Chapter 1
Miss Prunella Garfield, her eyes tightly closed, reached out, groping, found the faucet and turned it off. She stepped from the shower and moved briskly across the bedroom floor with her head swathed in a warm towel. Near the large closet she paused, stood in a slightly crouched posture, large, globular breasts joggling deliriously, shaking about, swinging from side to side and up and down as she toweled her dripping, jet-black hair.
Nature, by a cruel quirk of capricious fate, had endowed Miss Garfield with the body of a goddess while clouding her scholarly mind with Puritan ideas. Not yet thirty, she had a delightful, excitingly mature figure, ripely voluptuous, wholly desirable, the kind of body that drives men to distraction.
Her buttocks, fleshy but not in the least flabby, protruded seductively, imposing full moons of sheer delight, the heavy cheeks beautifully rounded, flawless, the dividing cleft deeply defined. A ravishingly fascinating bottom, from a male point of view, broad and impudently magnificent. When Miss Garfield walked her whole delectable ass quivered.
It was tragic that she was as frigid and narrow-minded as she was physically attractive, utterly prudish and entirely opposed to any display of sentiment or natural emotions.
She straightened. Her superb breasts, proudly jutting ovals, had never known the caress of a man's hand or the avid pressure of hot, lustful lips. The nipples were tightly bunched, dark buds of suppressed desire, protruding under the brief stimulation provided by the rough towel.
Miss Garfield had a slender waist, sumptuously robust thighs, sweetly rounded and velvety smooth. There was hardly a blemish on her white skin. Miss Garfield used no makeup. She considered cosmetics to be unnatural. She had very few bad habits, neither drank nor smoked, and thought of herself as a devout Christian.
The college, with its ancient tradition and wealth of history, was her whole life, its staid, musty environment the only one she had known since entering the teaching profession at the age of twenty-one. Convent educated, disciplined to harsh self-denial, every instinct suppressed, she was resigned to solitude, a confirmed spinster set in her ways. Men had no place in Miss Garfield's prim, orderly existence. They were, in her estimation, filthy, revolting creatures, with few exceptions, animals who, by obvious glances and knowing, superior manner, and by their lewd expressions and disgusting conversation, conveyed the sordid trend of their base desires, and often provoked palpitation and other alarming symptoms in Miss Garfield's regally splendid bosom through the coarseness and directness of lecherous remarks concerning her figure Miss Garfield derived no pleasure or satisfaction from her exceptional physical development, rather a feeling of dismay and resentment. She would have been content to be plain and unattractive. She was not particularly gifted with facial good looks. Her nose was long and thin, her mouth too big, her eyes, usually hidden behind the thick lenses of steel-rimmed spectacles, were of a peculiar pale blue color, as frosty as her general demeanor.
Prunella Garfield walked with a provocative wiggle. She could not help it—the undulating movement was quite intentional, a purely physical attribute wholly beyond control, and a source of constant embarrassment to her. did not flaunt her charms, but neither did she try to conceal them, and her clothing, although sometimes drab, followed the modern trend and was often extraordinarily revealing. It seemed that Miss Garfield was ignorant of her strong sex appeal.
But in the privacy of her dingy room, behind locked doors, Miss Garfield frequently revealed traits of human frailty and succumbed to petty vices despite the mental distress that always resulted. She knew the facts of life but chose to ignore them. Since puberty she had been increasingly aware of vague stirrings, subconscious desires she only partly understood and tried to disassociate from her agitated mind, without success. She fought a continual struggle against practices she considered disgusting and indecent but which she could not entirely subdue or overcome.
Yet even the sight and touch of her private parts offended her, though not sufficiently to curb the occasional overwhelming urge to seek relief from powerful, frightening inner cravings that sometimes prompted reluctant, furtive acts of genital stimulation and, ultimately, nervous masturbation that left her weak and trembling and completely unsatisfied, feeling dirty and depraved, a mass of nerves, shocked and horrified by her own filthy actions. At such times she punished herself severely, went without food, applied herself to work, and inflicted all manner of petty restrictions on herself in the vindictiveness of self-condemnation.
She toweled her flushed, delicately perfumed skin vigorously, coyly averted her head when she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror and saw the great bush of raven-black hair choking the junction of luscious thighs and gently swelling belly. That too, she thought, was an obscenity. Why must she be covered with hair like an animal? And yet, God had fashioned her in Eve's likeness . . .
She appraised her superlative breasts, sighed, squeezed them together, shuddered guiltily. The warmth concentrated between her "legs, generated by the hot shower, commenced a repetition of the peculiar but pleasant sensations that had plagued her since she yielded to the potent promptings of masturbation.
Miss Garfield sighed. What she did in the privacy of her secluded room was a matter between her conscience and God, something she had not the will to resist entirely. She hated the sordid demands of her own flesh, but could not deny that strong feelings existed or that she derived pleasure, however briefly, from obtaining relief. But nobody would ever know. It was her guilty secret, her's alone, and she could see no real wrong in what she did even though she felt degraded every time she indulged. How could she defeat a curse inflicted on the whole of her outraged sex? But at least, she thought with prim satisfaction, no man had ever touched her there, or had even seen her naked. And no man ever would.
