother was a beautiful woman - she looked a lot like you, Hattie, but more mature, with more wisdom in her face. And my father, my father was a typical businessman. Not too tall, a little overweight, the kind of man even I couldn't recognize without his glasses.
"They loved each other, I suppose. They must have. I was one of eleven children and the only boy in the family. I was also the youngest kid in the group, with everybody just about a year apart. There would've been more children after me, I'm sure, but my mother got sick and had to have a hysterectomy, or whatever the hell they call them. All her insides got taken out. The ones that had to do with human reproduction, that is. Her heart and liver and lungs and things stayed in, if you know what I mean.
"So anyway, when I was seven my oldest sister was ten years older than me, seventeen. It was her misfortune to look just like my dad, even to the glasses, and she was a shy kid, someone who kept to herself a lot. Or as much as possible in a house that only had three bedrooms. Yeah, that's right. It meant five kids in one bedroom and six in the other, since my parents were too selfish to share their room.
"All parents are selfish, I guess. It's a way that they have of getting back at us for making them old." Al stopped, looking at me for a reaction to what he evidently considered to be a profound statement. I kept my face blank. I didn't think he was so profound at all, but I didn't want him to know. In fact, I was getting impatient with his story. It wasn't what he said so much as the way he said it. So slowly. So damned, damned sssslllloooowwww ...
"Well," said Al finally, "as I was saying. All us kids were crowded into two bedrooms, and the one I was in had my oldest sister plus the fifteen-year-old, the fourteen-year-old, the thirteen-year-old, and the twelve-year-old. My sixteen-year-old sister was assigned to the other room to keep order amongst the younger girls, so I didn't see her much. By the time I was seven the routine was pretty well established. Mainly, I was ignored. My oldest sister, Glenda, read all the time. Good books, literature. The next oldest sister in our room, Paulette, was her exact opposite. She was beautiful and vivacious, and she was usually out. When she was home she wore sexy nightgowns and complained about how cramped we were. My thirteen-year-old sister was Rita, and she was a kind of budding nonentity. That is to say she was right in between the other two girls in looks and personality, which made her extremely average and extremely forgettable. In fact, many times we ate dinner without her, not even knowing Rita wasn't there.
"The youngest of my sisters in our room was Daphne, and she was the wild one, the cut-up. Daphne liked to play jokes on people, like putting itching powder in Glenda's bed. Once she set off a firecracker in the toilet bowl when she knew Paulette would be going. Taped it right to the side, just above the water line, and used a long fuse. Little Daphne created quite a fuss, let me tell you.
"Anyway, things were pretty normal, as you can see, but that was only during the daytime. At night, when we were all in bed, the atmosphere of the room changed. There were three beds, and I shared mine with Daphne, so I was there with her when she had her first period, and I was also there with her the first time she played with herself. You see, at night a hush would come over the room, and everyone would get in bed, and then, after a while, I would hear all kinds of heavy breathing, and the noise of rustling sheets. Then there would be some moans and groans, and my sisters' bodies would twist and turn until each one sighed with great relief and finally relaxed, going to sleep.
"Until I was seven I didn't know what was going on. But that was when I first saw Daphne playing with herself and started to understand what the night noises were. What happened was that it was cold, so I got all the way under the covers, even putting my head under them. But I still couldn't fall asleep because beside me Daphne was scratching herself. At least it sounded like scratching. Her hand was on her stomach, rubbing away, or so it seemed, and I moved my head closer, seeing that she wasn't really touching her stomach at all. She had her hand between her legs, and her finger was disappearing in there. Going in and out.
"What should I tell you? I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what Daphne was doing, but I assumed she just had a little itch. Being a good little brother, I thought I should help her scratch it. Then maybe she'd stop and I could fall asleep. I put my hand where hers was and felt something moist, wet. I got scared, and I stuck my head out from under the sheets. Daphne was staring at me. 'You made a peepee,' I said to her. 'You made a peepee in bed.' I whispered, of course.
" 'I did not,' Daphne said. 'I never make in bed. I'm too old to do what you do.'
" 'But you're all wet,' I whispered.
" 'Maybe I am, but it isn't peepee, you little dodo.'
" 'If it isn't peepee, then what is it?' I asked.
"Daphne thought about it for a minute. 'It's - stuff,' she said.
" 'Stuff?'
" 'Go ahead, you little creep, smell it. You tell me if it smells like peepee. Go ahead.'
"Well, I was curious as hell, and I did what she suggested, and Daphne turned out to be right. It didn't smell like urine at all. In fact, it smelled rather nice, in an unpleasant kind of a way. Daphne told me that I could help make her wetter if I wanted, that all I had to do was what she was doing, substituting my finger for hers. Resting my head on her stomach, still under the sheet, I put my little finger inside the hole I found in her body (yes, I'd seen the girls naked before, but I'd never paid much attention to detail except to notice that they didn't have a 'hot dog' the way I did). Daphne told me how to move my finger, and then how to add another one to it, and I did what she said, scratching away, while her body pumped up and down and she made weird, scary noises, noises like I heard every night from the other girls. Finally, when my little hand was soaked, Daphne came. At least now I know that was what she'd done. She told me I could take my hand out, and I did, and then we both went to sleep, Daphne hugging me tightly and calling me her 'beloved dodo, the world's greatest substitute peepee maker,' whatever that meant.
"After that," continued Al, "I helped Daphne masturbate every night, and sometimes during the day, too. She thought it was very funny, one of her special jokes. The idea that a little boy, her own brother, was making her come was hilarious to her. As for me, I did it because it was just another game. Like playing doctor, only with a more detailed examination than my younger sisters allowed me to make.
"Finally, though, the other girls in our bedroom saw what was going on. One night I was busy fingering Daphne under the covers - it's all right if I use that word, isn't it? I don't want to be too indelicate with a nice girl like you, Hattie. But that's what I was doing, fingering her under the covers, using three fingers now, while with my other hand I spread her opening so it was very wide. Daphne moaned and moved around, and then I heard a slap, and Daphne screamed. I was scared, and I got more scared when someone suddenly whipped the blankets off me, leaving my activities, among other things, exposed.
"I closed my eyes tightly, and suddenly I wasn't hearing the sound of slapping anymore, I was feeling a palm smashing me on the back of the neck. I opened my eyes, and there were Glenda, Paulette, Myra, my fourteen-year-old sister, and Rita, all glaring down at me. Glenda was mad, boy. Her face was bright red. I could see that even in the dark. She was hollering and yelling about how awful what we were doing was, and I didn't know what to say or do. I just wanted to die. And I think Glenda wanted to kill me. And Daphne too.
"It was Myra who came to our rescue. I forgot to tell you about her before, but not purposely. Myra was my closest friend in the family, the one who kept my mother from hitting me too hard, and who looked out for me, bringing me to school in the morning and all that. Myra was like an angel, all soft and pretty and fantastically intelligent. She would never have needed any damn Japanese tape recorder whispering what to say in her ear in order to sound brilliant. She was a top student, the kind of kid who-could solve any problem.
"She solved this one simply, pointing out to Glenda that all the girls were playing with themselves and that Daphne had just been the first one to show enough brains to get someone to do it for her. Glenda said that was because Daphne had always been lazy. And then, defending herself against what she saw as a slight, Paulette said that she'd beaten Daphne to the punch a long time ago. 'I've had plenty of people do all the work on me,' Paula said. 'Little Daphne isn't any smarter than I am.'
" 'But little Daphne's the only one who had the sense to keep it all in the family and keep her reputation from being ruined, dummy,' Myra said.
" 'My reputation isn't ruined,' said Paulette.
" 'You wouldn't want to bet, would you?' Glenda asked.
" 'Okay, okay. So it's - soiled a little,' Paulette admitted.
" 'A little?'' Rita said. 'Boy, if you knew the guys who bother talking to me only because I'm your sister -'
"Well, they argued for a while, and then Myra got everybody calmed down, before they woke up my parents and everyone else. What she proposed, she said, was something that would make Paulette a good girl again, and keep the rest of them that way. They would all use me the way Daphne had, taking turns. And, of course, I mustn't, mustn't tell, because that would spoil the game.
"The other girls, even Glenda, finally agreed, and Paulette seemed more interested than anybody. Only I wasn't so sure. If the game was so much fun, how come I wasn't going as nuts during it as Daphne had? Paulette smiled when she heard that, and she promised that she would see to it that I enjoyed myself as much as they all did.
"From that night on we did just what Myra had thought of, and it was really great. I spent the rest of the night with Paulette, and she took my pajamas off me and played with my little ding-dong, as she called it, until it got good and hard, like it did when I had to make a peepee. Only like Daphne, I didn't peepee at all. Instead I came, not with any sperm or anything, but with the good feeling, with the sense of the explosion. Paulette taught the other girls how to jag me off, if you'll excuse the expression, and they did it for me too, while they also taught me how to use my mouth on them, making me into an expert licker and sucker.
"We never actually fucked, though, funny thing. My ding-dong, or hot dog, or whatever you want to call it, was too small to satisfy any of the girls when I was young, and when I got older we'd gotten out of the habit. The habit I was in was doing all I could for them with my mouth and hands, and we developed some good routines, so that I learned to manipulate not just their lower genitals but also their breasts and the rest of their bodies. Daphne was the one who taught me to make love to her feet. But I don't know if she liked it because it was sexy to her or because she had athlete's foot and wanted to spread it around. As I said, she was quite a joker."
Stopping in his story, Al took his eyes from my cunt and looked up at my face. He smiled. "Those were great years, my childhood ones," he said. "I'll always remember them fondly. All the good times. It's a funny thing though -"
"What is?" I said. His expression had suddenly gotten so serious.
"Oh," said Al, "it's just a funny thing about Rita, the nonentity sister, the one who was so average and so forgettable. We had such good times together, I'm sure we did, but I can't even remember a one. In fact," he went on, "I can't even remember what she looked like down there. Or the taste. Isn't that sad?" He shook his head. "Not even her smell."
I gazed at Al, who was so caught up in his own past. He'd even forgotten the purpose of telling me this story, he was so busy thinking about his sisters, none of whom could ever have been as beautiful or as desirable as I was. Surely Mr. Mogogdian, put in a position where he had to convince me to keep him as such a close friend, would never have forgotten what it was he was trying to prove. He would never have forgotten that he was on trial for gross deception. Al's attitude clinched things. To be so caught up in his own family! To be tied to other women as well as a liar and a terrible storyteller! No one could be forgiven for all that. No one.
And so, as Al sat there in the pew, idly taking out his penis and manipulating it, his vacant gaze still showing that his thoughts were lingering over the past, a disillusioned, sadder, but much wiser little college girl got up and silently made her way back to her dorm.
Chapter Six
On the day of the final exam in Freshman Rhetoric, Mr. Mogogdian finally asked me out.
It was a memorable day, to be sure.
For something else, too.
Because it was also the day I learned the name of the young man who in the not so distant future would be my husband.
Touching, isn't it?
Well, if affects me that way.
What happened was that things started out badly. Mathilda had been up all night studying for an exam in theology, muttering religious principles until I thought I would go out of my mind. My rhet final was supposed to be a short one, a kind of "What did you learn in this course?" type of exam, so I'd wanted to sleep. But of course that had been impossible with Mathilda so nervous. I'd had to sit and listen to her recite the value of repentance until I thought I'd go out of my mind.
By morning I was exhausted, and while the day before I hadn't been at all worried about my exam now I was terrified. My mind was foggy, my thinking clouded from lack of sleep. A sure "A" was about to become a very chancy "C" or "C-." And that was if I was lucky.
But halfway through the test, even while I was fighting to keep awake, Mr. Mogogdian did a very surprising thing.
He passed me a note.
That's right. He came up to my desk and put a folded piece of paper down where I could see it, slipping it from a hand that was held hidden behind his back. No one had done something like that for me since I was in junior high school, and then I'd had to ignore the message written to me because it was obscene.
I looked at the piece of paper. Then I looked at my blue book, the thing you write in your answers to final exam questions in. Then I looked at the mimeographed copy of the final which was before me.
And then I looked up at Mr. Mogogdian.
He was watching me closely, seeming to study me, but when our eyes met he turned away.
I smiled.
And uncrossed my legs.
Crossed them again.
Quite a bit of flesh showed.
I'd planned it that way. I always showed as much as possible when I was going to Mr. Mogogdian's class. Even the sweater I was wearing now was very low cut.
Certainly the kind you get kicked out of high school for.
Or even the PTA.
I waited, and Mr. Mogogdian turned back to gaze at the firm flesh which peeked up out of my sweater, crammed into the uplift bra, and I smiled at him, watched him turn away again. Then I looked down at the note he'd left me and picked it up. I unfolded it, and I read:
"Will you?"
That was it. That was all there was on the piece of paper. Just two words and a question mark. "Will you?"
How could I help but fall in love with a man like that? He was so smooth, so suave, so experienced, so subtle.
I thought over his question, scribbled something on the piece of paper. Refolding it, I put it up in a corner of my desk and returned my attention to the final. About a minute or so later Mr. Mogogdian came by and picked up the paper, taking it to his desk and reading my answer. He frowned, wrote something down, and brought the paper back to me, this time letting it fall near my foot as he casually walked by.
I picked up the paper, unfolded it, read what he'd written:
"No, "the last line on the paper said. "No."
I sighed, putting down my pen and closing my blue book. What I had written had been:
"Do I have to take the final now?"
I thought a moment, wrote something else for Mr. Mogogdian to read, and I slipped the piece of paper into my blue book and brought the whole thing up to him. I left it on his desk and went out into the hall, aware that the eyes of all my fellow classmates were upon me.
And enjoying it thoroughly, to be sure.
Almost immediately Mr. Mogogdian emerged from the room. He came over to me, clearing his throat. "I read your final composition, Hattie," he said. His voice sounded a little hoarse.
I nodded. That was what I'd wanted to know. What I'd written on the note was: "Why?" Why was Mr. Mogogdian giving me this chance? Why was he giving me this tumble?
"I hope it was okay, Mr. Mogogdian," I said. "My composition, I mean. It was the last one in the course and we had longer to write it and it counted double, so I tried to make it good."
"It was very good, Hattie," said Mr. Mogogdian. His hands twitched. "Excellent."
"Thank you," I said.
"Your subject matter was most unusual."
"You asked us to write a short history of the last few years of our life, Mr. Mogogdian. That's what I did."
"And what you wrote was factual?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Every word?"
"Oh yes. I wouldn't lie to you."
"I think we should discuss this further, Hattie. That's why I wrote you that note. If we could meet later, for lunch?"
"Whatever you say, Mr. Mogogdian."
"In the Student Union then," he said. He looked at his watch. "The exam will be over in forty minutes. I'll see you there then."
"Yes, sir," I said.
I turned to go, but I heard Mr. Mogogdian clear his throat. "Oh, Hattie," he said.
"Yes, Mr. Mogogdian?" I said.
"I love you, Hattie," he said.
I beamed. I felt weak at the knees. I was in heaven. I was overjoyed. I was thrilled.
