But he was shaking his head.
‘Fuck me any way you please. Only …’
Her eyes dropped. His frightful prick swung out, tensing as she watched. It positively took her breath away, long, thick, gnarled and so – angry-looking at its bright bald knob.
‘Oh, Christ, Sam, I can’t possibly take all that.
Promise only an inch … please … I’ll do anything …’
‘You took it all in last time.’
‘And I felt as if it was under my chin. Oh damn you, damn you, damn you’, she blasted him, fingers flying to the buttons on the side of her breeches.
‘Get it over quickly, then.’
Dropping breeches and pants she bent miserably over the trestle-like horse, legs parted, head down, grasping the forward struts with her hands. She tried to show no reaction when he flipped up the tail of her jacket behind, and bared her.
‘Mind you grease it, Sam. I just don’t want to look, that’s all.’
‘I do’, he said. He fingered her perfect parted chubs wonderingly. ‘One sweet …’
‘Get it over with’, she reiterated angrily. ‘Stick it in and hurry.’
‘That girl Ave’s not whupping into you ’nough.
Though I did hear that last Hell Night … hey, that cunt is tempting, too.’
She half got up. ‘Put it in there, please, Sam.’
It was a last try. ‘Please don’t bugger me, it’s such agony.’
But he shook his shaggy head once more. Picking up a jar of saddle soap he anointed his member, which gave a grateful jerk in response, then ran his greasy finger round the darkly-budded sphincter rim and sank it to the knuckle, suddenly.
‘Aaaaaach!’
‘Now push out as if you goin’ to shit. Here we go.’
The eagerly-pulsing head dimpled her deepest division, to another plucky gasp from the Beta pledge. Joan held sternly to the struts, her bowler-hatted head up, waiting, tensing.
‘Re-lax!’ he gasped in unison.
‘I’m trying to, you dumb ox. It … just … won’t …
aaah … go in!’
‘Oh yes it will. If you relax.’
‘Push. Ow!’
The coated cock deformed the flesh, its head momentarily ringed by the anus, then Joan had given a frantic wriggle forward, grasping her spread cheeks.
‘Please. Sam.’
The boy went to the wall, his brawny prick swinging. Panting, Joan looked at it with horror. Its broad glans seemed as if breathing.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Maybe this’ll make you relax a bit more.’
‘Sam. Please. It wasn’t in the deal.’
He brought the hide riding switch lashing across her bent bottoms. Twice more, before she evaded it, he caught her; then he calmly hung it on its hook.
‘Get your feet further apart. We ain’t got all that time.’
She crouched over the trestle, mewling with distaste. This time he put strong thumbs either side of her opening and pressed. She felt the shaft start to squeeze, spread her, enter. Her lips distended, she felt half-choked. Again she wriggled off her impalement and Sam cursed in earnest.
‘I can’t’, she begged, ‘I can’t.’
‘If you want your dose of come you’ve got to’, he said, and again he went to the wall. She watched him slackly, racked with anxiety. Surely there was an easier way. He brought something back from the cupboard and suddenly she felt a cold goosing slide up her rectum.
‘Ooooh.’
‘Try that’, he said. ‘Horse suppository. Better shit it out quick. In there.’
She staggered to the toilet, holding her breeches.
He watched her from the door as she sat.
‘Quick. We ain’t got all that time, I say.’
‘I … cahn’t …’
‘Better did’, he chuckled richly. ‘If you keep that up you, you’re in for a time in the john.’
She strained hotly and was rewarded with a tinkle, a plop.
‘Come now, kid.’
She stood up and tried to walk back into the saddle room with some shred of dignity left. He was waiting for her like a bear, cock swaying. Then he turned her and humped her over hard and this time slid into the lush tallow of her entrails with no trouble at all. A long gushing gasp exhaled from her mouth. In sobbing fury she struck at his flanks as he thudded in and out, filling her with sheer feeling, making her cough and pant as if choked, until he slammed her to the saddle horse and plumbed her, grunting, to the hilt.
