Chapter 1

"D-d-don't! Oh don't! You-you're kk-killing meeeee!" He was fucking his terrible cock up my pussy with the force of a bulldozer. I thought sure it would never go. My cunthole felt as if someone were shoving the Leaning Tower of Pisa up my pisser. And although I fought, clawed his gargantuan shoulders and chest; although I tried to close my legs against the horrid violation, Lonny-the giant I'd heard stories about for most of my nineteen years: the black sheep of the town's most prominent family-was too engrossed, too far gone with the wonder of screwing, to hear my cries or feel my nails digging into his flesh.

"Give Lonny-umph! Pussy! Give! Fuck-fuck!" Hair tangled, looking like Quasimodo when he first discovers Gina Lollobrigida asleep in the tower at Notre Dame, the brute continued to hump his awesome dick into the tiny blonde wedge between my quivering thighs.

"Nooooo!" I tried not to feel the tingly sensation that hard prick caused each time it grated across my clit. I tried not to look. But my eyes refused to remain closed. And although I was being taken against my will, raped by the backward boy I'd been hired to teach, shamed, defiled, I couldn't keep my gaze off the unbelievable thing forcing its way, inch by incredible inch, up my belly.

"It-it's too big!" I hollered. "Oh don't. PLEASE! N-No moooooooore!"

Lonny merely grinned his vacant grin, and fucked harder. His hands, the size of baseball gloves, moved from the bosom of my torn dress, to my waist, then down and under to cup my plump, trembling buttocks. I felt his fingers dig in. One sought my pinched asshole. I gasped. Again I tried to close. But it was no use. The boy was a gorilla: stronger than three men, and now, with his first taste of pussy, determined to bury his cock to the hilt. The finger slipped past my sphincters ... hurting ... driving my hips up off the cold cellar floor ... pushing, pushing, pushing toward the secret warmth, the slippery, tight little niche at the top of my vagina.

"Good pussy," he grunted. "Carol got nice hot cunt. We fuck." Gripping the cheeks of my ass, one finger curled high in my rectum, he pressed the throbbing tip of his meat in past the mouth of my upper sheath.

"Owwwwwwww!" I was being ripped open. The fat stake up my hole was slicing me in two. I was no virgin. But not since the first time, more than six years before, when Steve, my cousin, introduced me to the wonders of fucking, had I felt such pain, such resistance within. The pain spread from my hole, to my belly, my head. Lonny, the exposed beams overhead, began to spin. I felt that fourteen-inch cock-as big around as a soup can, it seemed-boring in; closed my eyes and let the nothingness, the dark of unconsciousness, lift me from the dirty cement floor, and back to the day, six days-was it only six days?-before, when it all began.

I had graduated from Community College with high grades and thought sure it would be a snap to get a job as a teacher at Community High. I hadn't figured on Mr. Phelps. I'd heard stories about him: that he'd been caught in the girls' locker room on more than one occasion. And I should have remembered my own high school days, when it was sort of an open secret that the tall, bachelor principal, who had a habit of sneaking into gym class at the most opportune times, always offered a girl in trouble for cutting a class or failing a test the choice of bringing her parents to school or "the switch." I had never been faced with the choice. But I knew girls who had-always the older girls: those about to graduate. They knew the switch was merely an excuse to get a dress up for a look at pink ass flesh. So I should have expected advances as part of the interview.

It was a hot, sunny day, weeks before the new term, when I entered the office. Immediately I saw him behind the desk-eyes big and watery behind the rimless glasses I remembered-I wished I'd worn something less revealing. The minidress rode up almost to my crotch when I sat. I watched those eyes travel boldly up my legs.

"We, ah-we haven't seen you since-." Mr. Phelps sat back and stared at the ceiling. He smiled. "It must be more than four years now, Carol. You don't mind if I call you by your Christian name?"

"N-no. Of course not. I-well, if I'm to work here-." I knew I was blushing. I uncrossed my legs. His gaze followed the move.

"Of course. Of course, my dear. We're all one big happy family at Community High. I like to know my teachers, ah-shall we say intimately?"

