Dabney Hunter Ch. 1

Dabney Hunter, or was her name Hunter Dabney, I never could get it right. She was one of those southern preppie new money trust fund chicks whose parents gifted her with an androgynous last name as a first name so that folks could never figure out if she was a boy or a girl just by seeing the name. There was no mistaking her as anything but all girl when you met her in person.

The first thing about Dabney is her hair. She has very red hair. Lot's of very red hair. In a crowd of people at a concert, stadium, or in a restaurant, you can always find the hair. Dabney is also a busty girl. She is not fat, but never will be thought of as thin. She has big breasts and hips to match. Her breasts enter a room, announce her coming, and the rest of her body follows. She is all about oversized breasts and hair. She is all about designer clothes and designers don't really design for women with a chest so Dabney can't help but look stuffed into whatever she is wearing. The material always strains and her nipples always look eager to burst the fabric.

I picked Dabney out on the first day of my freshman honors seminar at Hemmings. Every semester I rewarded myself with one of the freshmen in my honors seminar. It seemed only fair the wisdom I shared with them that one of them would share back. The class was called "aesthetics" and I quite enjoy the finer things.

I must admit, in many ways, Dabney was slumming for me. I usually preferred slender, lean, brown eyed brunette girls. I was happiest with a c-cup with aggressive nipples on one of those 18-year-old bodies honed thong bikini thin at the gym. Dabney broke that mold. But there was something about the hair. I had visions of a rich red bush maybe overflowing to her thighs (after bathing suit trim season ended). And there was something about the breasts.They were obviously more than a D-Cup.

Sad, but Dabney was most probably at her beauty peak at 18. We have all seen the sorry chunky red head type. Gravity would take its toll. The sun would work wrinkles into that red head's skin. The hair would lose some luster. She would gain those 20 pounds that all women gain at 30, and maybe 15 more if she had kids, and then she would be chunky. But at 18, I had to see her naked. It was all about the moment.

"Ms. Hunter," I began on the first day of class. "Please read for us..." I had her read a bit of poetry from the course packet to put her on edge.

"Dare I munch a tangerine," she began in a cute southern twang.

I stopped her. "Explain why that is different from Prufrock's 'dare I eat a peach'."

She just looked at me dumbfounded. I clearly was asking too much on the first day of class.

"A peach and a tangerine are both fruits," I went on. "Isn't fruit, fruit? Aren't parts simply parts? Are these phrases different at all?"

She gave me that "mounted trout" look with her mouth open but no words coming out.

"Do you speak Ms. Hunter?" I didn't mean for her to answer, but merely wanted, with a bit of sarcasm to drive home the point that I was in control, and that she had no clue what to say...not that anything she could have said would have been correct at that moment.

"Can anyone help the mute Ms. Hunter?" I drew attention to her plight. I liked the idea of Dabney feeling on display. I wanted her to feel naked.

A mousy girl from the back raised her hand. I pointed. She spoke.

"I think a tangerine is a fruit, but the peach is supposed to refer to female sex parts." The mousy girl had an Appalachian coal holler twang to her voice. The girl was frequently quite graphic.

"And what is wrong with wanting to eat a fruit?" I asked in a bit of falsetto."Any fruit eaters in our midst? Don't you all like to sample from all of the food groups?" I asked and didn't expect any answer. The class laughed at the obvious homoerotic overtones. "How about you Ms. Hunter," back to the prey. "Can you describe for us the taste of a tangerine? Or perhaps," I paused a beat for emphasis, "Why don't you describe for us a peach?" I slowed the pace of my words and deepened my voice. "You have eaten a peach at some point in your life, haven't you Ms. Hunter?"

Dabney's mouth moved. A few boys grinned.

"Well Mr. Wheatfield...um um...a peach is furry."

"How furry?" I shot back instantly, then paused a beat. "Well?" I expressed a bit of impatience. "What color is this peach? And don't you dare say 'peach'." The class laughed. Dabney just blanched.

I looked at my watch. The period was ending.

"Saved by the bell Ms. Hunter. Class, for next time read the next 100 pages in the course packet. And Ms. Hunter, give us about 75 words describing a peach. And make us want to taste your peach when you write about it."

I expected that had I given the peach assignment to the mousy girl, I would have gotten 75 words about an unkempt brown Appalachian muff. Dabney likely would go to the grocery and buy a peach and actually talk about it. I would have a taste of that peach before long.

