Chapter 3
Revenge Is Sweet
He was still boiling with rage when he slammed the door of his and Warren's apartment. He went straight to the kitchen cupboard, got the whiskey. It was against training rules-imbibing in anything alcoholic during the football season-but fuck the rules! Fuck Patti and fuck football.
He poured himself a stiff one, drank it down, poured another. All rational thinking departed from his senses, and the only thing he could think of was getting even.
During the fourth glass of whiskey, when he knocked over a kitchen chair, Warren Yanko woke up. He picked his way to the kitchen, saw Jim with the whiskey bottle, blinked his eyes, then said, "What the hell d'you think you're doing, fellow?"
"Getting fucked up," Jim answered, his back to Warren. "You don't mind, do you?"
Warren removed the bottle from Jim's hand. "You're goddamn right, I mind!" He turned Jim around. His pale blue eyes searched Jim's. "What's this all about?"
"Fucking," he answered Warren, his speech thick, "and that's something you wouldn't know anything about."
Warren's expression colored, indicating that he did not care for the remark-not in the least. But he managed to constrain his feelings, extending sympathy rather than anger, guiding Jim to the living room couch, encouraging him to unburden himself, spill it out.
Had he been sober, he might have kept matters to himself. Why bother Warren with his troubles? But he was not sober, and the whiskey loosened his tongue with but little coaxing.
He told Warren the whole mess. He told it like it was, and he didn't spare the four letter words in describing matters. Sucked his cock, she did. Sucked his cock, let the sonofabitch eat her pussy, then fucked him.
"So forget her," Warren said, hoping to console.
"I already have," Jim muttered, his eyes blank. "She can go fuck herself, for all I care! I wouldn't piss on the best part of her."
Warren echoed hearty agreement. He threw his arm around Jim's broad shoulders. "Now you're talking sense, fellow!"
"Damn right, I am." He swallowed more whiskey. "But she isn't going to get away with it," he added. "What are you going t'do?"
"I don't know just yet," he said, his eyes narrowing, "but I'll do something-that's for sure!"
Warren moved closer. "Maybe I could help." "How?"
Warren shrugged. "Come up with an idea. Two heads are better than one, they say, and that's what friends are for-to help out."
The whiskey amplified his warm thanks. He clasped Warren's hand, looked at him through bleary eyes. "You're a real pal, Warren, I mean that."
"like I said, fellow, that's what friends are for." He gave Jim's thigh a friendly squeeze. "You want another drink?"
"Why not?" He paused. "But you have to have one with me."
"Agreed!" He climbed to his feet, went to the kitchen, returned with another glass.
They toasted. Warren said, "Here's to revenge."
"Right! And I'm going to get that bitch," he said, spilling some of his whiskey. "So help me, Christ, I am."
"Sure you are," Warren said, "and I'll help you."
And then there was more whiskey, another toast. And after that another and another.
He was drunk, quite drunk, and Warren was somewhere close at hand. He heard himself telling it again, describing the miserable orgy back at the cabin.
"Sucking his cock, too. That was the part that got me. I mean, I never asked her to do it to me. Thought she'd get pissed off. Thought she'd tell me to shove off."
"You should've asked her," he heard Warren say.
"I know I should've, and if I had only known. Imagine, getting on her knees, looking at his peter, then sucking him off. It burns me."
"So next time you'll know."
"Yeah. I sure will," he drawled.
Warren moved closer, poured him another drink.
"The hell of it is," he said, having difficulty with his words, "I never had a blow job."
"You're kidding!" Warren exclaimed
"like hell I am."
"A lady killer like you?"
"Nope. Never had it."
"You haven't lived," Warren said, his eyes shining brightly. "Until you get your cock sucked, you just haven't lived."
Jim, as drunk as he was, felt his cock begin to harden. The mental picture of having a girl encircle her young lips around your cock-man, that would be something!
"It's a crazy feeling," Warren continued. "like blasting off to the moon."
Jim couldn't bridle his rage. That fucking Patti hadn't sucked his cock, but she sure hadn't lost any time with that other bastard's. Sucked him high and dry.
Warren poured Jim another shot. He said, "When they lick your balls, that's something else, fellow. Cloud nine, strictly."
He finished his drink, and he knew it would be his last-at least, tonight. His mind was fogged, blacking out, and he realized that he was only inches away from passing out.
He struggled to get up but failed. He wanted to get to his room, undress, collapse in bed, fuck everything! But each time he tried, he failed again, and ultimately, god knows when, he felt Warren lifting him, helping him along, guiding him toward the bedroom.
