Campus Payback

Strange vibes were in the air. A feline, feminine moan could be heard from somewhere off to my left. "Ohhhh aaaahhh... aaahhhh..." I glanced over and saw... was that Stanley Witherspoon, the young, energetic chair of the English Lit department? And what was his wife's name... Lynn? Well, Lynn, or whoever she was, had braced herself against the side wall, dropped her panties around her ankles, and hiked up her skirt; and Stanley, pressed up against her ass with his fly unbuttoned, was apparently dick-deep inside her now.

Surveying the rest of the hall, I saw that few in the crowd had even registered the Witherspoons fucking in the wings. Most eyes remained laser-focused on Faith's pussy, gaping, dripping, and spotlit up on stage. The sexual tension permeating the building had not been dissipated by Beau's showy release and grand exit, but had only taken on overtones of greater insistence and frustration. A number of those present had started giving in to the tension—shoving their hands down the waistbands of their pants or skirts, working themselves to even greater arousal. A couple of men had popped erect dicks out of their trousers, and were stroking themselves as they contemplated Faith's exposed cunt.

Affairs were clearly at a tipping point. It would not take much of a spark to set off a gang-rape of epic proportions. In the frenzy of the moment, how many of these glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, cock-in-hand men would actually fuck Faith in front of everyone? A hundred? Two hundred? More? Would the wives here try to stop them? I supposed not, for the most part. Maybe they'd get off on it.

Images of what it would be like flashed through my head. Faith seemed too numb to do anything but brace herself and take what came at her. I judged she was already too far gone to take any active role in stimulating the women in the crowd. No, they'd just have to enjoy the show and beat themselves off, while the men took their turns with Faith. I supposed the guys could get her to open her mouth for them, though, so there would probably be two lines: front and back. Yet, even then, it would still take hours to satisfy them all.

Faith had sucked down Beau's cock with style, but I wondered how she would handle having her throat fucked by dozens of men. Would it get easier or harder as, one by one, they crushed their balls to her puffy red lips, thrust their throbbing, veiny shafts past her tonsils, and poured their cum down her gullet? Would she keep her watery eyes open, in order to register each smug, triumphant face that loomed over her, and each cock pressing forward to fill her mouth? Or would she squeeze her eyes shut, mascara running from the corners, in an effort to pretend it all wasn't happening?

In back, meanwhile, she could not help but feel the pressure of each cock as it entered her body, mingling with the juices from so many others. As each man jetted his own stream of milky white fluid into her, it would force the cum already there deeper into her uterus, her tubes, her ovaries, until every corner of her reproductive system was stuffed unnaturally full of semen. Her organs would try to give and stretch to accommodate more sperm, but still there wouldn't be enough space. At last, once she had filled to the brim, each new cock would have to slosh out an equivalent volume of fluid, just to take its place within her. Big, globby dollops would squish out of her, dripping and running down her thighs and merging into the growing pool on the floor. As each man knelt to have his fun with her, he would ruin the knees of his trousers with the slime of those who had preceded him.

And as she got more and more stretched out, more and more sloppy and soggy, it would be harder for the men to enjoy her. Might they not be tempted to start fucking her asshole instead? I glanced around at the sharks from the university alumni, administration, and faculty, and the hungry look on their faces told me that, yes, some of them would most definitely take this chance to spear a cowed and undefended Dean Castor in the ass. Had she ever been ass-fucked before, I wondered? How many men could she endure that way? What would it do to her?

Deep down, some twisted, vindictive, wounded part of me longed to find out the answers to those questions. With one shout—"Who else wants to fuck her?!" perhaps—I could bring that diabolical vision to life. And why shouldn't I? Wasn't that, in effect, no more than what she had done to me, all those years before?

Yet in the end, I couldn't do it. For one thing, I had other plans for Faith—plans which might be jeopardized if I allowed hundreds of men to defile her tonight. But, really, it was more than that. There was just something so pitiful in her naked, vulnerable form. She had allowed herself to be stripped and throated and fucked and inseminated on stage; she had abandoned herself to the animal throes of orgasm in front of us all; and now, resting there on hands and knees, panting, trembling, pussy spread wide before us, unable even to grasp the words spoken to her, she appeared to have given up any claim to agency. I simply couldn't bring myself to sic the wolves on someone who, in that moment at least, had been rendered so utterly helpless.

