Chapter 13
Willow Weep
"Call me Fitz." The Tinseltown legend expanded her epic-making dugs under the silver-on-black Love and Rockets T-shirt. Hopey and Maggie eyed one another from opposite nippled mounds over the flowing script LAS LOCAS.
"That Honey crap had something to do with the Kennedy mystique. My first agent stuck me with it." She rose to her thonged Gucci sandals. Her sculpted nails scratched one decorously denimed thigh, then she plucked her gum and parked the wad in a Limoges candy dish on a glass-topped parsons table.
"Gotta get the formalities outta the way." She loosened a sculpted gold belt buckle depicting the horseback pursuit of Mickey and Minnie by Pegleg Pete. With a zip and a fast shimmy, she had her name-brand jeans at her knees.
"Guido still trimming your mons?" Dorothy Tilden inquired. Her guest's pubic hair formed a plush acey spade design in darkest New Wave black.
"Not since his last blood test . . . Oh, that. He thought a heart looked silly on a brunette, so Cristobal got creative." She rotated her evenly lamp-tanned hips until the Tookie They'd Love To Touch glowed in Ron's unbelieving eyes.
The lively, satin-sheened flesh rolled invitationally. Widely separated mirror-twin hills danced, the whole line of her musculature from knees to T-shirt hem in winking, wanton motion.
"My publicity guys keep telling me that every red-blooded boy in America hankers for my heinie."
"A few girls, too," Dorothy Tilden watched with unashamed delight. "It kinda inhibits some people, you know, the first time; so I figure, get the introductions done with." She canted her bankable buttocks toward him. "Dorothy tells me you're a tush man. Wanna kiss?"
Ron knelt reverently and pressed his lips to the springy, fine-grained bottom in glazed devotion.
"I think sister dearest feels neglected." The drama instructor studied Jan's glowering pout. "By the look of that tentpole doing push-ups under Cleo's peignoir, there'll be well-gristled meat enough for all comers.
"You've got a good start on analingus. While you three make friends, I can introduce myself to jellybun Jan." The woman slid off her pants suit jacket. Her fingers slowly opened the satin blouse buttons. "Playtime ..."
Miss Sullivan pitched her hips in sudden, nerve-thrumming pleasure. "Oooooo, you're the first goddamn college boy to know a perineum from Pinesol . . . that's niiice!"
Dorothy Tilden ran the backs of her knuckles lightly along Jan's jawline. "Don't flinch. Big brother's ramrod frisking up and down your rectum like a bucking bronco has to be a lot less pleasant than my finger . . . here."
Her other hand softly invaded the harem pajama bottoms and found a convenient slit along the seat. The girl's formidable gluteals stiffened to iron as a finger tickled her anal rim.
"Oh, oh, oh, now, stiffening up in back!" The drama professor shook her head. "Perhaps we should start with a course of that nine-tongued cat, licking its way along your tense tambo until . . . that's better."
She guided Jan's reluctant mouth to a bare aureole peeking from the open blouse. "Ever suck your sibling's pecker? This is almost the same, but without having to unhinge your jaw. A brisk circular motion . . . juuust like that . . . and a slow clockwise twirling back here."
Her finger kept caressing beneath, the tip pressed to the worried sphincter. "Not as brutal as Aunt Tilly's rigid digit, is it? I thought not."
She gently led Jan toward the wide couch. Honey Fitz Sullivan already had her jeans off and posed on all fours, her Foster-Grants bobbing in time to Ron's lingual thrusts and swirls.
"You look good enough to birch, darling," Dorothy Tilden observed the open rump. "Have you ever tried S&M? It gets these two all hot and bothered."
She slid onto the upholstery, cuddling the girl in her arms as her guest raised her head.
"Orson . . . unnngg . . . offered to show me . . . ahhhh ... the flogging scene Fox cut . . . ooooo . . . outa his Jane Eyre . . . mmmmm . . . seems little Lizzie Taylor . . . uhhhh . . . took it like a trooper . . . ah-ah-ah-ah . . . but the censor shat his plus fours . . . UNNNGGG-GUGGG . . . more, more!'" Dorothy Tilden found she could use both her hands to remove her satin blouse. Jan's mouth roamed between the hard coraled teats without needing encouragement. The woman found the pj's drawstring and slipped the filmy harem trousers onto the hot, ample thighs.
She explored the nerve endings at the base of Jan's coccyx and felt the girl vibrate with response. She began to caress her playmate's broad, round duff. The loins rocked against her in yearning.
"Hark, forest murmurs." Professor Porter cocked an ear toward the summerhouse where Gerry Vestry had taken Mona.
