Campus Payback

While I mused, Suzy had a few more private words for Faith—presumably telling her that she needed to give Stanley his money's worth. Faith stared silently back at her for a minute, paled, and visibly gulped. Then her wide, glassy eyes darted back to the crowd. At last, shoulders still slightly hunched but remembering to slap a fake smile back on her face, she shifted her stance so that her feet were far apart. Reaching down, she slowly pulled apart her naked pink lips, causing her clit and inner folds to pop out provocatively. Not daring to meet the gaze of the onlookers, she directed her attention toward some point in the air, well above their heads. (Really, she needn't have worried—nobody was looking at her eyes.) Stanley had the best view of all, as befit his winning bid: slightly upward into her gaping pussy, close enough to touch.

Suzy poked her in the ribs and whispered something in her ear. Faith's face went from pale to bright pink. Moving stiffly, she turned around, bent over, reached back, and opened her ass cheeks (which were also a rosy pink), exposing her asshole and the entrance to her cunt. She teased herself a little, perfunctorily, with one hand: stroking her clit, and flicking the tip of her finger up inside herself a few times—presumably also at Suzy's directive. Despite Faith's evident lack of enthusiasm, the audience ate it up. I glanced at the man next to me and saw his glazed, unblinking eyes boring into the space between her legs, his chest heaving, and a bit of drool escaping, unnoticed, from the corner of his mouth. Men! I told myself.

Having done her duty, Faith straightened and turned back to face the crowd again, legs pressed together once more. Her face was blank; as far as I could tell, she had settled into a numb obedience at this point, resigned to do whatever Suzy told her. She looked so pitiful standing there naked—jaw set, skinny frame rigid, skin a blushing ivory, tits dangling, tidy strip of ginger at her crotch—that I was almost tempted to cut her a break. But then I recalled how I must have looked, on that night so many years ago, when she had thrust me, half undressed and stoned, into a bar full of horny guys. No, there was no room for pity in my heart anymore.

In his low-key way, Stanley seemed happy with his prize. He pivoted, lowered his head slightly, and raised one fist—sort of like a black-power salute, except he was white, and clutching a pair of peach-colored panties. He acknowledged the raucous cheers of the crowd for a moment, and then ranged comfortably back to his place among them.

"People, are you ready for one last auction item?" The audience thundered its approval, shaking the entire building to the rafters. "As you can see, Faith is out of clothes..." Faith looked at Suzy blankly. "So—she is offering... herself! That's right, guys and gals, you'll be bidding for the chance to tap this primo little pussy here. Give the people another look, Faith!"

The corners of Faith's mouth were curving down, her lip trembling, and I thought for a second she was going to burst out in tears. But she knew the drill by now. Taking a big breath, her tits rising fetchingly, she reached down to open up her pussy once more. "Who wouldn't want to stick in there, huh?" Suzy crowed. "Heck, I want to stick something in there and I'm not even bi!" The crowd agreed in full-throated fashion.

"Of course," Suzy added in a more solemn tone, once the tumult had subsided slightly, "this is a full-consent zone, so Faith reserves the right to cancel the auction at any time, if she is not attracted to the winner, or does not find their conduct arousing." Faith's head jerked up at this apparent escape clause, and she glanced toward me, eyes slightly wild but glistening with hope. I shook my head decisively in reply. That was a firm negative—there would be no backing out. "However, I know I can count on you all to behave!" Suzy chirped. "Now: let's start the bidding at $10,000!"

* * * * *

CHAPTER 5

* * * * *

"Ten grand!," a voice blurted out. I stood on tiptoe to look around the fellow in front of me and was surprised to see that the bidder was a professor, James Miller. Well, he had the dough—after Brennan he was one of the most prolific grant-writers on campus. And, he was attractive, too. To be honest, I wouldn't have minded hooking up with him myself, if I wasn't married. More to the point, however, he was married, and his wife Taylor was standing right next to him. She turned a fiery pink, glared up at him, and swatted him on the head with her auction program. He ducked, turned to her, and broke into a broad grin: "Just kidding! Bid retracted!"

