Chapter 9
People think that people who choose to be professors of poetry are queer. Well, that's not true at all. What is true is that all Texans think that people who choose to be professors of poetry are queer.
'Cause, first of all, everybody in the Lone Star State has a hard time reading-oh, they can make out what their oil wells are doing on the Dow Jones index, and they can read the box scores of the Texas Rangers, but when it comes to Petrarchan sonnets and Spenscrian stanzas and odes and dirges and wordy things, well, they just think it's dumb-ass queer.
And that's what most of the people on Sophocles Street thought about Professor Ivan Wellington. The only ones who didn't think he was queer were the Marples, but that was because they were fairly normal.
Well, actually there were three people on Sophocles Street on the north side of Waco who didn't think that sixty-one-year-old Professor Ivan Wellington was a gay blade, a Thursday boy, a closet hanger, or a glory-holer. That was Betty Ann Wellington, the professor's wife.
She knew first-hand that old Ivan wasn't any three-dollar bill because that was one of the reasons why she had married him-he could fuck up a storm, fuck as hard as any man who had served twenty years on a deserted isle, fuck as fast as any male who thought that fucking would be outlawed tomorrow.
Yeah, old Ivan could really fuck. He proved that on the first day he had met Betty Ann-or rather, on the first night that Betty Ann met him.
It had happened when Ivan was fifty-nine and Betty Ann was a nineteen-year-old coed at Waco State, a prime candidate for Maid of Cotton, chosen most lovable catch in the dormitory where she had slept only one night, and a typical hot-to-trot, blue-eyed, blonde-haired Texas girl.
It had happened at Ivan's cottage that he rented from the Dean, who in turn had rented the cottage using student athletic funds to provide him and some of his cohort faculty to
use for some prime-time athletic endeavors-a sport known as "Fucking Texas Maidens".
There, Betty Ann Jenkins had come to Professor Ivan Wellington on the pounds that she did not deserve the B grade he had given her for her poem entitled, "Ode to Waco". And she was planning to persuade the good old prof to change the grade to an A by using some old-fashioned Texas know-how-namely, she was going to fuck the shit out of the old fart.
But, as most tall Texas tales go, the little heifer was playing around with the bull, and the old fart fucked the shit out of her.
Betty Ann knew her plans were going awry when Professor Willington greeted her at the door with his ten-inch cock hanging from his fly. Nobody had ever greeted her that way!
"Come in, Miss Jenkins. What seems to be the problem?"
Betty Ann couldn't believe it! His cock was actually hanging naked from his fly-like it was the latest fashion, like it was the latest style in men's clothes, to have a pecker sticking out where there ought to be buttons, or zippers, or tabs, or something to keep that hunk of meat from scaring the slUt out of little girls who would later grow up to be big girls who would then. appreciate a real man when they saw one.
But there it was, Professor Ivan Wellington's ten-inch prick hanging out of his slacks as naked as the day he was born-only Betty Ann knew that his cock was a lot smaller when he was crib-size. Shit, it just had to be or his mother would have either died on the spot or started having some incestuous notions, depending on what kind of mother she was, of course.
Betty Ann was speechless. Her lips were slack. Her jaw came unhinged. She stared and stared and stared some more.
Naturally, any man with a ten-inch cock who gets ogled that much will start to have ego trips about how well-hung he is, so Ivan started to have an erection. In lifts and surges, his cock was coming erect, growing larger and lengthier with every pounding spurt of blood that high-tailed it to the end of his prick.
Betty Ann's eyes looked like Little Orphan
Annie's, and she wanted to scream Leapin' Lizards at that incredible monstrous snake-like thing that was pawing from that gap in the crotch of her professor's pants.
"Why don't you sit down, Betty Ann, and make yourself comfortable."