Thhhlllaaap!
"I'll swear that tip fell on bare skin."
"With panties cut that high, a long lick can get a good hand's breadth of haunch," Lucretia Sue opined. She studied Judy Latimer as the whirring strokes progressed. The pale blonde's face held pure, liquid terror. She shook at every ear-filling swipe.
"Remember," the grad student murmured gently, "any flinching away earns a penalty cut."
The light-boned girl nodded glumly.
"Aaaaiiii!"
Gerry Vestry stood in the doorway and adjusted her glasses. "That tail-whacker practically swings itself. Just a little arm motion and some rudimentary wrist control, and-WHAM!"
"Good, I'll bring a book to occupy myself while Miss Latimer brushes up on her one-bottomed Conga." Lucretia Sue massaged the pledge's shoulder reassuringly. She gave a pat and followed her up the chill stairs.
An extremely preoccupied Mona Forbes blubbered quietly on her way down. Her brow and chin worked, wrinkled and wretched.
She stood by Nora and sniffled. A vague breeze brought a sound as of silk being shredded by a Crusader's sword. It terminated in a CRACK and a nasal squeal.
Four more cheerless whups raised clench-jawed bleats. Then indistinct voices filled a pause.
Lucretia Sue's carroty head thrust through the window. "Our li'l chum claims she must go. Is there a bucket or watering can-? Ooops." Her head ducked in, then reappeared. "No more problem."
"The boards have become used to it," Porter related. "I used gallons of creosote against such eventuality."
The final whistling THWACK heralded an almost immediate apparition. Judy waddled, face brick-bright and streaming. She carried her jeans. Soaked briefs had taken on a piebald coloration, plastered to her skin.
She shuffled down to the lawn seat, backside stiff with pain. A sharp, foolish scent preceded her, carried by the light wind.
". . . 'm sorry ..." She grimaced at the ground in self-conscious agony. "... couldn't help myself ..."
"Quite all right, I assure you." Professor Porter manfully maintained a sober countenance. "It adds to the air of rural informality we country dwellers cherish. My grand-sire used to have the milkmaids in regularly to sluice down the library parquetry at our Fen Country place."
"Similar circumstances?" Lucretia Sue stepped carefully to avoid a drippy trail.
"No. The old gentleman favored a whipping scale and shot-weighted thongs."
"Of course, we must exact an additional penalty," Gerry Vestry broached, "but I think we can decide that later."
The Englishman studied the vivid markings visible through Judy's damp, transparent stuff. He seemed content.
"Firstly she should get those wet things off," the redheaded grad proposed, "before her cunt starts sneezing. She can mop herself dry with her jeans and wear those sexy crimson slacks. The next round'll be bare bottom, anyhow."
The girl flashed a miserable look at Porter, then peeled down her skimpy, sodden panties.
"Don't worry," he reassured her. "After all, I am a doctor."
"Of philosophic dans le boudoir,'I Lucretia Sue specified under her breath.
Ron Ladrone lay on his back, his hands striving heroically to encompass, to knead, to fondle the full reach of Honey Fitz Sullivan's epicurean buttock rounds. She purred, rocking atop his firmly entrenched cock.
"N-i-i-c-e." She eased herself up and down, completely nude atop his naked body. "You college men certainly got more on your balls than when I simpered down the ivy-cluttered halls of learning."
Ron tenderly nipped her throat as his fingers sought her inner gluteal curves, still slick from his tonguings.
"G-god, I haven't had a fuck like this since that film teacher at CUNY," the star gasped.
"Where?" Dorothy Tilden lifted the last veiling scrap from Jan's bountiful young body.
"Pu-den-da Ci-ty U. in New Dork." She arched, writhing. Her swinging knockers battered at Ron's retreating chin. "Ahhhh ... he had this seminar, with Russ Meyer and me as guest lecturers ... Ai ... ai ... ai .. . Mill!"
The magnificent cleft contracted, imprisoning his hand. She ground her belly onto him, his scepter trapped in a maelstrom as she shivered and quivered her way through orgasm.
"Im-Iwcœmg-pressive, lover," she cooed. "I'm a jelly inside and he's still got a Saturn missile aimed up my twat."
The screen star stretched her limbs luxuriously and removed herself from his sticky latexed length.
"Don't cool off, big stuff. I gotta tinkle."
Dorothy Tilden chastely brushed Jan's mouth with her pursed lips as Miss Sullivan vanished. Her hands busied themselves. The girl's palm palped a breast she'd kissed with hesitant interest before.