Warren's words came to him in fragments. "Can't sleep with your clothes on...shoes...now your shirt, fellow...that's it.. . upsy-daisy...and your pants...all the way down...and the socks...that's it."
Suddenly Jim knew his cock was out. Whether it had slipped out of the fly of his shorts by itself, or whether Warren had helped it along, wasn't clear to his whiskey-drugged mind. But it was out. Out and sort of stiff, and Warren was sitting beside him on the bed, staring at his cock, saying something about it.
Jim couldn't grasp his words. Warren repeated himself.
"I said you got a nice one."
He wanted, at this point, to tell Warren to bug off. He knew what Warren was hinting about, and he simply was not interested. All he wanted now was sleep. Sleep and escape. And the hell with the world. The hell with everything.
But Warren had other ideas, and for the very first time-perhaps because Jim was so drunk-he was making a pass, no longer just looking at his cock, but actually touching it, tentatively at first, and then gripping it more firmly, holding it like a baseball bat.
Despite all the whiskey that slugged his brain and dulled his reflexes, he was not insensate to the joyous thrills that surged in his cock. Warren's hand was warm and silky, and as he slid his fingers back and forth over Jim's stiffening prick, soothed him with friendly encouragement, Jim knew he would let Warren take whatever liberties he wished. And it wasn't simply a matter of having his defenses lowered by all the whiskey he had consumed; it was, in addition, the business of losing Patti, discovering what a real whore she was. And there was nothing left now and he was dominated by an I-don't-care-what-happens attitude. Fuck everything!
It was this disenchantment and utter despair which left him so vulnerable to Warren's friendly but determined assault.
"How does this feel?" Warren had lowered Jim's shorts and was gently stroking his friend's balls.
Jim was too numbed by whiskey to phrase his pleasure, but he nodded his approval and Warren knew.
Encouraged by a complete lack of resistance, Warren became much bolder. He stroked Jim's cock with greater vigor. Jim felt his cock grow totally rigid. Desire sprang in his bowels and flowed to the head of his cock. Right or wrong, he enjoyed Warren's hands on his genitals, and he thought, Fuck you, Patti! I don't need you.
Warren went faster with his hand. New joy jumped in Jim's balls. He began to move back and forth, joining Warren's hand. And now Warren was doing something else. He was playing with his cock at the same time he was playing with Jim's!
Suddenly Warren released him. He jumped to his feet, stripped off his shorts and tee shirt. His cock sprang out. His balls, swollen with desire, were the size of lemons.
Jim was not sure what was going to happen next, nor did he care. He was flat on his back, naked except for his undershirt, and his cock was standing flagpole-straight. He had a passing thought about Patti, a love that still lingered, and then there was a lump in his throat and a heaviness in his heart. But the sadness was choked off. Warren was over him, easing himself on top of him.
He felt a momentary reluctance to participate; a warning that this was wrong; a tiny censor inside his whiskey-flogged brain saying, What are you-a goddamn queer? But the reluctance passed. And Warren, warm and heavy on top of him, worked his loins until his stiff cock lay alongside Jim's. This killed the reluctance, the inhibition, the desire not to join in. He liked what he felt. Warren's big throbbing cock intertwined with his own. It reminded him of a similar experience when he was only 12, something which had occurred at a summer camp for boys. His roommate, a boy of 13, one who was more oriented in sex than himself, had initiated him-and very thoroughly. And this was one of the many things that he and his 13 year old roommate had done: one lying on top of the other, rubbing their cocks against each other, thrilling to the wondrous feeling it brought to their hairless privates, doing it again and again and again.
It was this way now, he thought. A throwback to his youth, a reckless joy that was shameless, blameless, just downright fun!
"You don't care if I fuck you, do you, fellow?" Warren asked, hunched over him, raising up and down, making their cocks rub together.
"Hell, no, I don't mind!" he heard himself say.
"Did you ever do it before?" Warren asked.
He shook his head, deciding not to tell Warren about the incident in camp.
"Do you like it?" he asked, going faster.
He grunted a yes.
"I'm getting pretty hot," Warren said unevenly.
"So am I," he replied, bucking his cock against Warren's, and then he was overcome by a desire to wrap his legs around Warren's bare ass, which he did.
"That's it, fellow." Warren embraced him. Their bodies knitted together. Their cocks and balls married one another. Warren moaned; so did Jim.
Warren ground himself against Jim. Jim responded, working his stiff, throbbing cock against Warren's swollen balls. Warren did-likewise. They squirmed together.
Suddenly Warren said, "You do it to me."
"Huh?"
"Get on top of me."