Oh-oh! I thought. The fucking old lecher hadn't changed a bit! I could almost see the sex wheels turning inside his almost bald head. But it was nothing unusual. My long, blonde hair, trim figure and tits too big for the rest of me, worked on most men like vino on a wine-guzzler. I returned his pasted-on smile, shrugged. "I really do want the job," I told him. "I've always wanted to be a teacher. And, well, I guess I've always wanted to do it here;"

"Fine! A commendable goal in a young woman as, ah-as attractive as yourself."

Warily I watched him rise from behind the desk. Already there was a bulge at the fly of his pants. And I knew what was on his mind as he stepped to the side of my chair, placed his hand on my shoulder, and added, "You don't mind if, ah-if I say I've had my eye on your, ah-shall we say your scholastic ability since you were one of our pupils?"

Fuck off! I wanted to tell him. But I really did want the job, and Community High was the best school in town, and I knew he was rotten enough to put my name at the bottom of the substitute list if I balked. I tried not to notice the fingers close to my breast. But my voice was shaky when I said, "I-I'm qualified for the job. My grades are excellent. I-I have a recommendation from my English professor."

The fingers inched lower; the tips caressing the round portion of creamy flesh where one tit bulged from the low neck of my dress. Oh darn! I thought. Why hadn't I at least worn a bra? Now he could see my pert nipples, I knew: the pink penciltips that always seemed to be in a state of excitement. I glanced at the hose-like stiffness in his pantsleg. My pussy grew tight. My breath caught. "D-don't!" I whispered, knowing there was no conviction in my voice, no resistance in my body.

"I think we should test your, ah-qualifications!" said Mr. Phelps. "Like fucking. Yes! I think first I should sample your charms-fuck you!"

The words stunned me. I stared wide-eyed up at him; mouth agape, not knowing what to say. I had never before heard it said so brazenly. I came off the chair at his prompting; allowed him to take me into his arms and press the big rod in his pants into the heated pocket between my parted thighs. It felt good. So good! Even though I found him repulsive, ugly and old compared with the others I'd given my curly, white-blonde treasure to, the hugeness of his cock, the way it jerked toward my lovehole, made me gasp. "I-I-I-."

His lips covered mine before I could finish what I'd begun to say. But it didn't matter. I didn't know myself what I was going to say. And his dick! Oh, his hard dick! His hands had dropped to my ass, lifted the mini, and now, even through the pants, I could feel the fat glans sniffing the dampness where the bikini briefs were sunk deep in the lips of my cunt.

The job! I thought. I was doing it for the job! I opened my mouth for his tongue, wrapped my arms around his neck, and began to grind ... mashing my pussy against the stiffness ... rolling the cheeks of my ass against the palms of his hands.

We swayed together until Mr. Phelps tore his lips away, and said, "You have a lovely round, ah-behind!" His fingers worked the panties high on one cheek. "So soft. So, ah-inviting!" He traced the crack; probed.

"Ow! N-not there," I objected as his middle finger began to toy at my anus. "I-I never-."

"Shhh!" He backed me across the room, to the desk. "Carol. Lovely Carol," he breathed, abandoning my ass to shimmy the panties down. "I used to watch you. In gym class. I, ah! I always wondered if your, ah-if your pussycat is as golden as the rest of you." Pushing the undergarment down, he dropped to his knees, and pressed his face, his mouth, to my white-blonde pubic hair.

"Ummm!" I shivered as the tongue that had explored my mouth moments before darted into my slit. It was heavenly. I sat on the edge of the desk, opened wide. The sandpapery dart raked my clit. "Ow-ow! Owwwwwww!" I gripped the ledge I was perched on, and thrust my hips, my vulva, into his face.

Mr. Phelps was no longer old and ugly. He was marvelous! Beautiful! And I would have been content to sit there forever while he sucked me off. But just as it was getting really good, just as my hips and thighs were beginning to dance, as if someone had wound me up, he pushed the panties down, to my ankles, lifted first one foot, then the other out of the lacy garment, and stood. He steered my hand to his crotch. "Take it out," he told me. "My, ah-my john thomas!"

I sobbed and fell with my head on his shoulder. I was by now too far gone, too worked up, to care about anything except the stiffness, the long, throbbing manmeat, inside his pants. My fingers groped for the zipper. It came down. My hand filled the gap. I fumbled with the opening in his shorts-found the hot, plumb-shaped head of his cock, and began to move my hand up and down the hard, veiny shaft.