Miller's attempt at humor, if that is what it was, fell flat. The rowdiness in the hall ebbed somewhat, as the crowd's eager energy took on an overtone of tension and uncertainty. The fact was, most of the people there were married, ostensibly monogamous, and most of their spouses were at their sides. Very few present were in a position to strive for such a prize, at least in such a public setting. And even supposing they could... should they? There were some low murmurs, nervous giggles, but no one else brave enough to bid. Finally Stanley Jamison cut through the unease, with his smooth, even intonation. "Sure, I'd fuck her. Ten thousand dollars. No joke."

Matters stood there for long seconds, the hall silent save for a low rumble of anxious fidgeting and hesitant coughs. I feared Faith's newly-primped little pussy was going to go for the minimum bid. I saw a few of the sports-boosters nudging Novitski. His big bald head glowed a bright red now, his temples pulsed visibly, and he scowled and shook his head at them: 'no.'

"Come on boys and girls, don't be shy!" Suzy rang out, " you're going to make pretty little Faith here self-conscious! Who'll bid $11,000?" Faith's eyes stared out into the crowd, unblinking. As the seconds ticked by, her mouth stiffened, revealing that she truly was anxious for someone else to bid. I'm sure she would have preferred it if the entire crowd had boycotted this sordid affair. But now, to be left dangling with only one bid, for the minimum amount—well, that just made her look pathetic. Added insult to injury. "Going once... going twice... Oh come on, doesn't anyone else have the balls to bid?!" Suzy's voice dripped with disgust.

Faith's torso slumped forward slightly, eyes downcast. Novitski's pals poked him in the side and jabbered in his ear. There was a sickly stillness, as Suzy glared at the crowd, unwilling to call the auction. At last, head bowed slightly, shoulders set sheepishly. Beau raised one hand with a reluctant motion. "$11,000," he muttered.

"$12,000," Stanley shot back smoothly, clearly telegraphing the fact that, for him, a sum this size was like a penny left unclaimed on the street—not even worth a moment's thought. He turned his sunglass-veiled gaze toward Beau, head tilted back slightly, evidently taking in the competition and curious whether his would-be rival would rise to the bait.

Beau's jaw worked and his head began turning more of a beet shade. If there was one thing the man did understand, it was testosterone-laced masculine competition. The vibe he was getting back from Stanley Jamison at this moment was one of dismissiveness and disdain, and he clearly didn't appreciate it. "$13,000," he retorted, his lip curling like an angry dog's.

"Oh ho," Stanley parried easily, "the big man on campus bids again. Ok, $20,000. What do you think, Mr. Car Salesman, too rich for you?" He was clearly having fun baiting Novitski and manipulating his emotions. Beau was all too willing to play the game, and the two-man bidding war began to escalate.

Each rising offer was quickly matched—Stanley bidding with the easy assurance of the ultra-wealthy, and Beau with the focused aggression he'd used to sack many a quarterback. As the two men tested each other's mettle, and the sums involved grew ever higher, the crowd's mood of manic excitement began to revive again too. The sparring back and forth, the raw emotions, the spiraling dollar amounts—it was thrilling to watch, and the stakes were so high. Who would win? Who would back down? How much would they be willing to pay for Faith's cunt? Could it possibly be worth it?

Stanley had far more money, and could certainly have won out if he chose to. But he was also less emotional, and more analytical. Beau, on the other hand, had plainly gotten his ego invested in winning this pissing match. When Beau's bid hit $47,000, Stanley finally paused, with a contemplative expression on his face. Maybe he was already getting bored of the game; or maybe he actually took pity on the ex-linebacker, who wore his emotions on his sleeve, and would apparently continue bidding all night to prove his manliness—whether he had the money or not. "I'm willing to go to 48," the computer magnate said slowly.

"49!," Beau declared pugnaciously.

Stanley flashed him a thin smile. "You know, your average thousand-dollar-an-hour escort is a lot younger and a lot prettier than our precious dean here." He turned to the stage in mock concern, "not that you're not a very lovely person, Faith." (She grimaced.) Then, addressing Beau again: "No, I've hit my limit. She's all yours."

"There it is folks," Suzy called, "our grand prize—hot, no-strings access to Faith Castor's pussy—is... going... going... and, gone! Sold to Mr. Beau Novitski. Hop right on up here, sir, and claim your prize!" As the crowd roared its approval, the spotlight crew picked out Beau. The people around him were slapping him on the back and shouting in his ear; but as Suzy's words sunk in, the jubilant expression on the booster's own face faded.

