Chapter 7
Behind her office desk in Hurlburd Hall sat Professor Lucretia Slade, her feet propped up on the desk like a man as she bounced a pencil on its eraser, staring blankly. She mused, absently, not wanting to think too seriously lest she upset herself. Wedge had said that he would come by at 4:30. He was five minutes late. She wondered if that meant she could leave, but knew she'd better not.
She had showed up at his office promptly at 7:30 this morning and sucked his cock. That was all. She had tried speaking to him, but he hadn't said a word. He had merely scooted his chair out from his desk and unzipped his fly. He pulled out his flabby cock and sat back, face expressing nothing. Seeing what was expected of her, she had gone to her knees and serviced him. When she'd milked the last driblet of semen from his balls he caressed the back of her neck, still silent. It had been eerie, that was the main thing-she hadn't relished the thought of doing it and she had done it in a trancelike state. She had felt like a voiceless animal performing in the dark and, since it wasn't traumatic or frightening and since-whatever her arousal-she had not been serviced herself, it had been eerie, mildly disturbing to think about without being able to pinpoint the reason. Had it actually happened? Should she check her stools? And then when she was on the way out the door he had said he'd come to her office at four-thirty.
And so she sat bouncing her pencil, staring at it without knowing what was going to happen, not knowing if it was going to repel her or disgust her or make her call the whole thing off. Her resolve to call the whole thing off, and to hell with her job, had fled her after the sailors raped her. Now, she wanted to call it off, she thought she did, but mere desire is not determination. Her present lack of resolve was the most eerie thing of all and she didn't think it had that much to do with Wedge's saying that the worst part was over, however sure she was that nothing could be as unpleasant as those three men. She had sucked his cock this morning and it hadn't really fazed her, and she knew that she could suck him off in the same way twice more or fourteen times more and it still wouldn't make all that much difference to her. She felt tired; she had spent the weekend recuperating, but still she felt tired. Too tired to think properly.
What she needed, she knew, was to attend a Women's Lib rally. That would fill her with resolve. Or just to talk to Samantha, who could sometimes be a one-man Women's Lib rally.
But Samantha hadn't come to see her until Sunday afternoon, and even then she'd been coolly distant, still miffed at having been sent home Thursday night and knowing full well that she, Lucy, was involved somehow with a man.
Wedge knocked peremptorily and entered before he could be asked, carrying a small paper bag with Sprouse-Reitz printed on it in red letters. He tossed the bag onto her desk. She stared at it dumbly.
"Well," he said, jocularly, "your pussy all primed?"
"No," she said with a matter-of-fact weariness.
"I imagine it will be soon enough," he said, a twinkle in his eye.
She hated the twinkle in his eye; she hated his whole manner. If she could just hate him enough, she told herself, maybe her determination would return. She grimaced, trying to look bored with the whole thing in spite of the flutter in her chest.
"Open it," he said, motioning to the bag.
When she dumped it onto her desk she thought it was a garter of some kind, a rather mundane black satin garter, but she immediately saw that it was a blindfold-stuffed satin pads for the eyes and an elastic band to go around the head.
"What's this?" she asked. "Will this let you pretend that I'm Raquel Welch, some insipid little sex goddess?"
Her sarcasm wasn't coming off, did not faze him; she wasn't up to it this afternoon. He merely said, "It's for you."
"Oh. I'm supposed to pretend you're Rock Hudson?"
"Pretend whatever you like," he said. "You're more in touch with your own fantasy life than I am."
"Come on, Wedge," she said, showing annoyance, enunciating his name like she'd said "asshole." She sighed. "I'm not up to any silly little games."
"No games," he said.
"What are you planning now?" she said. "And what if I don't want to go along with it?"
"You'll go along with it," he said.
"Look!" she cried. "I can call it quits any time! I'm bored with you! And at the moment I don't care that much what happens!"
"You might not," he conceded. "But in that rational not-so feminine soul of yours, Lucy, you know that one little screw more-or-less isn't going to make that much difference, whether you care what happens or not."