"Lovely!" sighed Mr. Phelps. His hand repaid the compliment. He cupped my wet pussy; rubbed. He kissed me again: held it until I had freed his big dick, pushed his fingers aside, and was moving the purple-red tip up and down the pulsing gash his tongue had readied for screwing.

Suddenly he yanked his rod from my hand, backed away. I watched him undo his belt. I sat trembling; cunt smoking, it seemed. It was always like this. No matter how hard I resisted, how adamant I was, a stiff prick shattered my will like a hammer on glass. I thought back, to the night before, when Steve, my cousin, the one who'd taken my cherry when I was thirteen and just beginning to show a trace of down on my vulva, came to the house, and forced me-with talk of the things we'd done as kids-to undress-saying he only wanted to look at me-and open my legs as I'd done hundreds of times in the six years we'd been having our incestuous affair. A dick made me crazy, it seemed. Any dick! Anywhere! Now I stared breathlessly at the one standing away from Mr. Phelps' black cockhair. I watched him come toward me in shirttails. I stopped breathing. Stopped thinking.

"Lay down on the desk," he directed. Quickly he pushed the blotter, papers, a pen and odds and ends, to one side. "At the edge. So I can get this-" he shook his bloated cock at me-"up your, ah-up your sweet cunthole!"

Willingly I complied. But I felt the hot blood of shame flooding my cheeks. I had never before heard anyone talk so wantonly. Not even Steve-who took me roughly and didn't care if I cried or whimpered or fought-spoke to me as directly as Mr. Phelps. Still, I raised my legs, planted my heels on the mahogany, and dropped my knees wide. The faint breeze from the window behind Mr. Phelps licked my twat. I shivered; goose bumps of anticipation breaking out all over my body. The shiver became a shudder of delight as he stepped to the edge of the desk, splayed his hands on the tense white flesh along the inside of my wide-spread thighs, and set the knob of his cock at my nipping love-hole.

"Ahummmm!" I bucked as the glans slipped into me.

"Lovely!" Moving his hands over my hips, down and under, to my ass, Mr. Phelps humped.

"Oh yes! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!" I felt the thick shaft part the wet folds of my sex ... began to gyrate ... to draw him in ... to set my inner cunt muscles at work. It wasn't as big as Steve's magnificent tool. But it was bigger than some of the others I'd taken, and hard-harder than the wood my buttocks were slapping against, it seemed. I whimpered and strained ... pulling him deeper. Using my belly, like a hungry vacuum cleaner, to suck him in.

"I used to-oh my! Oh tight! Lovely and wet and tight!" groaned Mr. Phelps. "I-I used to watch you every day in gym," he confided. "I-I used to think, 'That Carol! She's gonna be one fine little fuck some day!' You-ahhhh! So good 'n' fucking hot! You were better-looking than the others. All of them. But-ummmmmmmmmm! I-I never could get you in here. You never came late. Never cut class. Never-OH! Never did one fucking thing I could use to, ah-to discipline you! To get your dress up 'n' see for myself if your sweet little pussy is as blonde 'n' pink 'n' lovely as the rest of you." He pulled back, until his prick-now slick with cunt juice-almost popped from its burrow, and drove, planting himself to the hilt.

"Do it!" I cried, fucking my hips up off the desk, wanting to feel him pound, bludgeon the thing into me. "F-fuck real hard. In and-oh! OHHHHHHHHHHH! All-all the way in and out!"

He set a new pace: a steady, rapid fuck tempo, designed to coax his wiggly cumworms up from the sacs slapping my ass. I helped. I matched him thrust for thrust ... moving my hips furiously round and round ... making my cunt snap. I couldn't breathe. The room was a vacuum: barren of oxygen. And the dress, bunched high on my waist, leaving my lower body free but suffocating my breasts, seemed to weigh more than the bookcase lining the wall on either side of the window.

As if having read my thoughts, Mr. Phelps, moving his hands up my body, said, "Lift up."

When I did, he worked the zipper down my back, and slid the dress from my shoulders. My breasts sprang free-the nipples pink and rigid, wanting to be kissed.