And, also, I wondered if that meant I would get my "A" in the course.
* * *
I think I owe you an explanation.
After all, what happened with Mr. Mogogdian can't really make much sense.
Not unless you know more than you do.
Especially about that last composition I wrote.
As I've said before, the last years of my life, before I came to college, were very painful ones for me. I don't really like to think about them now, and I didn't like to then. Even less then, in fact. But we got the assignment, and I had to do as I was told, so I'd sat down and written up just what had been happening to me. And if what I'd had to say had interested Mr. Mogogdian enough to make him (as he put it later) "compromise" his "academic integrity," well, that was just too bad. Or too good, depending on your point of view. For Mr. Mogogdian reading it was certainly more enjoyable than writing it had been, and writing it had been far better than living through what had occurred.
But now I've said both too much and not enough, and you're interested. You want to know what I wrote. You want to know about my past.
Writing it again would be too hard on me, so instead I'm inserting the paper itself. Taken from one of my trunks, where I keep it with other mementoes of the past (my first bra, my first bra without padding, my first sanitary napkin; you know, the usual kind of keepsakes all girls have). Mr. Mogogdian gave the paper back to me for a wedding present, and even though the ink has faded I can still read his comments. "A++," it says, and, in the man's cute if slightly pedantic way: "See me."
Well, anyway, here it is:
MY LIFE
BY HATTIE
Actually this isn't all of my life, just the last few years, as the assignment asked for. They weren't good years, but then no one really has much to say about what occurs in their life that's good or bad, so I can't take the blame. All I can do is bear the sorrow.
The last five years of my life have been spent in institutions and foster homes. No, make that jails and foster homes, since that's what the institutions were. Not because I was a criminal. At least I don't think I was a criminal. But just because I, well, I ran away from home.
Everyone does it, they tell me. Everyone who thinks enough to want a life of their own. But I didn't do as good a job of it as most people. I got caught.
Riding with a motorcycle gang.
Riding with one of the heads of the gang.
A police undercover man.
Well, you can't be lucky all the time.
He had his good qualities, though, and I loved him. The way that motorcycle vibrated -
But enough of that. After the whole gang was arrested, the police found out I was a runaway, but I fooled them again by getting away from the jail they put me in. One of the matrons became my friend, and she helped me escape. I make friends easily. Because I'm honest, I suppose. And because I'm open. Very open, as the matron put it.
(But you really can't take her word for anything. The last I heard she was in some kind of institution herself. For seducing some young charge of hers, I heard, and for helping her to escape. It was quite a sordid story, according to the papers, although they did withhold the girl's name to protect the innocent. And she was innocent, they made that clear. She must have been -the newspaper article I read was the first place in my life I ever saw the word "debauched" used. As a verb instead of an adjective. Signifying what the matron did to her victim, if I read it all right.)
But I seem to be digressing. We have to move the narrative on, right? (Right, Mr. Mogogdian?) After I was returned to custody a hearing was held, and when it was seen that I didn't want to return to my aunt and would run away again if returned to her (she was so dull since my uncle died. Everything we did had become so predictable), when it was seen that living with her wasn't for me I was held in a reformatory for awhile (where I learned all about stealing cars in case that should ever interest me. It seems all the girls were in there either for stealing cars or being pregnant, or both. And I already knew how to get pregnant.)
But because of my open nature I quickly made friends with the woman in charge of the reformatory, and soon, after she was arrested when found in the act of committing what the state criminal code called "unspeakable crimes and unnatural acts," I was allowed to enter the second stage of my sentence. The probationary part, where I was shipped out to live with various families of high repute, "in the hopes," as the judge said, "that some of their goodness will rub off."
If I'd thought my aunt was dull, the people I was sent to live with were even duller. The whole experience became one long agony as everywhere I went it was the same thing. I would move in with a family, usually a childless couple in their forties or so, people who would have wanted a daughter like me but for one reason or other hadn't been able to have one, also usually a couple with a great reputation in the town. Important people all of them. I would move in and be given my own room and enough money to buy clothes and records and see movies and make friends, and then pretty soon the husband would start bothering me.
Or, once or twice, the wife.
It never failed, and I was never at fault.
I would just settle in, minding my own business and keeping to myself, but sooner or later something would go wrong. I believe in the beauty of the human body, you see. Almost as much as I believe in the beauty of the human soul. Because I've always been proud of how I look I've never really gotten into the habit of closing the bedroom door, not when I'm with a nice bunch of people anyway - my roommate I'd love to close the door on. And I seldom closed the bathroom door either. I also liked mirrors, and had a lot of them around. And was it my fault if my reflection could usually be seen from outside in the hall? Was it my fault if that reflection was stimulating to some?
Because it would invariably be stimulating, and the husband or wife would come around and start telling me how nice I was and how glad they were that I was around, and they would be touching me, first in general places and then in private ones, and what could I do? I couldn't bear to see the poor people be unhappy or frustrated. There were enough unhappy and frustrated people in the world already.
But as soon as the husband or wife of the wife or husband I was keeping from being frustrated and unhappy found out that I was keeping the wife or husband from being frustrated and unhappy I would be shipped out again. And behind me divorce proceedings would start.
(Except in one case, where the marriage became much stronger. There were certain techniques my foster father learned which his wife quickly began to appreciate ...)
But enough. Finally the state got mad, if a whole state can get mad, and my probation officer person found what he considered to be the ideal remedial family situation for me. He put me in with a widow, a well known public official (the state treasurer, actually -there, I said it, even if it does break one of the conditions of the deal we made). The widow, who I'll call Widow X, was about sixty years old, skinny and scrawny and wrinkled and soft, with hanging breasts and hanging skin on her neck, and she had a son who was about thirty. He was a nice guy himself, but there was one problem. No, make that two.
First, he was retarded.
Second, he was a giant.
An acromegalic giant, to be exact. Seven and a half feet tall and almost that wide, with a jaw that hung almost to the floor when his mouth was gaping open, which was most of the time.
What, you may ask, was a nice, normal girl like me doing in a place like that?
Answer: Nothing.
Nothing at all.
If I'd been miserable at all the other foster homes, then I was worse than miserable here.
"You're going to straighten up, honey," Widow X cackled at me the day I arrived. "You're going to turn into a little angel, you understand? There's political capital to be made out of this, and as my late husband, the former boss of this fine state said, 'The only capital better than political capital is that green kind - and political capital helps you get it.'
"I'm going to show everyone what a wonderful person I am, taking in a clot like you and making you into a responsible citizen," the widow added, "and you're not going to fight me, you understand. You're going to help. And if you've got any ideas about getting any action around here, you just take a look at my son. Go ahead, look! He wouldn't know what action was. He wouldn't even know what to do to get it if you took him by the hand - or by anything else either." She shook her head. "Never saw a kid so much like his father," she said under her breath. "And so little like my late husband, the former boss of this fine state."
Widow X had made everything very clear, and the thing was, she was exactly right. The widow had no interest in me at all, and neither did her son. Sonny would just nod dumbly when I said anything to him, no matter what it was, and he would do the same thing when I showed him anything, no matter how pretty it was. The situation was impossible, and there was no place to go to get any relief. I wasn't allowed out of the house without Sonny along. No place. Nowhere.
And to add insult to injury, when I disobeyed, when I lied and cheated and tried to run away, Widow X never even beat me. She wouldn't lay a hand on me, or let Sonny do it either. Instead she would just call a press conference and tell the reporters what I had done wrong and how she was still working hard to keep me from being called incorrigible. She wasn't going to give up on me, she would tell the press. Never. There was no such thing as a bad girl, she said, only a bad environment. And everybody knew that the house of the woman whose late husband had been the boss of this fine state was far from a bad environment. It was the best environment there was, she would tell the reporters, and sooner or later it would work on me. "Until then I'll just have to be patient," she would say. "Until then I'll continue to serve the people in whatever way I can. Why, even if I should become the first lady governor in this country - not that I'm even entertaining the thought of running, you understand - even if I should become the first lady governor in this country I would continue to give Hattie all the help and guidance she needs to become a contributing, decent human being."
A wonderful woman, Widow X was. A real Samaritan. The people loved her. Even I could see that she was so - so sincere.
She would have been the first lady governor too, if not for something that happened the day before the party her late husband had controlled was supposed to nominate her.
What occurred was nobody's fault, really, even if Widow X did find somebody to blame it on. I was feeling resentful toward her, as usual, but there was nothing else special about my emotions. I considered myself to be suffering a fate worse than death, that's all. All my natural instincts and inclinations were being repressed. I was not, after all, the kind of girl the widow kept saying I was. I was merely - well, I liked to think of it as natural. I was a whole human being, not just a creature of the mind.
At any rate, the scandal occurred right before the state nominating convention, when all the bigwigs were assembled in the capital. I'd been warned to behave properly and make no trouble, and to assure that I obeyed the widow had very kindly supplied me with a male attendant, a glowering, scarfaced man who needed a shave and who said his job was simply to see to it that I stayed in my room all week and read lots of good books.
He couldn't read himself, mind you, but that was just too bad.
The attendant - I called him a babysitter, Widow X termed him a bodyguard, saying that in these troubled times everyone in her "family" had to be protected - the attendant was really a very ugly man, but he was also the first man I'd been near in the two years I'd lived with the widow. We talked for awhile, and I casually touched him, waiting for that electric spark.
Nothing happened.
I touched him again.
Still nothing.
I placed my hand on his lap.
Nothing.
I pushed with it.
Still nothing.
I grabbed with it.
Nothing again.
It was incredible, not to mention embarrassing, and I didn't know what to do. I looked up at the man, and he grinned. "Go ahead, sister," he said, "enjoy yourself if you want to. But remember, I was the guy who was the bodyguard for all of Al Capone's girlfriends. That's why the widow hired me."
I didn't know what he meant, and I thought I'd go crazy. I kissed him all over his face, paying special attention to the back of his neck, and to his mouth, but still he didn't react at all. Frustrated, I made some casual conversation with the man, about the weather I think it was, and as we talked I snuck up on him and quickly unzipped his zipper, opening his trousers. Hurriedly, before he could get away, I placed my hand inside and found -
Just what I'd found before when I'd touched his lap.
That is correct.
Nothing.
He had no sexual organs at all!
"I got a little tube I put in here, see," he said, "and I urinate with that, girly." (Only he didn't say urinate, being a former gangster, you see.) "Big Al, he didn't want to take any chances on someone messing with his babes, and when he read a book about the Arabian Nights and how sultans had these guys called eunuchs working for them, in charge of their women, and when he read what part those guys had had cut off them, Big Al decided that since he was a good American he could go them one better."
"So you mean he took off -"
"That's right," nodded my bodyguard. "He took off everything. 'I don't take no risks what ain't calculated ones,' he said, and he sure wasn't kidding. No, sir, he wasn't kidding at all."
And neither, obviously, was the Widow X, in her campaign to make me feel guilty for being a young woman. In her campaign to force me to become less of a complete and whole human being than I was.
I looked at my bodyguard again, and then I pulled away. I had to think. I was so angry I could have killed my dear foster mother.
No doubt about it. Compared to what was going to happen now the last few years were just skirmishes. This was war!
Chapter Seven
I'd always been a nice, quiet, innocent girl, one who tried to go along with people, who deferred to them in most cases.
No more.
I'd had enough.
Before the bodyguard could react I was running out of the room. I knew it would take him awhile to follow me. He would, after all, have to zip up his pants. Unlike most men, what he had was definitely worth hiding. (Or is it what he didn't have?)
Whatever, I ran through the house to the widow's room and pounded on the door. She didn't go to her office in the capital building every day until the afternoon, so I knew she was still around. She spent most of her mornings in her room, doing I didn't know what, so I knew I could find her there.
From inside the room came a muffled exclamation. I pounded more, keeping a sharp lookout for the bodyguard, who I knew would be here soon. "Go away," Widow X's voice said then. "Go away right now. I'm busy."
"I want to talk to you - 'mother.' "
"Hattie, you're supposed to be in your room. Go away."
"The only place I'm going to go is out of this house. After I talk to you," I said firmly.
The widow swore. "Damn it. Where the hell is that clown I gave all the money to?" and she opened the door.
It was a good thing she did, because the clown she was referring to (excuse me; we'd better make that: the clown to whom she was referring) was charging at me right then. I ducked into the room, slamming the door behind me and locking it.
And as the bodyguard did his share of pounding, both demanding entry and begging forgiveness, I looked around at the inner sanctum I'd never seen before.
It was sumptuous.
Elegant.
A huge suite with a canopied bed and thick carpeting, with plush draperies and heavy, expensive French Provincial furniture all around.
And with the widow's retarded son in it too.
Squatting naked in the center of everything, his huge, malformed body all bent around itself.
Doing something - interesting.
The assignment here was to tell the truth, to give the true story of our lives, so I have to tell the truth now. I have to admit that some people might have considered what the giant was doing to be disgusting. Or perhaps appalling. Others might have thought it amusing, however, or maybe even entertaining.
But nobody would have denied that it was grotesque.
"Get out of my room!" the widow screamed at me. "Hattie, you little nitwit, get out!"
But as I said before, I felt like killing her. So I certainly wasn't going to leave.
Especially not when I could see her son doing what he was doing right there.
I was almost speechless with surprise. "What -" I began.
"He's doing his business," said Widow X. "He has a right to do his business. He has as much of a right as anyone else. As much of a right as anyone who's normal."
"But he's doing it right there, on the floor."
"He always does."
"He's ruining your beautiful rug, Widow X," I said.
"It's a habit he got into, since my late husband, the former boss of this fine state, died."
"Gee," was all I could say. "What did he do before then? Where did he do it?"
The widow looked embarrassed. Her son grunted, passing what it was he was passing. "Well," she said, "you see Sonny had a kind of a problem. My late husband, the former boss of this fine state, he didn't like Sonny very much. He thought Sonny was a curse from God, in fact, something visited on him for all the graft and corruption his subordinates engaged in. The graft and corruption which my late husband of course knew nothing about ..."
"Oh," I said.
"And of course Sonny, in spite of being a cretin, was still smart enough to sense the animosity, and he hated his father as much as his father hated him. It was very sad."
"But where -" I started, and she cut me off. "I'm getting to that, Hattie," said the Widow X. "I'm a politician. Don't expect me to stay exactly to the point when answering a question. When Sonny's father, my late husband the former boss of this state, was alive, when Sonny used to do his business -" And just as she was about to tell me my bodyguard's voice rang out.
"Widow X!" he shouted. "Widow X, are you all right? Is she hurting you? Let me in so I can get the fucking kid locked away."
Widow X started for the door, but I blocked her way. Across the room Sonny grunted some more. "She won't let me open it," Widow X called out to the bodyguard.
"Then I'll have to break it down!" herself to what remained.
Just as the oak door burst open and the bodyguard came crashing in.
He fell to the floor and rolled across it, right into the widow, getting both of them more than slightly soiled. And making Sonny very angry. So angry that he started to cry.
