No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 05byTheScribe©
"What?" Anne asked, stunned by the abrupt course reversal of Rufus' passion.
"You heard me," he snorted disdainfully. "Sit down."
Bemused and frustrated, she settled into a nearby chair. He was shuffling the photos, evidently selecting certain ones with particular care and placing them on the top of the stack. She became uncomfortably aware of her nudity and of her very obvious arousal. She thought to cover herself, but he interrupted by handing her the stack of photos.
"Look at these," he said as he handed them to her. His erection pointed at her as he leaned forward.
She glanced down at the photo on the top. It was a picture of her, nude, of course, lying on the kitchen table on her back with her legs spread apart. Cletus was standing between her legs holding a long slender object with a large, orange bulb on the end. Six boys, dressed only in their underpants, were standing in a half circle around the table watching with clear interest.
"What is that?"
"That thing in his hand?"
"A turkey baster."
"What did he do with that?"
"He put it up me."
"Why'd he do that?"
"To show them how, I guess."
"What's going on there?"
"Sex education class," she answered softly. "Cletus and Nadeen had it two or three times a week. They taught the boys things they wanted them to know; how to do things for the cameras."
"I see," he replied darkly, and she could see that his interest in the matter was keen.
"And the next one? What's that?"
She slipped the previous photo to the bottom of the stack and looked at the next one. It was the same room and table with the same boys standing around it. In this one, she was kneeling on the table with her buttocks in the air. She was leaning on her elbows and her face, with a sultry smile, was turned toward the camera. Cletus was standing behind her and Nadeen was next to him. They each had a hand on her buttocks and were pulling them apart, exposing her bottom to the camera. Nadeen was holding a jar of Vaseline petroleum jelly in her free hand, up high and obvious, so the camera could get a good shot of the label. Cletus was holding his hand, palm up, with the first two fingers extended and a big blob of that jelly was sitting on the tips of his fingers. He was pointing his fingers right at her anus, which was about an inch away. The boys were standing on tiptoe and looking over her haunches at Cletus' fingers, and their eyes were round with eager delight. She could tell that a couple of them were pretty excited, because their underpants were sticking out in front of them.
"More sex class," she replied matter of factly. She was too far into the game to be reluctant now.
"What's the subject of the class, this time?" he asked.
She shot a glance toward him over the photo. His voice had cracked. He was holding himself, his fingers were closed in a tight ring around himself, and he grimaced like he was struggling for self-control.
"Lubrication?" she answered imprecisely.
"Go on," he said, but it sounded like he was choking on the words.
"Cletus was showing the boys how to use the Vaseline to get me ready."
His voice was a whisper, which she could barely hear over the rush of her own blood. She looked over at him in mild concern; he sounded weak. He was masturbating. His eyes were closed, and his hand was moving openly. God, she thought, has the man any shame? But his arousal and hers conspired against her, and she continued.
"He was showing them how to get me ready for butt-fucking, Rufus. He put his fingers in my ass and got me all slippery with that Vaseline. Then he showed them how to fingerfuck my ass and stretch it so it wouldn't hurt when they put their pricks up my ass."
Her words slammed into him like blows from a sledgehammer, and she suppressed the urge to giggle. His hand moved feverishly, and his arm banged noisily against the armrest of his chair.
"What, uh, else," he gasped between strokes. His eyes were closed; he was visualizing the photo, trying to make it come to life in his mind, to join the class and participate in the learning experience.
"After he had me ready, you know, Rufus, all stretched and open for him, he asked me if I was ready for him and if I wanted him to do it to me."
"Well, I told him ‘Yes,’ Rufus. I said ‘Shove your big, hard cock up my ass.’ And so, he pulled his dick out of his pants and shoved it into me so deep I thought I would split."
"Ughhhhhhhh." Rufus was nearly incoherent. His hand jerked spasmodically, and she could tell he was close.
"I reached back and squeezed his balls while he was ramming his cock up my asshole and I begged him to shoot his cum in my ass. And, you know what, Rufus?"
His feet jerked spastically at the sound of his name. His knuckles were turning white, and he strained to climax. Her naughty voice chimed in encouragingly, “You are amazing girl. Got him going, hotter that a half-fucked fox in a forest fire, and he's already cummed a quart not fifteen minutes ago. He's going to shoot again any second, but I guess it's a little harder this time, what with you taking the edge off him earlier.”
