Chapter 9
For Miss Garfield, wincing and shuddering as that awesome organ burst into her ravaged parts and battered the raw, tender fissure, the violent ordeal held no real horror, no actual significance whatever.
She lay there, enduring, trying to close her ears to sounds and her nostrils to smells, to blank her mind from the repetition of revolting motions her body had become inured to. Rape was a futile, meaningless gesture now, a function that no longer had any sinister portent. Sex had lost its symbolic revulsion. Miss Garfield's last defenses were shattered, her ultimate weapon—indifference—rendered impotent.
She had known the brutal demands of the male phallus in every conceivable form, the ultimate degradation. But somehow the effects were not altogether crushing, the shock not completely devastating.
At first the sickening reaction threatened her sanity and thrust her continually deeper into the abysmal depths of abject despair and utter loathing. Then, subconsciously, her indomitable spirit fought back and she developed a mental resistance which, with the assertion of stubborn objectiveness combined with quite remarkable resilience of the flesh, created acute internal conflict. Eventually she became increasingly conscious not only of partial reconciliation to the vileness of her appalling situation, but of actual physical response, an awareness that neither shock nor degradation nor suffering could entirely suppress.
She was forced to the shattering realization that while her mind rejected sex her body was perfectly capable of adjusting, that her alien flesh harbored powerful emotions and stresses over which her clouded brain had no control. After the initial reaction of her ordeal in the park and the rending, soul-destroying shock of seeing the dean change from a meek, dignified department head to a slobbering, lusting animal, Miss Garfield quickly reached the conclusion that whatever sordid indecencies were perpetrated on her person no actual physical harm was intended. Fear was only in the mind.
Thereafter, regardless of what squalid acts were inflicted, she endured with contemptuous stoicism, firmly resolved that her spirit would not be broken. At times the agony of despair weighed unbearably heavy, but she knew that eventually there must be an end, and she tried to maintain a pretence of courage, even dignity in a pathetic way, clinging grimly to the hope that the police would ultimately find the youths' hideaway and resolve her predicament, convinced that the authorities must be looking for her.
As the grind of debasement and sexual abuse continued, her mind rejected even that small ray of hope and expectation. Apart from being a prisoner, discounting the humiliation and the torment of shame, the constant demands on her body, her treatment was not sadistic. She was given food, and milk, coffee and sometimes brandy or vodka.
The functions of her bowels presented agonizing problems and created embarrassment that was actual mental torture to a person of Miss Garfield's refinement and breeding. She was not allowed up on deck but obliged to urinate and evacuate into the bilges traversing the hold, squatting in the gloom, horribly conscious of every gurgle and fart, hearing the raucous comments from her youthful captors who derived morbid delight from witnessing her mental anguish and often contributed greatly to it by playing the revealing beams from electric torches into her dark prison during her most intimate functions.
The offensive smells pervading the hold sickened Miss Garfield but appeared to have scant effect on her abductors, one or other of whom occasionally sloshed a bucket of water into the bilges and washed the foul accumulation out through the scuppers.
Despite all this, the discomfort, tension, squalid acts, the awful suspense and continual interference, gradually, inexplicably, a hint of expectancy crept into the pattern of her stolidly feigned indifference, a tense, nervous excitement prior to each ritualistic assault, alien impulses Miss Garfield refused to recognize as the awakening of dormant physical and emotional needs hitherto confined to the mediocre fulfillment associated with mild stimulation produced by furtive masturbation.
She watched sex enjoyed and performed in its most frank and sensational forms, experienced every conceivable outrage, without once identifying the stresses she felt as the subconscious cravings of her young, vital body, the stirrings of long neglected desires. She was too absorbed with misery and condemnation of those contributing to her plight to appreciate the insidious growth of natural tendencies prompted by constant intimacy, however crude and forcibly applied.
When Paul West discovered her situation much of the sick depression lifted from her mind and soul. She knew that every sordid incident, every obscene detail, would remain indelibly imprinted on her memory. But she could live with her shame, and what was most important, nobody need ever know. Her awful secret would be kept. The dean, poor, distraught man, would not dare report the full facts to the police. He had to preserve his own image. Miss Garfield shuddered to think of how she would react when she returned to Beechers and was confronted by the dean. She would, of course, have to resign, to leave the college immediately.
Then, through her mental meanderings, harsh reality intruded. Seeing the gamekeeper struck down, overpowered and tied, and now subjected to disgusting abuse, reduced Miss Garfield to tears. All the horror returned, crowding back. She succumbed placidly, at first, praying that what was intended would be over quickly, but the sight of West's formidable penis aroused intense disgust mingled with incredulity—and vague feelings she could not define, and created a wave of shock so severe she experienced a feeling of horrible faintness.
She could see West's face, and was appalled by his obvious enthusiasm for the act. She felt betrayed, resentful, savagely furious. Dizziness threatened to engulf her numbed brain.
Then Boone doused her with cold water from a bucket, and the icy deluge jerked her back to sensibility and prompted a flood of urine.
The gamekeeper's flesh was hot and clammy against hers. She moaned as that phenomenal penis screwed still deeper, slogging into the saturated chasm, churning piss and mucus, shagging with brutal insistence. West's hips forced her legs wider apart. Thrusting, clutching hands controlled his urgent movements, shoving so strongly against his hollowing, surging buttocks that his massive tool battered repeatedly against some spongy obstruction at the entrance to Miss Garfield's womb, and his hairy belly smacked loudly against the quivering bulge of her broad pelvis.