Beau had wanted to beat Jamison, that was clear enough. He may have started bidding in order to look tough in front of his friends, or perhaps to save Dean Faith the embarrassment of a minimum bid; but very quickly it had become all about proving his masculinity in front of a male rival. Whatever his motives, he obviously hadn't really thought things through to the conclusion—to what would happen after he won. Now, much as it had earlier with regard to Faith's dress, the question of when and how the prize was to be claimed loomed large.

For a moment Beau just stood there, looking confused, blinking in the glare. Then the audience began pressing him forward, and he stumbled haltingly toward the stage again, his previous bravado completely gone.

As he slowly made his way to the front, Suzy returned to the mic, speaking in a lower, more sober tone. "First a public-service announcement. As we've said throughout the evening, consent is important. And that goes for all of you too. So if you don't wish to view Mr. Novtiski collect his winnings, then I would once again offer our heartfelt thanks for your support of the gender-studies center, and encourage you to leave at this time."

I looked around and saw a handful of people rush hastily for the exits, mostly aging matrons dragging crestfallen spouses in tow. They were the exceptions, however. For the most part the crowd was bursting with an anxious, almost frenzied, excitement. Around me, people's eyes were a little too wide, their voices a little too loud, their expressions a little too animated. They were visibly salivating. The emotions in the room were palpable: a visceral need to see this to its conclusion; to share together a forbidden, impossible sexual tableau; to bear collective witness to something powerful and unspeakable.

I had always intended for Faith to get fucked here; but by this point, it was clear that there was really no other way this evening could end. This crowd would never have left without having their expectations sated. Up on stage, the dean cringed slightly at the waves of hungry energy radiating from the audience, and it rendered her nakedness all the more conspicuous and pitiable.

I wondered, idly, whether there had been a similar mood in the air, all those years ago, when Faith left me in that hotel bar in New Orleans, with my tits hanging out and Brennan's cum running down my legs. What that pack of horny males had done was terrible, unforgiveable; and yet maybe—in that moment, under those circumstances—it simply hadn't been possible for them to do anything else. Mob psychology can be a powerful force.

Finally, Beau clambered up onto the stage. I almost felt sorry for the man, he looked so uncomfortable. He shuffled awkwardly and tugged at his collar; beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "OK, Mr. Novtiski," Suzy said brightly, into the mic, "take her."

Beau choked momentarily, and then found his voice, his country accent even more pronounced under the stress of the situation. "Now hoooolld on a just a minute. 'Zactly what is it you're sayin' here?! You want me to breed this filly right up on stage? That's what she wants? In front of everyone? Jeez, that's a little..."

"Of course!," Suzy shot back cheerfully. "That's the whole point Faith wants to make: sex isn't something shameful we need to hide away. It's something we should celebrate openly and revel in. Isn't that right, Faith?" After a moment's hesitation, the naked dean responded to the prompt with a small, dejected nod.

"Yeah, but... I mean, don't I need a rubber? Or... doesn't she...?"

"Mr. Notvitski, thank you for raising this important topic. Did you know that alarmism over STDs is a creation of the patriarchy, designed to help control sexuality and reproduction?" Suzy always had some cutting-edge theory at her disposal, however dubious. "No, Dean Faith is too enlightened for all that crap. She's in control of her own fertility. And she is clean, of course... uh, aren't you dean?" Faith glared at her and nodded. "I'm sure you are too, Mr. Novitski. So why put barriers between you?"

"Hey Novitski," Stanley needled from the audience, deadpan, "if you're having trouble getting it up, I'd be happy to 'fill the void!'" The techie was clearly still having fun with the simple jock. Reddening again, Beau threw an irritated glare over his shoulder in the man's direction.

"Now Mr. Jamison, be nice. I think Mr. Novitski just needs some encouragement." Suzy turned back to working the crowd. "In fact, let's all give him some support! Ok, left side," gesturing to one side of the house, "Fuck... and right side," gesturing the other way, "Her. Got it? Fuck... Her... Fuck... Her..."

The crowd quickly caught on, and they loved it: "FUCK HER... FUCK HER... FUCK HER... FUCK HER..." On and on, wave after wave of sound, feet stamping, hands clapping, every chest burning with desire to watch, every eye gleaming. The roar was deafening—I experienced it more as vibration, physical pressure on my body, than as noise. Faith looked down, ducking her head and hunching her shoulders like someone caught in a hailstorm without umbrella or raincoat. Or clothes.