She grimaced, rubbed the towel between her imposing thighs and over the great, yielding gash of her hairy vagina, up into the deep, dusky crevice halving her glorious bottom. She dried her large, wrinkled anus, probing delicately into it and around the taut, puckered hole, wiped her cunt again, then moved away from the mirror.
She dressed quickly, put on a light grey uplift bra, black pantie-hose and matching nylon slip, and a pale blue dress. It was late afternoon when she went out. Every Wednesday, on her day off, she walked in the park, whatever the weather. At weekends she went to concerts or the movies, usually alone, sometimes with Phyllis Dexter, the college principal's teenage daughter. On rare occasions Grant Dexter accompanied her.
Miss Garfield had great respect for the principal. He was an inoffensive, mild mannered man. The recent death of his wife had affected him deeply. Prunella Garfield admired him. Grant Dexter was one of the few men she knew whom she trusted and actually liked.
It was quiet in the park, secluded. Miss Garfield strolled aimlessly, listening to the birds. Boisterous laughter pealing from a dense clump of bushes brought a frown to her face and disturbed her train of thought. She glimpsed pale limbs thrashing, a girl's unclothed behind among the foliage, and quickly looked away. Hands clasped the girl's buttocks and drew her down, squealing and protesting.
Miss Garfield walked on. Beside the small lake she sat on a tree shaded seat and fed stale buns to the paddling ducks. The sun was sinking, shadows lengthening. There was a nip in the air. The silence was almost a tangible thing. Engrossed with serious problems, Miss Garfield did not realize she was no longer alone until she heard a stick snap underfoot. She looked up sharply then, uttered a low, startled cry. A tall, shadowy figure stood on the fringe of the brush, a man wearing a shabby raincoat and dark fedora hat pulled low.
As Miss Garfield looked toward him, he whistled. His head went back and she saw his face, unshaven, brutal, the eyes staring intently. The man's hands were thrust inside the coat, through the slitted side pockets, and he was fumbling with the front of his trousers. Abruptly, he withdrew both hands, quickly unbuttoned the raincoat and held it open, stepping away from the trees into the fading sunlight. His fly was undone, gaping open, his penis exposed, an enormous, bloated organ, straining and grossly distended, jutting from a forest of coarse, reddish hair.
As Miss Garfield watched, horrified but morbidly fascinated despite her acute revulsion, the man jerked his pants wider still and eased his bulging, wrinkled scrotum from the opening, cradled his testicles briefly, cupping them and hefting the dark, ridged bag, before transferring one hand to his turgid prick. He rolled the foreskin right back, causing the purple knob to swell and spread, mushrooming hugely, shook his fat penis obscenely, and chuckled when Miss Garfield recoiled in cringing disgust.
She got off the seat and retreated, almost running, stumbling along the path toward the distant exit. The man followed, rubbing and shaking his stiff roll, whacking furiously.
"Where you goin', you fat cow!" he shouted. "Come and put some cunt round this, you fuckin' cocksucker! I won't hurt you. How would you like my tongue round your hairy twat, darlin'? Come here and let me lick your asshole. I'll shove this so far up your stinkin' great quim it'll come out covered in shit."
Miss Garfield broke into a run. When she dared to look round the man had gone. She slowed to a walk, panting, breasts heaving. Then, as she passed a clump of willows, she saw the intruder again, standing there with his trousers down around his ankles and his shirt pulled up, legs wide apart as he masturbated vigorously with loins thrust forward and knees bent, an imbecilic grimace on his twitching features.
Miss Garfield was less than five yards from him.
"I'm comin', sweetheart!" he blurted. "You want it in your mouth, lady? All hot and slimy. Come here, you cunt, and bend over. Ill warm that sweet twat of yours, darlin'. God! I could eat your shit. Aaaaah!"
Prunella Garfield saw the milky rush of sperm spurt from the reddened opening of the man's dribbling penis. He was grunting and gasping, and chuckling at the same time, pulling at his jerking organ and squeezing its fat circumference, shaking drops of clinging semen from it Miss Garfield voiced a strangled scream. She fled, plunging blindly into the bushes, and did not stop running until she was outside the park railings. Traffic on the busy highway helped curb the panic gnawing at her entrails. She stopped, one hand pressed against her side.
She felt physically and spiritually sick. Her heart was pounding. There was a wet stickiness between her thighs, a painful tightness round her anus.
Presently, when her breathing was more regulated, she moved on, walking briskly. When she saw a police officer standing under the clock near the bus depot she hesitated, but could not face the ordeal of reporting, in detail, what she had witnessed.
She hurried on, gorgeous hips and haunches rolling and swaying, buttocks jogging, her high-rising breasts quivering and shaking with every vibrating step she took.
Every time she closed her eyes she could see that immense phallus pulsing and throbbing, the gluey sperm spattering. The man's vulgar obscenities lingered in her ears. She could not control the trembling of her limbs. The smell of urine rising from her sodden undergarments nauseated her.