Betty Ann moved as if her limbs were on puppet strings. And it was very hard to find the couch because her eyes were gazing so intently on that magnificent-looking hunk of cock that didn't look like it would ever stop growing. She sat down without meaning to-sort of backed into the couch and the next thing she knew she had fallen into the cushions. But that didn't mean her eyes left that gorgeous, ever-growing prick that loomed inches from her eyes.
Then that prick got really big because it was coming closer and closer to her face. God! She didn't even have to look crosseyed to take in the tip of the cock and run her gaze all the way back to where brownish, curly hairs sprouted from the beginning of that enlarging prick.
"Would you like to suck my cock, Betty Ann?"
Shock? Revulsion? Retching? Virgin fear? Constipation?
Yeah, old Betty Ann could have felt all of that and more-but she was too enthralled by the size of that monstrous prick. It was like being in
Texas all your life and knowing everything comes larger than life, but to actually see it, to know that it is that way-it's enough to make God fear that Texas was bigger than him.
So them was fear in Betty Ann when she stuck out her tongue and took a tentative taste of whatever that white cummy stuff was that was oozing from the tip of that fourteen-inch prick. Then there was more fear in Betty Ann when she discovered that the taste was sort of walnutty and that the flavor was the kind she was nuts for.
So she opened her mouth wide-very, very wide. And closed her eyes for fear that she would see how much cock was left to eat once Professor Wellington started feeding her prick.
Professor Wellington took one step forward just a small, teensy, Mother-may-I type of step. But the six-inch stride was enough to slam a half a foot of cock into Betty Ann's fearful mouth.
"MMMMMMGGGFFFFHHHHH!" was what Betty Ann said, even though she meant to say, "I came to talk to you about my poem, 'Ode to Waco', Spittle and cairn came oozing out of the corners of her bulged-out mouth. Betty Ann looked horrendous-eyes wide open fearfully, nostrils crammed against her stiff upper lip, mouth tilled brimful of hearty cockmeat, chin quavering and running over with drool and more white stuff. Jesus, no Maid of Cotton was she-just a simple Texas girl getting her chompers full of hot and hard, fourteen inches of prick.
Silence came to her ears, but that's what usually happens when somebody claps their hands aver a blind man's cars and says: "Guess who?"
But Professor Wellington wasn't playing any guess-who games-shit, Betty Ann knew whose cock it was that was protruding from her suckable lips. No, the good old professor just wanted to get a grip on her head, his palms holding the sides of her face securely. He wanted to get a good grip because he wanted to force more cock into that beautiful mouth.
He forced more cock into that beautiful mouth. And that beautiful face that the beautiful mouth was attached to became not so beautiful, but became apprehensive, then very fearful, then outright terrorized as eight inches of cock were forced into her mouth and down her throat.
Betty Ann wanted to gasp, but the gasp only caused ripples of hot air to course over the supersensitive flesh of the professor's cock and he said, "Aaaaaah, you Texas girls sure know how to suck cock."
Betty Ann wanted to spit that prick out, wanted to push that hairy crotch away from her face. She reached up, placed her hands on those wet and shiny hairs that were four inches from her face.
And the professor said, "Aaaaaa, so you want to feel my balls, do ybu?"
Betty Ann tried to shake her head-no, no, no, but her head was moving up and down; yes, yes, yes, because the vise grips of his hands were making her head and mouth move up and down on his hard cock.
What could she do? What could any good ale All American can cocksucking girl do when she was confronted with a fourteen-inch prick and when her mouth was only used to six-inchers?
She gagged.
Professor Wellington said, "Aaaaanh, the way your throat just trembles around my cockhead. Ooooooooh, Betty Ann, I know you just want more of my cock."
The old no, no, no came out yes, yes, yes again as Betty Ann's mouth was forced to gorge on more meat, forced to take another couple of inches of hot and hard prick.
And now the professor's prick was no longer perpendicular to his loins. Four inches below the bulging cockhead, his shaft was bending, following the course of her throat tube down to her stomach.
Betty Ann tried to scream!"
"MMMGGGFFFSSSMMM!"