Swearing, the widow got to her feet, kicking at the bodyguard, and as she did so her gaze passed the now open doorway.
And returned to it.
With shock in her eyes.
I turned to see what she was looking at.
A photographer, that was what.
And a reporter.
The photographer had his camera in hand.
The reporter had his pen.
The photographer's camera was clicking away.
The reporter's pen was scratching furiously at a pad of paper he also held.
Widow X opened her mouth to scream.
It was a very dark, very wet, very squishy, extremely smelly and obscene shade of brown.
And the photographer got a great picture of it. A perfect one.
"The front door must have been open, Widow X," my bodyguard was trying to explain. "They must've come right in hoping for an interview or something. I didn't see either one of these bastards until I was making that last shove at the door. Honest, Widow X, I didn't mean for this to happen. Really I didn't."
"Now I know why you haven't worked since 1936, you dumb bastard," the widow said. "You get that damn camera away from this guy. You get it right now, you hear?"
He heard, and he got up, charging at the photographer. But the cameraman and the reporter were already headed outside.
* * *
For some strange reason Widow X didn't even try for the governor's nomination the next day. She withdrew from the race and went into seclusion. When she emerged she was like a different woman, giving all her money to charity, except for a percentage which went to pay the salaries of two new employees on her personal payroll. Public relations men she said they were. A photographer and a reporter. To keep the name of her great late husband, the former boss of this state, before the public, so they wouldn't forget all the wonderful things that he'd done.
As for me, shortly after all this, during the convention, in fact, I was removed from the widow's home. Now that I'd finally seen her as just a plain old person and not a superdullness she wanted me to leave. There's no justice, I guess.
That, at least, was what I felt that I'd learned. The lesson was reinforced at the reformatory they sent me to. There I was asked what had gone on at Widow X's and I told them - and swiftly learned that some people just won't ever believe the truth. And that some other people will always get into trouble for telling it. The welts that were raised - they were very, very high.
Ultimately, though, I was sent to a more progressive place. There I was treated by a state psychiatrist who also didn't believe my story at first but who later got to know me better and changed his mind. He was kind of a strange man, troubled with a disease that he called thrombosis phlebitis. Most people, he said, got it in the leg. There would be a big blood clot, like a gold ball, and they would have to be very careful about how they moved that leg. Not just because it was terribly painful but also because a sudden movement or a touch that was too hard could send the clot up circulating through the bloodstream. And when it got to the heart it would block a valve and kill them.
The state psychologist, however, didn't have it in the usual place, and so he didn't have the usual problem. His thrombosis phlebitis was in another organ, the one located near the center of his body, the one that changed size and shape according to its owner's needs. And because of its location, the psychologist's problems were difficult indeed.
Together, though, while I was going through therapy with him, we were able to help him overcome his disease and go on to lead a useful and interesting life. I would tell you all about it, but I've already used up the amount of words this composition was to be and have to stop now. Although maybe someday, Mr. Mogogdian, you and I will get together for a good long talk, and then I'll tell you whatever you might like to know.
Thank you for reading - and for teaching me to write so well.
THE END OF MY COMPOSITION
BY HATTIE
Chapter Eight
"Your composition was remarkably tasteful," Mr. Mogogdian said, smiling at me cheerfully.
I looked down. "Thank you," I said.
"No," he said. "Thank you."
We were seated at a booth in the Student Union, sitting opposite each other, separated by the table and our cups of coffee. Both cups were untouched. We hadn't come there to drink.
"The final was very difficult," I said to Mr. Mogogdian.
"I didn't think so," he said.
"But I didn't get any sleep last night."
"Oh? So you couldn't sleep?"
I nodded. "That's right. My roommate -"
He frowned. "Male or female?"
"They don't let boys and girls share the same dorms at this school, Mr. Mogogdian," I reminded him.
"I know that," he said. "But you're older than most undergraduates, and I thought maybe you had your own apartment or some such."
"I've always wanted my own apartment, but I've never had one. One of the conditions on which I was allowed to go to school here was that I live in the dorm. They keep a sharp watch on me too," I added.
Mr. Mogogdian laughed. "Next you'll tell me your roommate is a spy."
"If you want me to," I laughed back. We'd been in the booth for about fifteen minutes, laughing and bantering back and forth like this, and I'd begun to like Mr. Mogogdian even more. He was easy to talk to. No pressure. No push. Most people didn't expect him to be like that. Not because of all the things he'd done in his famous-on-campus past, but because of the prestigious position he held now. You see, mine was the only section of Freshman Rhetoric that Mr. Mogogdian taught. His other classes were very advanced, all in something called philology, which, I'd found out, was the study of language and how it develops. He was the biggest philologist in the country, with all kinds of awards and prizes, and he was a very important person. Some people even thought that the only reason he took on the rhet assignment was so he could lord it over the young freshmen and play big man with them. Of course, I knew that wasn't true. Other people thought that the reason Mr. Mogogdian taught rhet was because it enabled him to meet young, easily swayed, easily conquered, and beautiful girls. But I knew that wasn't true either. Hadn't it taken him a whole semester to get around to having coffee with me?
And God knows that if Mr. Mogogdian had been on the make he would have moved in on Hattie much sooner.
Mr. Mogogdian took a sip of his coffee, and I followed his lead, taking a sip of mine. "What you said in your note," I said to him, "did you mean it?"
"What are you referring to, Hattie?" he said. He put his hand on mine, and I tingled all over.
He was damned masculine.
"You wrote, 'Will you?' remember?"
"Indeed I do."
"Were you asking me if I really would tell you about the state psychiatrist and me?"
"You mean about his thrombosis phlebitis of the penis?"
I almost took my hand back. "I didn't say it was the penis," I said indignantly. "I didn't use that word."
"Relax, Hattie. It's not a dirty word."
"It isn't?"
"No, no, of course not."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am. I'm an expert on words, remember?"
"Yes, but -"
"No buts. Although that is a dirty word. Butts. When used anatomically."
"Oh," I said. "I see."
"That was what I liked about your paper, Hattie," continued Mr. Mogogdian. "Your use of language. The way you got your point across so delicately. You didn't use the good, clean word 'penis,' and neither did you use any of the dirty ones."
"Dirty ones?" I asked.
"Yes. You could have found a place for the word 'cock.' Or 'prick.' Or 'schmuck.' Or 'schwantz.' Or 'peter.' Or 'hard on.' Or 'boner.' Or -"
"Mr. Mogogdian, please -"
He stopped. "I'm sorry, Hattie. I didn't mean to offend you."
I shook my head. "That wasn't it."
"What was it then? Why couldn't I keep serenading you with those beautiful words of love?"
"I -" I hesitated. I didn't know how to say it.
"Yes?" Mr. Mogogdian said. "Yes? Go on."
"Well -" I began.
"You're so articulate," he said. He squeezed my hand. "Hattie, dear, you've got to tell me your feelings. You can't hold anything back. We're two mature adults with a great future ahead of us. A meaningful relationship can be ours. A relationship freed of the archaic bonds which tie other lovers into knots of guilt and despair. But you've got to be truthful with me. You've got to tell me what disturbs you. So we can talk it out. So you can see where you're wrong."
"Oh, Mr. Mogogdian, I'm not wrong. I know I'm not."
"But you are. You must be."
"No, no, you don't understand -"
"But I want to," he said. He leaned across the table until our faces were only inches apart and I could smell the caffeine on his breath. "I want very much to understand everything about you. To know you inside and out. To love you inside and out. I've been watching you all semester, Hattie, wondering what kind of a girl you are. And when I read your final composition, in which you related the tragic story of your immediate past, well, Hattie, I knew I'd found a kindred spirit. Somebody to cherish, for a time. Somebody to nurse back to psychic unity. Somebody free." He pursed his lips and kissed me on the nose. I thought I was going to swoon. "Now tell me what you thought you couldn't, my beloved. Tell me now ..."
I forced myself to be truthful. I had to show Mr. Mogogdian that I believed in him. I had to show him that I was worthy of the feelings he had for me. "Well, it's just those words you used. Cock, Prick, Schmuck. Schwantz. Peter. Hard on. Boner - the way you said them, the look on your face, the way you moved your mouth -"
"Yes, Hattie, dear darling, yes, go on ..."
"It's just that you got me so hot I'm dripping all over my thighs."
Mr. Mogogdian kissed me again, right there in the Student Union, where everybody else in the university could look on jealous as hell. "Let's go over to my apartment," he said. "We'll have a good time, you and I."
"Do you mean -?" I said.
He nodded. "That's right, Hattie. I'm going to fuck your brains right out of your head." I stood right up.
Mr. Mogogdian had a reputation for being a man of his word.
* * *
I know, I know.
I forgot something.
I said that I met my future husband that afternoon.
But unless I married Mr. Mogogdian, then I haven't told you about him.
Well, I didn't marry Mr. Mogogdian, but I did get introduced to my future husband that day in the Student Union. It's just that at the time the meeting seemed insignificant. I didn't think much of it.
Come to think of it, now that the marriage is over, maybe I don't think much of it either.
But that isn't the point, is it? A promise is a promise. Especially when I make it.
What happened, then, was that as Mr. Mogogdian and I were getting up from our table to go over to his apartment one of the students who worked as a bus boy in the Union came to pick up our cups. He glanced at me, then smiled and nodded at Mr. Mogogdian. "Hello, Mr. Mogogdian," he said.
"Huh?" said Mr. Mogogdian, never taking his eyes from me.
"He said hello, sir," I said.
"Who?"
"He did, Mr. Mogogdian."
"I did," said the young man.
Mr. Mogogdian turned, recognized the youth. "Oh, Brian. How are you?"
"Fine, Mr. Mogogdian. And you?"
"How do I look?" Mr. Mogogdian said, indicating me.
"Like you won't be grading the Advanced Philology finals tonight, sir," said Brian.
"Sure I will," Mr. Mogogdian said. He winked in his sophisticated way. "Tonight. I'll have to get this young lady back to her dorm by the time the doors close. Say, Brian, are you all finished with your finals?"
"No," Brian said. "I've got two more tomorrow."
"But you're working anyway?"
"Have to if I want to stay in school. Not all athletic scholarships give you the moon, you know. Mine just gets me these crazy part time jobs."
"Oh. Well, keep up the good work. I'll be thinking about you." We started off.
Brian wiped off the table with a damp rag. "Sure, you will," he said. "Sure."
I turned back to look at him. There was something familiar about Brian's voice. And his face - I'd seen it, but I couldn't quite place it. "What sport does he play, Mr. Mogogdian?" I asked my escort.
Mr. Mogogdian gave Brian a dirty look and tilted my face so that it faced his. He hurried me out the door. "That's funny," he said. "Brian's an All-American at something, that much I know. But I honestly don't remember the sport. Besides," my teacher added, "what do you care? He didn't even look at you. Like he didn't even realize how beautiful and desirable you are."
I nodded. That was true.
And then I recalled someone else who'd ignored me like that.
The boy at registration. The one who handed out the materials.
That was who Brian was.
But this time it bothered me even more than before, the way he didn't even deign to look at me twice. Because this time I knew I looked very, very good. Every hair was in place for my meeting with Mr. Mogogdian. Plus I was lubricating madly, and that always makes my complexion glow.
So why hadn't Brian been attracted to me?
Why hadn't he taken any interest in a wonderful girl like me?
Unless he was a-
No. It couldn't be. That kind of young man didn't go to college, did he? Interior decorating or beautician school, but not college, certainly.
Then what was it?
Mr. Mogogdian wouldn't have liked it if he'd been reading my mind, but I was intrigued. There was a mystery here. And I had to solve it. I had to find out.
* * *
But now we can return to the matter at hand.
My afternoon in Mr. Mogogdian's apartment.
It was all I'd hoped it would be. And a little more, too.
Mr. Mogogdian, after all, was Greek, and that didn't hurt things at all. In fact, it helped.
Considerably.
We drove there in Mr. Mogogdian's car, a big fancy sedan with leather and fabric upholstery and real wood on the dashboard. The car had bucket seats but no central console to get in the way, so I moved close to Mr. Mogogdian. The nearer I was to him the nearer I seemed to be to having my dreams come true.
Mr. Mogogdian knew just what to do in this situation. He turned the heater up high so that I could take off my coat and still be comfortable, and as he drove he nuzzled me and tickled my arm. "Are you still hot, Hattie?" he asked.
I told him I was. "Good," he said. "Listen, why don't you shift your weight a little? Or better yet, why don't you pull up your skirt?"
"My skirt?"
"The seat is very warm, Hattie. If you get your skirt up and let your bare little behind rest on the heating coils that're woven into the cloth you'll beat this damn cold weather hands down."
It seemed like a good idea. Although my rounded buttocks were already on fire. I rose up for a second, pulling up my skirt, and then I sat down again.
Only Mr. Mogogdian had pulled a clever little surprise.
My behind didn't hit the seat at all.
Instead I came down right on his hand.
His right arm was stretched out so that his right hand, palm up, was on the edge of the seat, middle finger extended.
"Mr. Mogogdian!"
"You said you were still hot, Hattie. And you went along with it when I said you should sit bareassed on what would make you even hotter."
"But the heating coils you mentioned -"
"Oh," he said, "they're woven into the seats, all right. But not into the edges. My hand is the heating coil you need."
"But -"
"But what, Hattie?" He pushed his hand up, grasping my buttocks and moving his finger so that it went right inside my widening cunt.
I winced. "Your hand is ice cold!" I said.
He looked embarrassed, and I felt him moving inside me, probing as he drove. "Oh," he said, "I'm sorry, my sweet. Really I am. Well, it looks like you'll just have to warm me."
I resigned myself. After all, it wouldn't take long before everything would be a suitable temperature. His finger didn't feel nearly so icy as it had before already. Forcing myself to relax, I sat back and let myself enjoy the sensations that were being aroused. Mr. Mogogdian's hand flexed and unflexed on my cheeks, and his finger stroked my canal, moving up and down, back and forth along the mucous membranes of my vaginal walls. Some doctors say that women don't have enough nerve endings inside them to really feel anything when it's in there, but my own feeling is that those are the doctors who have never met me. I felt everything he did and responded to it acutely. The timing of the strokes, their rhythm, it was all exactly what I liked.
It was all exactly what I needed.
What I loved.
We stopped at a red light, and Mr. Mogogdian turned to me. "It's not so bad after all, is it?" he said. He touched my womb lightly, and I felt my body shake. I was speechless, and the only way I could show him how much I appreciated what he was doing was to reach out with my left hand and touch his zipper.
"Oh yes," said Mr. Mogogdian, "that part of me loves to be made warm."
I twisted my body so I could use both hands on his zipper, and Mr. Mogogdian's expert hand went with me. One orgasm tingled my body, then another, little preliminary ones, the kind that whetted my appetite, that let me know what kind of wonderful day this was going to be.