But if I was going to save her from the mother of all fuckings, I would have to move fast. I pushed through the crowd, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, and clambered up on stage. Suzy was still just standing there, mic in hand, paralyzed by indecision. I pushed the mic away from her face and breathed, "we have to get Faith out of here. Now!" She nodded, set down the mic, and leaned over to try to pull the dean to her feet.

In the heat of the moment, I couldn't think of any way to cover the woman. Her own clothes were long-gone, of course. It being an unseasonably warm spring night, few of those present had bothered with outerwear. Most of the men were wearing dress jackets, of course, and under normal circumstances they would have been falling over themselves to shield a damsel in distress. But Faith was no damsel for them now—she was a cunt they were eager to pour their cum into. I didn't think I could risk trying to coax a jacket off one of these hyenas.

Suzy had Faith up and standing by this point—faced toward the crowd, chest heaving, face and tits red, nipples stony, eyes dazed and unseeing. I would simply have to get her out to my car, and then...

I heard a splattering sound and looked down. Now that Faith was vertical, Beau's seed had begun pouring out of her, and blobbing onto the ground. I wrinkled my nose as I realized that she was splashing my new navy pumps. No, not in my car. "Suzy, grab your phone and hail an Uber!" As she complied, I put my arm around Faith's bare shoulders and started hustling the dean off the stage and down the aisle, as fast as she could hobble.

The sea of faces that watched us pass appeared crestfallen, but not violent. I breathed a sigh of relief—they were going to let her leave without fucking her. I could hear Suzy back on the PA as we went out the door, trying to reclaim the audience's attention and buy us some time. Out on the curb, Faith hugged herself and shivered. It was a warm night—but then, she had been through a lot. And she was naked.

* * * * *

I gave a prayer of thanks as the Uber pulled up. The driver rolled down the window and took a long, shameless glance up and down Faith's unclothed body. She was too out of it to cover herself properly. When he finally spoke, the man sounded Eastern European. "Wow, you know, I don't see this every day... So what is it, some big joke? Ha-ha?"

"No, she just needs a ride. Where do you live, Faith?"

"C-Crescent View Condominiums," she mumbled, "unit 317."

"Did you get that?" He nodded. "Keep your hands off her. If you make sure she gets home safe—all the way inside her own unit—there will be a $100 tip in it for you."

"OK, sure... But I can at least take picture, though?"

"Yes, but no touching."

"OK, sure." He grabbed his camera and turned it sideways to snap a vertical pic of Faith's nude body. Then he zoomed in for closeups of face, tits, and pussy. "You very pretty girl, you know?," he said. Faith made no response.

I opened the door of the car and shoved Faith toward it. As she stepped forward, another drizzle of fluid spattered on the pavement.

"Ugh, she's wet!," the driver said in disgust. "My seats, you know?"

"Just take her. I'll make the tip $200. That should cover any inconvenience."

"OK, OK. You people, you think you can just do anything. I'm just the Uber guy, right? Sheesh..."

I bundled her into the car and slammed the door. I wondered if any of her neighbors would be looking out the window when she arrived, curious to see who had driven up...

* * * * *

CHAPTER 6

* * * * *

The morning after the auction, Jennifer Fosse pulled me aside in the hall, a little breathless. She was a colleague—I guess you might even say a friend, though not intimate. I knew she was pregnant again (second child, was it?) and noticed that she had begun to show. I suppressed the dull ache of long-scabbed emotional wounds. It wasn't Jen's fault that she was able to conceive.

"Ellen, you were at the gender-studies gala last night, right?" The usual golden glow of her face was suffused with pink, as if from embarrassment, and she spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. "Is it true?... you know, that Dean Castor, uh... sold herself to a man, and, um, let him [here she mouthed the words 'fuck her'], right there on stage?! That can't be true!"

I was prepared to play the part of shocked bystander. "What can I say, Jen, it was a really strange evening." She looked at me expectantly, demanding more. "So, to answer your question: yes, she did. It was awful, really. She stripped naked, got down on hands and knees, and let some jock stick it in her in front of everyone. Set women's liberation back a hundred years... Though, to be fair, she did earn $50,000 for the center..." I left the rest of that thought ("so I guess even though she whored herself out, at least she got top dollar") unspoken, but it hung in the air nonetheless.