He tried to but he found that the whiskey had numbed him more than he realized. He struggled to raise up and Warren helped him. Finally it was accomplished. He was on top of his football teammate, the aggressor rather than the pursued.
"Fuck me," Warren begged.
And he found himself struggling to work his cock between Warren's muscled thighs. But it wasn't much of a struggle: Warren was there to assist him, taking his cock and guiding into the right places, joining it with his own.
"Now fuck me," Warren pleaded.
He obeyed. And how did one fuck the same sex? Where did you put your cock and how did it feel? The answers were simple. The fucking was a basic up-and-down movement, face-to-face: a joining and disjoining of cocks and balls: contact versus non-contact. And how did it feel? He couldn't answer for Warren, except to say that Warren nearly fainted with joy, but as to his own feelings, they were indescribably thrilling. Maybe the discovery about Patti was a catalyst, or maybe all the whiskey he'd consumed was the helping agent, but whatever the factor, the cock-to-cock contact was maddening in its joy.
He lost control of himself. He worked his pelvis in faster and faster jerks. His cock throbbed in and out of Warren's clenching thighs. They batted their cocks together. Their balls rubbed and pounded one another. Caress of hand and prick was dizzying in its effect. And when Warren clutched desperately at him, screamed, "Fuck me!
Fuck me!" Jim went at his friend with even stronger passion than before.
He struck his cock against Warren's with new fervor. His hips gathered strength and momentum.
"Thaf s it," Warren moaned. "Fuck me!"
And now the feeling was building. The jizm in his balls was starting to boil. His cock was throbbing harder. His breath was coming in irregular gasps. Warren felt the same. He said, "Let's come."
Jim nodded.
"Now?" Warren asked tentatively. "Almost," he answered, and he pumped his cock faster and faster.
"I can't hold back much longer," Warren pleaded. "I gotta come. I gotta!"
He felt the same. The waves of desire overpowered him. The jizm was exploding. He screamed. He drove his cock viciously against Warren's.
Suddenly he felt hot jizm shoot from Warren's cock and spatter his stomach. At the same time, with a feeling like no other he had ever experienced, cock juice erupted from his own body and exploded against Warren's balls. Wave after wave of wondrous release sprang from his loins. More love juice than he had known he could gather shot from his body to Warren's. They hugged and embraced and squirmed and wiggled and oozed their jizm over each other, both of them nearly passing out with the unbelievable joy of mutual orgasm.
Afterwards, they showered and put on fresh shorts and sat in the kitchen and coffee-klatched. The affair had a certain sobering effect on Jim and, to his surprise, he felt no shame, no embarrassment. He was even able to joke about it, which was the basic difference between the two men. To Jim, their homosexual encounter had been a chance thing, enjoyable but not darnning, a lark, not something which would possess his heart and soul from this night forward. No, such a thing isn't-likely to occur again, he thought, and I don't feel disposed to go looking for it.
But even as this conclusion passed over his mind, he knew it meant much more to Warren; in fact, it was a way of life for the poor guy. He couldn't take it or leave it the way Jim could-so he'd be trying again, Jim supposed, and he would have to find a way to discourage him without hurting his feelings.
"Thinking about Patti?" Warren asked, as they sat at the kitchen table sipping their coffee.
"Not exactly," he said, reminiscent of what it felt like to put his cock between Warren's legs.
"I suppose you two are through now."
"Definitely."
"You don't even want to get back with her-not even a little bit?"
"No, Warren, I don't. We're finished, and that's it." And discussing her again, remembering the scene at the cabin, his hate washed over him with new intensity. "I'd just like to get even with her in some way."
Warren was silent. His strong face zeroed in on Jim's. Suddenly his eyes brightened.
He said, "I think I've got an idea on how we can do it, too. Just about the best way in the world."
"How?" he asked, suddenly excited.
"With football strategy, fellow."
"Football-"
"The ol' quarterback-sneak, my friend. Don't let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. End reverse to the left side, lateral backfield, then cut right and to the outside."
He squinted. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Warren grinned. He slapped Jim's thigh. "I'm just saying that if you want to get even-really do it up brownyou have to be just a little more cagey than the opposition. Y'fight fire with fire."
"You still aren't making any sense," he told Warren.
"Football horse sense-a Utile strategy, fellow." He drew closer. "The first thing you have to do," he said, making finger diagrams on the table top, "is to get Patti in the locker room. Then after that-" he smiled darkly"this is what we're going to do-"
CHAPTER FOUR Chitty-Chitty, Gang Bang
A week later, Jim led Patti into the stadium supply room and locked the door after them, and as far as he knew, she did not suspect a thing.