.She had never known anything like it in her life. She was going to vomit. The thing was right up her belly, parallel with the trestle bar. She scratched at the struts, her ribs, her breasts, then suddenly she was hissing, ‘You bastard! You’re coming.’
She had felt the swelling warning and with a final effort screwed herself off him as he shot into her. Desperately (this could never, ever, happen again) she sought the puce and fuming head, spouting its jism. For, a second she was driven back by its spit in her face, then she had grabbed its shiny length and stuffed it in her mouth. The stream went on forever. It brimmed her lips, puffing out her cheeks, and when she knew she had enough, and released it, the dreadful tyke gave a last gleeful spatter over her ducked derby. For now she was searching her pockets for Melissa’s precious test-tube. She filled it from her lips, corked it, rose to her feet in exhausted disgust and cold fury and saw him wiping off his manhood on a stable rag.
‘How utterly, completely, repulsive and filthy’, she said, turning from him to ‘adjust’ her clothing.
‘That is quite the foulest thing that has ever happened to me.’
‘Lucky I didn’t make you lick it off.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Lucky I don’t charge for it, either.’
‘You have the most repulsively prodigious flow of any man I’ve ever met’, she said ‘with the consistency of porridge, too.’
He bowed mock-modestly. ‘May I wipe your hat, Ma’am?’
‘I’ll do it, thanks.’
‘Next time in front of Ave, eh?’ he said, chuckling as she angrily exited, stumbling on the step and swearing in a manner most unbecoming of a member of the most, she was thinking, exclusive sorority in the world. The things one did for one’s girl friends … one did for Beta Beta Rho.
CHAPTER NINE
The second Hell Night came as all second Hell Nights have to.
This time the five pledges were seriously lugubrious, and poor little Terry Sands nearly peed in her pants. Dean of Students, Miss Frederika (‘Freddy’) Thorne, even called her in that Thursday.
‘Is there anything wrong, Teresa? You look so pale these days. Even, I would say, listless.’
‘Ner-nothing in particular, Miss Thorne.’
‘You aren’t unhappy here, are you?’
‘Oh heavens, no.’ She looked out of the sunny window to the ivy-clad walls beyond. ‘It’s just that
… Well, I am pledging, you know.’
‘I see.’ Miss Thorne had been a Beta Rho herself, in her day, and smiled commiseratively. ‘Last Friday of the month tomorrow.’
‘Right.’
Terry studied her toes a moment.
‘It isn’t so much the beastly birch, though Lord knows that is horrible enough. And Melissa is putting them up this month. It’s that licky long cane they use. I do have two Omissions …’
‘And that’ll be six.’
Teresa rolled her eyes. ‘Of the juicy best, Miss Thorne. Oh heavens, I hate the cane.’
‘So do I’, said ‘Freddy’ Thorne comfortingly. ‘Did I’, she corrected.
‘Of course, this is a period of your life in which you are asked to call on all your courage. Chin up, Teresa.’ And the pert teener in fact responded.
‘Think of what it’s like to be a Beta.’
‘I’ll think’, said Terry Sands bravely. A beaten Beta, was what she was thinking at that moment.
‘And come and see me afterwards’, said Dean Thorne in a friendly tone, though wi
th a glint in her gimlet glance. ‘Freedom of sexuality, Terry’, she added as an afterthought, ‘nearly always means a lowering of its intensity, and value. A diminished ego makes all things mild. The object of our sororities is to take the drudgery out of discipline and make everything simply wonderful.
I’m sure you’ll find it will be.’
As T. Sands left the Deanery she was surprised to see the head groom waiting to go in, twisting his cap in one hand. A short and knotted man, from England, Mr. Jorrocks. Her heart gave a flutter. She hoped he hadn’t found out about poor Joanie and Sam.
Thursday evening too was the one on which President Milton Hamilton of the multiple degrees took his regular wrestling lesson. Upstairs in the ivy-clad Presidential mansion was a capacious work-out, or ‘play’, or ‘keep-fit’, room, supplied with mats and bars and ropes. For this eminent scholar was making no mistake; he wanted to continue a vigorous life with his delicious Georgene for just as long as possible. So each Thursday before dinner Nancy Kale, the powerful Phys. Ed.
mistress, came and put him through the jumps.
