A festive atmosphere blossomed in the cafeteria. The guys congratulated Richard. They couldn't help themselves. They were looking forward to the coming good times with the Dung Beetle's party favor.
Betty-Jo was unable to sleep that night.
The arm wrestle was fair, and I lost it. So now I'll have to stand and deliver, kneel and deliver, or lie down and deliver. No matter what position Dungie puts me in; I'll have to give him what he wants.
When she arrived at school the next day, looking delectable, Richard smirked and patted her bottom.
"Not bad, Stud Plaything," he said. "You've packaged my squirrel rather nicely."
She was mortified. "I'm pleased that you're pleased."
"Time for you to drink out of the toilet," he said as he shoved construction paper and elastic bands in her direction. "Make a couple of cone shaped cups for your boobs, the kind Madonna wears. Then hook these elastic bands together and staple them to the cones so I can fit them over your tits like a bra."
When she had finished the pointy bust-enhancements, she handed them to Richard. He pulled the elastic over her head and shoulders, and placed the cones over her breasts, fondling her while he made his adjustments.
She felt nauseous, but what could she do? He hefted her right breast and wrote, 'Brought To You' on the right cone, and 'By Richard Whittle' on the other one. Then he taped a sign to her back. It read: A Buck a Kiss—Two for a Slug Hug—Noon in the Cafeteria—
"Wear your cone-bra advertisement this morning, and report to me in the cafeteria at noon."
"I'm not sure these things conform to the school dress code."
"Don't worry your pretty little head about that. The teachers will think its all part of an April fools thing."
Her last hope for salvation was gone. If the teachers don't help me, I'm doomed....
A long line of guys had already formed to neck with her when she reported to the cafeteria. All of them had paid the extra dollar so they could French her. It was party time with Richard Whittle's party favor.
One after another they pulled her against them, and tongued her.
"Damn!" Richard said. "I could have charged twice as much."
"Best thing that's happened to me all year," enthused one nerd, when his turn was over. "Don't go away, B-J, I'm coming back for seconds."
When the line finally began to dwindle, Richard placed a professional sized Frisbee on the lunchroom floor, filled it with a tin of dog food, added water, and stirred. "Lunch time," he said. "On your hands and knees."
He positioned her above the revolting mixture. Her miniskirt was hiked up her legs to reveal her garter belt and panties.
It's now that a knight in shining armor comes riding to my rescue, she thought. It was a nice thought, but it didn't happen. Richard held her hands behind her back and shoved her face into the slop.
"Swallow," he said.
She swallowed, and gagged. "Please, Richard, I'm going to be sick."
"Maybe you'll remember this the next time you think you can better a guy at anything." He picked up a broom and whacked her exposed bottom—then, he grabbed her under her breasts, swung her around, and sat her in the dog-food-filled Frisbee.
"That's enough!" Ms Beasly, the Phys Ed teacher, said.
"For now," Richard replied. Then he turned to Betty-Jo. "Report here after school. Your penance has just begun. And clean yourself up. You look and smell like you've pooped your pants."
Gotta be tough, she thought, as she fought back tears.
That afternoon she tried, without success, to concentrate on her classes. Much too soon, it was time to report back to Richard.
"We're off to my place for a private show and tell," he said. "You'll show and I'll tell you what we're going to do with what you're showing. Think of this as your lucky day, 'cause soon I'll be noshing on your pink. And Stud Plaything..."
"...Yes?"
"I've always wondered what's on the other side of a black hole. This afternoon—thanks to you—I'm going to find out."
He's going to do me, wherever he wants, Betty-Jo thought, and there's nothing I can do about it. But she was wrong, because a knight had arrived, and he was moving his hand over her bottom.
"Go t' the prom with me, an ah'll save yo' pretty behind," Jim Bob O'Hara whispered.
"Save me, and I'm yours," Betty-Jo said. Anything has to be better than being had by that despicable Beetle.
"Time's up, Richard," Jim Bob said.
"What are you talking about. I won the Stud Plaything for the day."
"Raght. For the school day."
Why didn't I think of that? Betty-Jo was furious with herself. I'm out of Dungie's barbecue, but I'm onto the Wart Hog's grill. I've been saved by a knight in tarnished armor.