Jen was silent for a minute, mouth pursed, wide doe-eyes glancing down contemplatively. "I... Well, look: sex can make you do really crazy things, sometimes. I know that. B-but... I mean, this just doesn't seem healthy. There were those pictures, too, right? Don't you think it's starting to look like she leaked them intentionally? Like she was being, I don't know, self-destructive—exhibitionist? And now this. I'm worried for her. I think maybe she's having a breakdown... Do you know Faith personally? Do you think there's anyone who could... I don't know, check in with her? Intervene?"

"You're sweet, Jen, and it's nice of you to spare a thought for the dean, but she's a big girl. I'm sure she knows what she's doing. I only wish she'd shown a tenth that much concern for those poor students that Brennan kept abusing for so many years."

"Well, yes, I know what you mean. It's hard to feel too sympathetic for her. Although, she did really step up in support of Suzy Ruiz. So better late than never, I guess... But I still feel like there's something off with her. I mean, can you even imagine how you would feel if there were naked pictures of you, legs spread op... I mean, if you'd had sex in front of... of..." She broke off awkwardly and looked away, her face a hot, flustered red now.

We'd never talked about my own scandal, but of course she knew about it. Yet, I really don't think she had drawn any connection—at least not consciously—between Faith's recent aberrant behavior and the dirty pictures and lurid stories from my moment of infamy all those years before.

Now, though, in a flash she had realized that I, too, had once experienced much the same embarrassment and shaming as Faith was now. Of course, she didn't know how closely the two were connected—that Faith had been responsible for my degradation, and I for hers. But the parallel was obvious to her. She looked miserable and seemed about to try to run away. "God, Ellen, I..." she mumbled.

"It's OK, Jen. I know you didn't mean anything by it. It's all water under the bridge for me now. Ancient history." Would that were true. "So take it from me: Faith will survive this. It's not your job to protect her."

She frowned. "I hope you're right. You're tough. I think she must be too. But I know I wouldn't have the strength to survive it."

"You'd be surprised, Jen. Most of us are capable of doing things we didn't think we ever could—or would—if we are compelled to by circumstances. The lucky people are those who are never forced to find out what they are really capable of."

"Yeah...," she sighed, and her face conveyed a mix of concern and sympathy. She was such a good person. I think I could have been like that, too. If only...

* * * * *

Later that week I had Faith in my office again. I had been a little afraid that she would quit and not return to campus after the auction. I mean: granted I had only been a young, shy graduate student when I had endured my own very public debasement, but still, it had taken me a year to get up the courage to face people again.

Yet here was Faith, showing up for work every day, conducting meetings and power-lunches with the same people who had watched her get stripped and fucked on stage just a few days before, pretending as best she could that nothing had changed. Here she stood before me, setting her jaw at a defiant angle, as if she were the same old Faith, entirely untouched by it all. Jen was right: she was tough.

This train of thought piqued my curiosity. I made her unbutton her blouse and hike up her skirt. As I'd suspected, she was wearing a matched set of very classy, very flattering lingerie underneath. High end stuff, which probably cost a pretty penny. Yes, I thought with satisfaction, her indifference was only a façade. Underneath, she was spending all day, every day, wondering when I would drop some new humiliating surprise on her—and striving to be as prepared as she could be. And I must admit, I liked the feeling of power.

But nothing like that was on my immediate agenda. "OK, you can cover up Faith. The reason I called you in is this: I'm going to apply to take over Brennan's NHC grants, and your next task is to make sure I get them."

Her forehead creased dubiously. "Look, Ellen, I'd love to get those grants renewed just as much as you would. I'm not looking forward to telling fifty people they're fired at the end of June, you know."

"Yeah, it will be a big hit to your prestige at the university to lose those funds, Faith."

"God, Ellen, you hate me so much that you can't even see me. I am a person, you know. Of course it is true that losing those grants is a blow to me, career wise, but at this point, it's simply not high on my list of worries. No, I actually do have feelings, and actually do hate the idea of leaving so many people unemployed and families disrupted."