In spite of the fact that I wanted to just sit back and appreciate what was happening to me I went on unzipping Mr. Mogogdian's pants. He wore no underwear, and his big penis just popped out, fully enlarged, the head huge and red and distended. Little drops of moisture came from the hole. They were clear now; later, I knew, they would be white. The car started as the stoplight turned green, and I put both hands on Mr. Mogogdian's prick, masturbating him.
"Wish this car had an automatic pilot," Mr. Mogogdian remarked cleverly. "Then I'd really show you something, Hattie. It's nice enough as it is, though, I suppose. Especially for the price."
"Didn't it cost a lot?" I asked, still kneading his warm flesh, watching it spurt tentatively into my hand.
"It was a gift, actually," said Mr. Mogogdian. "From a rich woman. She said I was unique."
Now he sounded like he was flattering himself. Even I had to admit that. There'd been nothing unique about him so far. But: "You'll see what I mean when we get to my apartment," he said. "In the meantime -" He slowed down, pulling over to the curb so he could use his left hand, taking it from the wheel and putting it onto my head. He pushed my head down to his cock. "Go ahead, Hattie. Don't worry about it. Don't worry at all. If anyone asks I'll be sure and tell them how much you've reformed."
I did what he wanted, tonguing and sucking his cock as we continued on to his place. The car swerved a lot, and there was a great deal of honking at us, but Mr. Mogogdian kept my head there in his lap, and he kept giving me little orgasms all the while. Just as we were parking, though, I thought he was going to come, and I got all ready to swallow the delicious stuff. My head was jerked away, however, up off of his prick.
"No, Hattie," said Mr. Mogogdian. "Not here. I told you I was unique, remember?"
I nodded, and rolled over to the other side of my seat so Mr. Mogogdian could take out his wonderful hand. But before he could get out of the car I grabbed it and kissed it, sucking on the finger that had been inside me. There were few things I liked as much as the taste of myself. According to one of my foster fathers it was because I loved myself too much. But according to the state psychologist it was because of self-hate.
Mr. Mogogdian and I, however, had a different reaction. I agreed with him perfectly when he smiled and kissed me and said that what I was doing showed that "you have one of the world's most perfect and discriminating senses of taste."
He put his finger back inside me and took it out, licking it off himself.
And in his finest philological manner Mr. Mogogdian said:
"Yum."
Chapter Nine
The way in which Mr. Mogogdian was unusual showed itself in the way he decorated his apartment.
Oh, not in the living room. That was very nice. The furniture was dynamic and rough hewn, like the man, and the room had paneled walls and almost reeked of pine trees. It looked more like a cabin in the mountains than an apartment not too far from campus, and I liked it very much. I even complimented Mr. Mogogdian on it and learned that all the furnishings I saw had been by him. Furniture making was one of his hobbies, he said. But the furniture in the bedroom was all store bought, he admitted. Would I like to see it?
I said I would, and we went into the bedroom.
Only it didn't look like a bedroom at all.
I thought maybe I'd fallen into the Twilight Zone, the way things suddenly changed.
It was like I'd wandered into another place altogether. And not even another apartment.
Because Mr. Mogogdian's bedroom looked just like-
"A doctor's office. How do you like the place? Nice, eh?"
Mr. Mogogdian gestured at white walls that just had to be sterile, at the magazine rack located near the door. Everything else that a doctor would have was in just the right place too. There was a corner of the room with a big mahogany desk, one with different folders on it, and above the desk were a medical school diploma and a license to practice medicine, both made out in Mr. Mogogdian's name. In another corner of the room was an examination table with all the equipment that usually goes with that, and in another stood a huge x-ray machine, over another table.
"Is it all beautiful, or is it all beautiful?" Mr. Mogogdian asked. "Well, Hattie? You're speechless with awe, right?"
"How did you get the diploma, Mr. Mogogdian? And the license? You're not a doctor, are you?"
"I'm a Ph.D.," he said. "You know that."
"But that says you're an M.D."
"Go closer. See who signed it."
I went to the wall and read the signatures of his dean and the head of the state medical board: "I. Will Lie," was one name, and N. Ever Well," was the other.
"Pretty clever, eh?" said Mr. Mogogdian. "Those are little word games. Puns, jokes philologists play."
"You sure are clever, Mr. Mogogdian," I said. " 'I. Will lie.' How about that?"
"You know what they say about us Greeks," said Mr. Mogogdian.
"You're Greek?"
"Sure. Can't you tell by the name? And you know what they say about us. Never attack a Greek from behind. Never."
"Why not?" I asked, puzzled.
"Because he likes it," Mr. Mogogdian said. He laughed hysterically, and I just stared at him, amazed. What repartee! What wit! This wasn't the Mr. Mogogdian I was in love with, not at all.
Only I couldn't tell if this Mr. Mogogdian was better or worse.
Well, you take your chances when you get involved with teachers. That was something I should have learned by now. After that time in high school -
"You're supposed to laugh, Hattie," Mr. Mogogdian said, interrupting his laughter and my thoughts. "I'm telling all kinds of good jokes now. It's part of being a doctor."
"It is?"
"Certainly. A good bedside manner is very important. A good doctor is light hearted and cheerful. I saw it in a movie once. Forget the title. No, wait, I think it was 'Tammy and the Doctor,' something like that. Henry Fonda's kid was in it. Anyway, this is how doctors are supposed to act. Especially if their patient is critically ill and they don't want to scare him or her. Of course, if the patient is fine, then the doctor has to be very serious and somber - and scare him or her a lot."
"Otherwise he might not get paid?" I said.
"Now you've got it," said Mr. Mogogdian. "My father was a doctor, and I always wanted to be one. But I flunked chemistry, physics, and biology. So here we are. Anyway, you're my very sick patient, Miss Hattie, so please undress."
I looked around the room again. Something was missing.
"But where's the bed?" I said.
"I'm unusual, remember? Unique. No bed, Miss Hattie. Come, come, you're in a doctor's office now, and you're dying of a rare and horribly painful disease. Only my special treatment can help you, and even then there's no guarantee of success. Still, we try. Let's find out how we're doing, Miss. Okay?"
There was nothing else for me to do but what Mr. Mogogdian said, so I started stripping. I hung my coat up on the hook he'd provided, and then, conscious of his eyes upon me, riveted to me, I took off everything else slowly and deliberately.
Taking the pins from my hair, I fluffed it out sexily, sitting down to take off each shoe and peel my nylons from my long legs. Standing again, I took off my sweater, pulling it over my head, and showed myself to Mr. Mogogdian, clad only in bra and skirt. And sleek, healthy skin.
"Let's go, Miss Hattie. Come on. I don't have all day. The next patient will be in soon," Mr. Mogogdian said angrily.
"I thought I was about to die and that you had to be nice to me," I said.
Mr. Mogogdian's tone changed instantly as he remembered. "Sorry, Hattie. Sometimes I get the scenarios mixed up. Did you hear the story about the Greek doctor who used rectal thermometers only? It seems that one day there was this girl -"
I didn't listen as he told the joke, concentrating instead on my stripping technique. I ran my hands over my body, holding out my breasts to him, and unhooked my bra, letting it fall to the floor. I cupped my firm breasts and pinched each nipple, reddening them. Taking my hands away, I let Mr. Mogogdian get a good look at the way I was built, confident that he would enjoy the sight immensely.
He'd finished his joke, however, and was busy putting on a doctor's white jacket, oblivious to me. I waited until he turned around and was rewarded by the gleam in his eye. "Very good, Miss Hattie," he said. "Who would ever suspect the malignancy which gnaws away at your innards right now? The more I see, oh beautiful maiden of mine, the more I'm certain that my therapy will be just the thing for you. We'll work well together, if you respond."
"I always respond," I said, adding, "Doctor." Crossing toward him, I unzipped my skirt and slid out of it, so that I was totally nude. Mr. Mogogdian gazed at my body affectionately, looking from my breasts to my bush and back again. I thought we were going to go at it right there, on the floor, but he fooled me again, slapping the examining table. "Now come right up here so I can get a good look, young lady. Come now, don't be shy."
I got up on the table, and Mr. Mogogdian wiped away the spittle that had gathered around his mouth. "We need a detailed examination first," he said to me, and he proceeded to run his hands over my body, feeling, he said, for lumps. When he found my two most noticeable lumps he placed one hand on each and fondled them gently. "Did you know that a woman's breasts are merely enlarged sweat glands?" he asked. As I shook my head Mr. Mogogdian nodded and gave my nipples a tweek. "It's true," he said. "They give milk, but they were originally designed to give sweat. Some authorities say that's all milk is. Just a kind of sweat."
He put his face down to my bosom. "Do you give milk, Hattie?" he asked, and he tried to find out, sucking first one titty and then the other, drawing on my nipples with his mouth, making me more aware of my body than I'd ever been before. I was about to come when he pulled away, his face looking confident. "You see?" Mr. Mogogdian said. "I was right. The doctor is always right. Proof positive that these are just sweat glands." He wiped his finger along each breast, held it up to me. "See? Sweat," he said.
"Oh, Doctor," I told him, "you're so wonderfully wise."
"I know, I know. But we must continue the examination."
He felt over the rest of my body, stopping again at my pussy to tell me to spread my legs. He put one finger into my cunt, feeling around inside me. Another finger went in. Another. "Very good," Mr. Mogogdian said. "Very good indeed." Withdrawing his fingers, he had me arch up so he could probe my anus, which he did the same way he had the hole in front of it. One finger pushed and then went inside. A second followed. But there was no room for a third. "Tight," Mr. Mogogdian said. "Very tight." He pushed a little harder. "Tell me, Hattie," he said, "in your composition you wrote that the Widow X's act of using her mouth as toilet paper for her son was perfectly normal. What made you say that?"
"Isn't it normal?" I said.
"You mean -"
"I've done it," I said. "Haven't you, Doctor?"
He sounded a bit disturbed. "No, no, I haven't." Then, getting an idea: "I guess it was too normal. Not unusual enough for me." He looked at me thoughtfully and took off his trousers and the rest of his clothes, so that all he was wearing was his doctor's white coat. "I think we'd better start the therapy now, Miss Hattie," he said. "Then we'll examine you again to see how it's working."
Without further ado Mr. Mogogdian swung onto the examining table and lowered himself onto me. I took his penis, which was getting larger and larger, and I inserted it into my twat. "Ah," Mr. Mogogdian said, "good. Self-help always improves the therapy."
He started rocking back and forth, up and down, fucking me, and I rocked back, matching his rhythm. The speed increased, and then the beat altered, becoming syncopated. I was lost for an instant, then caught on and matched him again. Mr. Mogogdian switched once more, slowing down and changing what he was doing into a kind of love ballad, but I was getting the hang of him and was able to keep up. We continued making love that way until abruptly Mr. Mogogdian changed his rhythm again. This time I couldn't find it; the pattern he was weaving when going in and out of me was too complicated. A smile appeared on his face when he saw this, and he heaved up against me, coming. I flexed the muscles between my legs and pushed up at him, and I orgasmed too, and Mr. Mogogdian took his arms from the table, where he had been bracing himself, and he put them around me. We held each other as our essences flowed and we became one, and then Mr. Mogogdian fell back, rolling off the table and onto the floor. He lay there panting, and I looked down at him.
"I love you, Hattie," Mr. Mogogdian said.
"I love you too, Mr. Mogogdian," I told him.
"You couldn't keep up with me on that last series, could you, little girl?" he said. "You couldn't get the intricacies down."
"No, no, I couldn't. I'm sorry."
"It's all right, blessed Hattie. It couldn't be helped. But as your doctor I'm going to give you a prescription. Listen to more classical music, Hattie. That will give you at least a fighting chance, even though I'll still beat you in the end."
"You mean that last rhythm was from a record?" I asked.
He nodded breathlessly. "The 1812 Overture, Hattie. That's the one that ends with a bang."
And he doubled over on the floor, laughing like a friend of the family at a new comedian's debut.
* * *
Later Mr. Mogogdian did examine me again. He used the stethoscope this time, thumping me all around and listening with it until we ended up with that particular instrument down by my pussy, where he decided to listen some more. "It's a symptom of your illness to have a strong heartbeat down here," he said, pushing the stethoscope into me. I wouldn't have minded, but the thing was cold, and it was so skinny that I could hardly get any sensation out of it anyway.
The odoscope was a big improvement. That's the thing doctors use to look into your ears (or is it eyes? Or nose? Not that it really matters, since those weren't the places he looked). Mr. Mogogdian peered up my vagina, spending almost an hour just staring up at me while I crossed and uncrossed my legs and put myself into the various positions he demanded of me. The odoscope was cold too, but I liked the feeling of the metal inside me, and the fact that it was a little thicker than the stethoscope, even if less pliable. The odoscope was something I could surround and get to know, and the light warmed things up. I let myself think that it was something human, something I was keeping warm, and I came just as Mr. Mogogdian was taking it out.
I started to get up, but he pushed me back down. "We're not finished yet, Hattie," he said. "I've had my preliminary sensations, lovely girl, but now my sweet comes the grand finale."
"The grand finale?"
"The big finish, as those of us who are language experts say, preferring to use English and not one of those barbaric foreign tongues. You'll appreciate this, Hattie. I know that you will. And when it's all done we'll have a permanent record of our love. At least I will."
I wasn't sure I wanted to go along with this, but Mr. Mogogdian's glib tongue won me over. So did his fast action, as he quickly took the examining table and wheeled it across the room to the x-ray machine. He kissed me. "This is the last part of the therapy, Miss Hattie," he said. "If you'll climb onto this table here we'll get the show on the road. To use a show business phrase, that is."
I made the switch from one table to the other, and Mr. Mogogdian strapped me down beneath the x-ray machine. Once I was secured he brought the camera part down and aimed it at my breasts from directly above them. Stepping back, he took a picture. Then he came back to the table and shifted it around, taking another x-ray of my chest from a new angle. Then came another angle, this time from the side. Then from the other side. "You can rest a minute now, Hattie," Mr. Mogogdian said after that, and he kissed me lingeringly on each breast, so that I twisted my hands and managed to touch his testicles. The bag was soft and velvety, and I massaged it, rubbing the two testes together.
Mr. Mogogdian sighed. "I guess this break will be longer than I'd thought," he said, and he came forward, standing on a little stool so that his sack of masculine goods was even with my face as I lay there on the x-ray table. He rested his balls on my chin, then moved them slowly along my face. I took them into my mouth, sucking, and I let them go as Mr. Mogogdian continued to move upward. The balls hit my nose, stopped again at my eyes. I closed them, feeling the pressure of his testicles on my eyelids, and I moaned with desire.
Taking the hint, Mr. Mogogdian climbed onto me, getting directly over me so that his balls remained where they were while his mouth easily found my moist cunt. I pushed against his lips, felt his teeth nip at the lips of my pussy. "So red and full," Mr. Mogogdian said. "So wonderfully red and full."
He bit my clitty, and I pushed up against his face. At the same time Mr. Mogogdian moved forward slightly, so that his balls hit my nose again, while his erect penis, that wonderful wand of love, slid along my cheek. I longed to have my hands free so that I could take that thick stick and cram it into my mouth. But necessity is the mother of invention, as somebody once said, probably about something else (although then again, maybe not), so I turned my head and extended my lips and grabbed with them, licking out and touching the base of Mr. Mogogdian's prick.
