Bethany's Troll

Bethany's Troll

By

XerXes Xu

Chapter 1.

Frenzied Masturbation.

Bethany loved to masturbate.

Her day had been filled with coursing hormones and turbulent emotions that could only be stilled by an intense orgasm.

She had not pleasured herself for five hours and needed a fix. The hurried jill in the comfort room at lunchtime was a snack; it always was when she masturbated alone. Now she needed a three-course meal, and that required an audience.

Raising her skirt up round her waist, she dropped into the occasional chair on her fifth floor balcony. She slid her knickers down her long brown legs, which she parted and rested over the chairs arms. Several high rises overlooked her apartment and she hoped to attract voyeurs. The fresh eddies of the evening breeze tickled her thighs; she pretended to read a book, but looked over it to scan the neighbouring buildings for peering faces.

Putting down the book she pressed fore and index fingers against her chubby shaven pudenda and began to rotate slowly, squashing her labia up then ever so slightly parting them in turn. Next, she took her labia and stretched and twisted them, then pulled her pussy wide open, hoping this provided a satisfying visual effect for her audience.

It was time to invoke him. She had only to close her eyes and reach between her legs; but once her eyes closed, he took control and she braced herself to receive him.

Now he would be in command, he would order, she must obey.

She screwed her eyes tight, arched her back, pressed her fingers to her tumescent clitoris and prepared for the onslaught.

She sensed him loom over her, huge, the impression was of a face creased into ugliness by lust, bulging eyes, throbbing temples, and a body of rippling muscles, convulsed with desire. In his right hand, he nursed, in sharp focus, his huge penis. It was the size of her forearm and he was squeezing and pulling, exposing a taut and glistening bell-end four inches across which dribbled semen.

"MAKE ME COME, MASTURBATE, READY YOURSELF FOR THIS, I'LL STICK IT IN YOU AND SPLIT YOU APART IF YOU DON'T MAKE ME COME."

Her vagina responded with a flush of slippery secretions; her fingers began to glide effortlessly.

"FASTER, FASTER."

She bit her lip and rubbed like a washer women causing her bristling clitoris to radiate visceral sensations.

"OPEN UP, OPEN YOUR CUNT. I WANT TO SEE YOUR CUNT."

She gripped her labia and pulled.

"WIDER, MUCH WIDER."

She inserted fingers and hooked wide.

"PUT TWO FINGERS IN."

She began to plunge in and out with two fingers.

"ANNOY YOU CLITORIS."

With her other forefinger she began to jill frantically.

"MORE FINGERS, MORE."

Bending forward and splaying her left leg, she managed to stuff in four.

"NOT GOOD ENOUGH, I'M GOING TO SPLIT YOU OPEN."

"Please, No ..." she sobs.

The Troll paused over her, ready to plunge in and selfishly slake his lust. His cruel eyes raked her body, and excited by the fear in her eyes, at each of Bethany's sobs his erection pulses with anticipation, and with each pulse a gout of hot seed jets from the tip of his engorged bell end which mushrooms out like a rising umbrella, growing ever larger.

He lurches forward and presses his bell-end against her pussy. Her pussy resists.

He leans and puts his full weight behind his penis, her vagina stretches wide enough to admit a 2L beer can, his bell end squelches in and is instantly seized in a fierce grip and held

"I'M GOING TO FUCK YOU, YOU'RE GOING TO JILL, LET ME SEE YOU JILL."

A hand flew back and forth in and out of her vagina, as a forefinger sped over her tumescent clitoris. He plunged as deep as he could, she felt it barge against her cervix, pushing it back into her abdomen. She let out an involuntary cry of delight as her vagina was expanded to its maximum capacity to accommodate the massive press of gate-crashing flesh.

Increasing the force at each successive thrust, he desperately sought to persuade his testicles to vent their contents explosively into her. She felt his large, leaden balls begin to slap furiously against her arse. After each slap, her guts bounced like jelly until her bowels resonated like an alarm clock bell. Faster and faster he pounded, and more and more tightly her vagina hugged itself in slippery welcome against this runaway jack-hammer, liberally lubricating the silky, intimate surfaces gliding, in mutual caress, over one another.