Blanketed in darkness, he fumbled for a match, then lit the candle he had brought along. Eerie shadows danced across the barren walls, and Patti's face betrayed a sudden uneasiness.
"It's creepy in here," she said, watching him lower the candle to the rubdown table. "Couldn't we turn on a light?"
He told her no. Too much chance that the janitor would see the light, then come to investigate. This was a bold lie, of course, for the old bastard was dead drunk, passed out on the other rim of the stadium. And this bit had been easily arranged: a fifth of Bourbon Deluxe, courtesy of the State Tech football squad, which the watchman had unquestioningly and greedily accepted.
But there was a reason for not turning on any lights, a very valid reason. And shortly, he thought, Patti would understand what that reason was-only by then it would be too late for her to do anything about it.
Now, with the candle waxed in place, he gave Patti a reassuring pinch on her rear. She managed a smile, watching after him while he dragged a wrestling mat from atop a pair of parallel bars, then spread it across the wooden floor.
She glanced at the mat, then the door, then at him.
"Are you sure we're going to be safe here?"
He nodded, gave her ass another playful tweak, then stepped away from her briefly, venturing into the darkness to recover the two thermos bottles that had been planted there earlier in the evening.
She frowned. "What's that?"
"Martinis." He gestured to the mat and told her to sit down. "Ever try one?" "Lots of times."
He didn't believe this-teenagers had to seem worldly, didn't they?-but it no longer mattered to him whether she lied or not, and he even helped her continue this falsehood.
"Do you like them?"
"They're all right, I guess." She sat down Indian-style, her gray pleated skirt sliding nearly to her panties.
For a moment he forgot that he was talking about martinis. The sight of her creamy thighs never failed to drive him crazy, and if she didn't look so damn young-even less than her 18 years-so innocent, so vulnerable, it wouldn't excite him so intensely, he thought. But there she was. Petite as a 12 year old nymphet, forever careless about how she sat, as free of guile as a minister's pre-teen daughter.
He experienced a quick erection, a pleasant growth between his legs. Easy to forget about his plan, he thought. Easy to set these martinis aside, get down on the mat with her, and kiss her and feel her up and give her a jump. A good jump. And maybe later, like in days past, when he was done sucking her breasts and feeling her behind, driving his peter in and out of her youthful love box, maybe he'd hold her and tell her how much he cared for her. But then he remembered-how would he ever forget?-Patti in a motel with another guy. On her knees, her wet mouth pleading for his quivering penis-and then getting it, by god! Sucking him off.
It brought the bitterness back, this remembered nightmare, and, by the same token, the bitterness firmed up his decision to go ahead with his fiendish plan.
He unscrewed one of the thermos bottles, reminding himself to pour her drinks from the red thermos, his own from the blue one. Her martinis had been made to a staggering ratio of 8:I, nearly pure gin. His own, on the other hand, had been grossly diluted with Vermouth.
They drank from their plastic thermos cups, scarcely to a bartender's Hoyle, but it did not lessen the effectiveness of the gin.
Patti, quite to his prediction, strained to be leisurely about her heavily-bombed martini. Had to seem grownup, she did. And when he casually asked her if it was too strong, she would have bit off her tongue rather than admit to this. The martini was "just right," she insisted. "Yes, fine." And with a superhuman effort, she smiled away her grimace, gulping more of her potent martini, and it might just as well have been water. He did not remind her that one sipped martinis, savored them like a fine old wine, for if she wished to consume it with such abandon, that was all right with him. It would quicken matters.
He sat opposite her, and they talked of small things: school, her father's new car, and State Tech's forthcoming game with Valley City. Throughout the conversation, he tried not to let his gaze wander under her short skirt, but this was not an easy matter. Though her legs were crossed and though she continued to sit Indian-style, her knees were high, which afforded him an unobstructed view of her panties. So to warn himself, Don't look at her crotch, was sheer folly. It was there! Right in front of his eyes. A teeny-bopper's snatch, and hardly concealed by the thin webbing of her nylon panties. And what stimulated him, amazed him, was how she managed to make the exhibition seem so accidental, so apart from herself, as if-as if she was completely unaware of his gaze, or of the fact that her pussy crack was easily discernible.
His penis swelled-try to stop it! And damn if it wouldn't be nice to ball her right now, he thought. But that would screw up his plan.
"Could I have some more?" she asked.
He blinked his eyes away from the honey between her legs, suddenly aware that she had drained her thermos.