"Well, what are you fantasizing? More, or less?"
"You do care?"
"What?" she cried. "No games! What is it."
"Well, for a start, you can put on the blindfold and take off your underpants-unless you'd prefer to take off your underpants and then put on the blindfold."
Lucy hiked her skirt where she sat and, without standing, lifted her ass slightly to skim out of her panties.
"Your skirt, too," Wedge said.
Wearily, she stood, undid her belt, unzipped her skirt, and when she'd stepped out of it folded it and put it on a corner of her desk. Then she sat back down again. The oak of her chair was cold against her skin.
Wedge stood and picked up the blindfold. She let him slip it over her head and fit the pads to her eyes.
"Can you see?"
"No, you just blindfolded me."
"You can't see anything?"
"No."
"Good."
He tugged at her shoulder and she stood. Wary of stumbling, she took short steps as he led her around to the far side of her desk. He let go of her and she frowned for a moment until she realized from the noises that he was clearing off her desk, or at least restacking books and papers. He nudged her forward until her thighs touched the desk top and then bent her over so that her arms and head touched the desk.
"Arms out to the sides."
She stretched her arms out and her hands extended over the sides of the desk. Her chest was flat on the desk and against her cheek she felt her desk pad. She bent her knees, resting her hips.
"No, stand," he said. "Don't bend your knees."
She did, and he positioned her lower anatomy, spreading her legs just so, her feet fairly far apart and flat on the floor-since she was fairly tall she could stand thus and her hips still jutted off the desktop, her belly arcing down without quite touching.
A nice sight, Wedge thought, stepping back the better to view it, looking at the upside-down V she presented, which from the parted globes of her buttocks to her heels, save for the smaller sharper V within the first, beginning with the pale brown, hairless crevice between her ass-cheeks and widening with the juncture of her thighs and her wispy, honey brown fluff. Her cuntlips were pulled tight to reveal the wrinkled puffy gash.
Wedge went to his knees to peer more closely into the center of her. Her charm had not activated, had not begun its self-lubrication. He spread it with his thumbs, blew warm air into her interior folds, then touched the very tip of his tongue to the bud of her clitoris. It stirred against his swishing tongue, erecting delicately. Peering down over his nose, he saw her inner lips inflate slightly as blood rushed to them and a second later juice bubbled from her vagina.
He sucked the puffy ridge of flesh into his mouth, his tongue flickering before probing into the hot wet core of her. She sighed. He realized that her breath had quickened.
"You eat-out pretty good," she said.
A compliment! Wedge was almost shocked. He was on the verge of telling her that he couldn't imagine anyone's looking at her pussy without wanting to eat it, but he thought the better of it and held his tongue.
Abruptly, he thrust two fingers into her now-sopping snatch and swirled them like drunken bobbins, rapidly feeling every fold in her cunt, as far as he could reach, almost able to touch her cervix.
"Ohhh, ohhhh, ohhhhh!" she moaned.
Her pussy was primed, he guessed.
"Can you hold tight for a minute before you get fucked?" he asked.
"You're giving me a choice?"
"You will hold tight!" he said. "You'll stay just like this. You will not move a muscle. You'll only have to wait for a minute or two."
"Where are you going?"
"Never mind," he said.
"Hey!" she said, raising her head and as she reached for her blindfold. "You're not going to have somebody come watch, are you?"
He caught her hand, saying, "No. I promise. No one will watch."
She relaxed again, stretching her arm back out to the edge of the desk.
"Do I have to tie you up?" he asked.
"That would be a drag, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, but we'll do it unless you promise not to take off your blindfold until I tell you, you can."
"Okay," she said. Why did she promise that? she wondered. But she didn't want to be tied up and thought she would be better off if she gave him minimal co-operation. He had eaten her pussy with a certain gusto. No one had made him eat her out a little; he could have just rammed it into her unready vagina.
She heard his footsteps approach the door, then stop-Wedge looked back, admiring the view of her from the door, thinking her exquisitely exposed to the intimate details of her hotly sopping pussy-and then she heard the doorknob turn, the door open and shut, and then she listened as his footstep receded down the hall. Then silence. Hurlburd Hall was always quiet in the last hour of the afternoon.