Bethany grabbed him, both hands around his buttocks, and pulled with all her might, urging him to greater efforts, to pump faster, to penetrate more deeply.

She heard her Troll grunt with effort as he jerked against her, more forcefully with each thrust, seeking to expel his semen with explosive force, willing it to blast through her cervix and flood copiously into her womb. She pictured herself pinned helplessly beneath this powerful, ferocious creature who was mercilessly driving his penis into her, intent only on impregnating her with his profuse load. Then, the primal woman at her core surrendered, throwing open the gates of her cervix, ecstatic, ready to steal his seed, gulps it in and, by consuming it, achieves bliss.

"I'M COMING, I'M COMING OPEN YOUR EYES, WATCH ME EJACULATE."

She opened her eyes as he reached climax - but he was gone.

She saw her legs drawn up akimbo now, her right fist up to her wrist in her vagina, rhythmically thrusting deep, her left forefinger working her clitoris feverishly. She has passed the point of no return; control of her bowels was lost. Anticipating her climax she peeled back her clitoral hood and exposed her urethra from which a jet of silver urine immediately spurted, arced toward the balcony and broke into droplets which sparkled in the setting sun. Once, twice, three times, she watched her fountain shoot in celebration and rain back to earth beyond her convulsed limbs. The fantasy quickly faded, she pulled her hand out of her vagina, and feelings of pleasant release rippled outward from her clitoris, invading and relaxing the whole of her body. The whirlwind of desire which whipped up this orgiastic riot, abated. Her violent motions ceased.

Control and rationality seeped back, and pleasure flooded her being. Now her breathing slowed, and her fingers indulgently circled her vagina.

Bethany reordered herself in the chair, spat on her fingers, and for a few more minutes bathed in the afterglow of a classic orgasm, dreamily massaging her clitoris.

Usually, she planned her moments of solitary pleasure, and fitted them around the rest of her life; they did not intrude, and certainly were not forced on her. Later in the evening, she would masturbate again, a pleasant, but routine recreation, nowhere near as fulfilling or intense as the spontaneous, involuntary drama she had just enjoyed.

She stood, pulled her dress down, waved to anyone who might have enjoyed her display, and went in.

***

He came into being as an act of her imagination: A Troll.

Vainly, she imagined he had chosen her from amongst all the other girls. As he became more demanding, more overbearing and ugly, she feared he might abandon her for a more compliant girl. By this cunning trick he became the master and she his biddable concubine. Under his command, she did delicious things, things only a Troll could imagine, which she would otherwise not dare.

In time, she learned that by indecent displays she could lure him to her. He would then take command and responsibility.

Chapter 2.

Indulgent Self-titillation.

For seven hours Bethany had anticipated that orgasm, and, as each hour passed her imagination had grown more fevered, her need greater. The craving had been a snowball rolling downhill all afternoon, ever increasing in mass. The snowball had started as such a small thing.

"If you girls continue like that, I'll write you up for detention."

She was supervising unruly fresh year girls and had intruded on a silly, girls' club conversation. As a new Undergraduate Teaching Assistant she was still getting to know the students and they were testing her boundaries.

"Hunter said he'd like to tan our backsides," chipped in Shirley, a mouthy blonde with fulsomely swelling breasts, "like when he was at school."

To group laughter, Shirley's mischievous sidekick, Nora, added "AND, he was looking at Charlene's backside."

Charlene was a black girl with a developed figure, and, most noticeably, an impressive backside.

"Watch it. You can't badmouth your lecturers like that; you must show respect," said Bethany, pretending authority. Only three years older than these girls, she herself looked a fresher. Many years would pass before she would develop the gravitas or asperity to cow cocky fresher girls.

"Devon says he's a pervert," said Shirley, "he says Hunter likes to spank buttlicious girls."

"Pay no attention to that deprived and butt-hungry fantasists; Devon is simply projecting his own desires."

"Really! Do you think it's Devon who'd like to spank Charlene?" asked Nora impishly, looking wide-eyed at Charlene.

Bethany drew herself up until her eyes were level with those of Shirley, "PLEASE, that's enough, now will you all settle down."