I stared back, unsure whether to believe her. After a moment, she continued. "Anyway, the point is, there's simply no way we can hold onto those grants now. You know how these government programs are—they're supposed to follow an unbiased, objective decision-making process, but in reality it's all about relationships and glad-handing. Things are getting better for women on campus, but in that world, the it's still the old-boys-network, just like the 1950s. And Brennan was the one who had all the relationships. He knew that's what made him valuable to us, and he guarded them jealously. With him gone, his government pals will give the money to one of their other cronies, somewhere else."

"If that's true, then you're in big trouble Faith, because I've set you a task and it's your job to deliver. You know the penalty for failure."

"Look, I get it Ellen: you want to clear your conscience for the fallout of what Suzy and you did. And I will do my best—not for you, but for the university and those employees. But I'm not a miracle worker. I can already tell you how it will go: we'll put together a stellar application, and they'll find some unreasonable detail to quibble over, and that will be the end of it. And then you'll have to decide what to do with me, because it won't be my fault we lose that funding—it will be yours."

"Just get cracking on that stellar application, Faith. And don't be negative. I have a few thoughts on how to deal with the old-boy-network. Anyway, I'd better believe you did everything in your power to win that grant. Your freedom is in the balance."

* * * * *

The application was great, I had to admit. If Faith was feeling defeatist, it didn't show through in her work. The selection committee's site-visit also went smoothly, and she and I took the committee members out afterwards for a well-lubricated dinner. I had booked a private room at a trendy, extremely overpriced restaurant downtown. Suzy met us there, too, as a representative of the graduate-student workers who would be funded under the program. The food was outstanding, and I made sure the drinks kept flowing throughout the evening.

I knew that come next morning, when the (all-male) committee left town, our ability to influence matters would effectively be at an end. This evening was the make-or-break moment. Therefore, I'd been very intentional in choosing to have Suzy and Faith by my side.

Suzy was no longer as hot a news item as she had been a few weeks earlier, but I was confident the committee members knew exactly who she was. More to the point, I was sure they'd jerked off to her sex-tape with Brennan—probably several times (it was a good video).

I was less sure how far or fast Faith's infamy had spread. Probably they'd already seen her pictures, too, and perhaps even some bootlegged footage of the auction from the University's CCTV feed. But just to be on the safe side, I'd asked James Miller to forward her naughty pics to a few of the committee members. So now they had, no doubt, jacked off to those, too.

While the dishes were cleared, the men removed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves, and the conversation mellowed into a more personal and intimate register. Sensing that it was time to make my move, I shifted closer to the chairman of the committee—a pudgy, balding 50-something named Phil—and brushed my hand lightly against his bare forearm.

Just to be clear: I wasn't at all proud of this. But I'd been around long enough to recognize that sometimes you aren't in control of the situation, and have to be willing to compromise your principles a little. The committee members just loved site visits. Back in Washington they were underpaid, paper-pushing technocrats. But on campus, dangling the largesse at their disposal, they became kings. They could say or do nothing wrong, and enjoyed the finest in red-carpet treatment. Adding a hint of sexual frisson to the mix was just a scrumptious cherry on top.

Faith was an old hand at this routine, of course, and had been flirting womanfully with the site committee the entire day. For dinner, she had put on a simple, silky, wine-red cocktail dress—sleeveless on top with moderate straps, and flaring out just above the knee. The men were eating it up. Suzy, by contrast, was not a natural at this kind of game, and her curve-hugging jeans and girly velveteen blouse were appealing, but not what you would call dazzling. Fortunately, she had a naturally open, bubbly personality, which fit the mood I was after just fine. And, as for me, well, I'd come prepared to do my bit. I think it's fair to say that I'm an attractive woman, and I'd leaned unusually heavily on the glamour when choosing hair, makeup, and dress for the evening. In a competition, you have to be willing to use the assets available to you.

As I bent in conspiratorially and touched his arm, I saw Phil take a long, undisguised stare down the plunging cleavage of my loose-fitting black satin blouse. I had left my bra in the office, and I shifted now so that the fabric gapped open. After giving him a clear shot at my left nipple, I straightened back up and drew my V neck a little closer together, in a gesture to faux modesty. "So, Phil," I gushed warmly, "have you liked what you've seen? Today I mean?"