It was an unusually warm evening and she stood confronting him at the opposite corner of the mat clad only in a man’s shirt, and pants, both of well-worn white. Both were patchy with sweat and since she preferred to work out without a brassiere her strong, tense breasts thrust out sideways on her torso, clearly defined and shuddering slightly. The thin wet stuff defined not only the rubbery stub of her nipples, but also the coin-like edges of her enormous aureoles. She blinked at the President through her somewhat misted spectacles, arms fisted and clenched either side of her.
Wearing only a brief karate robe of immaculate white, girt at the waist, Milton Hamilton looked at her with admiration and curiosity. Admiration for the full round neck, defiant air, flat stomach, bursting breasts and, in particular, for those athletic thighs curving from crotch to knee with muscle. His already ruddy cheeks darkened at the plump mound in their middle, from which dark tendrils drifted out of the panty legs. Curiosity, however, was also apparent as he scratched his pure white thatch, preparing to charge.
For the past two weeks now he had noticed it.
The first time was when they had been doing some rope work and, shinning after her, he had glanced up under that solidly churning butt. The panties had rucked up in her efforts and, yes, he was quite sure of it, there were fading marks of weals across his gym mistress’s posterior. Again, today, when she had bent over to pull straight the mat he had seen them, brown lines extending out of the underwear either side. His cock had kicked at the sight. Someone was giving Nancy Kale a damn sound caning and he resolved to find out who. With a balanced jump he rushed, foot high.
She avoided the throw easily, of course, for she was quicker (if weaker) than he. In turn she attacked and bounced thumpily from the mat as she fell. They went at it hammer and tongs. Milton Hamilton grew increasingly out of breath, and increasingly excited. This sumptuous specimen of womanhood, panting and perspiring, was in prime condition, all her round surfaces glib and hard and running with muscle. Set on the solid cores of her thighs, her buttocks were mammoth, moving pomegranates. They worked in concentration for a while, then suddenly he found his chance. He slammed her to the mat so hard it drove the breath from her body, and she lay prone, gasping.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘That was too hard’, she gasped, winded.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He bent to help but something else happened.
Nancy Kale twisted, trained in self-protection.
The Presidential robe had come apart, revealing his tremendous staff in full erection. And as she moved he was on her in a moment.
Suddenly they were rolling and panting, wet-locked in their scant attire, all over the mat. Nancy Kale was fighting in earnest now. At a distance she could defeat him. Close to like this he was master, immensely strong. And kneeling holding her down on her belly as he presently was, she could feel that glowing member, yes, from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. She twisted, throwing him.
But he was again on her again in a flash, chuckling.
Then for a while she seemed to feel it everywhere. The impatient shaft nubbled a nipple, slapped a writhing thigh, and once it clubbed her twisted face, filling her with awe at its weight.
‘Mr. President … sir!’ she whispered
desperately, under him. ‘This is not karate!’
Luck came her way as he listened. She got up a leg and pushed with the bare ball of one foot (Good Golly! it was longer than her sole even!) – Milton Hamilton sat back on his haunches, grunting as if in meditation, his stony erection aimed at the ceiling and quivering with frustration.
‘Sorry, Kaley’, he said. ‘But I’ve always wondered … I mean, all these tales of rape …
always have said myself that no girl gets raped who doesn’t want to be. How would you defend yourself, if I tried to rape you?’
She stared at the twitching fish-eye of his beasthood. Oh that! Woman’s despair! She felt bitter with the thought of what she had promised Aramilla to do on the morrow, on Hell Night itself, and she felt insulted by the stare of this monster.
‘Try’, she spat at it – not him. ‘Just try, and see what happens.’
He lurched. She jumped. They buffeted and bounded. She bit, struggled, and whomped him one.
She snorted, gouged, and surfaced, straining. She was a human animal, in hard motion, slugging and striking. Limb-entwined, storm-tossed, the President asked no more. What a terrific bitch.