As the girls subsided, Charlene raised her voice, "Devon's sister says she hears him spanking the monkey and grunting like a gorilla before he goes to bed and when he gets up. Well he ain't putting his sticky hands on my arse," she wiggled her hips to emphasise her prominent asset.

As Bethany moved on a confident, adult voice broke in, "What was that all about? Are you having a problem with the girls?"

It was Mrs Cooper, the biology lecturer. With short lank hair, and dressed in trousers, she was somewhat androgynous in appearance. Had she not been known to be married she could have been mistaken for a lesbian.

"No, they're being disrespectful about Hunter," said Bethany.

"What are they saying now?"

"That he likes to spank the girls; the subtext is, in a perverted way."

"I don't think there's another way," said Mrs Cooper, her face tensing into a slight frown, "Has he touched any of the girls?"

"No, no, nothing like that. They were misbehaving and he told them that in his day, wayward girls would have had their backsides tanned."

"Mmmmmm, he's a bit of a mystery still," Mrs Cooper said in her motherly voice, "Like you, he's new this term. All we know about him is that he's divorced and has been working in Africa for twenty years. He seems to be from another age; the tweed jacket, elbow patches, short back and sides, he looks like my lecturers did. He's very good, but he shares my grandfather's attitudes. And, in Africa there's no distance between the lecturers and students, it's like it was here in the 60s. We don't know what he's been getting up to.

The male lecturers were always having flings with the female students. Then, there's the corporal punishment thing, that's still standard practice in Africa. For all we know, he HAS acquired an unhealthy taste for spanking students, it's an occupational disease for male lecturers. In colonial days, many a missionary was sent home in disgrace after he succumbed. Is he showing an interest in Charlene? What was she saying about putting hands on her arse?"

"That was Devon, not Hunter," Bethany told her.

"Well good luck to Devon, he's aspirational, but not particularly realistic," said Mrs Cooper, "Charlene's much more likely to succumb to Hunter's art-deco attraction."

From that moment, Bethany's impression of Jack Hunter changed. No longer did he seem a fusty and curious refugee from a gentler age, a stereotype unworthy of attention. Garbed in this air of mystery, and tainted by suspicions of exotic sexuality, arising in truth more from her own desire for titillation than anything proved against him, she began to regard him through the immature eyes of the freshers she had rebuked. Solid bricks were built from insubstantial straw. In a world of soft cords and moleskin jackets, where lecturers sat casually amongst the students on their level to impart learning, Hunter's Harris Tweed jacket, cavalry twills, polished brogues, and ramrod straight back as he towered above his students at the front of the class set him apart.

Through the remainder of the day Bethany clothed these physical certainties with imaginative flesh. The frisson she first felt when Mrs Cooper speculated that his duties in Africa may have infected him with an unwholesome interest in his charges, delighted her, and in the tedious interludes inevitable in her work, she cultivated it.

She imagined him divorced, living alone in a bachelor apartment, but each day having to teach classes of nubile young students who posed and postured provocatively in response to their surging hormones, unconscious of their invitation to any interested male. These girls, who would excite him, would inevitably misbehave.

She considered also that because of the aids holocaust, Africa would not be a place where a sensible man would resort to prostitutes, or casual partners.

The only physical intercourse he could have had with womankind would be when he administered a just punishment in the course of his duties. She thought what temptation it must have been for him to lay these lovely miscreants across his lap, the torment of feeling their warm soft bodies pulse against his crotch, seeing their taut, bulging buttocks displayed before him yet able to touch them only briefly as his hand struck home in chastisement. Bethany could readily imagine that a man in his desperately deprived situation, no matter how pure his motive, would find himself aroused to involuntary ejaculation.

How long would it be before such a poor creature would seek out misconduct, telling himself that if peace of mind resulted from justly administered censure, no harm resulted. That he received a collateral benefit in no way diminished the benefit resulting to his students?

She understood that. Indeed, she could feel sympathy for him, even pity.

After all, he was upright and responsible, a good man who deserved the enjoyment of a woman, an enjoyment from which he was cruelly cut off for so long. She felt a tender understanding of his predicament and was, in a way, relieved that he had been able to achieve some comfort during his long years of deprivation.

During the day, in passing, she saw Hunter several times, and now observed him with a keen eye.