"Sure can," he said, and he set his cup down, unscrewed the cap of the red thermos bottle, and replenished her drink.
She held the cup with both hands, drank generously from it. She gazed over the cup's rim as she drank, her eyes reflecting the giddiness she was beginning to feel.
"You hold your drinks better than I thought you would," he said, and the compliment sent her warm red lips back for more of the wicked martini.
"I'm not exactly a child," she said, swallowing a hiccup.
"So I see." And again, drawn there, dammit, his gaze wandered to the hot promise between her legs. He noticed, too, that her white panties were slightly darker in the area where the lips of her vagina were defined. Dampness, he thought. Dampness that happens when a girl gets hot. Dampness that happens when a young girl wants to get screwed.
The thought gave him a thrill. And now she shifted her legs around, drawing her knees somewhat higher. She was painstakingly careful to pull her skirt over her knees this time, but she completely ignored the underside of her legs. He saw more and more of her panties, the full bloom of her delicately curved behind, and he re-experienced his earlier reluctance: should he go through with his plan?
But now, as before, he had only to recall the image of his Patti, the girl he had loved, giving a blow job to a man in a cheap motel. And then his determination came pounding back. Fix her wagon, he told himself. Fix her good.
And so he schemed as she had schemed, playing the role, smiling for her, saying pretty words she loved to hear about herself, leaning across to offer her brief kisses, pouring more martinis into her, getting her progressively drunker.
Her innocence began to vanish. She let her skirt ride higher on her legs, and now it was no accident. Nor was it an accident when she unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse.
"It's hot in here," she complained, and she fanned her breasts with her hand. "Take it off," he said. "Should I?" "Sure, why not."
She set her drink down, unbuttoned her blouse, slipped it off. His eyes skipped from one breast to the other. The cups of her fragile lacy brassiere seemed strained beyond their endurance, and though he had looked upon this joyous sight many times before, it still fascinated him.
"Why don't you take something off?" she asked.
"Is this a strip-tease contest?"
"Uh-huh."
He added more of the martini mix to her cup. "It's more fun to watch."
She snickered. Getting real tight, he thought. A few more drinks and she'll be ready.
She took another large swallow of her drink. Then she set the cup down.
"D'you know what?"
"What?"
"I think I'll take something else off."
He shrugged.
"Want me to?" she asked.
He smiled. His eyes raced over her brassiere, then darted to the inviting spread of her young, kissable thighs.
"I always want you to," he answered. She slobbered more martini into her mouth. Her eyes glazed and now she giggled. "Are you going to?" he asked.
She nodded. And now, her cup again divorced from her hand, a silly, impish expression on her face, she opened the fastener of her skirt.
She slid the garment from her hips without getting to her feet. She flung the skirt off in the shadows.
As always, he found her incomprehensibly lovely. Her body was typical of a teenybopper's: firmly fleshed, lightly muscled, yet soft and yielding in the areas which were meant for acceptance. And he knew of the strength of her limbs, how they could scissor and trap him during those climactic moments of sexual union, how her silky arms could wind around his neck, how her luscious tits could tickle the hairs of his chest, how her tummy could slap against his, how her hips could churn beneath him, the wildest ride, ever!
Yes, he knew all the wondrous paths of her thrill-a-second body, what it could do for him and to him. But so could other men, apparently. So could a certain man who'd taken her to that cheap motel, one who had said something like, "Suck me, sweetheart. Put it in your mouth," an order which she had quickly and happily carried out.
New anger washed over him. He told her to drink up. And when she had, he poured the remainder of the thermos bottle into her cup. To his surprise, she emptied it in one long, continuous gulp.
She was smashed, he saw. Ready for anything, and in a few more minutes, he thought, she's going to get anything!
She grinned foolishly. She slid slowly backwards until she was lying down, one leg slightly crooked, her hands clasped beneath her head. Her bra-clad breasts made him think of a pair of snowballs. And her bikini panties-he could see right through them-made him think of being on top of her, giving her a delicious screwing.
"Jim, I-I'm drunk," she giggled.
"What's wrong with that?"
More giggling. Eyes out of focus. "I drank too fast, didn't I? I should've drank 'em slower, huh?" He shrugged.
"But I feel good," she said. "I feel real good." She bent her knees, spread her legs.
He licked his lips. He wished she weren't making herself so available to him. He wanted her to pass out, that was his plan; instead, she was acting silly, showing off her pussy, waiting for him to remove her panties, then climb on top of her.
It gave him hot nuts to think about it, and he wondered why the super-strong martinis hadn't knocked her out.
"Are we going to do it?" she asked suddenly.