Just to prove to herself that she was no goddamn slave to Wedge, she quickly lowered her ass, bending her knees and bringing them together. Then she lifted her blindfold with her hand and peered around. Her office was the same; there was nothing she really wanted to see, so she fitted it back over her eyes. She lay face down, waiting. She felt weird lying like this with her bottom jutting out, and her arousal made it worse-it was that eerie feeling again. But a minute later she heard footsteps approach her office door and by the time the knob turned she was presenting the same wide-open view of her hindquarters as she had when Wedge left.
The footsteps stopped just inside the door, there was a pause, the door banged shut. The steps approached rapidly, stopping just behind her. Once more fingers probed at her twat, and however much the recently kindled flame had died down during her wait, it now blazed all the more. The hand withdrew, leaving her empty and panting as she gripped the corners of the desk. She heard a zipper, and her blood raced in anticipation.
Her next sensation was that of velvet being rubbed spongily up and down, up and down in her creaming sex slit. She waggled her ass, arced her belly more sharply down and began to squirm back onto the shaft which nudged itself gently into her central opening, her tightly slick goodie.
His hands gripped her hips. They gripped her quite firmly, lifting her and pulling her back, and in the split-second before her impalement her attention focused entirely on that pair of hands . . . the fingers were without calluses but were bony and pressed into her and she felt the cold metal of a ring, and she put this together rationally in her mind with already known facts even as the stiff massive cock slammed into her full-force sending a shudder up her spine, and she thought, "It's not Wedge!" and her stomach did a giant flip-flop and her heart caught in her throat even as the massive prong poked rapid-fire into her soft belly's depths a second time, a third, a fourth, rattling her teeth in her head as she found herself gripping tightly the corners of the desk to keep herself from being either knocked forward or pulled backwards. And she held on for dear life as his balls (whose heavy balls?) slapped her pubic triangle with each thrust, each unrelenting mad thrust into her throbbing cunt. Who is fucking me? Who's fucking me? she asked herself with each intake of breath as the thick prick thudded into her, making her cunt shudder and the rest of her shiver.
"It could be anybody . . . anybody could be fucking me," she answered herself as she humped her ass and ground her aching twat on the thudding cock, touching the floor only with her tiptoes now as his prick (anybody's prick) sent electric jolts tingling through every fiber in her heaving body.
"Who . . . who are . . . oh . . . Christ . . . fuck . . . fuck . . . yes . . . hard . . . fuck hard," she moaned between breaths as she tried to grasp, to cling to the slippery dick with her constricting vagina. And then she sucked her tongue halfway down her throat and gurgled noisily as she felt her will leaving her, her grip on the corners of the desk slipping, as she became pulp, her entire being focused for the moment on that one bunch of nerve endings in her sex-hole, each nerve plugged into her brain and pulsating, every fold in her cunt reamed flat by this man's (any man's) ram-rodding cock.
"Aiiiieeeeee," she screamed as it all got to her, her cunt convulsing and her torso thrashing and her legs buckling as she pounded the corners of the desk with her palms-hit, unhinged by a wild and lewd orgasm.
"Agghhh-ohh!" he groaned as his orgasm hit him, and she felt his cock expand in her constricted pussy to fire a cannon-load of cum into her, and she felt suffused clear through with warmth as his semen (mankind's semen) flowed in a river into the depths of her belly.
He pulled his pecker out then. It was still fairly hard and came out with a whoosh. And there was no question of her having caught her breath or regained muscle control-she was still panting heavily when she heard, somewhere in the back of her mind, the door close behind him.
She immediately fumbled with her hands to try to rip off her blindfold, but his footsteps had died out going down the hall before she could focus her eyes. He was gone, was beyond her reach, and she was still collapsed on her desk, her legs half-dangling, a rivulet of gism dribbling from her still-tingling twat.
Who was he? Who had fucked her? Her ears rang as she asked herself this, and she wondered if she would ever know.