Jan inhaled sharply as the heel of a palm caressed her clitoris. Her lips parted, the woman's tongue darted swiftly inside, then out again.
"Just some healthy girl fun, angel tush . . . nice and wholesome for the glandular system, and a great cardiovascular workout that takes no special shoes."
She placed the shy hands on the waistband of her black brushed-cotton trousers. "Be a pet and help me get these off, so we can try some nice, old-fashioned tribadism. Do you know the scissors position? It gives a heavenly fuck, and without poking anything up anybody."
The two had stripped her down to midnight mesh panties when Honey Fitz Sullivan returned. The drama instructor craned her neck to watch her guest remount.
"Was it Germaine Greer or Phyllis Schlafly who wrote that every man should have the be-jezus buggered out of him once, so he'd know how it felt to be penetrated?" Dorothy Tilden asked as the star inched down the maypole.
"Truman Capote." Miss Sullivan clamped her thighs around Ron. "I heard him at a party."
"Skinny whipping time!" Susie beamed at Nora. "I want to see what we've been engraving on your underneath that makes you so sad-mouthed."
"I believe it's my turn with Miss Quincannon." Gerry Vestry started up to the summerhouse. "You know, there are two ways to lay prone over a table."
"Miss Merydith said on tiptoe." The pledge had a startled expression. "That was stipulated."
"Did I?" the Georgian questioned. "Madam Vice- President, has the custom of lipping officers been instituted at Sigma since my days in the active ranks?"
The heart-faced blonde stopped on the steps and faced the group. "Miss Salton, do you recall any motions mandating sass from pledges under correction? I may have missed an executive meeting."
"A compulsory backtalk proposal got amended to backboard in committee." Susie giggled.
Nora stood, frozen faced. "I'm sorry, Miss Vestry."
"Downright pathetic, I'd say." Lucretia Sue watched the pair climb the rest of the distance.
Judy's lithe body juddered in the chill red slacks as they waited.
The sorority officer personally yanked down Nora's blue, plebian jeans. She scowled at the white step-ins, digging her thumbs in and tugging. The undies slithered along the woman's legs to the damp, vulgarly scented floorboards.
Gerry Vestry walked all the way around the somber pledge. "No wonder you've been pulling faces. Miss Merydith's?"
She ran two fingers indentingly along blood-gorged purple-red welts. Nora yelped.
"That regular barring would be hers. The others run all over the map." Tip marks had lapped heavily across the first six, ruler-straight ridges. "I'd guess you'd been arguing with a barbecue grill if I didn't have inside information."
A long, yellow straight-handled assassin's cane bisected the dark colonial table. Gerry Vestry raised it and held the fattened striking tip under Nora's nose.
"Sarah makes you pledges sand all her canes to a rounded point. I wonder why. This thickened tip leaves much more colorful markings. Tender, too, I bet."
She gestured at the table with the yellow terror. "Over, flat on your tummy, legs straight across the top, torso hanging down." She pointed at the floor. "Put your fingertips in Judy's wee and support yourself. No palms or hand heels, and don't take a single finger off the boards until I finish.
"Feel free to kick and squirm on your belly like a reptile, but if even your pinkie lifts, the count rolls back. One for the first offense, two for the second, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."
Nora crawled onto the antique wood. She slithered over the side, arms extended, and came to rest as ordered. Her rump curved, the weight of the muscles stretching the surfaces normally nethermost.
"I can't claim to know your problems at this time, Nora." Gerry Vestry rested the whipping stick across the angriest wealage. "Two week suspensions in their first college term would really have screwed Mona and Judy's academic records. They elected you pledge president because they trusted you."
She swung the cane high and hacked down with arm and shoulder behind it. The stiff wood furrowed and the swollen tip burrowed.
Nora's jeans flapped into the air as her calves jerked toward zenith. Her taut fingers bounced like springs. Gerry Vestry watched them closely.
When her eyes returned to the stung bottom, both halves pulsed with mounting pain. She whipped them again, harshly. A heartfelt scream erupted.
"I'll bet you didn't know your knees could get that far apart. If you weren't wearing denim along your ankles, you'd have split your britches," the sorority officer observed callously. "As it is, I think those Mother Hubbard drawers look the worse for stretching around the waistband."
She tried to avoid Lucretia Sue's marks, but the cane had to cross Susie's spoor. The wood lashed into those diagonal striations without pity.
"Please fart less noisily, I can't hear you lubbering. Salting down Judy's puddle, are you?"
She hit the martyred cheeks full across their midpoint. A half-minute of sincere threshing about, then she landed the cane hard where buttocks crease into legs. The active monitored Nora's pumping fingers. The woman's inverted face looked a teary, runny mess.