His gaze was drawn to the narrow strip of nylon that covered-or tried to cover-her young twat. She was twitching down there, aching for it, hungry for meat.
"Are we?" she asked again.
He stalled. "As soon as I finish my drink."
"But I want it now." She wiggled her bottom. And now she was touching herself: her breasts, her tummy, the taut smoothness of her tanned thighs. "Don't you wanna?"
"Sure, I do. But first I want to finish this drink."
She struggled up to a sitting position. "Give me your drink. I'll finish it." She took the thermos cup out of his hand, swilled it down without a pause. "How's that?" she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
He gave her the compliment she expected. She was a pro, she knew how to hold her liquor, and what was her secret, he wanted to know.
She blinked her eyes, experiencing new difficulty in focusing her vision. But she managed a smile, the slow-motion smile of a drunk. And then she was on her back again, wetting her lips, blinking her eyes again, saying, "Everything's spinning, honey. How come?"
He didn't answer her.
"Jim, hold me!"
He remained silent.
"Honey, why is everything spinning?"
No answer. And he was thinking, Dammit, pass out! Close your eyes. Close your eyes and spread your legs. And now his eyes traveled to her crotch, and he wondered if he should give her a screw before he pulled off his plan. But he decided against it, because, in view of what was about to take place, it was simply too dangerous.
He climbed to his feet.
"Where y'going?"
"I'll be back in a minute."
"But where y'going."
"To the john," he lied.
"But I wanna make love," she whined.
"I'll be right back. It's just down the hall."
She attempted to raise herself up on her elbows, found she was too drunk, and collapsed back on the wrestling mat. "I don't want you to go," she said, her words badly slurred. "I want you to stay here and fuck me, damn you."
He winced. He'd never heard her use language like this, and it made him realize how thoroughly stoned she'd become.
"Are you donna do it to me or not?"
He tried to reason with her. It was important that she later remembered him leaving the room. There might be questions and she might even go to the police. So his alibi had to be reasonably sound. He stepped down the hallway to take a leak, and when he entered the latrine, somebody slugged him. After that, these men-whoever they were-broke into the supply room and attacked Patti. And Patti would say, "Yes, officer, that's the way it was."
He smiled now, proud of his plan, tasting revenge even before it was his.
"Will you answer me, dammit. I want some peter."
He made a protest with his hands, which was futile. Patti refused to listen. And before he realized what she was doing, she raised her hips, grabbed her panties, and down they came!
He gazed at her blond pussy, wondering when, if ever, he had seen her so completely immoral, so lacking in restraint.
"Now will you do it?" She placed her hands between her thighs, applied a gentle pressure, and spread the moist plum-colored lips of her delicious hole of joy.
He tried to break his gaze and could not. His peter was as stiff as a fireplace poker. He wanted to screw her cute little pussy so bad that he could taste it. And yet he mustn't. He must stick to his story: going to the John, be right back.
He turned and headed for the door.
Behind him, Patti shouted, "Damn you!"
He put his hand on the knob. Over his shoulder, he saw her try to rise. She made it up on one knee, and then she was kaput. The sudden exertion in the face of all the gin she had consumed was too much for her body to accept. Equilibrium and sensibility went out the window. She keeled sideways, seemed to twist in mid-air, then fell flat on her face. She made a brave effort to recover: a stricken fighter trying to rise at the count of nine. But the gin had bombed her out of this world, and her final effort came as a feeble spasm, a twitching of muscles, an indistinguishable mumble of words, and then she was quite still.
For a nervous minute, he was badly frightened. She was as still as death, which was the first thing he thought of. He moved in for a closer inspection. But then he saw that she was breathing regularly, just stoned unconscious on the gin, and he sighed in relief.
He stepped back. Her curvy ass, its delightful crack, brought new throbbing to his loins. He'd never buggered a girl before and damn if he wasn't tempted to try it now. But she might wake up, he thought, and then his plan would be scrubbed; and getting even with her was far more important to him than a piece of brown eye.
He turned and strained his eyes at the darkness at the rear of the supply room. Then he gave the signal: a simple wave of his arm.
Eight of his teammates suddenly came to life. They emerged from behind the tackling dummies and the mowers, the storage bins and the chalking machines. They'd been back there all the while, of course-this, in accordance with his plan. And now, seeing his friends drawing toward their prey, grinning and licking their lips, ogling the blond, near-naked teenage cheerleader, he knew that the hour of revenge had at last arrived.
Joe Talley, a State Tech linebacker, as ugly as he was big, nudged Patti with his toe. There was no response.
"Cold as a frozen turkey," he whispered.