Professor Wellington moaned. "Oooooh, Betty
Ann! DOOO THAT. AGAIN!"
"MMMMGGGGGGHHHHHHFFFSSSSSSSSMM!"
"OOOOOOH! MORE, BETTY ANN! MORE! THAT FEELS SO GOOD ON MY COCK! MORE!"
"MMMMMGGGGGGFFFFSSSSMMM!"
It was too bad that Professor Wellington had his head bent back as he thrust his hips forward, consequently pushing more prick into Betty Ann's cock-clogged throat, because he didn't see Betty Ann's horrible expression.
She was obviously in pain-anybody in that much agony naturally has eyes as big as coffee cup saucers. And anguish was very apparent because salty tears were running down her rouged cheeks, joining the sweat and jizz and spit that dripped off her chin. And horror was very evident because she was beginning to fear for her life-which is natural when something as big as a Genoa salami was being shoved down a person's throat.
But Professor Wellington didn't see Betty Ann's agonized facial features because his eyes were closed and his face was a mask of ecstasy. God, her throat was just gulp-gulp-gulping around the head of his cock. And her tongue seemed to be like a limp windshield wiper as it swiped all over his bloated prick. And her lips felt so deliciously wet and tight against his groin. And her teeth felt so painful as she bit down on the base of his cock in order to get his attention.
"Aaaaaaaiiiiieeee! My cock! You fucked-up cocksucker, you bit my cock! You'll pay for this. Aaaaiiieee!"
Betty Ann gasped many times. Huge gulps of beautiful air filled her oxygen-starved lungs, which in turn made her tits loom outwards with each heaving breath, which did amazing things to the Waco State sweatshirt that she was wearing Yes, even when she was in agonizing pain, she was still a sensuous creature-as most Texas girls are who have bitten off more than they can chew.
CHAFFER TEN
Professor Wellington looked at his cock, saw the little teething marks on his prick, saw the little trickles of blood that dripped off his pubic hair, saw where the goddamned Waco State vampire had managed to sink her Colgate teeth.
"You'll pay for this, Betty Ann! I was thinking about changing your grade to an A for your 'Ode to Waco poem, but now, you little cannibal, you're going to fail, flunk, get a big fat F..like in fucking. Yeah, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to fuck you then flunk you."
Betty Ann was shocked. Repulsed. Disoriented. And petrified-just as petrified as that huge cock that swayed menacing near her face.
How could her professor talk to her like that? He was a romantic at heart, a classicist in mind; yet, he sure was a realist when it came to putting cocks to coeds.
It was hard for Betty Ann to speak because her vocal cords seemed to have been in her stomach, pushed there by a fourteen-inch prick.
And it was hard to see because of the tears that filmed over her contact lenses-naturally, she wore mini-specs because glasses would make her look too intelligent, and most Texans prefer their whores and wives to look like skits and harlots, not some goddamn career girl who scoffed at crotchiess panties and cupless bras.
And it was hard to hear because Betty Ann's head was buried in several throw pillows that bad been thrown by the professor when he had become pissed off at her for chomping on his cock.
And it was hard to feel anything virtuous now because the image of a poetic professor had been ruined by this man who was putting on top of her and grabbing handfuls of tit, then handfuls of aunt as he reached under her skirt.
And it was getting harder to feel anything but the harder-feeling thing that was snaking up between her splayed thighs and entering the very recent tear in her pink cotton panties.
Oh, no! Betty Ann shook her head. No! Not that big cock! Not that monstrous, obscene, oversized piece of meat that most men would call a real humdinger and mast whores would call a real money maker-that's if they charged men by the inch, of course.
But, oh, yes! That humdinger of a prick was just entering her cunt. And, oh, yes, Betty Ann was just going to get the Texas daylights fucked out of her pussy-or rather, her cunt would be so fucking huge after being pronged by that fourteen-inch cock, that there would be plenty of daylight seen between the gaping lips of her pussy.