* * *
Poor unsuspecting Betty-Jo. The arm wrestle had been anything but fair, because Venus had rigged it. Hercules was on earth the day of the arm wrestle, sent by Zeus to save Los Angeles from the big one. Venus had drawn Hercules into the fray on the side of the Dung Beetle by promising him a night of depravity that he would never forget. She knew, only too well, about Herc's love of depravity, so the last thing she wanted was Herc up her skirt. But the opportunity to humiliate Princess Betty-Jo had been too tempting to ignore.
* * *
Hercules knew he should stonewall Venus, but there was something unbelievably arousing about the gorgeous bitch. He got off on the fate of the mortal who made the mistake of calling her 'a notorious strumpet, as common as a barber's chair.' That remark had given Zeus, and the other gods, a good laugh, but Venus had failed to appreciate the humor. She'd set the young fool up with a syphilitic wench, and watched gleefully as the corkscrew-shaped, syphilis-causing bacterium went to work on him. First came chancres, fever and headaches. Before long he was blind, deaf, and paralyzed. Eventually he died—totally insane.
Hercules also loved Venus' perversions; he loved to watch her play with herself without regard for who was with her in the great hall. She was incredibly erotic, weird, and decadent. It would have taken no less to make him cross Zeus—he knew his father's fury only too well.
* * *
Venus lounged on her throne, ecstatic about her victory over Betty-Jo. "I knew the Dung Beetle would some day be good for something," she said.
While the other gods had parted with their thrones centuries earlier, the goddess of love had made hers even more grandiose. Her throne was laden with sapphires, rubies, and diamonds, and it was draped in silk, the effort of millions of silk worms toiling for less than minimum wage. A few mulberry leaves were all they ever required.
She had monopolized the silk trade on Olympus since earth's thirteenth century, when her Mongol buddy, Genghis Kahn, had presented her with half of his silk worms. They were a token of his appreciation for the help she had given him with battlefield tactics, and for her suggestion that attractive female captives be spared the slaughter that followed his victories.
"Spare the maidens," she had told him. "There's nothing like maidens to enhance troop moral." And indeed, the 'maidens for the warriors' program had been a huge success, once the Mongol warriors had learned to share.
The goddess of love moved her hand under her gown,and thought about the ravished maidens. Their fate was a blessing compared to what's in store for America's maidens when Emperor Kahn arrives.
Then her thoughts returned to Genghis. Now there was a real man. It was fun tyrannizing two-thirds of the world with him. Nobody taught that boy how to play nice when he was a kid. Before he was five, he was ripping the wings off hummingbirds.
"I'll never forget the day Genghis captured that Russian, Prince Alexei. Hairball, you'd have loved it. First, Genghis disemboweled him. Then, because nothing warmed Genghis' heart like a foe in agony, he poured molten lead into his eyes and ears. But don't feel too badly about missing out on Genghis in action, because Lord Kahn will soon be arriving in Mongolia, and compared to Lord Kahn, Genghis was a saint." She laughed malevolently. "Mercury wil
l soon be heading back to earth to terminate Princess Betty-Jo. And enjoyable as her humiliation was, her death will be so much more enjoyable. You'll love how she dies—her death will be my finest hour."
"Merrow," said Old Hairball.
"My pawns are in place, and my foes have no idea that they'll soon be engaged in an epic struggle for America's survival—a struggle they cannot win."
-13-
BRAD RAIDEN
The Sixty Kilometers Per Hour Club
The drive to the after-party was becoming embarrassing. What had started with Greg and Belinda necking in the dimly lit limo, had degenerated into fondling and exploring, after Belinda's dress was manipulated up her legs to reveal a beckoning inner thigh.
"You know, guys and gals, it's impolite to suck face in public," Brad informed the preoccupied couple. They paid him no heed. They had their own agenda, which, for the moment, was being thwarted by Belinda's pantyhose.
"Wait," Belinda whispered. She arched her back, drew up her legs, and in seconds had the troublesome pantyhose bunched around her ankles. Her moans became louder and more frequent, and then they turned to gasps.