"But nicer," center Ed Healey said, rubbing the bulge in the crotch of his pants. "And look at that ass, man! Ain't that a sight?"
The others crowded closer. Some sighed, some made obscene remarks, some grabbed and played with their peters, and one or two of them began removing their pants.
Jim gave them a finger signal, a wink, then dropped back into the shadows. In the event she did regain consciousness, it was important that she did not see him; and back here, untouched by the flickering glow of the candle, there was little chance of that; and, on the other hand, his view of the orgy would be excellent. He had climbed up on one of the supply trunks, and his vantage point was not un-like the amphitheater overlooking a surgical procedure. But this, he mused, was definitely more fun.
"We won't need the stocking masks," Mike Harrigan, the team's 210-pound fullback, told the others. "But if she comes to, you guys get 'em on fast."
This was part of the original plan, the stocking masks. Unable to identify her attackers, there wouldn't be a helluva lot that Patti could impart to the police-if she went to them at all. Oh, she might have a few suspicions, but they couldn't hang a man on assumption, especially if she confessed to how drunk she was. But it was a strong-likelihood that she wouldn't go near the police, and this was what they were counting on: A gang-bang minus the unpleasant repercussions. Revenge with a kick, and a revenge that all of them agreed Jim deserved.
Harrigan bent over her and unclasped her brassiere. He dropped the straps, turned her over, and pulled it loose. Patti groaned, but she never flickered an eye. Her two kissing-sweet raspberries greeted their gaze. Raspberry nipples, creamy, suckable breasts, a place for the guys to cushion their faces.
Ray Pitney, naked except for a tee-shirt, his thickened penis swinging loose like the trunk of an elephant, exclaimed enthusiastically, "Man, what a pair!" And then the State Tech left end got down on his knees, rubbed his hands together, and lowered his mouth to her left breast.
The sucking sound filled the eerie, candle-lit scene. It excited the men, and it gave Tom Forbes, one of the guards, the stimulus to do what Pitney was doing. He stretched out parallel to the teenager, sampled the ripe fullness of her other tit, pinched it, rubbed it, twisted the nipple, then drew it into his hungry mouth.
Vicarious sighs and moans rang from the others. Patti moaned in her sleep but she never moved.
Craig Riley, the speedy Tech center, had another idea-her pussy. He hadn't removed his eyes from the pear-like prominence of her young slit for a single second. His excited penis pushed out the front of his pants. He grabbed himself.
"Damn if I ain't gonna be first." He unbuckled his pants, let them drop. He pushed his shorts to his ankles. His peter sprang out, its knob as scarlet as a rising sun.
He dropped to his knees and crawled between her legs.
He nudged her hole with his prong. Trouble, though. He couldn't get it in. He raised one of her legs but the angle was bad, and when he tried raising both of her legs, then spreading them, he had difficulty balancing himself.
Talley and Harrigan jumped in to help him. Each of the men held a leg up. Her thighs yawned wide. The lips of her pussy, moist as the morning grass, were spread for Healey's swollen member. Difficulty vanished. He wiggled his ass, lined himself up with her twitching, helpless hole of honey and love, pushed strongly, and then he was in. In Patti's velvet tunnel, ready for The Big Screw.
In her drunken stupor, she moaned. And by reflex action and long practice, she squirmed her bottom, making Healey's thrusts all the more enjoyable.
His hairy body completely dwarfed her. He pounded her without mercy. His thrusts were so violent, so filled with joy, that he nearly shook loose the two men who were sucking her breasts.
He went faster. His balls swelled. His charging cock pumped in and out of her slit. And then he was clawing at her ass, digging in, moaning like a dog in heat, and letting go with his juice.
His organ was still throbbing, still spitting its love cream when he reluctantly withdrew it from her lovely crack. Several spurts of his white jizm landed on her curvy tummy, and he also stained the insides of her thighs.
No time was lost, for as soon as Healey climbed off the teenager, another of their group climbed on. Pitney and Forbes, greedy as small puppies, continued to suck on her tits.
Deep in the shadows of the supply room, host to all that was taking place, Jim felt immense satisfaction. His vengeance was being realized and Patti was learning what happens to two-timers. Tomorrow her box would be untouchably sore, and she would have an all-week reminder of what took place. But he wanted her conscious-that was the part which was missing-to see her struggle and scream, to see her as deeply humiliated as he had been when he witnessed her secretly sucking another man's peter.
He got his wish five minutes later. Forbes had just completed his turn at Patti's love nest, and he had shot his load prematurely: two or three shoves with his small but firm penis, a glazing of the eyes, and he was through.