The next class and the next class and the next class were all the same. While Dabney clearly had been a good student in high school, she was no match for my withering sarcastic classroom bite. I always made a point of putting Dabney on display. Of course I made the class write a few short biographical essays. Tell us about your parents, tell us about home, describe what you know as fun. I learned that Dabney was the oldest of three children. She had an alcoholic mother. Or as she put it, "Mom likes a cocktail or two with lunch, one or two before dinner, then a few more before bed." Her father was obsessed with "appearances." He was all about designer clothes and very white straight teeth. His parents could not afford braces when he was growing up so now he wore the most perfect porcelain veneers. His family had to look pretty. Mom had her eyes done. Her sister had had her nose straightened for her sixteenth birthday and was going to get a boob job for her eighteenth birthday. They were one of these poor white trash southern families made good, earned more than a few dollars, moved into a big house in the right neighborhood, drove the right cars, but no one had thought with all of this success to invite them to join the country club. Just always a step below. And her father was in sales. He sold things he didn't make things or own things. So there was always that measure of insecurity no matter how much money daddy had put into the bank many times over. Daddy expected the kids to work very hard so as not to squander the fortune he had made or the leg up into society that he had given them. Dabney could never be thin enough, smart enough, rich enough, or any other enough to make up for the fact the family was always that little step below and daddy always expecting more. That was my entering wedge.

At the open of one Wednesday class session I began, "Ms. Hunter? Make a point to talk with me in my office after class." Seed planted. She would have 50 minutes to stew on my reasons.

The mousy girl used the first fifteen minutes of our time to read from her essay on growing up dirt poor in Appalachia. There were many hot summer nights when she and friends would lay naked on the porch because they had no air conditioning and it was simply too hot to wear clothes. Dabney looked visibly uncomfortable at the prospect of folks just lounging naked on a porch.

"Ms. Hunter? Does mousy girl's story give you a taste of poverty?"

"Well, um . . . I don't know that she needs the naked people." Dabney of course pictured herself naked on the porch as she said this.

"Oh I need the naked people," the mousy girl chimed in. "Where I live, you take your clothes off when you are hot. What else do you do? You just are what you are where I come from."

"Mousy girl has a point Ms. Hunter. What do you do when you are hot? Oh never mind." I moved the class on to a discussion of images of poverty. They had read some Dickens, Steinbeck, and of course Caldwell's "God's Little Acre."

"Ms. Hunter does it bother you that all of those people are having sex in Caldwell's book?"

"Um...it seems pretty crude Professor Wheatfield."

"That's the point Ms. Hunter. Without your TV, your DVD, your CD . . . what could be more basic human pleasure than sex?"

"Um, huh, Professor Wheatfield, I just don't . . ."

"Time's up class. Saved by the bell once again Ms. Hunter. And don't forget my office."

Dabney made her grand entrance into my office fifteen minutes late, of course, and looking somewhat flustered. She knew she was in trouble. She just did not know how much trouble. She sat down in the chair across from my desk.

"Professor?" she stammered, "What have I done?"

"It's what you haven't done . . . dear. For a woman of eighteen you seem singularly unenlightened. Your peach essay talked about . . . peaches. Today, instead of picking up the obvious unstated sexual tension in mousy girl's essay-I mean what is an eighteen-year-old girl doing naked on a porch with a 35-year-old neighbor woman-you complain about the naked people. We need to cure this problem."

"I can work on my writing?" She was either naïve or obtuse.

"It is not subject verb agreement dear. Your participles aren't dangling. It is substance. It is imagination. The assignment was not write about a peach from the grocery-the assignment was describe a peach and make me want to taste your peach."

"Well huh."

"Describe YOUR peach Ms. Hunter. Let's see if you can do this if I give you another shot. Just try to put it in words. Your peach."

"Um," she looked ready to cry. "Um..."

"How does it look Ms. Hunter. That's always a good place to start."

"I have red hair." A tear rolled down her cheek.

"Details dear. How much hair? Is this a fuzzy peach? A furry peach? A bald peach? Is this peach juicy, ripe? Is it swollen?" I sounded quite impatient.

Dabney paused for the longest time. She trembled. I let her sit. I thought she would get up and walk out of the office. Odds were running 50/50 at this moment. No need to push too hard. I had the whole rest of the semester.

"The hair is long, it doesn't curl." More tears rolled down her cheek. I had an opening.

"I want to taste this peach Ms. Hunter."

She just looked at me. Blank. I actually hadn't crossed any lines. I was using the same words that a drama professor might use to encourage a student to put emotion into a scene. I was very good at this game.

"Stand up." I ordered.

"No don't make me leave," she begged. "I can do it. Daddy will kill me if I don't earn an A." I had her. She made the offer.

"I didn't say leave Ms. Hunter. Close my office door and lock it. Then come back."

Lovely Dabney did exactly as I said.

"Now take off your panties." She was wearing a simple cotton dress. Her legs were bare, smooth. It was a warm humid Indian summer day. She just stood. I focused my eyes on her blue eyes and pursed my lips. I sat motionless. She stared back. Her eyes glazed a bit. Then she moved. She reached under her dress and eased her panties down. I caught just a glimpse of red hair before her dress dropped back to her knee.