She sensed the challenge of her naughty voice and continued, "He shot his hot cum up my ass and filled me so full it ran out when he pulled out, and Nadeen had to get the mop and make him clean it up before class could continue. And then, Rufus, you know what happened then?"
She watched him with nearly detached interest. Her desire had cooled from lack of attention, and she focused on Rufus instead. This was becoming fun she thought as she continued without waiting for the response he was obviously incapable of giving.
"Why those boys lined up behind me and took turns, that's what. Every one of them. Let's see, there were, one, two, three, four, five, and, hum, oh yes, there's Larry, too, I thought I remembered him being there that time. I'll check if you want me to, Rufus; they're all in my journal, you know, names, hometowns, dates, what we did, everything you would ever want to know, Rufus. Larry makes six. Every one of them fucked me in the ass that afternoon, cumming like crazy and filling me so full you could hear it sloshing when I walked for days afterward. They would cum and holler like they were dying, and it felt so good to feel them squirting up my ass like that, I nearly fainted each time they did it, and I came too, Rufus, I came like crazy. I came so many times that afternoon, Rufus, I nearly passed out, but I didn't, and Nadeen said afterwards that she hadn't ever seen anything the equal of it, and I knew she had seen just about everything there was to see in the world, so I knew it must have been something. And, you know what else, Rufus? For graduation that afternoon, Nadeen gave every one of those boys his own jar of Vaseline to use any time he wanted, and we sure had a time after that, I'll tell you."
She had become caught up in the story herself, remembering events like they were yesterday and nearly missed Rufus' ejaculation.
"Get over here," he grunted, and she looked toward him. He was half standing, leaning with one hand on his desk for support, and he was gripping himself tightly with the other hand. His face was deep red and droplets of perspiration had run from his forehead to his cheeks and were dripping onto his starched shirt. His eyes were wild and wide but lacked focus, and his tongue protruded from between his teeth like he was in the throes of a seizure.
"Now," he snapped, when she didn't move immediately.
She scrambled out of the chair, dropping the photos to the floor in the process, and stepped uncertainly toward the Headmaster. She cocked her head to the side and smiled bemusedly, as if to ask "What now?" because he seemed to be doing pretty well all by himself, and she was uncertain as to the role he wished her to play.
His labored breathing was audible to her as she approached him. He nodded toward a spot on the floor, indicating where he wanted her to be, and she obeyed. She was close, almost touching him, and he could feel her heat. Her taut nipples were inches from his chest; her face barely the length of an eyelash away from his. She felt the hot exhaust of his excitement as his breath washed over her. He held himself, pointing toward her damp triangle. His hand was stilled; his fingers were locked around his flesh like a vise, constricting to obstruct the onrushing fulfillment of his passion.
"Kneel," he whispered conspiratorially, as though fearful the sound of his own voice might overpower him.
She dropped to her knees and reached for him, seeking to take him in her hand, and smiled understandingly, "You want me to suck you again, is that it, Rufus?"
"Don't, don't touch me," he hissed.
She glanced upward, toward his face and blanched. Hatred and malice raged in his eyes, replacing the glassy look of his mounting desire. She blinked uncomprehendingly and gulped.
"Open your mouth, slut." He spat the words at her upturned face, and his voice was hard and cruel.
His words struck her like fists and staggered her. She reached for the corner of his desk to steady herself and struggled to obey. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth, parting her lips slightly, and she eyed the swollen tip of his member hovering inches from her face. She anticipated the touch of that tip and licked her lips to ready herself.
"Open wide, and look up at me; I want to see your face."
Compliantly, she tilted her face upward, opening her mouth widely to receive him. Her wetted, oval lips shimmered invitingly in the light from his desk. She was kneeling in front of him, a supplicant before the altar of his depraved lust awaiting her anointment. His eyes blazed with the righteous fervor of his demented desire, and his hand jerked on his body.
She caught the flicker of movement and instantly knew his intent. Ohmygod, she gagged, nearly retching in disgust, I am a urinal to him, nothing more than a place to deposit his relief.