Brad pulled Sandy to him, and observed the Sheik's tomfoolery in disbelief. The Sheik was on second base, and apparently, contemplating stealing home. Guy isn't even bothering with third, Brad thought. But, sloppy base running or not, I have to come up with a way to halt their fun and games.
"Enough, Sheik! Keep that up, and the luscious Belinda will be joining the sixty kilometers per hour club."
Abruptly, Greg stopped fooling with Belinda.
"Thank the Lord for small mercies," Brad whispered to Sandy. But when the Sheik reached for the elastic top of Belinda's panties, he realized that there would be no mercies, small or otherwise. I don't believe it! That scoundrel's heading for home right here in the limo.
-14-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & JIM BOB O'HARA
Goodbye Virginity?
Student Council President, Jim Bob O'Hara, was also the captain and quarterback of the Grand Strand football team. A myriad of honeys vied for his attention, and with mega-honeys to keep him amused, he hadn't really bothered with Betty-Jo—at least he hadn't bothered with her until he paid two bucks for a slug hug from Dungie's party favor. Abruptly, he'd been unable to get the party favor out of his head.
"If Dungie's raght," he told Betty-Jo, "an yo squirrel really is nothin' but a big rat with a bushy tail, then babe, 'follow me, cause [ah'm yo] Pied Piper.'"
* * *
This wart hog's acting as if I belong to him, Betty-Jo thought. And I suspect that it's not an arm wrestle, but the prospect of a squirrel hunt on the bucket seat of his Jimmy, that has him all worked up. Oh well, at least my date problem for the prom has been solved. And really, how can I complain? He's the most sought after guy at Grand Strand High: handsome, athletic, a shoo-in for prom king, and my savior from the Dung Beetle. If only his attitude toward women didn't scream wart hog.
Betty-Jo bought a little, black, stretch-lace dress with spaghetti straps for the prom. It was unpretentious—at least it was unpretentious until she wore it. On her, it suddenly became suggestive.
Jim Bob picked her up on prom night, and helped her into his GMC pride and joy. He fumbled with the gardenia wrist corsage he'd bought. Then he poured her a glass of sparkling white wine. She was a novice drinker, so after she downed a couple more glasses of the vinegary tasting plonk, at the pre-prom, she was flying.
The prom dinner and dance were fun. The guys milled around her, hoping for a dance. They knew that a dance with Betty-Jo guaranteed a memorable evening. Jim Bob tried to keep her to himself, but Deborah Sue Hodgesmith, Jim Bob's most recent ex-girlfriend, was lusting after him—dry rutting him whenever she could get him onto the dance floor.
I can understand why Deborah Sue's looking and feeling quite all right to the Wart Hog, Betty-Jo thought. And in fairness, Jim Bob was decent enough to explain his dilemma to Betty-Jo. "B-J, ah have a problem," he said. "Deborah Sue wants to give me a hand-job. From you ah'm lookin' at a handshake. If you were me, who'd you leave with?"
She laughed uneasily. "You do love to frolic in the gutter, don't you. How could anyone as pretty as you have inherited such wart hog cravings?"
"Is it ma fault that ma momma got friendly with a Y chromosome? Anyway, ah lahk Deborah Sue. All she eve' asks fo' is a pat on the be-hind, and a warm weenie t' hold."
Such a low life. "If the prospect of a hand-job from Deborah Sue gets you all excited, a dose of athlete's foot must be to die for. I'd rather spend time with Quasimodo, and a trough full of pigs, but then, I lack your wart hog cravings."
Jim Bob grinned at her. "Ah'm a religious wart hog. Ma attitude toward women is 'do unto [women], as you would have [women] do unto you.'"
"We'll call it the Wart Hog's golden rule."
Whether Jim Bob was a male piggy or merely a religious wart hog was academic, because Betty-Jo felt threatened. She moved against him, and ran her fingertips lightly across the nape of his neck; the punishment for her indiscretion was an expression of interest below Jim Bob's belt.
"My God, it's alive!" She twisted her hips away.
The Wart Hog grinned. "Ah thank it lahkes you."
"Why don't we have the last dance together? My Captain," she whispered, before she licked his ear. "Then you can decide which of us you want to leave with."