"Be glad we're your friends," she murmured just above the gasping sounds.
She straightened and cane-welted the virgin thighs with all her strength. Her gaze critically fell on Nora's spasming hands.
"The count just rolled back one."
"A hit, a very pulpy-" Susie was smirking.
"Shush!" Lucretia Sue silenced her.
A seventh whickery, lickery slice chased a strangled shriek into the air. The group waited, Mona's red-rimmed mauve orbs glistening with pity and horror.
A minute passed. Two. Nora Quincannon pranced from the summerhouse door, cradling her denim pants and white briefs in her arms. Her behind bucked and weaved all the way down. Gerry Vestry followed her, face a stony mask.
"Place your things there." The blonde active jabbed a thumb at the bronze bench. "Now kneel on them, sunny side toward us."
Nora cried in broken whimpers as she obeyed. Inky violets and raw livery colors streaked across brick-dark weals. The twice-flogged thighs trembled.
Judy rocked like a wind-blown reed. Susie caught her and held her tight in a sisterly hug.
Lucretia Sue traded an approving glance with Gerry Vestry. Then the tall grad student quietly hustled Mona up the hill.
". . . we'd suckle these red hots out at Coney Island Beach to watch the boys' swim trunks fill up in front, and if they asked real, real nice we'd go out into the waves to do something about it." Honey Fitz Sullivan reminisced. "Pure frottage. Nothing serious.
"The innocent days before JFK got killed," she sighed. "None of us knew he hadda waiting line taking numbers to bang him on the Oval Office rug."
"IT'S TOO B-BIG!" Ron Ladrone bellowed, his eyes begging for clemency from Miss Sullivan or Dorothy Tilden.
"My snatch or her dong?" The star frowned below her ebony shades. She reclined on a layer of velvet-covered floor pillows, her torso rising on a cradle of thicker bolsters.
Ron's palms dug into the cushiony mass. His belly covered hers, his prick jammed to the cods. He reared back, arms rigid. "T-too big!"
"I told you that for years," Jan muttered behind him. The dildo harnessed to her loins had only marginally entered his rectum. "Didn't do me any good."
"I thought you got off on backdoor incest," Miss Sullivan chided. "Your sport, not mine."
"Where's that goddamn martinet?" Dorothy Tilden stalked nude around the living room. "I mean it this time. No more coddling male prima donnas."
She swished the leather-handled, whipcord-lashed cat. It sang cleanly. Stalking to the center of the room she scalded Jan's gibbous rear.
"Eeeeee!" The girl's hips jabbed forward as nine scarlet ribbons rilled her backside.
"UUUUUUHHHHHH-!" Ron tried to crawl deeper into Honey Fitz Sullivan and couldn't.
The drama teacher striped the struggling bottom again. "That's only halfway."
Ron's lips drew back over his teeth. He goggled pitifully down at the super-star's impassive Foster-Grants. Jan rocked forward with full-muscled digs.
"Hey," the sister marveled. "That felt nice."
"The dingus at the root of that custom-model gazookas ought to tickle your slit and lips at every forward motion." Dorothy Tilden grazed the lashes along Jan's haunch impatiently. "I prefer natural girl-humping, as you discovered, but some women want a kinder, gentler cork-screwing than a man'll give."
The girl swung her hips back, then fought to drive them forward. "You're not co-operating." She jabbed an elbow against her brother's ribs.
"Get into Cheslyn Warden's head," the college instructor suggested. "Show Fitz some serious acting."
"Yeah," the star reached to languidly caress the taut cords on his neck. "I'dda thought fucking bored you, except I felt that cattleprod of yours grow another inch just now. Musta been the prostate massage, eh?"
She laughed as he resumed his copulations, his timing complicated by Jan's, and both their motions co-ordinated by Dorothy Tilden's acid tongue and whip.
"Have we got this daisy chain on a paying basis?" The woman asked finally. "Good. Room for one more."
She retained the martinet as she clambered onto the pillows, straddling Miss Sullivan's face. Ron twisted his head aside, naked nethercheeks menacing his nose.
"Pussy, pussy, come to mama," the film legend coaxed as Dorothy Tilden's muff got closer to her mouth.
"You brushed up on your rimming once today." The instructor flicked Ron's shoulder with a backlash of the martinet.
He understood fully as she covered Honey Fitz Sullivan's million-dollar face, her legs spread and her buttocks imperiously parted. He tried not to grit his teeth at his sister's full-bored thrusts. Opening his mouth tentatively, he buried his nose in the Lesbian's cleft and licked.