He giggled and moved forward some more, and his cock came into perfect position. I took it in my mouth, and he rammed it down, deep into my throat, pumping into me while I sucked, and while he continued eating my clitty.
I tasted the starchy organ, swallowing it and throwing it up, swallowing it and throwing it up, as Mr. Mogogdian's balls flapped against my nose. He came in my throat, on a down stroke, choking me, and I gasped as he pulled out, some of his sperm spurting onto my neck. I licked at it, gave up and concentrated on the rest of what was pouring from him, taking it all and swallowing it. When Mr. Mogogdian was finished coming he gave my clitty a final lick, shoved his tongue inside my cunt, and then did a pushup followed by a summersault off the table.
(Did I say he was in fine shape, with legs like tree trunks? Well, not quite like tree trunks - they did ripple muscularly, which is more than I ever saw any tree do.)
I came from this final bit of homage to my femininity, but once again Mr. Mogogdian refused to let me rest. Or to rest himself. Bounding to his feet, he took the x-ray camera and rammed it up against my cunt, taking a myriad of pictures of it from all possible angles. He even took some great shots of the interior of my canal, using a kind of snorkle lens to get right inside.
"We can get a perfect 360� picture with this special film, Miss Hattie," Mr. Mogogdian said. "This x-ray therapy is really something, don't you think? Like the Greek farmer said to the strip teaser when she explained why her navel was convex instead of concave ..."
The punch line was in Greek. I was ashamed to tell him I didn't understand one word.
I did understand what happened later, though. Mr. Mogogdian unstrapped me and said that now all we had to do was wait for the pictures to develop. Which was to say that was what I had to do since his lab technician was off today and he would have to do the work. He went into a closet he used as a darkroom while I waited. About twenty minutes later, after I'd masturbated by rubbing my cunt against the frame around his license to practice, Mr. Mogogdian emerged with the prints.
"Let's sit down at the desk now, Hattie," he said. "We'll look these over."
"Should I get dressed, Doctor?"
"Whatever for, nubile child? My sweet bucket of honey, we haven't had our grand finish yet. That comes now, when we look at everything. Come. Come."
I sat down in the chair in front of the desk. He sat down behind it, held up the first x-ray.
"Beautiful, isn't it? Look at that, just look at it, Hattie! What lines, what form, what grace!"
"What is it?" I asked.
"You can't tell? That's your breasts. Both of them. From below and a little to the right. Look at them. See the curve?"
I looked, but all I saw was an x-ray that made no sense. There were some ribs, but that was all I could recognize. But Mr. Mogogdian was in at least Fifth or Sixth Heaven, perhaps even Seventh. Whipping off his doctor's coat, he exposed a broad and muscular chest, and he put his hands on his chest muscles, running them over his body. His hands went back to the x-ray. He did the same thing to that, starting to tremble, his face reddening.
Mr. Mogogdian's breathing came faster as he looked at x-ray after x-ray, holding them up for me for only an instant, holding them up for himself for minute after minute. He got to what he said were the x-rays of my vagina, and his eyes half closed. His breath was coming out so hard and fast he sounded like an asthmatic, or perhaps even like a man having a heart attack.
But the only attack he was having was in his cock, which had swollen to enormous proportions and was still getting bigger. It was over a foot long and seemed to be almost that wide, like a caricature drawn in one of those books Widow X's late husband the former boss of his great state had had. Mr. Mogogdian's cock poked up over the top of the desk, looming like a frightening sexual apparition.
"Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah," was all Mr. Mogogdian could say. "Look at this Hattie, and this, and this, and this and this and this. Look at yourself. Look at your insides. Beautiful! Beautiful! This is your uncharted interior, my sweet. This is where your soul lies! This is where your heart of heart engages in its awesome palpitations! Look, Hattie, look look looklooklooklooklooklooklooklooklook -"
He was so excited he was going to die. I knew he was going to die. "I see, Mr. Mogogdian, I see. Please, control yourself -"
"No control," he said. "Never control. This is the big finish! This is the enormous climax! This is the masterstroke! Someday, Hattie, someday I'll get a real fluoroscope machine, so that I can film movies of what you're like inside, so that you can sit and watch the whole act as it appears beneath all that extraneous tissue, that coat of constricting flesh! But now, now this is enough for me! More than enough! Much, much more!"
I thought he was crazy. It was like the emperor's new clothes. All the stuff he was talking about seeing wasn't on any of the x-rays. The pictures had gone right through all that.
But: "Ahhhhhhh," Mr. Mogogdian shouted. "Ahhlmhiihhlihhhhh -"
And there was a tremendous sound like a thunderclap, a gushing like an oil well coming in -
Mr. Mogogdian came -
His cream flew all over the room, splattering on the ceiling, on the walls, on me, everywhere. It hit me so hard I literally fell off my chair.
I sat on my behind, and I raised my legs and spread them, using my hands to spread the lips of my cunt. I opened my mouth too. There was so much come. I had to get it inside me, I had to, before it was all gone!
"Oh, Mr. Mogogdian! Oh ... OWihhhhhhhh"
It was all over. He slumped back, eyes closed. I fell back too, covered with sperm, and as my own eyes closed and I started to fall asleep I heard Mr. Mogogdian's voice as if from far away.
"Hattie, Hattie," he was saying weakly, "tell me something before I black out. I've got to know now, while I'm thinking of it." I moaned, trying to ask him what it was he wanted to know. "Hattie," he said, "what was it, what was it that Sonny used to do with Widow X's late husband, the former boss of your great state? What did the widow tell you about how Sonny did his business when his father was alive?"
"She never got to tell me, Mr. Mogogdian," I said. "I'm sorry, but I never got to know. Maybe, after I get out of school, if she's still alive I'll look her up and find out. In the future I'll know."
Mr. Mogogdian swore. "But I was hoping it would help me to come again now."
He coughed and was silent. There was a crash, and I opened my eyes, saw him crumbled, unconscious, against the wall. His fake medical school diploma fell down, hitting him on the head. His license to practice followed.
My clit flicked involuntarily.
I came once more.
And afterward, still soaked from all that had gone on, I slept.
And dreamt I was swimming, only Freud knows why ...
Chapter Ten
I saw Mr. Mogogdian only a few times after that. He was a wonderful man - and a good doctor - and I loved him, but things were just too exhausting. I didn't have the strength to stay in love with him.
Especially after the semester break, which I spent at his apartment.
Oh, don't worry, I got approval for it. The psychologist and everyone else who was keeping tabs on me thought I was going to stay with a friend during the vacation. Mathilda. And nobody, they all said, could be a better influence than Mathilda.
Except maybe her evangelical father, who they assumed would be with us of course.
If anyone had checked with Mathilda I would have been in trouble, but the reports on me had been so good, and everybody was so impressed with the way I attended the chapel so regularly that I was trusted implicitly. I was trusted so much, in fact, that I was informed that I was being held up as a shining example for other "wayward girls" to follow.
It was inspirational, this being an inspiration. It made me proud.
But as I say, my vacation just made me tired. Mr. Mogogdian and I slept on the examining table and used the x-ray machine a lot, and the day before Christmas he had a fluoroscope installed.
We spent all of December 25th making sure that it worked, and I don't remember when I ever wanted to really sleep so much. And the damned movie camera Mr. Mogogdian had attached to the fluoroscope screen kept breaking down, causing all sorts of problems I can't go into now. Except to say that some of the positions we were in, so someone could always be holding the camera steady, were weird.
But I did get an "A" in Freshman Rhet, and that was nice. Deserved, but very nice too.
Anyway, after the second semester started I worked hard to get ahead in all my classes and so didn't see much of any men. The blond young man I'd found out was Brian, didn't work at registration, but I did see him at the Student Union a couple of times. I wanted to get to know him better, to find out why he was attracted to me, but I didn't know how to go about it. I mean, I couldn't just approach him and start a conversation. That would be forward and unladylike.
Finally, as Spring vacation was approaching, I thought of a plan.
It involved Mathilda, but then we all have our cross to bear.
(I think that's a bad pun.)
Mathilda and I had never gone anywhere together, but on this particular afternoon, with the weather warming to a brisk thirty-five degrees or so, a sign in this geographical location that Spring was just around the corner - on this particular afternoon I interrupted Mathilda as she was finishing up a letter to her father and asked her if she would like to go to the Union for something to eat.
She looked surprised. "You want me to go to the Student Union with .you, Hattie?"
I repeated that I did and asked her what was wrong with that. "Don't you want to be seen with sinful Hattie?" I said.
She stood up hulkingly. Even when she was being nice Mathilda stood up hulkingly. She couldn't help it, she was so big. "Oh no, Hattie," she said, "that wasn't it at all. I wasn't thinking that."
I asked her what she was thinking. "Just that you've never asked me to do anything before. Except be quiet. I didn't think you would want to be seen with me."
She was right, of course, but I didn't tell her that. There was no reason to hurt the poor ugly girl's feelings. The God she loved so much had shortchanged her enough as it was.
So I told Mathilda that I genuinely wanted to be her friend, and she took it as a sign from heaven that I was much, much nearer to becoming a wonderful person than even she had thought, and after Mathilda reported the good news to our floor counselor (who looked at her dourly, not quite believing in me the way I deserved), after Mathilda had informed the counselor of what a good girl I was, we went to the Union.
As we walked in the door I took a quick look around to see if Brian was there. He was. So far so good.
"There's a table, Hattie. Over there." Mathilda pointed to an empty booth, and we went to it. The booth was on the opposite side of the room from Brian, but I wasn't worried. He'd get over to us. Mathilda was my insurance.
She and her appetite - and the way she ate - would see that cool, disinterested, infuriating Brian would come toddling our way.
"What are you going to have, Mathilda?" I asked her.
"Do we order or get it ourselves, Hattie?" she asked me, looking around the place.
"Don't you know?"
Mathilda shook her head. "I've never been in here before," she whispered. "I was always too busy. And a little too shy."
I tried to be offhand and nice, but even I hadn't expected to hear my roommate say that. I explained to her that you served yourself, walking through the food line or going to one of the machines that were all over the place. But because it was usually so crowded we both couldn't get food at the same time. One of us would have to sit here and save the table.
Mathilda understood, and she volunteered to get the food for all of us. "As an act of Christian charity," she said. I told her I wanted coffee, and she said that was all she would have too and got up. I watched her walk away, starting to get a little nervous. If all Mathilda ate was coffee my plan wouldn't work.
You see, everything depended on her eating a lot, and eating it the way she did in the dorm.
Like a - well, not like the neatest person in the world.
More like the least neat, in fact.
Actually, there was no getting around it - Mathilda was a big slob.
When she came back to the table, though, everything turned out to be fine. There was coffee for me, black, of course, so my system wouldn't be poisoned by the sweetness of sugar. And for Mathilda there was - what wasn't there? Piled on the tray, dish leaning crazily against plate, were:
One slab of roasted ribs.
One order of fried chicken.
One roast beef sandwich, smothered with gravy.
One steak sandwich, without gravy.
One tuna fish salad, with an olive in it.
Three hard boiled eggs.
Three soft boiled eggs.
One cheese omelet.
One crab meat salad.
An order of french fries.
Two slices of tomato.
A dill pickle.
Some asparagus tips.
And a knife and two forks.
"I got a little hungry looking at everything," Mathilda said by way of explanation. "Thought I might as well try the food as long as we were here."
"Good idea," I said. "But where's your coffee?"
Mathilda looked disgusted. "I knew I forgot something. But I'm so starved now I can't bear to leave all this good food to go back and get it."
"I guess you just weren't meant to have coffee today," I said.
"I guess not," said Mathilda, and she closed her eyes, saying a short prayer, then dug right into her food.
I said nothing but merely watched and waited. Everything was going just as I'd hoped. Mathilda always had to get that much to eat.
Not just because she ate a lot, but because most of it never got into her mouth.
Mathilda dropped her fork first. "I was ready for that this time," she said. "Brought a spare."
"Good thinking."
"My father taught me to always be prepared."
But then she dropped her knife. It clinked to the floor, and I looked around to see if Brian had heard. He hadn't. But he couldn't ignore us forever. He couldn't ignore Mathilda - not and still be all a good bus boy should.
As Mathilda bent down to pick up her knife her arm brushed against the plate holding her roast beef sandwich, the gravy quickly soaking into her sleeve. Mathilda picked up her arm, groaned, and tried to pull it away, knocking into her tuna fish salad. "Oh, oh," she said. "Bless it. Here we go again."
She reached out and took a napkin from the dispenser on the table, and all hell broke loose.
Her arm, outstretched, dipped into the gravy again, shoving the plate against the one with the three hard boiled eggs. The eggs hit the cheese omelet, and that careened into the fried chicken, first caroming off the asparagus tips. The whole mess slid to the edge of the table as Mathilda brought her arm back, and as she grabbed for the dishes everything started to fall.
She caught the omelet - but not the dish it was in.
That crashed to the floor, along with the roast beef sandwich, the hard boiled eggs, the chicken, and the asparagus tips. I felt as if the sound could be heard around the world. If this hadn't been what I wanted to happen I would have been so embarrassed I could die.
But now I was pleased.
Especially as heads turned and comments were made, and Mathilda, flustered, knocked over the three soft boiled eggs, the dill pickle, the tomato, the tuna fish salad, the steak sandwich, the fried chicken, and her second fork.
Bus boys came running, setting down their trays and waving their towels, and Mathilda looked at me worriedly. "I'm sorry, Hattie," she said. Then she glanced at the table. There were still two things left.
"At least I didn't have any hot coffee to spill," Mathilda said, gesturing, and my coffee promptly went over the side, splashing over both me and an obvious fraternity boy who was giving his girl a fast line in the booth behind me.
"Oh, Hattie," said Mathilda. I wiped at my clothes. One, two, three bus boys were already working on the mess. But what about Brian?
He arrived with a frown, the fourth cleaner-upper, organizing things. "Let's get this junk off the floor, guys," he said. "Come on now, before it starts to stink." He wiped at the floor, turned to us at the table. "Why the hell can't you be more careful?" he said to me.
"It was my fault," said Mathilda. "I spilled everything. But at least the ribs are okay. They're what I really wanted anyway."
She pulled the plate of ribs toward her, but she pulled too fast, so anxious was she to look good. "No!" Brian screamed, but it was too late. The dish flew into the air, landed with a crash on one of the coffee machines.
The Student Union erupted into laughter, and Mathilda alternately flushed and paled. She didn't know what to do. "Everyone's staring," she said. "Everyone!" Mumbling a prayer, she got up, bumping into Brian and knocking him aside. There was more laughter, and a little applause, and Mathilda broke into a run, fleeing from the Union. Much as I had once fled from her.
"Wait, Mathilda!" I called out. "It's all right. Don't be afraid!"