Miss Garfield bucked and thrashed wildly, her docility quickly evaporating once that huge prick penetrated, but her agony was not entirely related to pain or revulsion. Through the feeling of helplessness recurring spasms of fluttering excitement penetrated, the gnawing, stabbing sharpness of internal upheaval, a hot, clawing fury that grew swiftly into a repetition of the alarming but torridly pleasurable symptoms experienced during enforced copulation with the dean.
She was insensible to pain, oblivious of everything except that plunging rod, impervious to ridicule and disgust, not yet understanding her vague emotions or even aware that she had ceased to struggle and her violent contortions indicated avid complaisance rather than subjugation, condonation of and carnal response to the crude fornication. There was, in effect, more rapture than rape in the vehement battering of Paul West's pistoning prick. Not that Miss Garfield, appreciated this demoralizing truth. But she was more distressed by the tumult seething in her genitals than by the pounding her breasts and stomach were receiving and the wrenching pains in her roped arms which, had they been free, she would undoubtedly have clamped around the man's thick neck the way her legs instinctively attempted to fasten round his hips.
She was no longer afraid, merely defiant, in a state of mental stupor and tremendous physical vitality, hopelessly confused and yet, while not exactly a willing tool, unconsciously accepting the role forced on her and endeavoring to intensify the tormenting friction of that belligerently slogging penis.
But although Miss Garfield was unaware of the significance of her actions, her failure to fight against the savage intrusion completely robbed the act, so far as the teenage onlookers were concerned, of its intended reprisal motive. Her active participation, whether unintentional or deliberate, defeated Boone's purpose.
Realizing this, Boone stopped grinning. He grabbed the big gamekeeper's long, thick hair and used it as a lever to drag him off the woman in the precise moment when West reached his furious climax. Spurting semen spattered the leg of Connie's new jeans. She swore, wiped the gluey blobs away with the flap of West's shirt.
Miss Garfield, obviously in the throes of intense orgasm, jerked her head violently from side to side. Her legs, free from West's sprawling weight, lashed about.
"The fat cow's come!" Roach exclaimed resentfully. "She enjoyed it, for God's sake! I thought the idea was to give her a bad time, Fletch."
He got astride Miss Garfield, buttocks squashing her breasts, his knees clamping her head, and furiously masturbated his fiercely jutting penis, thrusting the organ close to her mouth, captured her clenched jaws in his other hand and left off abusing his prick long enough to repeat his procedure for ejecting the teacher's dentures. This time he left them carelessly on the deck, and thrust his loins forward, intruding the rigid penis into the sunken cavern of the woman's mouth while keeping her head firmly imprisoned between his knees. Obsessed with lust, he shagged frantically, burying the whole length of his organ each time, and voiced a shout of triumph when his gushing sperm filled Miss Garfield's slavering mouth. With his cock still bulging her cheeks he pinched her nostrils together, forcing her to swallow, and chuckled evilly when the slimy deposit slid down her spasmodically undulating throat.
Dent, meanwhile, had Connie's jeans down and jerking into her from behind, watched intently by Jane who, hot and flushed, encouraged Mason, distracting fascinated absorption with Miss Garfield's naked charms.
Roach's outburst evoked no immediate response from Boone, who was preoccupied with his own intense sexual urge and determined to exploit Miss Garfield, whatever his personal revision of emotions. He allowed Daphne to handle his penis, but the moment Roach abandoned Miss Garfield and flopped on the sofa Boone eluded the girl and dropped to his knees between the teacher's outstretched legs, which he raised so high she almost toppled over backward. He reared up then, his shoulders pressing against the backs of Miss Garfield's knees, and fell forward until his palms were flat against the deck either side of her neck, forcing Prunella's thighs onto her stomach, and in that awkward, grotesque position speared her gaping vagina and embedded his gross roll in a single, powerful lunge.
Daphne, frowning, muttering abuse, fell over West's sprawling legs and floundered, clutching wildly as she went down. Purely by chance her grabbing fingers encountered his penis, still hugely erect. She promptly tugged her panties down and, crouching with her bottom protruded toward the sweating, red-faced gamekeeper, flipped her dress up and deliberately sat on his thick, wet organ. Face twisted in a lascivious grimace, she began jogging up and down, made a rude gesture when Boone, quickly achieving orgasm, withdrew, allowed Miss Garfield to lie fully extended, and got to his feet.
"Balls to you," Daphne said thickly. "This is better."
Boone grinned, a deceptively genial smirk. His hand lashed out, slapped the girl across the face and flung her off West and against the hatchway steps. Boone regarded her contemptuously.
"Let's put Prunella back in the hold," he said, finally condescending to answer Mason, who was clambering to his feet "How was I to know she had the makings of a successful whore? Those quiet, demure birds are all the same—protest like hell until they get a touch of prick, then there's no holding 'em."
He pointed a stiffened forefinger at Daphne.
"Next time you step out of line 111 do more than muss your hair," he warned. "Go make some coffee. We'll split from here tomorrow. There's no point delaying any longer, and I'm sick of the sight of Prunella, and the way she smells. Besides, we've got him to consider. Nobody will miss her, but they will him."
Dumped roughly in the cold, damp cargo hold, plunged into stygian gloom again, Miss Garfield lay against the tarry bulkhead, sickened by the stench of her own urine, and sobbed, overcome with shame and anger, guilt and self-pity, and by the apparent hopelessness of her predicament. She heard Boone say he planned to leave, but did not believe he would. The nightmare was endless, and now another human being shared her plight.
Miss Garfield felt a flood of sympathy toward the gamekeeper. Then, remembering the expression on his face as he was brought close to her, and his bestial eagerness, her mood hardened and she felt only repugnance and bitter frustration.