The others made fun of him. No staying power, they said. Rabbits were slower, for chrissakes; and was this his first piece of tail? And the laughter grew louder, and suddenly Patti stirred.
Jim saw her open her eyes and frown, but the full significance of what she saw failed to register, apparently. Her alcohol-soaked brain simply refused to accept or comprehend, and after staring dumbly at their faces and naked and half-naked bodies, she again closed her eyes.
With loud guffaws for her total inaction, the team resumed the orgy. Pitney wanted to give it to her dog-fashion, and he had two of the players support her pelvis, another support her shoulders.
Someone made a remark about the odd curvature of his organ-it hooked upward, taking the shape of a banana.
Pitney said, "Up yours, buddy," and then he grasped the cheeks of her cute little butt, pinpointed his penis in the crack of her twat, shoved hard, and closed his eyes in ecstasy.
Patti moaned loudly, and now she was fully conscious. But this did not deter Pitney from finishing what he had started. Screw her good, that was his motto, and his strong hips and muscular thighs, as well as his huge, passion-filled penis, made it clear that he was fully capable.
"Jim, you're hurting me," she screamed drunkenly.
Jim laughed. So she thought it was him, did she. Well, the bitch was in for one big surprise, wasn't she? And the hell with how much it hurt. He wanted Pitney's big rod to hurt her-and the more, the better.
Pitney came on stronger. Her cries excited him. And it excited the others, as well. Miller, a tackle, had his prong out and was jacking off. Harrigan and Forbes were managing to pull at her tits. Pitney went faster. His stiff seven-inch weapon looked like it might knife her in two, and he was humping her with such force that her ass was actually being lifted into the air.
Patti moaned louder, causing several of the players to don their stocking masks. Miller, who had been busy playing with himself, grunted, turned his back on the others, and shot a load of steamy jizm halfway across the room. Harrigan was massaging Patti's titties, but at the same time he was massaging himself. He'd unzipped himself and was rubbing his stiff prick against the side of Patti's face. Forbes, who had been working from the other side, also playing with her tits, now transferred his attention to her pussy. He was tickling the hairy prominence just above her crack, stimulating her with his hands while Pitney excited her with his dick.
Patti moaned again, and this time it was evident to everyone in the room that, despite her drunken stupor, she was beginning to experience a thrill. Yet, and as expected, she was struggling against it-reflex action, perhaps-trying to shake the men loose from her body.
Pitney popped his nuts with an inhuman cry. Harrigan finished himself, most of his hot semen splattering the cheerleader's ear. And Forbes, who was so bent on playing with her pussy, now had full reign. Pitney was out of the way, and Forbes squeezed two of his fingers into the teenager's cream-drenched box, then worked them back and forth.
Patti struggled. She clawed Forbes' cheek, drawing blood. Forbes slapped her in the mouth. She screamed. Harrigan came to assist and ran into a kick in his groin. Two of them grabbed her before she could kick again. She bit Pitney's wrist, got off half a scream, and then was gagged.
Riley and Miller found a length of rope and trussed her to a pair of benches. The gag was taped over her mouth and the orgy continued, with some of the players returning for second and third helpings.
They spread-eagled her and took turns screwing her. Seven more loads of jizm were shot into her love nest. Pitney experienced the thrill of putting his slender but lengthy penis between her breasts, squeezing them together, then reaching a climax as he stroked himself back and forth. With difficulty, but also with joy, Miller spread the curvy cheeks of her young ass and gave it to her in her rear. She moaned from behind the gag but no one knew whether it was because of pain or passion or both; but when he was through, semen was dripping out of her ass, from the crack of her inflamed pussy, and from between her bruised tits.
"I think we evened the score," Mike Harrigan whispered to Ed Healey. "I think she's had enough."
Pitney quipped, "Y'mean we've had enough, don't you?"
Harrigan grinned, and the group looked down at the dazed, semi-conscious teenager, who was still tied to the wooden bench, but much too drunk to feel any pain.
Harrigan and Riley untied her, Miller peeled the gag from her mouth, and Pitney gathered her clothes and dropped them at her feet. Then the group blew kisses at her and stole out the door. Forbes was the last to exit, and he said, "See you in church, sweetheart." And suddenly it was quiet.
Jim held his ground. Patti mustn't know that he was here, for it would screw up his story of being slugged in the men's John. But he wasn't prepared to leave just yet-not until she regained her senses and dressed. This occurred some five minutes later; and when she limped to the door, bruised and sore, wretched in her humiliation and shame, he knew that his revenge was total.