His hand moved again, drawing her eyes to his organ. It was dark and thick with his urgency and the tip rose and fell in front of her with the motion of his hand. She shuddered, unable to prevent the inevitable, and waited passively for him to finish.
"Look at me," he snapped, and her eyes leapt toward his face again.
"Yes," he grunted, "yes." The tip of his member brushed her cheek accidentally as his hand traversed its length in spastic jerks.
"Ughhhh," she heard him groan, and he arched his back and thrust himself toward her. He masturbated himself in her face, and she caught the flash of gold on his finger as his hand flew under her nose. Her jaws ached with the effort of holding herself open for him to finish. The unyielding cold stone of the floor sent waves of stabbing pain through her knees, and she waited miserably for him to satisfy himself.
"Ughhhhhh," he screamed at last, and bent nearly double. She felt the wet spray of his passion on her cheeks and lips and shut her eyes in shame. His aim was erratic and his sticky discharge spewed randomly onto her delicate features, some in her mouth and some on her face and hair. She held her mouth open and felt his hot drops splattering on her tongue and fought the urge to spit his seed in his face. Drops of his semen showered her eyelids, nose and lips. They coalesced and dripped onto her breasts and thighs, and she clenched her fists and resisted the image of a dog lifting his leg to a fire hydrant.
The shower passed, of course, but sunshine did not follow. "Get up," he grunted, when his lust had run its course. She staggered to her feet and tried to blink, but her eyelids were glued together and refused to open. He thrust his handkerchief into her hand, and said, gruffly, "There, cumslut, clean yourself up with this."
She turned away in humiliation, and sobs racked her body as she dabbed angrily at the viscid substance covering her face. His venomously triumphant words followed her and slashed at her back.
"You didn't really think you could get away with it, did you, my dear?"
Her shoulders shook; she didn't respond.
He continued. "Did you actually think you could prance around here in those tight, low cut blouses and short skirts, flaunting yourself like some hooker on the street, and not attract attention?"
She mopped her face and her shoulders sagged. She shook her head, aghast at his words, but couldn't muster the strength to respond. Her mind recoiled from the image his words invoked. She had tried her best not to be provocative, to always be professional. She hadn't known what to wear or how to dress. She had never had many clothes, and at the orphanage, the less she wore, the better they liked it. Nobody had ever taken her shopping for clothes, but she had done the best she could. The sales clerks hadn't helped much either; they would tell her that with the body she had, she'd be crazy to cover it up, and they would bring her the skimpiest, most revealing clothes on the rack. She had sent those back and tried to stick with more conservative things, even to the point of being matronly at times, she thought. The chemistry teacher, Mr. Bilbrey, must have agreed, because he had chided her for being too proper and started calling her the "school marm."
"And, in the lunchroom, you slut, all those times you sat there alone at the table pretending to be preoccupied, writing in that book of yours, with your skirt hiked up nearly to your waist, crossing and uncrossing your bare legs and flashing everybody. You knew every eye in the room was looking at you, trying to look up your skirt and you loved it, didn't you. Sometimes, you didn't even wear panties and gave everybody a real good look, didn't you."
Nooooo, she cried silently. It had been hot and her classroom wasn't air-conditioned. She hadn't meant anything by it; it was just too uncomfortable to wear hose and pumps and long, heavy skirts. She turned to confront him, to explain how some skirts accentuated her panty lines and made her look fat, but he continued ranting at her without giving her a chance.
"Oh yeah, and all those times you would sit there with your legs crossed and swing your foot, while your sandal dangled from your toes. You knew how sexy it was to dangle your shoe like that, and you were doing it deliberately, weren't you?"
She shook her head in denial. Nooooo, she thought, it hadn't been like that at all, not really. Of course, she knew it was sexy sometimes, that it turned guys on to do it, but she hadn't done it like that in the lunchroom. It had just been a reflex, something subconscious; it wasn't aimed at anybody at all. He was wrong about that, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he slammed the door to her rebuttal and continued.