Beau's reaction was just the opposite. He had faced larger crowds before, to be sure, but I imagine he'd never seen one this frenzied—not even when his college team won the Punch Bowl before a home crowd, or during his single trip to the Super Bowl. However, like the pro he was, he rose to the occasion (figuratively and literally). It was hardly surprising, I suppose: Beau had spent most of his life in the public eye, with his body and movements and actions constantly scrutinized and dissected in minute detail. This was a mode of interaction that he understood and was comfortable with. So, rather than being unnerved by the roar, he seemed to feed on its energy, gaining confidence with each passing moment.

Before our eyes, Beau's already intimidating body appeared to loom still larger. The apprehension that had been sketched on his face only a minute before was wiped away. Now he had put on his game face—eyes sparkling, jaw jutting forward with determination—and was playing to the audience's expectations. With an evocative flourish, he reached up to the placket of his white and blue western-plaid shirt and began, slowly and theatrically, to undo the mother-of-pearl buttons, one by one. The crowd cheered wildly.

The man's body wasn't quite in playing trim anymore—maybe a little thicker around the neck and midsection—but he clearly still took care of himself, and certainly hadn't run to fat. His delts, triceps and pecs bulged appealingly as he stripped off the shirt—in fact, I'll be honest: at that moment I had a powerful urge to run my fingers across his chest myself. He twirled the garment over his head a couple of times, and I thought he was going to toss it into the crowd; but he thought better of it, and instead pivoted and handed it to Suzy with a genteel flourish.

He unbuckled his belt, and Faith flinched as he whipped it from around his waist with a snap. She needn't have worried, though—he handed that graciously over to Suzy too, before kicking off his loafers. Finally, without ceremony he unbuttoned his jeans, and jerked them down and off, briefs and all.

It was plain to see that Beau was well on his way to rock-hard. I think it was actually the crazed exuberance of the crowd that had aroused him, moreso than the attractive, available, naked woman standing beside him on stage. I bet he had a hard-on every time he took the field in the fourth quarter. At his unveiling, the decibel level reached a new intensity, punctuated by a chorus of whoops and screams from those women who had stuck around. Even Jamison broke into an appreciative smirk, and brought his hands together for a few slow, expressive claps. Beau responded to the adulation with a toothy grin and another jaunty upward rachet of his cock.

The cheers were well-deserved: he was a big guy, and it turned out he had a penis to match. True, it wasn't cock-fetish-sized (let alone the size of the Grape Gorilla that Faith had done battle with in my office), but as he expanded he must have reached at least eight inches. His member was pleasingly well-formed, too—wide in proportion to its length, circumcised, smooth, and evenly colored in bright, fleshy pink tones. I think every woman there must have imagined, as she gazed spellbound at that penis, how it would have felt nestled snugly in her vagina, stretching and filling her completely. At least I know I did.

The raucous, good-natured catcalls continued, unabated, and he acknowledged them, first with a little bow, and then with a side-to-side waggle of his cock. Somehow his movements conveyed perfectly the pure, unselfconscious joy he took in his own remarkable physique. Spontaneously the crowd broke out again in the lewd, foundation-shaking refrain Suzy had taught them—in unison now, faster, creating a constant, insistent, mind-numbing drumbeat: "FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER! FUCK HER!" Beau turned to look Faith in the eye, shrugged slightly, and stepped forward to seal the deal.

As the ex-linebacker approached her, I tried to deduce from Faith's glazed stare and rigid features precisely what was going on in her mind. Not twenty minutes earlier, she had remained standing on stage, even when stripped naked, even when her body was offered up for public auction, because she had calculated that as bad as it was, it was still better than going to prison for fraud and bribery. Now, however, she, like I, must have understood that reasoned decision-making no longer had any part to play. This crowd was going to see her get fucked, and that was the end of it. She simply had to hope that Beau alone would provide them enough entertainment—that the mob would adhere to the rules of the game, and resist the temptation to join in themselves.

Moreover, I think it's safe to say she, herself, had become incapable of rational thought by this point. What with the threat of blackmail, the humiliation of being stripped before a crowd of colleagues and associates, the impending and involuntary prostitution of her body, and the bone-jarring noise and visceral frenzy of the mob standing before her—she had moved into the realm of emotion and sensation and compulsion.