He didn't have to be told. His lips, coming down on one taut peak, nibbled. "Lovely!" he announced, sucking the bud into his mouth, spitting it out to minister to its twin, alternating from tit to soft tit ... swirling his tongue ... licking ... sucking ... biting.

I was coming. The inside of my cunt was on fire. The orgasm began slowly-a gentle warmth spreading through my belly, my thighs-and became a geyser: Old Faithful flooding my pussy with tingly sensation.

"Owwwwwwww," I breathed at last. "D-don't stop! Oh! Ohah fuck! Fuck it up me. All the way. Hard! Don't! Don't! Don't stop fucking meeeeeee!"

"Your cunt! Oh my, your lovely little wonderful golden cunt! My-o-my-o-my-o-my!" Suddenly Mr. Phelps was coming too. He fucked rapidly back and forth-driving his stiffness like a jackhammer in and out of my sheath.

Ecstatic, I felt the first blast of thick cream. It worked on my clit. The tiny bud jerked, and fired another delicious orgasmic thrill up the quivering walls of my vagina. The walls tightened: milking, drawing spurt after good spurt of gism from the tip of their throbbing prisoner. I fucked faster. Faster and faster and faster and faster and faster. Wanting more. Wanting the cum to continue to flow. I felt it running sticky out of my cunt and into the crack of my ass. It gathered in the tuft of hair at my anus ... setting off more thrills ... making my asshole nip, drink it in. I bumped and grinded and cooed, coaxing more.

Spitting rod planted to the hilt, hairy balls leaping against my plump bottom, Mr. Phelps choked, "I, ahhhhhhhh-I used to say to myself, 'Phelps! Some day you're gonna get yourself a piece of that little girl's pussy!' But I-ummm! Never really thought-I mean, I never really expected you to walk in here and, ah-never thought I'd get this-" he made his cock expand and contract and spit another gob-"UP! Up y-your tight snatch! Um! Fucking! You 'n'me! Ah! Ahhhhhh!"

My cunt was sloppy wet. A mixture of pussy-and cockjuice had wetted the desktop, and now, each time my buttocks slapped the polished mahogany, each time Mr. Phelps pistoned, a faint splat-like someone applauding-accompanied the fuck. The sound made me crazy, wild. I reached up, snaked my arms around the principal's neck, and lifted. My legs went around his waist. I locked my ankles. "Harder!" I croaked, wrapped around him like an affectionate monkey. "Ram it into me! Screw!"

"Love-lovely!" gasped Mr. Phelps. Holding my ass, supporting my weight in the palms of his hands, he humped. It was awkward. But he worked mightily ... grinding his hips ... pulling back ... slamming it home ... pissing cum until the last gooey drop had trickled off, run down the pulsating walls of my sheath, and entangled itself in the forest of hair at his balls. Then, half-standing, half-leaning against the desk, breathing as if his lungs were about to burst, he placed his lips to my ear. "My dear Carol," he sighed. "My sweet, blonde-pussied minx."

I felt suddenly silly. The orgasm had left a pleasant warmth at my crotch, inside. But I was envisioning someone-perhaps the janitor or another girl applying for the teaching post-walking in to find me, flagrante delicto, trembling limbs tied in knots, twat engorged, impaled on the thing standing tall between Mr. Phelps' skinny legs. I giggled.

"Yes?" The principal's rimless glasses blinked into my eyes. It was the first I noticed he hadn't taken them off. I giggled harder.

It was contagious. Soon Mr. Phelps was laughing along with me. The mirth worked on his cock. It shriveled and slipped from my cunt-hole. He sat me back on the desktop. I unwound my legs and stared at the ungracious rod that had worked such wondrous pleasure moments before. "Do-do I qualify?"

The principal cleared his throat. "My dear girl. I have never met a teacher with, ah-shall we say your scholastic abilities?"

"Then the job's mine?"

Again Mr. Phelps cleared his throat. His gaze dropped from my face, to my tits, to the white-blonde wedge glistening with sweat and cum. His hand moved up the inside of one thigh. "Of course," he said, fingerfucking my slit once more, "there is more than one, ah-shall we say qualification test?"