She shook her head, disappearing through the double doors. I looked after her sadly, shaking my head, and I stood up, aware of the fact that Brian was right beside me.
Everything had worked out perfectly.
I had a conversational opening without looking forward. What more could any girl who wanted to meet a certain guy want?
"That is some girl," a male voice said.
I turned. It wasn't Brian talking but one of the other bus boys. I nodded. "When you've got a roommate like that you've got a lot of roommate," I said.
"We all have our cross to bear," said the bus boy.
"Mathilda is a very nice girl," I said.
"But a slob," said the boy.
"Excuse me," said Brian.
"What?" I said. The other bus boy was getting up, introducing himself to me. I ignored him. "What did you say?" I said to Brian.
"I said excuse me," he said. "I want to get over here to clean up the table."
"Oh," I said, "sure. Sorry about the mess."
"You should be."
"It wasn't my fault."
"That's why you should be sorry. If it was your fault I'd want you to be more than sorry. I'd want you to be doing something about it."
The bus boy who had been trying to get to know me better walked off. "Man," I heard him say to another one, "those damn athletes get all the broads."
It was a perfect opportunity. "Are you an athlete?" I asked Brian.
He wiped the table. "An All-American," he said calmly, not trying to be impressive at all. "In my junior year. When the season starts this year I'll be even better."
"Oh, hey," I said, "now I remember. You're in one of Mr. Mogogdian's classes. He said you were an All-American. You must train very hard."
"Hard enough," said Brian.
"But you work hard too."
"Have to, to stay in school," he said.
"But don't athletes get big scholarships with all kinds of spending money?" I asked.
"This athlete's scholarship is one that gives him a chance to get a job or two and work long hours at it in order to make expenses. My sport isn't a very popular one."
"I bet it's fascinating, though. And exciting. The competition, the challenge ..."
He looked up at me - finally. "Table's all clean now," Brian said. "You can sit down."
I thanked him. But I couldn't let him get away. "Are you in training now?" I asked. He nodded. "Do they let people watch? I'd be interested in seeing an All-American in action."
"We practice in the field house," Brian said. "But nobody ever comes to watch. It takes a really dedicated athlete to continue in the sport of his choice under those conditions."
"That's what I was going to say," I told him. "And I was going to add that I didn't think it was fair." I paused, then hit him with the big gun. "If you'd like, I'll come and watch you," I said. "Maybe that will improve your performance."
"I'm almost perfect now," he said, but his tone was thoughtful. "You'll have to be at the field house early, if you want to see anything, Miss -"
"Hattie," I said.
"Be there at five o'clock tomorrow morning then, Hattie," said Brian, "if you want to see an exhibition of strength, stamina, grace, and skill."
"Five o'clock in the morning?"
"We get the place when we can," he explained. "We're the last on the priority list. So five o'clock is when it has to be."
The sacrifices we make! "Okay," I told Brian, "I'll be there."
"Fine," he said.
He walked away without a "goodbye" or a "see you," but I still felt good. I was getting someplace. I had been invited to see Brian practice!
But then Brian turned around, coming back. "Hey, listen," he said, "if your friend wants to come, don't forget to bring her along too."
"You mean Mathilda?"
"I guess so. Like Chuck said, she is quite a girl. She must be very athletic. I could hardly take my eyes off her muscular build."
I would've hit him, but they'd taken away all the plates and dishes and cups, anything that would have done to him all the damage Brian's last remark so richly deserved.
Chapter Eleven
I set the alarm for four o'clock in the morning, and when I got to the field house it was still before five.
Mathilda had thought I was crazy for getting up so early, but I told her there was something important I had to do. She volunteered to come with me - if I could stand having her along, was the way she put it, apologizing for the fiftieth time for what had happened in the Student Union - she volunteered to come with me, but I turned her down.
And, of course, I did not tell her Brian had invited her to watch him do whatever it was that he did.
When I entered the field house it was empty, with nobody else around, so I walked around it for a while. Then I sat down on a folding chair in the area the bleachers were wheeled into during basketball games and such, and I waited.
In my boredom I masturbated, reaching down and fingering myself until I was about to come. At that point I took my finger out of my cunt, gave it a good suck, and then replaced, starting again.
And stopping.
I was no longer alone.
Five young men dressed in leotards with the university seal on them walked from the locker room area, and with them was a sixth person, a heavy set, scowling man who was obviously the coach. The coach was shouting something angrily.
"You four guys, you new ones, you watch how Brian does things, for Chrissake, will you? He's the expert, he's the champ. You take your cue from him. This is a team sport, but individual effort still counts. A lot. So do your damn best."
"We are doing our best," one of the young men said.
"Then you ain't got no business on the team. This isn't intramurals, where you fraternity guys play around with other fraternity guys, this is intercollegiate athletics. And intercollegiate athletics is a big business. Brian can make All American for a million years in a row, and it won't matter a damn if you creeps can't support him. You've got to score higher or we'll never win a match. And if we don't win, baby, then the president of this fine university is gonna cancel the whole team right now."
Brian looked upset. "Coach? Coach? Did the president really say that? Did you find that out at the meeting with him yesterday?"
The coach nodded. "This'll be the last year for me unless we've got a winning team. It won't matter to you, Brian, because you're graduating and can still go on to a good career in the pros, touring the country, making it with the chicks, the whole bit. But I'll have had it."
"Maybe Brian will get you a trainer's job, coach," one of the other team members said.
The coach snarled. "Salkowitz," he yelled, "that is entirely the wrong attitude. Don't count on Brian to help me in my old age - you help me. Now!"
They passed by me, and I waved. "Yo, Brian, I told you I'd be here!"
He glanced at me, still walking. "Hi, ah, ah, Hattie, right? That's the name?" I nodded. "Where's your big friend?"
I shouted that Mathilda couldn't come, and Brian turned to the coach. "You should see this Mathilda girl, coach. Fantastic build, like a middle linebacker. And with a big, thick neck, strong jaws. She'd be perfect on the team, perfect."
"Unfortunately, Brian, this ain't no coed sport. Find me a perfect guy, will you? And the rest of you guys, you get away from that girl and come along here." The other four members of the team reluctantly left me to rejoin their coach. The coach looked me over, shook his head. "You're gonna be a hell of a distraction, girly," he called.
"I thought you might like an audience for once, coach," I said. "Brian says nobody ever watches you work out."
The coach snorted. "We'll see if you last through the whole practice," he said. He had his players line up, Brian on the left, number one when they counted off. "All right, you birds," he said, "let's start calisthenics. Exercise number one. Ready? Begin."
He counted off, one-two, one-two, and Brian and the others jumped up and down, doing what in high school physical education class had been called squat jumps. These were followed by some setups and pushups, after which the team ran a few laps around the field house. Before they could even recover from this, the boys started on a new exercise, one I hadn't seen before. With the coach counting off for them once more, Brian and the others flexed and unflexed their jaw muscles, opening their mouths and then clamping them shut, opening them and clamping them shut, over and over. After about fifteen minutes of this the final exercise was done, another strange one, where Brian and his teammates opened their mouths wide, swallowed, and closed their mouths again. The coach was very critical during this, particularly during the swallow. "Let's get it right!" he shouted. "Don't forget that form' Brian, demonstrate for these goons, will you?" And Brian came forward and swallowed for them while the others watched attentively.
This whole exercise was kind of suggestive when you got right down to it, if you know what I mean. All those mouth movements, and the swallowing - what in the name of the university was their sport?
I still didn't have the answer to that as the next stage of the practice began. The coach gathered everybody around him and went into a discussion of some rules. Maybe it was for my benefit, since he wanted his first spectator to understand what was going on. Whatever, I didn't understand most of what he said but did get the idea that what the team did it did in what were called meets, sometimes "duel meets," which I later learned were when just two teams from two different schools had a match, and sometimes larger meets, or "open" competition.
Five players competed for each team, and both individual and team winners were named, with a complicated point scoring system set up to determine the team standings according to how the individuals placed. Brian, I learned, was the anchor man. He went last for our team, and usually, I heard, he had the impossible task of trying to overcome the immense deficit the other team members had left for him.
But Brian was a champ, you could tell from the coach's attitude as well as from everything else, and he would always give all he had.
Once the coach saw that I more or less understood what was going on, he had the players line up in the order they usually competed. Holding a stopwatch, he hollered, "Go!" and timed each one as he stepped to a line marked on the floor, grasped an imaginary object in his hand, and brought it up to his mouth, biting with a sharp gesture and then chewing and swallowing rapidly. When Brian stepped up for the dry run the coach told him not to bother. He knew Brian didn't need that kind of practice.
Brian thanked him, and the coach went on to say that today was a special day, since the conference meet was so close. Reaching into a large laundry bag that lay on the floor, the coach took out a large object that looked to my untrained eyes like a rubber chicken. I looked again, certain that I was mistaken, but no, there it was, a rubber chicken all right. I wracked my brain - what game was played with a rubber chicken? I'd heard of tossing the old pigskin around, but this -?
The coach explained to the team that although they usually used rubber chickens to practice they were fortunate in having real ones this time. Brian was puzzled. That wasn't in the budget, was it? he asked. The coach tried to avoid the question, but Brian pushed, finally getting him to admit that while the school hadn't given him money for real chickens he had gone out and paid for them himself. "We have to win this weekend, boys, or we're all wiped out. Whatever aids to training we can get, we will get."
"Let's win this one for the coach!" Brian shouted, and everybody cheered. The coach allowed himself to smile and then went into a little closet, emerging with another laundry bag.
This bag was moving, however, and there were squawking sounds, the flutter of wings.
The chickens inside were alive.
"Let's go," the coach called out, reaching into the bag. "Number one, on the line!"
The first member of the team took his mark, and the coach removed his hand from the bag, shutting it quickly behind him. He held the skreaking, complaining chicken by the throat, wings flapping against his side, and he went to the team member and thrust the chicken at him.
The boy grabbed the neck, and the chicken tried to fly away, almost pulling from his grasp. The team member held on, though, and the chicken was still trapped. It fought, scratching out with its feet, while the coach took out his stopwatch, hollered, "Go!"
At the command Number One put one hand on the chicken's body the other still around its scrawny neck, and he held the chicken up, over his head, his mouth opened. I watched, unable to look away, wondering what would happen next - and thinking, thinking that I already knew.
But it couldn't be. It couldn't.
It was.
Number One pulled the screaming chicken down to his mouth. Wings beat on his face, feet tore at his cheek. But he was firm, flinching only at the last minute as, with a look of resolve on his face, he shoved the chicken's head into his mouth, oblivious to the pecking beak.
The bird's cries became muffled, and then the team member's mouth snapped shut, teeth tearing into the chicken's skinny neck. I heard an abrasive sound, a rubbing, a crunch. The bird's body squirmed. Number One's mouth opened, snapped shut once more, like a trap this time, and simultaneously he let go of the chicken's chest.
The body fell to the ground, squirming but headless.
Blood poured from Number One's mouth.
The ground beneath him became drenched.
Fluid poured from my cunt as I watched.
The ground beneath me became drenched too.
"Come on, come on," barked the coach. "Stage two. Go into stage two."
Number One nodded, and he opened his mouth again. There was a sharp intake of breath, the sound of a throat being cleared, and then a tremendous: "Phwuuuppp!" as he spit out the chicken's head. The head lay on the ground, and the beak moved once.
The chicken gave one last, desperate, already dead cry.
And then it was still.
Now it was my turn to cry out, and I did, my entire body convulsed from what I'd just witnessed. Death! That had been death, and for sport. For no other reason but sport!
It was a moving experience, and I moved. My clit burned, my nipples sprang to life, even my asshole cried out to be entered.
Death!
Death!
My God, I thought, even while I was trying desperately to come, my God, someday I've got to get to Spain. I've got to see a bullfight while there's still time.
Or maybe someday someone would take me hunting. What would I do, what would I feel, when I saw a duck shot?
But this was no time to consider that. I needed relief. Sitting as I was, I began rubbing my thighs together inside my skirt. My clitty hit one leg, then the other, the friction bringing me closer and closer to fruition as a woman. While in the past I'd climaxed without needing any touching at all, this was different. What I was watching was a very physical act. My enjoyment of it had to be physical too.
As I rubbed my clitty with my thighs the practice was continuing before me. The coach, it seems, wasn't pleased with the way Number One did what he was doing, and he told him where he'd gone wrong. "You flinched, you dumb bastard, you flinched and it took you two bites! Two bites! You know how many points you'd lose for not getting through the chicken's neck in one bite? That could be the whole meet, right there!"
As he talked the coach casually kicked at the dead chicken, grinding it down into the hardwood floor. Number One apologized, but the coach wouldn't stop yelling at him. "It's clowns like you who're costing me my job!" he said. "Clowns just like you!" The young man started protesting. He'd tried his best. He was new to the sport. And it wasn't whether you won or lost, it was how you played the game. "For you, maybe, but for a coach, never!" roared the coach. "And for talking back to me, you just go run laps. Fifteen laps. Go on. On the double!"
The young man started to say something angrily, then stopped and started running instead. I guess you just don't talk back to a coach, not when he's punishing you for talking back. The young man darted off, and the coach turned to the next one. "Number two!" he shouted. "On the line! And for chrissake do it right!"
He gave Number Two a chicken, said, "Go!" and Number Two plunged the bird down into his mouth. His lips were spread wider than those of anyone I'd ever seen before. His mouth looked bigger than any mouth I'd ever known. The chicken sank down, its head disappearing, and I waited for the snapping, for Number Two's jaws to crunch closed. And waited.
And waited.
Suddenly Number Two gagged, choking, and Brian and the other two team members rushed to him, picking him up and standing him on his head. As the coach watched disgustedly Brian slapped Number Two on the back. Once, twice, three times, and finally the chicken which had obviously been lodged in his throat came out, flopping to the floor. The coach picked up the chicken, while Brian and the other members of the team let the boy down. The boy stretched out on the ground, rubbing his throat and coughing like mad.
While the coach exploded!
"How many times have I told you not to swallow the damn thing, Kramer? How many millions of times? Can't you do anything right? Can't you do anything at all? Damn you, kid, damn you, damn you. We've got to start recruiting some niggers, that's what we've got to do. We've got to start getting niggers who're hungry, who're used to hardship and want to succeed. You middle class namby-pambies just don't have it in you. You don't have it at all!" He stopped, looking at Brian. "Except you, Brian," he said. "You're one of the all-time greats. Because you're dedicated. Dedicated!"
Brian blushed, and then the third boy Salkowitz, came to the line. The coach got a new chicken for him - the other one wasn't dead, but it was too exhausted to put up a good fight - and Number Three began.
He was pretty good, too, as far as I could see. Although I have to admit that I really wasn't sure of what I was looking for. But he bit into the chicken and severed its neck with one stroke, and he looked really good when he spat out the head.
I tried to control my excitement, but I couldn't do it completely, and I groaned. A small orgasm shook me, and then the build up for the big one started.
Only I realized that I wanted to be touched.