At lunchtime, he was in the cafeteria. Her attention was drawn to him, and she kept him under furtive surveillance. As he chatted with his colleagues, he sat straight in his chair. He spoke freely, and from time to time his stern face would break into a winning smile. When he finished lunch, his plate was clear, save for his cutlery, which was set at right angles to the table's edge. Five minutes before the bell rang for afternoon classes, he checked his watch, rose, tugged on the lapels of his jacket to ensure it hung correctly, and strode with purpose towards his classroom. His reluctant companions rifled in the paper garbage in front of them for the final biscuit, then slouched off, two minutes after the bell rang, to arrive last, in a classroom in chaos.

As an Undergraduate Teaching Assistant, Bethany quickly learned that it was a mistake to arrive promptly in class. Most lecturers would seek to foreshorten their ordeal by arriving five minutes late, and a prompt teaching assistant would find herself, shorn of authority, but responsible for the behaviour of an unruly students.

Not so with Hunter's classes. She had heard that before the first student arrived, he was there. As they trooped in, he greeted and seated them and set them some useful task to keep them productively occupied. Unless he gave permission, he permitted no voice other than his to be heard. When he gave instructions, no discussion was permitted; he expected them to be promptly carried out. She remembered, at the beginning of the semester, his voice could be heard at the other end of the college as he reprimanded those who were slow to adapt to his rules. However, over the first two weeks, such occasions had grown fewer, and now he was rarely audible outside his classroom.

Chapter 3.

Febrile Imagination.

After lunch, through a long period of tests, when her function was to invigilate, Bethany occupied her mind once more with teasing speculation about Hunter's history. Respectable though he was, she wondered how corrosive the sexualised punishments she fancied he was forced to administer, would have been to his moral fibre. Through all those years, could he really have resisted the temptation to seek relief in purely recreational contact? Surely, like a lawfully prescribed painkiller, such just chastisement would become addictive, and the desire become for - more often - and more powerful. This would lead him to stray onto the dark side to meet his needs.

She remembered that in Africa there were so many pretty girls, just as naughty as any you find here, but poor and amenable to any offer of "une petite cadeau", especially if no work was involved. In all those years, could he really have resisted the temptation to place the prettiest girl, the one who excited him most, in detention, and offer her the possibility of, not just early release, but also some pocket money to buy a new dress? Bethany asked herself what she would do in that girl's situation. She knew what Charlene would do, but would she do it herself? Charlene was one of those girls who misbehaved so often that you knew she deserved chastisement for something, even though you knew not precisely what. Indulging her fantasy, Bethany imagines Charlene, in Africa, in poverty, in detention, in Hunter's lecture room.

She pictures that greedy, lustful expression on the face of her Troll, superimposed on Hunter, and imagines the disturbance in his cavalry twills as he admires this lovely student sat in detention before him. The wretched girl is coquettish, and he knows she has been up to something. They are alone in the room, neither wishing to be there but knowing that they cannot leave until Charlene has atoned. Hunter sees a way that this can be achieved and they can both be on their way.

"Charlene," he says sharply, "your behaviour seems to be getting worse, what have you been getting up to."

"Nothing," she says.

"I know you haven't been getting up to nothing, you've been getting up to something, but I don't yet know what it is, I'm disappointed in you, I expected better."

Charlene hangs her head, and stares guiltily at the floor.

"This isn't detention only for you, you know, it's detention for me also. Do you think I enjoy wasting my evening sitting here supervising you?"

"No." says Charlene, faintly.

"I think it would be better if I simply spanked your bottom now. Get this over with, and then we could both go home, what do you think?"

"I don't like being spanked. It hurts," says Charlene.

"In the circumstances I don't suppose I have to spank you hard, after all ...I don't really know all you've been doing, so I can give you the benefit of the doubt. I can be lenient; I won't be like your father."

"I don't know," she replies, still looking at the floor.

"Look at me Charlene," Hunter instructs.

She glances up at him, starts, and asks anxiously, "Why do you look like that? Your face frightens me."

"I'm sorry if I appear frightening, I just feel a little unwell and really do want to go home as soon as possible, but you're keeping us both here."

"Sorry."

"Look, would it make any difference if I promised to smack you gently, and gave you one of these," he holds up a bank note.