"And what about that cheerleading stunt at the last football game. Jesus H. Christ, you and those players' mothers all dolled up in cheerleader outfits and jumping around shaking your tits and asses at everybody. That was your idea, wasn't it, and you weren't even wearing a bra, so your tits and nipples stuck out plain as day. Imogene wanted me to fire you on the spot, and I would have, too, if the mayor's wife hadn't been right beside you in the front row, and she was nearer to being naked than you were."
"Mr. Justice," she wailed, "you put me in charge of the Pep Squad. You said we were losing cause nobody cheered, and we needed to put a little life into the crowd."
"I sure as hell didn't mean for you to organize a cheerleading squad with a bunch of football moms and do a striptease at halftime."
"But, but, this is a boy's school; there aren't any girls here to be cheerleaders, and, besides, it was Mrs. Farber's idea, not mine."
"Mrs. Farber? The mayor's wife!" He was incredulous.
"Yes sir, it was Mrs. Farber. She thought it would be great fun to surprise everybody in the stands and said it would bring a little school spirit back to the crowd. She's the one who had the cheerleader outfits made up, but it was such short notice they could only make them in one size, and they sort of used an average. Not all of them fit too well, I guess."
"That was Imogene's observation as well, but it fails to explain the lewd dancing, or why you weren't wearing a bra."
"It wasn't lewd dancing, Mr. Justice. Those were cheerleading routines Nancy, I mean, Mrs. Farber, taught us. She's the only one who was a real cheerleader, so she taught the rest of us what to do. And, as for the bras, I can explain that. Somebody found out about the surprise and snuck into the ladies dressing room during the first quarter and stole all our underwear, bras, panties, the works. When we discovered they were gone just before half time, it was too late to do anything about it. Nancy, I mean, Mrs. Farber, said we had to be troopers, that the show must go on, and told us not to worry about it. She told us to look on the bright side, that since we weren't going to be wearing underwear, the fans probably wouldn't notice how bad we were at cheerleading."
"I expect she was largely correct in that assessment." Mr. Justice's tone was more conciliatory. Perhaps, he acknowledged to himself, his desire had colored his perception of her behavior. Certainly, he had no idea that the mayor's wife was behind "the spectacle on the gridiron" as Imogene insisted upon describing the ladies’ half-time performance. Maybe, when she learns that "the spectacle" was all Nancy Farber's doing, she'll shut up about it. Imogene had been angling for an invitation to play bridge with Mrs. Farber's Wednesday afternoon bridge club since she first set foot in town. She said that would be her entrée into the upper crust of local society, so she wouldn't dare to imperil that advancement of her social standing by letting her opinion of "the spectacle on the gridiron" become public knowledge.
Anne's ire subsided immediately upon his change in tone. The accusation was not entirely misdirected, for she did enjoy the admiration of men, and boys, she added. It was her reward for all those hours spent sweating in the gym, all the lonely miles on the track. It pleased her secretly, what Rufus had said about the lunchroom, to think of all those eyes turned on her, watching her as she ignored them and caressed her memories on to the blank pages of her journal, and to imagine those watching boys thinking wistfully of holding her, caressing her. She could imagine the sensual effects of the display of her shapely curves and the arousal she had caused. She could remember feeling their eyes following her, looking at her legs and the expanse of smooth, tanned thigh she exposed to them. She blushed, slightly, remembering how she had turned in her chair to rise and allowed her knees to part revealing her nakedness to a group of boys at a nearby table, who had been so taken with watching her that their faces were nearly lying in their food trays.
"Oh my," he muttered glancing up at the clock above the door, "it's getting late, my dear, and I must be getting home. Imogene will be waiting with supper, and I mustn't keep her waiting or she'll be cross."
She dropped his soggy handkerchief to the floor and bent to retrieve her panties. Her brain was spinning. Shame, humiliation, remorse, anger roiled like boiling water in her mind, and above all that simmered there rose a thick column of rising frustration. He had used her, abused her, threatened her and accused her, and all her struggles to resist him had done nothing but thrust her deeper and deeper into the cesspool of her own depravity. Like quicksand, her degenerate desires were sucking her under, pulling her remorselessly into the fathomless depths of her desire.
"Not so fast, young lady, you haven't finished looking at those." Mr. Justice was pointing to the stack of photos on the floor. "You just look through them and tell me if I missed any of the really good ones," he chuckled.