And if the hand that touched me could be bloody, if there could be chicken blood on it, well so much the better.
It was a gruesome thought, but there it was. That's how I felt, and I've learned that people should never be embarrassed by their feelings.
A bloody hand.
Please - I thought.
The fourth man went to the line. Perhaps if Brian could get to me in time ...
But would he even want to help me out?
His attitude toward me, after all, hadn't yet changed.
"Good stuff, huh, chickie?"
The voice came from behind me, and then the speaker came into view. It was team member Number One. "You're supposed to be running laps," I said.
He smiled. "I got tired. This isn't easy."
"I know," I said. I took a good look at him. Number One was about medium height and build, with a bull neck and a pleasant if nondescript face. He had short hair and blue eyes.
And blood around his mouth.
Flecks of blood and foam.
"I know what you've been doing," he said to me. His teeth were red. "I've been watching you wriggling around."
"That isn't nice," I said. "It's not nice to spy on people."
"What you were doing isn't nice either," he said. "But I could help make it nicer."
"How?" I said. I looked back at Brian, who was just getting ready to receive his chicken.
"We could go back behind where the bleachers are stored," said Number One. "You could still watch the All-American from there, while we -" he hesitated - "you know. The coach'll be so busy watching Brian too that he'll never notice where I've gone."
I thought about it. I needed it. Bad.
Brian took the chicken in his hands. He opened his mouth.
"Let's go," I said. "Hurry!"
We ran to the side, where the bleachers were stored, and Number One led me to an open place behind all the seats. "You see?" he said, pointing. "There's just enough room there to put your head in and look out."
He was right. I lifted my skirt and stood where I could see Brian, and Number One took off his sweatpants. He grasped me from behind, and I felt his turgid male stick run up across the back of my thigh, up my buttocks to the small of my back. Number One ran his hard cock against my back once or twice, and then he lowered it, coming down between my cheeks.
I leaned forward against the bleachers, spreading my legs and bracing myself. Brian was holding his chicken high overhead, and as the coach told him to go he brought it down sharply, shoving the head and neck into his mouth just as Number One plunged his tool up against my cunt. Number One put his arms around me from behind, holding onto my breasts and kissing my neck, and he shoved up and down, up and down as Brian bit sharply and a muffled squawk came from the chicken in his mouth.
Blood spurted out of Brian's mouth even though it was closed, and the chicken's body fell to the floor. Brian opened his mouth and more blood shot out as he blew the head out with such force that it smashed wetly on the hardwood. Behind me Number One pushed himself up with a deft stroke, burying himself as deep as he could go, and as the coach stopped his stopwatch and congratulated Brian I orgasmed fully, my entire body feeling like a flower that was suddenly opening up. Organs seemed to uncurl and new juices flowed within me. I started to fall, but I kept myself upright with the thought that soon the coach would move out of the way (he was blocking Brian from my view now) and I would see that crimson mouth again, those dripping scarlet lips.
Sure enough, the coach did step aside, and I did see Brian, dripping chicken blood. At the same time Number One came, flooding me with sperm so that it dripped down my legs as he pulled out his penis.
"Hey, hey, hey," Number One said. "You've gotta come to all our meets. You're all right, baby, you really are. Our little number really turned you on, didn't it?"
"It was what I saw," I said. "The chickens."
"You like our sport, hey?"
I nodded, still watching Brian. "I've never seen anything like it before," I said. "It's fantastic. There should be a huge audience for something as exciting as this. Biting the heads off live chickens - wow!" Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I was reminded of something, something I'd heard of but never before seen. But I couldn't think of what it was.
"I agree with you, babe," Number One said, pulling up his sweatpants as he put himself next to me to look out at his teammates. "Everyone should come from miles around to see what we do."
"But why don't they? Why doesn't anyone come?"
"It's the name," Number One said sadly. "For some reason the name seems to scare people off."
"What is the name?" I asked. "What do you call this wonderful sport?"
"You mean you don't know?"
"No," I said.
Number One took my head in his hands, grinning bloodily at me. "Why you crazy cunt," he said, "there's only one thing this could be. You've just been watching a workout by the one and only, ever popular, great and exciting, University Geeking Team."
"Geeking team? Like at a, a fair -?"
"That's right," said Number One. "Your fair-haired boy out there, big Brian himself, he's the slim, trim, exception to the usual types. Most participants in the sport have big mouths and thick chins, big wide necks and throats. But not Brian. He's unique. He's one of a kind. He's the one and only, world's greatest, slender and tall, All-American -"
I stopped Number One with a kiss. I knew what he was going to say about Brian, how he was going to describe him, and I was so impressed I was speechless.
Just thinking about Brian I felt full, overflowing. I didn't just want to get his attention now, or to conquer him. I didn't even just admire him anymore.
I adored him.
Brian was my new God.
Yes, that's right.
Hattie's God was the one and only, world's greatest, slender and tall, All-American Geek!
And a pencil-necked one to boot!
Chapter Twelve
And it came to pass that by the end of the second semester Brian and I were engaged.
And that was no small accomplishment, believe me.
It happened because I was persistent. It happened because I was courageous. It happed because I was bold, a master strategist.
It happened because I followed the team.
And made with them all too.
All right, all right, I know what you're going to say. For a girl who'd been worried about seeming too forward I sure changed my tune.
And you're right. But sometimes we have to do things we don't like, in order to achieve certain desired ends.
Sometimes we have to give up something, like our self-respect, in order to get what we want. In order to be true to the guiding principle of our lives.
God helps those who help themselves, Mathilda once said.
I helped myself very well.
At the end of that first practice I waited for Number One to go back to running around the field house, and then I came out from behind the bleachers and went to tell Brian how wonderful he was.
"I know, I know," he said modestly. And then, because I was there, and I was the team's only fan, one of the other guys, Number Three, I think it was, invited me to partake of the team lunch. Brian thought that was wrong, but even the coach was happy to see me. I would give him somebody new to tell his troubles to, and somebody new to whom he could explain the fine art of geeking. As he saw it, of course.
The training table turned out to be in the coach's university-provided apartment, which was a room just off the furnace in the field house basement. Brian and the other geeks ate extremely rare (in the cooked sense only) chicken, and the coach explained to me that geeking was a relatively new sport on the campuses of the country, although there had been professional geeks for some time.
What had happened, I was told, was that like many other sports, including basketball, baseball, and horseshoes, geeking had simply outgrown the county fair and small circus circuit on which it had started. Professional geeks were now holding meets during football half time shows, and intercollegiate geeking had begun when one of the pros had accepted an invitation to explain his sport on a campus located in Southern California," the coach said. "Drive-in mortuaries, smog, oil pollution, devil cults, all the things which are now and terrific."
In just a few short years geeking had spread across the country, and now it was as much a part of conference activity as gymnastics and shower room fellatio. But the name of the sport still scared people off, so that the teams had a lot of trouble making expenses. Or even filling up the five first string slots.
The coach thought that my presence at practice was very encouraging, and in fact it had given him an idea. He thought it would help boost attendance if I were to go to all the meets and act as a cheerleader. I'd get in free, he said, and I'd be close to the action. At first I hesitated, and he said that he'd like to talk to me after breakfast, alone and smiled out of one side of his mouth. "I know what was happening while old Ron there was supposed to be running laps," he said, leering.
I blushed. "No, you don't," I said.
"Sure I do," said the coach. "We all do. Ask anyone here."
I asked Brian.
He looked up from his meal. "What?" he said.
I repeated the question, filling him in on the little disagreement between the coach and me. Brian looked at the coach. "I'm sorry, coach," he said, "but I don't know what was happening. I wasn't watching Ron. I was concentrating on my form."
The coach shook his head. "But four out of five know," he said to me. "Naturally you can't expect the All-American to have been paying attention. Anyway," he went on, "you might incorporate something like what went on into your cheers. That would help considerably."
"I don't think that would be allowed, coach," smirked Number One, Ron. "The A.A.U. and intercollegiate athletic groups are awfully stuffy."
"That shows how much you know, creep," said the coach. "The times're changing. Did you ever see that broad, that Purdue Golden Girl? Gold lame panties, the broad wears, with a top cut down to here." He gestured. "That's all. That's it. If they'll allow her, they'll allow Hattie." He sighed. "It's worth a shot, anyway. With you clowns we ain't gonna win any meets. Got to do something to liven things up."
"Especially since you figure to lose your job no matter what, huh?" Number Four said.
"You'll run sixteen extra laps for that," said the coach. "And eat a whole rubber chicken. Now take off, all of you. Hattie and I have things to discuss."
The only trouble the coach had after saying that was that I took off too. He was a dirty old man, and Hattie didn't need that kind of thing. I liked guys with class, always have.
It must be something I was born with, something in my personality. I'm still that way.
Anyway, I didn't stay to talk to the coach, but I did become a cheerleader. Mathilda and my floor counselor thought it was a great idea, my getting involved in University athletics, although I have to admit that I never got around to telling them what team I was rah-rahing for. I started at the next meet, wearing a makeshift costume consisting of sequins sewn on an old bikini (with, of course, a heavy coat to put on between cheers and jumps), and I developed some of my own cheers and actions. I did a lot of kicks, and a lot of splits, and I must say that all the teams involved seemed rather pleased.
Unfortunately I wasn't able to help us win. The first four members of the team did abysmally, and even though Brian scored twice as many points as anyone else in the meet our university still came in last.
The next meet was much better, however. I spent some time helping the Number Two man improve his bite, and it seemed to pay off. He did very well, especially for him, and our team came in third out of four participants.
I worked with Number Three the next week, and I found out why he was having his problems.
There was a definite lack of dedication.
He was in a fraternity, for one thing, living in the Phi whatever it was House and doing all the usual fraternity things. He was a big drinker, it turned out, and he was also very loyal to his "brothers." I was invited to have dinner at the house, which was a big honor, and after the meal a group of the brothers engaged the housemother in a serious discussion of totalitarianism versus democracy, illustrating their point of locking her in her room.
This was done so that I could go upstairs with Number Four, whose name had turned out to be George, and see how he had decorated his room.
He had done a very good job, even if it was more or less typical of the fraternity mind. The walls were covered with photos and drawings of naked women and girls, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, the carpeting was wall to wall, witty sayings were scrawled on the ceiling, and the only light in the place was from a red bulb in a Tiffany lamp.
As I stood there in the room I heard the sound of the door being locked, and I heaved a sigh of relief. I'd been a little worried, coming up to a bedroom in a fraternity house. Groups of guys had kind of scared me since I was sixteen years old and in high school, when I'd had a bad experience with the football team.
Well, not really a bad experience, but an unexpected one. I'd been in love with one player and had ended up making love to the entire first, second, and third string.
More than once.
So since I'd come to the university I'd been a little leery of fraternities and fraternity types. Besides being childish, they were also dangerous.
With the door locked securely behind George and me, however, I knew that we would have the privacy we needed and that I could relax. Fifty fraternity brothers were not going to join us in George's room. Not unless they broke down the door.
"I'm glad you could make it up here," George said. "I wanted you to give me some pointers. You're the team's best critic - and a better teacher than the coach, I bet." He put his arm around me, drew me close to him. "I think the problem is in my mouth," he said. "I've got to practice moving it around in different shapes. So I get the mobility."
I disagreed. His problem wasn't that he was bad at what he did, it was just that he didn't try hard enough. But maybe I could teach him how to concentrate tonight. "You've got to get everything out of your mind and think only about one thing," I told George. "You've got to apply all your mental energy to what you're doing and only that. Dig?"
"I'll have to try and see," said George.
"That's what I'm here for," I said
He kissed me, and I was surprised, because the feeling of George's lips was tender. There was no force, none of the brutality I'd somehow expected. "You'll have to put more into it," I murmured when our lips parted. "You're not concentrating."
"How's this?" George said. He kissed me again, our lips pressing against each other as our mouths opened and his tongue darted inside mine, pushing down to my throat. It was much better, because he was pressing harder, but I didn't get a chance to tell him because the kiss went on and on, and when it finally ended, with George's tongue caressing my tongue, I'd forgotten all that I'd wanted to say.
We kissed a third time, and I held George tightly, my breasts pressing against his chest. I kissed his nose and he kissed mine. I kissed his chin, just on the tip, and he kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my ear lobes. George's tongue darted into my ear, licking, and I shivered, holding him even tighter.
Now his hands started to move along my back, going down until they were resting on my behind. George cupped my buttocks, squeezing and kneading them, and I followed his lead, doing the same thing. He was firm and hard, with almost nothing to hold onto. We stayed locked together like that for what seemed like a lifetime, George gently rubbing and pushing and pulling, sliding his finger in between my cheeks, and then we began to drift across the room, two people with but one thought. When we reached the red light both of us went to turn it off, and we laughed, while I let George have the honor.
That done, we gazed at each other in the darkness and moved to George's bed, sitting down together, still holding each other, although now our arms had to move higher up. The bed was soft, and I sank in, started to settle back. "No," George said. "We've got to undress first."
"Mmm," I said. Whatever he wanted to do.
George's hands moved over me. I was wearing my tightest slacks and a blouse that buttoned up the back, and he undid the buttons, helped me out of the covering. George unhooked my bra next, and then he plunged his face into my breasts, kissing and licking and sucking at them. He did one and then the other, and then he tried to put both of them into his mouth at the same time, getting only the inside portions of each.
I held his head close as he sucked, wishing I could give him something to drink. If only Brian would do this! Why shouldn't he, why? I still didn't know, and I wanted to ask George, but my mouth wouldn't work. This wasn't the time for questions, particularly about other men.
George moved his head down to my stomach, licking it, and I stood up in front of him, unzipping the zipper on the side of my pants. George pulled them down then, and when he saw that I wore no panties his eyes lit up. "Well," he said, "well ...," and he kissed me, rubbing my golden triangle with his hand.
He put his hand down on my cunt, rubbing the pliable skin and getting me wetter than I'd thought, possible, and I sighed and realized that we had to lie down on that bed together right now. I couldn't wait anymore. Stepping aside, avoiding George's hand, I started unbuttoning his shirt, and together we undressed him. After that I stepped out of my pants, and we embraced, and I allowed George to pull me down on top of him.
We used seven different positions that night. First George lay on his back, and I sat on his engorged penis, rocking on him while his hands dug into my titties and drove me wild. I controlled everything, and we erupted together, so that I fell on him, yelling with delight.
The next position we used was with George on top, and with my legs spread, and that was followed by him on top but with my legs thrown up high, over his shoulder. He got in deeper this time than he had either time before, and I came long before he was ready to do so himself. I waited for him, though, and in about ten minutes George, his breathing a little hard, orgasmed too.
The fourth position we used was side by side, and George added a little something extra to it by taking two ice cubes from a little refrigerator he had on the floor and putting them inside my vagina. The cold was shocking, and it added a new element, causing me to come at least three or four times to George's one.
The fifth position demanded total concentration, and that was why I agreed to it. George would benefit, I was sure. In this one we got off the bed and George stood on his head against the wall, while I impaled myself on his cock. George pumped by going from head stand to handstand and back again, but things didn't work out well in spite of his effort. My orgasm was a feeble one, and George had none at all.