I smiled. I had anticipated him wanting to screw again. It was always that way: my body, my tits, my sweet wedge had the capacity to make a limp dick spring back to life in a matter of seconds. I took hold of his swipe. It was icky. But it began to grow immediately my fingers closed about the long shaft.

For a moment, Mr. Phelps allowed me to whack him off. Until he was hard. Then his gaze drifted back to my face. "You, ah-you have quite a lovely mouth," he whispered. His wet fingers slipped from my pussy. He raised the hand to my lips. "Do you, ah-do you do everything as well as you fuck?"

I knew what he wanted. I could taste my own cunt on the fingers brushing my lips. Now he wanted me to taste him, I realized.

Without hesitation-not really wanting to but determined to get the job no matter what-I wiggled my ass off the desktop, and dropped to my knees.

"Lovely!" The principal stepped close. His hand came down on the back of my head. "Suck it!" he said, steering the once again bloated glans of his rod to my face. "Put it-um! In your sweet mouth! Yes! Oh yes, I think you'll do fine!"

And so I sucked him off. Twice! I gulped his cum and sucked him up hard and gulped again. We spent most of the day in that office performing one obscene act after another. It was for the job! I kept telling myself. But afterward, when Mr. Phelps simply couldn't get it stiff anymore, when my cunt was fucked out and we had dressed and were seated-discussing what I had come for-I learned the principal had indeed taken advantage of me. The only vacancy at Community High was for a lousy substitute. Oh! the prick! I thought. The crummy old bastard!

Then Mr. Phelps surprised me with another offer. Lonny Royster, he said, the youngest son of the family who owned the big stone house on the outskirts of town, was in need of a private tutor. The older brother, Brent-who I knew to be a tall, deep-chested handsome man with piercing blue eyes and wavy brown hair-had been making inquiries.

I could almost see Brent Royster standing at the door to the mansion set far back from the road. As I listened to Mr. Phelps rattle on about what a marvelous opportunity it would be for, ah-the right teacher, I remembered stories I'd heard years ago. The Roysters, it seemed, had fathered a mongolian giant-a boy they kept hidden. Lonny, rumor had it, was almost seven feet tall; had a wide, lackluster stare, and the intelligence of a five-year-old.

"The boy's as gentle as a puppy," said Mr. Phelps. "And, ah-the Roysters can be very generous."

I'll bet! I thought, recalling other tales I'd heard: stories about Lonny standing beside the road and jerking off as neighborhood schoolgirls hurried by. I'd never seen him myself. But I felt as if I'd known Crazy Lonny all my life.

"The, ah-salary is almost double what you would make here as even a fulltime teacher," continued Mr. Phelps. I watched him use his handkerchief to wipe an overlooked gob of cum from the desktop. "A superb placement," he added, grinning. "I, ah-know the Roysters socially, my dear. Fine people. I, ah-I'm a frequent dinner guest."

Uh-oh! I knew what that meant! If I took the job, I could expect horny Mr. Phelps to come calling for more of what I'd been giving him all afternoon! But there was Brent Royster to be considered, I thought: the groovy eldest son of the richest family in town. And the pay mentioned was indeed inviting. What could possibly happen? I reasoned. Even if Lonny was the brute those who'd seen him claimed-ugly and built like a hairy gorilla, and with a cock out to there-the Roysters wouldn't let anything happen to me.

"Well dear?" Seated behind the desk, Mr. Phelps tapped impatient fingers on the blotter. "I-I d-don't know."

The principal sniffled. Suddenly he was the man who'd scared hell out of me throughout my days as a student at Community High. Gruffly he stated what an absurd decision it would be to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime offer: an opportunity for an "ordinary girl" like me to serve the "cream of the social ladder."

By the time he had finished, I was blushing. I fidgeted. I never could resist forcefulness. I agreed to take the job as tutor to Lonny Royster-on a thirty-day trial.

"Fine!" Emerging from behind the desk, Mr. Phelps helped me out of the chair and patted my ass toward the door. "You'll never regret it, my dear. I'll see to that!"

I smiled uncertainly. It never occurred to me to ask why the Roysters had waited till Lonny was full-grown to hire me as a tutor.