And now the daylight was entering her pussy. And a dusky darkness was settling over her consciousness.
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! IT'S TOO BIG! IT'S TOO BIG! TAKE IT OUT! I CAN'T TAKE IT!
PLEASE! DON'T FUCK ME WITH THAT HUGE THING!"
Ha, ha, ha, thought Professor Wellington. Same old words that every coed screamed. Same old tone of voice, too, come to think of it. In fact, they all sounded so real whenever he started wedging his fourteen-inch cock into their tight cunts.
Sob, sob, sob, thought Betty Ann-like in s.o.b. He was killing her! He was wrecking her for all those future Texas lovers who had normal sized cocks and who would want to fuck her, and once they fucked her, they would walk away thinking that they had just fucked a cowboy's boot instead of a woman's cunt.
"AAAIIIEEE! STOP! NO MORE! PLEASE! IT'S TOO BIG! TAKE IT OUT! NO MORE! PLEASE!"
Professor Wellington paused, gave due consideration to what she said. Was she serious? Nah, shit, he had only gotten in the first inch of his cock-hell, he was just starting to really get into the groove of fucking. She had to be kidding- yeah, typical goddamn Texas girl always telling their fuckers to stop when they meant go, always saying no more when they hadn't had enough. Pigs, that's what Texas women were. Lying pip.
Betty Ann felt like a pig-a stuck pig, a porker that had just been skewered right up the middle by a pitchfork-not the end with the tines, but the handle. And she felt like a lying pig-lying flat on her back and squealing for her life, her liberty and her future pursuit of happiness with all those soon-to-come Texas lovers with their normal-sized cocks.
But Professor Wellington knew when he had a choice piece of meat under his belly. Shit, she was just like a sow in heat, a bitch with the hots, a mare for mating.
Typical animal woman from Texas.
He shoved.
She screamed.
He reshoved, because the first shove had managed to push his cock in three inches, and there was a good ten more inches of cockmeat to go.
She screamed again . . . and again . . . and again. Like this: "AAAIIIEEE! AAAJIIEEE! AAAIIIEEE!"
In a series of hinges and jerks and sweat-heavy pushes, the professor got all his fourteen inches of cock rammed home in the deliciously tight meat of Betty Ann's ravaged pussy.
Betty Ann wanted to gag-which is natural for most American girls who are getting fucked by a fourteen-inch cock, because the prick feels like it's somewhere up near their throat instead of near their womb.
Professor Wellington wanted to fuck-which is natural for most American professors who are surrounded daily by the choicest, most available pussies in all of America: the cock-hungry coed.
Betty Ann did gag. Like this: "Aggggghhhh!" Professor Wellington did fuck. Like this:
Withdraw twelve inches of cock, then re-enter from where h~ had withdrawn. Listen to the sound of her cunt sticking to all sides of his cock on the withdrawal; listen to the moist noises as he shoves a foot of prick back into her pussy. See the goo glisten from his cock as he withdraws; see the goo drop all over the Nan's new rug as be squishes back into her pussy.
Fucking tends to have a rhythm all its own, depending on the conductor and the musical score, of course.
In Betty Ann's case, Professor Wellington was shoving his prick in and out to the beat of a Sousa march, and her pussy felt as if a hundred-piece band were stomping on her pussy as it paraded back and forth across her clit.
And. as is usual with most horny American girls, when something is stomping that many times and with that much force over their clit, all painful though and sensations are diminished and they really get into the beat of things.
And being as Betty Ann had a normal, sensitive cut, she didn't want to be out of step with that huge cock that was plunging so staccato-like into her pussy. She picked up the rhythm real fast, no novice was she when it came to keeping her cunt in tune with the cock that beat back and forth in her cunt..
Au, what sweet music-the squish, squish, squish of a rhythmic cock fucking in-out, in-out, of a hot pussy.
Ah, what sweet rapture-like a duet that had been playing for centuries, they tucked as if they had been made to fuck each other.