The problem was the panties.
Then he saw that in her contortions she had writhed them down her thighs. Despite a muffled lump to his left eye he managed to slide them down the sweatily threshing legs without too much ado.
No problem.
The weight of her blows had excited him. His playful pulses pounded.
‘I’m sorry to have to do this, Kaley’, he said, as she squirmed beneath him, beneath it, ‘but this is in fact what I myself would … in the circumstances …’
He cuffed her accurately in the solar plexus and the breath went from her body like a bag. When it came back the Phys. Ed. instructor found herself arched on her back, both hands held behind her in one iron Presidential hand, while the other forced back her head by the hair.
‘You …’ she panted, trying to get her legs under way.
But her thighs were splayed by his hairy thighs and she could not so much as even draw her knees up. All she could do, she realized, as she felt the inhuman object sliding into her, was … shout out:
‘Nooooo-oooooo!’
‘Reminds me of a siren’, said the President, beginning to pump into her regularly.
‘Noooooo!’ she begged again, and began to writhe and arch and buck till he really had to bend her back, until almost all he could see was her slabby, swollen, bursting breasts. He bit one hand to make her writhe more. By which time part of her weight was resting on the top of her strained-back head.
‘Isn’t this some sort of Hatha Yoga position?’ he inquired in scholarly fashion, watching the tendons of her thighs knotting as he drew out of her, before ramming hard home. Under the purple of his sliding prick he could see the lower cheeks of her bottom clenched so tight you could scarcely have put a coin between them – like Georgene’s knees and thighs. And, yes, they definitely were marked with weals. Well, he’d have to find out about that.
After all, he was the President around here. The only one they had.
Now each time she tried to wriggle off his impalement she dug herself more deeply onto it.
‘Stop … I can’t … please …’
Then suddenly the character of these
manoeuverings changed; she seemed to fit over him like a glove and he could have sworn he felt a clam-like clutch at the tip of his cock. Her womb, already?
‘Please … shoot … give it … cram … cream …
come …’
‘Go on’, he said, interested.
Her feet beat a tattoo. ‘Shoot … spermy spunk …
fuck … stuff … up my …’
‘Well now’, he said, ‘that’s not even grammatical Kaley. By the way, do you take the pill? I don’t go in for dropping bastards about the place. And if you don’t, I regret to say I’ll have to, er, finish up. the arse. At least, that’s what I’d do if …’
The rubbery pucker of her vagina was becoming unbearable, and any minute now …
Suddenly she said in a coldly controlled tone he could barely recognize, ‘It’s quite all right, President. I’m a piller. If you would just be so good as to … fuck my cunt with lead … fairly soon …’
‘That’s much better’, said Milton Hamilton happily, and shot his boiling load. When he left the room a moment later he looked back at the
‘exercise’ mat. Nancy Kale’s magnificent body was still spread-eagled prone upon it, her shirt open, her thickly bushed cunt spasmically oozing. Her eyes were closed, or glazed, he could not quite see which. ‘At least’, he said pensively, closing the door behind him on the sight, ‘if you asked me, that’s what I should do. In such a case.’
*
*
*
Second Hell Night at Beta Beta Rho that term was indeed an unprecedented affair. Everyone knew something unusual was going to happen and the five pledges were positively petrified, although –
largely thanks to ‘Stable’ Sam (as they called him between themselves) – all test-tubes had been duly filled. They were pale as ghosts as they assembled in the side-room that night and the mulish jut to red-headed Rowena’s lovely rump quivered quite perceptibly. Why, they wanted to know, had Davia Skill, President of rival Gamma Gamma Phi, and two of her lieutenants, been invited to watch the proceedings? This was most unusual and irregular. But more than one proud heart, under the red I AM A WORM button, resolved to show that no one, but no one, could take a licking like a Beta pledge.
An hour later, or less, they were lined up at the far end of the bum-room from the tables, filled with members – plus Davia Skill resplendently inky-locked beside President Aramilla Ponsonby – when the incredible did in fact happen.
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