We decided to make up for that with the sixth position, which had me on my hands and knees and George coming in the back. I barked like a dog, and he yipped, and I came and came, the feeling of George's prick rubbing along my asshole as it went in and out of my cunt inspiring me. George, however, didn't make it this time either, and he was very upset.
I did my best to cheer him up, kissing him all over his body and lingering especially long at his unit, licking his pubic hair and his balls and the inside of his thighs, and taking George's penis in my mouth and sucking as best I could. His prong was almost limp when I started this rejuvenation program, but when I was finished he was hard and ready again. I got on the floor, on my back and arched upward on my feet and hands, presenting George my pussy, and he licked it and ran his hands over it and shoved in his cock.
He pushed hard this time, with a massive effort, almost knocking me down. It was all I could do to keep my balance as George fucked and fucked, ramming into me like a Civil War soldier loading a cannon. George came first, spurting all over me, and I joined him in a flash, grinding up against him until both of us collapsed.
We lay in a heap on the floor, panting, and then I heard another noise. A click. Visions of George's fraternity brothers crowding into the room flashed into my mind, and I tried to get up, failing. I was simply too tired. But the door to the room didn't open. I looked out into the shadows and saw that instead it was the closet door. A large shadow loomed out at me, and a gruff voice said, "Spread, damn it." Hard hands grabbed my legs and pulled them apart. I heard a click, another click, another.
Beside me George roused himself, getting up and turning on the light. "You're entitled to see this, Hattie, and to know what's going on," he said.
I blinked, still hearing the clicking, and when my eyes had adjusted to the red light (which was still bright after having no light at all) I saw the coach of the geeking team kneeling in front of me with a camera in his hands. He was taking shot after shot of my organs. "Wha - what -?" I began.
He held up his hand. "New strategy," said the coach. "How do you like this camera? Set me back two months pay, but it's worth it. Got infrared flash, the whole bit."
"He's been hiding in the closet taking pictures of us since we came in here, Hattie," said George.
"Why?" It didn't make sense.
"Got to do something to inspire those cockamamies of mine," said the coach, "to get 'em off their asses. Gonna have all these developed and passed out to the team. If seeing you in action doesn't inspire them, then nothing will." He got a new idea as he talked. "You know, I just thought of something else. I'll bet that if we gave shots of you to the opposition right before a meet they'd be so busy looking at them and thinking about you-know-what that they wouldn't be able to concentrate. Who could care about chickens with a cunt like this?"
"Hey, coach, we'll demoralize the hell out of the bastards, right?"
"Right!" the coach said, and as I tried to cover myself he took six or seven more shots.
I was furious at myself. I should've known. Nothing good can come of it when you go to a fraternity man's room. Nothing. You could never trust the kind of guy who joined a house. They were just too childish and immature.
Letting the coach take pictures of us without my permission! It was a terrible thing.
A grown up person, a man of discrimination and character, why that kind of a man would've known enough to warn a girl, so she could put the right makeup on in the right place.
With makeup on I would've been proud to help the guys this way. I would've been happy.
And I wouldn't have had a pale, unpainted pussy for all the world to see!
Chapter Thirteen
In the next two weeks our team won two dual meets and lost a third by only one point. A week after that we came in second at the big conference meet, only five points behind the winners.
It was a time of joy and celebration.
The coach got a new contract.
Brian was chosen athlete of the week by the UPI and the AP.
And I was paid a visit by my Lord.
Brian, of course. It happened the Monday after the conference meet. I was up in my room, reading a psychology assignment, and with me was Mathilda, who was reading a letter her father had sent her. She read the parts that especially pleased her out loud, so that I could share in the great evangelist's admonitions to walk a straight path, turn the other cheek, and wear plain cotton drawers. Mathilda would end each out loud session with a "Glory to God and death to sinners and rotten children," and I would say, "Amen," thereby earning a smile and an invitation to come and see Mathilda and her father during summer vacation.
I accepted, thinking her father would be an interesting man.
Not knowing, as the telephone on Mathilda's desk rang, that shortly I would have no need for other interesting men.
Mathilda answered the phone and then handed it to me. The caller was Brian. He was downstairs, he said, in the lobby, and he wondered if I could come down and see him. Brian's voice sounded shaky and unlike him, and I said I would be right there.
Changing into a pair of short shorts that barely covered the rounded bottom of my rear end (Mathilda approved of them only because she read the tag and saw that they were 70% you-know-what) and a matching loose top, I went down to the lobby and found Brian pacing back and forth nervously. "Hi," I said.
He looked up at me. "Hi," he said, his voice low. He dropped his eyes.
"This is a surprise," I said. "I didn't know you cared to see me even at the meets."
"I didn't know either," said Brian.
"But you know now?"
He nodded. "You've been a big help to the team, and I wanted to thank you."
"You're more than welcome," I said. I hesitated, then: "And I've wanted to be more than a big help to you."
He looked startled. "You have," he said. "You have. Only - only there's so much to sort out. I'm so confused. Hattie, I've - I've been thinking about you night and day for three weeks. Ever since the coach passed out those pictures. I felt it was my duty to look at them, since they were supposed to help me, but that's all they were at first, a duty. Like biting practice and swallowing drill. But now -"
"Yes, Brian?" I said quickly, feeling my heart beating almost in my throat. "Yes, what about now?"
"Now I look at them because I enjoy them. Because I - like them. They're, they're fun." He looked as if he was going to burst into tears, and I tried to comfort him. "What's wrong with that Brian, dear?" I said. I had to fight to keep control of myself, I wanted so desperately to take him in my arms and pet and comfort him. "What's wrong with thinking I'm fun?"
"Nothing, I guess," Brian said after a moment. "But I've never had fun before. All my life I've been dedicated, dedicated to my sport, to being the best in the world. There was no room for fun -" A couple of girls walked through the lobby, saying hello to me, and Brian broke off, embarrassed. "Is, is there someplace else we could talk?" he asked.
I told him there was, and we started for the chapel. We walked close, but we didn't quite touch. Not then.
Not yet.
"It started when I was just a kid," Brian told me as we left the sidewalk for the narrow path to the chapel. "My parents took me to a little circus, and there was this grungy old guy there, a real weird looking cat. He was a wino, and he was also a geek, biting off chickens' heads while people watched and laughed. I watched too, but I didn't think it was funny. I was fascinated by the action of his muscles, and I thought that what he was doing was actually very noble. Man against nature, man versus animal. It was like a bullfight, if you know what I mean."
I knew exactly, and I said so. Brian went on. "Well, after I saw that I knew that's what I wanted to be, that's what I wanted to do with my life. I was going to bite off chickens' heads. Only I also knew that I would have to make it respectable. I have to have my family proud of me. They're good middle class people and all that. So I thought that if I grew up tall and blond and handsome, then I could change the image people had of geeks and make it look as noble as it really was. I've worked my whole life to do that, and, now that other people are doing the same thing, now that the professional geeks have cleaned themselves up, I'm getting someplace. All I ever wanted was to be the world's greatest, and to be famous. I've devoted my life."
"But now things are different?"
"I'll get to that. Hattie, I, I have a confession to make. You never meant anything to me until I saw those pictures because, well, because no girl ever meant anything to me. I didn't have time for girls, not even the most beautiful. I was too busy training. I'm good looking, I know that, but I've never been out on a date, let alone done what you and George were doing. Never."
"And you want to change that now, is that it? Is that what you want from me?"
"Oh, Hattie, would you? Would you? I'd be so grateful, so grateful if you would. Maybe then I could -"
"Maybe then you could what?"
"I was going to say maybe then I could forget you," said Brian, his eyes soulful. "But when you touch me like that -" You can guess where I was touching and how -" When you touch me like that all I want to do is remember you forever!"
He burst into tears, overcome with emotion, and I comforted him, kissing him and taking his cock from his pants. His penis was a good one, thick and long, much better than I'd dared to hope. (Once I'd awakened screaming from a nightmare in which Brian had a prick like a chicken's skinny neck, but that's another story entirely.)
I held the penis in my hands, warming it and making it grow, and Brian stood there trembling, frightened, using the backs of his hands to dry his eyes. "My All-American," I sang to him. "My wonderful All-American. Hattie will make you feel fine.
Carefully, tenderly, I manipulated his prick, and after taking a look around to make sure we couldn't be seen (what would discovery have done to his All-American rating? I couldn't jeopardize that), after taking a look around I knelt down on the ground before him. "I worship you," I said there, not ten paces from the door to the chapel. "I adore you. Let me show you what my worship can do."
I pressed my face to Brian's cock, rubbing it against my cheek, pressing it against my eyes. Then I licked at it, small strokes only at first, longer ones later, making a circle around the head with my tongue. Brian made a sound like a wounded animal, and his knees buckled but he stood up like the athlete he was.
I put my mouth around the head of his cock, sucking at it and continuing to lick, and slowly I pushed farther and farther down, taking in more and more and then coming up again. I sucked like I had never sucked before, each slurp an act of homage, each lick a way of saying, "I love you."
Small beads that were Brian's preliminary drops appeared, and I sucked them down as he moaned. "Ohhh," he cried, "ohhhh, Hattie, Hattie ... More ... more ... more ... more ..."
I gave him more, encircling his body with my arms and pulling him closer so that I could take all of his cock into my mouth, so I could taste every inch of it as I let the organ hit the roof of my mouth and be swallowed down, staying in my throat. I swallowed it and brought it up, swallowed and brought it up, as I had so many other pricks. But never had it meant so much. Once, twice, three, four, five times Brian was on the brink of climaxing, but each time I let him down, each time I took my mouth away and licked instead of sucking. What happened to Brian was going to be perfect, perfect, I swore to myself. I would take months, give him years of unending pleasure before making him finally come.
The sixth time Brian was about to orgasm I took my mouth completely away from his cock, and I put my hand around it instead, flicking at the tip with my nails as I put the burning rod of desire against my neck and rose up so that it moved down to my breasts. I went up and down, up and down, holding Brian's prick against me, and then I raised my left arm and took the prick in my armpit. I lowered my arm so Brian was secure, and I moved back and forth, rubbing against the great member.
Brian bubbled at the lips. His mouth was frothing, he was so excited. I put my head forward and at the same time released his prick so that I could shake my hair over it, almost whipping Brian's prick with the golden strands. He was going crazy, making incoherent sounds, and I knew that I would have to end it all, to give him release. We could start again later, I thought, and take longer still. Taking my hair in my hands, I pressed Brian's cock to my face once more, and I wrapped my hair around it, moving my hands, hair, and head simultaneously.
The campus reverberated with Brian's cry as his sperm shot out, covering me. There was so much of it I couldn't react, so much that I didn't know where to begin in trying to lick it up. All the come that Brian had stored away all his life was blowing out, whitening my hair, getting in my eyebrows and my eyes, filling my nose and mouth and ears, pouring down my body in a torrential stream.
It took Brian quite awhile to recover, so much of him had been spent, and I had to devote most of that time to convincing him that I was all right. "I've ruined you," he said. "I've ruined your clothes -"
"They can be cleaned. There's nothing to worry about. I can take a bath or a shower."
"But when we walked back where people can see us -"
"I'll look presentable, I promise. Brian, Brian, I liked it, I liked it, don't you understand? Don't you understand at all?"
"No," he said, "I don't."
So I gave him another lesson. We went into the empty chapel, and I found a note saying that the chaplain was addressing some woman's club and would be back after dinner, with a list of the souls he'd saved. Thanking God for my good luck, I brought Brian to my favorite pew, and there I undressed for him, letting him run his hand over my body and showing him which were my sensitive spots. And what he could do with them.
Then I undressed Brian, and we embraced while I taught him how to kiss. "You mean I should open my mouth?" he asked.
"That right."
"But the germs -"
"We'll survive, we'll survive," I promised, kissing him and thrusting my tongue into his mouth. He smelled good, so good. Not just his breath but all of him, even his anus, which I licked clean, showing him how to do the same thing for me. I showed him how to suck my clitoris too, and he did it well, so that my body was as ready for our final bit of love making as my mind had always been.
"Now do we do it?" he said. "We really do it? Together?"
"That's right."
Brian closed his eyes. "I'm afraid," he said.
"Afraid?"
"It's so strange, so terrifying. Hattie, are you sure, are you sure that you love me?"
"Would I be here if I didn't, Brian? Of course I do."
"But you didn't love George, and yet the two of you -"
"That was because I loved you, Brian," I said. "And for the good of the team."
"The team?"
"Your team," I told him.
He thought. "Oh yeah. I forgot about them."
I lay down and spread my legs, using my hands to open my cunt and give Brian's cock a good target. "In you go, darling," I said. "Hop right in."
Brian shook himself, and I could see new resolve entering his face. He poised himself above me, about to enter, and then suddenly he stopped. "You're sure you won't have a baby?" he said.
"I have a diaphragm," I said.
He asked me what that was. "Later, Brian," I said.
"But I'm curious -"
"Later! Later, later, later! Fuck me, goddamn it. Fuck me, you dick!"
The tip of his cock touched my clit, went down below it and partly in. Brian was at the threshold.
"Now push, damnit to hell, push!" I cried lovingly.
Brian looked down at me. "You won't hurt me?" he said. "You'll be gentle?"
"Gentle as hell, you cocksucking sonofabitch!" I roared. "Now get in here right now!"
Brian swallowed, and then, at last, he was finally fucking away.
It ended much better than it had begun, and when, as we dressed, Brian asked if I would go to the chapel with him again I certainly said yes. And a few weeks later, when, as he pushed my head down to his cock and ordered me to lick his balls and put my lips where they would do the most good, when he asked me to marry him I agreed to that too.
There was no way I could say no.
What did it matter that I was a year older? What did it matter that I knew more about the world than he did? Brian was more than just a conquest, much, much more, as long as he had that special skill and those razor sharp teeth. Live and let live was something I'd found out early, just before I learned that the key to everything was to indulge yourself. Mathilda had her religion, and I was entitled to practice mine. Could I help it if Brian was the center of what I believed?
Every time I saw blood it was Brian who sprang into my mind. I had to marry him.
And besides, if I married a respectable citizen, maybe then all the probation people and police in my home state would leave me alone.
Then I could really do what I wished.
And there was another reason too, another reason I wanted to keep Brian with me, and to have a marriage that would work out. No matter what else I thought, no matter what other justifications I found, perhaps the most important was simply that Brian had something I didn't want to lose. Something I couldn't let myself lose.
I'm not the kind of person who is easily swayed, and yet the fact remains. Brian may have been naive, but he moved me, and he moved me because he was a star.
He had something going for him that nobody else I knew had, something that at that time I didn't think I could beat.
Even as he asked me to marry him he shot his cream into my mouth, and that was his best quality of all.
Brian's, you see, was an All-American orgasm, and what girl, with too much of a past and a future as open as her own ever filled interior, could ask for anything more?