That slow dance with Betty-Jo and the Everly Brothers made Jim Bob's decision a no-brainer—it made the Kama Sutra seem boring. And she, bless her, upped the anti. "Lets you and me take a run down to Murrels Inlet, and see if the submarines are racing."
Jim Bob covered the fifteen miles down Route 17, then south on Waccamaw Drive to Oyster Cove, in record time. But even with Jim Bob's record setting pace, Betty-Jo still had plenty of time to be mad at herself. She had decided to let him bed her for all the wrong reasons: she was nineteen, all the girls wanted Jim Bob, and allowing that Deborah Sue Twinkie to leave the prom with her date, would have been more humiliating than an admission of trench mouth.
Po, po Betty-Jo, she thought as they pulled into a secluded spot at Oyster Cove. She dreams of romance in France, but gets a fuck in a truck. Balled for the first time in a Jimmy by a Jimmy. It's all too shabby to contemplate. I'd rather be home alone watching 'Leave It To Beaver' reruns.
She bit at her lower lip, parted her legs, and held out her arms. "Okay, Jim Bob," she said, "it's open season on squirrels."
-15-
BRAD RAIDEN & SANDRA MANDERVILLE
Will You Walk into My Parlor?
All the free Champagne was thwarting Greg in what should have been a simple task. His objective was clear, but Belinda's pantyhose was refusing to ease down her legs. Confused, he shifted his hands to her hips and buried his face in her lap. But Belinda was having none of that. She pushed Greg away, and kicked off her shoes. Then she bent down, and yanked off her pantyhose.
That is one eager woman, Brad concluded, but only for a moment, because Belinda, after fumbling with the waistband, brought her pantyhose up to her mouth, and heaved.
As Sandy pushed over to the far corner of the limo, Brad opened the window, grabbed Belinda's shoulders, and guided her head outside—she was promptly sick a second time.
He couldn't resist. "See what you've done, Sheik. You've nauseated the luscious Belinda."
Greg looked dumbfounded.
"Are you all right, Belinda?" Brad asked.
"I...thing so. Hold me for a moment. I just need some air." A minute later, Belinda slumped back inside.
"Hope there's special dispensation, in Toronto, for emergency littering," he said, as he threw her pantyhose into the street.
"Greg, I'm so so-wee," said a forlorn sounding Belinda.
The Sheik appeared to be even more miserable than Belinda, if that was possible. "I'm the one who should be sorry. This 's my bloody, stupid fault."
"No harm done, Belinda," Brad said. "The Sheik's a lemon. Dump him. With what you have to offer,
an upgrade will be easy. ...But there is one thing."
"...What?"
"From now on, carry one of those pooper-scooper bags. Pantyhose may be an effective chastity belt, but is it fair to expect it to double as a barf bag?"
Belinda swung at him, and missed, but Sandy caught him squarely on the shoulder. "Jerk," she purred before she cuddled against him. "Perhaps we should go to my place—skip the after party."
Brad was uncertain what he should do about the limo, but the driver assured him that mishaps were common. "For a small token of your appreciation, the limo will soon be smelling of lilacs, or roses, or any of a half dozen other fragrances you may desire."
"Any preference?" he asked Sandy.
"How about pine?"
"No problem," the driver said. "You kids have a good time, but you gotta be back by two, or pay double for overtime."
Sandy gave her hair a toss, and smiled. "That sounds more ominous than having your coach turn into a pumpkin." She squeezed Brad's arm, and accompanied him up the steps to the portals of her mansion. And it was a mansion. With its eight Doric columns it resembled the Parthenon.
Could it be that the gods are with me tonight, he wondered? Could it be that Lucky Ducky can finally take a night off?
Inside, Brad wrested his eyes from Sandy and looked around. The foyer was massive. In sumptuous Rococo style, the white paneled walls and ceiling were covered with ornate gilt trim, gilt carvings, and gilt-edged mirrors—and there was marble everywhere. "This is some tenement you have here. I'll bet there's more marble in this place than there is in the Taj Mahal. Like Shan Jahan, your father must have a favorite wife."
"He does—my mother. But he's only allowed to have one wife, because it's my mother who owns this house, and half of Canada."
The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever Page 6