"Lift your dress and show me the peach." I gave her no time to think before I issued commands.

She hesitated.

"I think you said in one essay that B means bad in your family and C means catastrophe? And dare I describe D?"

She grabbed the bottom of her dress and lifted up to her navel. There it was this rich mass of red hair. She also had bold lips, some of the longest and puffiest I had ever seen on an eighteen-year-old. Very nice. The red hair was long, not trimmed, bushy.

"Touch your peach Ms. Hunter. Touch the dew."

She looked for a moment as if she didn't understand then she moved her hand down and spread her lips and rubbed. She moved in slow motion.

"Taste it Ms. Hunter." I kept the commands coming rapid fire so she would have little time to think.

She froze. I thought I might have reached her limit. She took a deep breath. Let it out. Sighed. Finally, she moved her fingers to her lips.

"And how does the peach taste?"

She moved to speak . . . I stopped her.

"Show me how it tastes." I was pushing a step farther to see just where her limit stood.

Her hand moved back down between her legs, she touched herself and then bent over my desk and put her fingers to my lips. I took her wrist and sucked the fingers delicately. Her eyes puffed to tear. She barely held the tears back. She trembled.

"Take a step back Ms. Hunter." Dabney complied.

"Remove your dress...and your bra."

She shook. I thought for a moment she would cry rape. Her lips quivered. Her throat moved like words were forming. A tear rolled down her left cheek. She took the dress off and unsnapped the bra. Her breasts were huge. She had saucer sized quite pink aureole, pert strong nipples. Though she was only eighteen, the weight of her breasts already caused them to sag a bit.

I let her stand and linger.

"What's wrong with being naked Ms. Hunter? You have a delightful body. I don't get your ill ease with the idea of lounging naked with mousy girl on the porch."

She didn't say anything. I let her stand for five minutes. She shifted her weight but didn't move or speak. I just took in the sight. At first her hands sort of covered her bush but eventually she just held them at her sides. It was a gesture of surrender.

"Sit in the chair dear, spread your legs so I can see your peach, and touch yourself. I want to see you cum. Spread the lips for me."

She sat. She started to rub her clit. I was actually surprised that she did it so quickly. Perhaps she just wanted to get this over with. She made gentle circles with her fingers. I reached in my bottom desk drawer and pulled out a thick eight-inch dildo-one of those with an eight-inch shaft and then a set of lifelike balls.

"I want you to stick this inside. Pump yourself with it."

"I can't," she stammered. "I'm a virgin."

I reached across the desk and handed her a napkin, "You can wipe the blood up with this...now put it inside. All the way."

She hesitated. More tears. She looked at the dildo. She wiggled her wrist up and down as if she was getting a sense of the weight of the dildo. She moved it to her lips then she stopped. She looked at it again. She stared. She put the dildo back between her lips. He left hand parted her lips. Her right hand held the dildo. She stopped again.

"Just do it, and keep your legs spread wide," I ordered in a firm quiet voice.

Slowly she moved the dildo inside her sex and paused. She pushed. The thick head entered her completely. It seemed a struggle as it stretched her. Her lips bulged. She stopped.

"I just can't," she said in almost a whisper. I imagined she must have reached her virgin barrier.

"All the way." My voice was quiet but firm.

More tears. Her whole body trembled. She pushed firmly with both hands on the dildo and winced. She bit her lip because she knew that a scream would be a bad thing right at this moment. She froze when it was all the way in. She went stiff. He legs shook. Her long lips wrapped around the dildo. I imagined the lips tickling my balls were I pushed into the hilt. After the longest moment she pulled out and pushed in slowly at first then just a little faster. I could see blood on the sides of the dildo. She pumped a few more times all the way in and all the way out. She winced every time she took all eight inches. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her mouth quivered. She choked back a sob.

"Faster," I encouraged. "Dare I eat a peach," I mouthed the words to Prufrock.

Her hand moved faster as her body responded with what looked like a fair amount of natural juices. After five minutes of in and out I stopped her.

"That's enough for today. Wipe things up, dress, leave. We will continue another time."

She did as she was told. She moved quietly. She turned her back to me as she put on her panties. I could see that the mass of red hair ran up around her anus. She had a hairy butt. She carefully adjusted her bra and put on her dress. Her head was bowed and she barely glanced at me on her way out the door. After she left I locked my office door. I clicked open a file on my computer. The web cam sitting on the top of my monitor had done a marvelous job of capturing her entire show. I masturbated to that image of her breasts and bush. I would have to get a better taste of the bush and of those nipples. There was time. And there was always the final exam.