Now, no one could keep score with the fast and furious fuck pace they set.
For an old man of fifty-nine to fuck at sixty strokes a minute was amazing, incredible, awe-inspiring.
Not only was Betty Ann amazed and awe-inspired, but she felt incredible sensations that emanated from the fourteen-inch, fifty-nine year-old cock that was fucking in and out of her pussy-sensations that made her hair stand on end, made her clit elongate, made her tits not only perspire, but peak upwards, made her throat feel warm and her ass hot, made her mouth open like a blowfish that was trying to learn the English language in order to say, "More! More!
More!"
And, since Betty Ann was no blowfish, but a simple Texas girl who had suddenly become a regular meat-hungry, cock-grinder, she said, "More! More! More! Give me more cock! Ooooooooh, the way you fuck! Harder! Deeper! More cock! I need more cock!"
Thus, out the window went all those future Texas boy friends and regular-sized pricks who would have felt disappointment anyway but not having any friction around their pricks when they fucked a hole that was made more for trains than cocks.
Out the window went all those staid inhibitions, and voiced moral lessons that she bad learned when she was chosen head choirgirl for the Episcopal Church of God and Saints.
But, also, out the window was Dean Jubal Mathis, who was peering in the window and making man-made snowflakes as he ejaculated in torrents, his hand flying over his cock and his cum flying in hailstones against the windowpane.
The reason Dean Jubal Mathis was out in the cold and dark, jacking off like a lust-crazy monk, was because he always stopped by the rented cottage to see who was fucking whom and with what.
Such knowledge helped him when he had to negotiate with many of the professors when they came before him for their annual salary review. Never mind that he was ninety years of age; the board of trustees for Waco State College had a lot of faith in the old geezer for getting the best professors in the land to work for slave wages, and they always renewed his contract and always gave him a hefty raise because they also knew that Dean Jubal Mathis had the goods on them, too.
Dean Mathis smiled Scrooge-like when Professor Wellington had pulled his cock out of that delicious pussy and started coming like a wildcat oil well all over Betty Ann's tits and heaving belly. Smart young man that professor-he wouldn't get caught in any paternity suit like some of those dumb-ass Waco State football coaches.
Dean Mathis put his cock away, which was relatively easy because he had a normal sized six-inch prick. He zipped up his gray flannel pants. And before walking away from the snow-white window, he took one picture of the scene inside of the cottage. That's how good he was at getting people by the short hairs-the blackmailing practice had taught him a lot about cameras and photography.
All those meetings in the cottage were flow behind Mrs. Betty Ann Wellington. She had aged since that cottage affair-she was now twenty-one and she had changed a lot.
For one thing (er, maybe two things) her tits had grown another inch. Whether it was because of drinking so much milk-she was a Pat Boone fan-or because so much jizz had caked on her titties over the past two years, she didn't know. But now she sported a hefty pair of forty-fives.
For another thing, her cunt no longer had the elasticity it once had whether it was because she had been fucked hundreds of times by a cock fourteen inches long and seven inches in diameter or whether it was because she had given birth to ten-pound twins (ten pounds apiece, that is), she didn't know either. But now she sported a pussy that felt more like a sewer manhole.
But all those things were behind her-in the past, in the by-gone days, in the yesteryears.
What was in front of her now was a drooling, wrinkly, prune-faced old geezer named Jubal Mathis who was getting ready to fuck her with his six-inch prick-it was the price that Professor Ivan Wellington had decided to pay in order to get back the three hundred prints that the Dean had made of that infamous night in the rented cottage.
The arrangement was simple. Dean Jubal Mathis would get to fuck Betty Ann in return for the prints. But, as it turned out, what that smart old fart had meant was that there would be one print exchanged for every piece of ass. he got off Betty Ann.
Well, tonight was the eighty-seventh time that Dean Jubal Mathis would get to fuck Mrs. Betty
Ann Wellington.
Shit, only two hundred and thirteen fucks to go.