Nailed by a Nine-Inch Dixie Boner

Happy holidays everyone. Here's your present; your future is up to you.

--Ellen

********************

A beach house in dunes near Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod, in early June. Escorted by Carleton Beauregard Chapman.

For followers of my life-in-porn, there is a tie-in, here. My story, "I Become the First Dick-less Deke."

This was my sophomore year at the women's coordinate college of a university in Rhode Island. I happened, through a guy, to see the Deke house, decided no more girl's dorm for me; this was how I was going to spend my college years.

After some negotiation with the terrifying head of Dike, Ashley Bloker (known to all as "Tiny" Bloker), I was in. I had a room. I was a DKE dark secret, enforced by Tiny terror. I made a lot of their meals. I worked out with the guys in the house's gym and showered with them. They grew accustomed to my face. A few times, I dilated my birth canal painfully but ultimately ecstatically accommodate "Tiny."

Early in June, two weeks before the semester's end, a DKE asked me to the Cape for the weekend. He had a car. Also, expensive clothes. Also, an Alabama accent, six feet of lean muscle, blond hair. I thought of the "other" Ashley, in "Gone with The Wind."

His father was a judge in Birmingham. He had been graduated from a secondary-level military academy in Georgia, was a semi-pro tennis player. A natural DKE.

Funny thing, I knew him from "around." Served him at dinner. Saw him in the gym, halls, library. But never in the showers. Most other DKEs had seen all 5'6" and 115 pounds of me, my perfect pale skin, my 32C breasts with slightly too large and dark nipples, my jet-black untrimmed pussy mop, and my pretty face with arched eyebrows, dramatic brown eyes, and a pixie haircut. But not Carl (a.k.a. CBC)—yes, he was named after Pierre, Gustav Toutant-Beauregard, the first prominent general in the Confederate States Army.

You know: "You may talk about your Beauregard, or sing of General Lee, but the Yellow Rose of Texas is the only gal me."

When he asked me, I blinked. As a sophomore girl of that era, I hadn't had many weekend (want-to-sleep-with-me?) dates. Carl said, "Ah jus lak t'have a lady 'long f'stahle."

DKEs amused themselves imitating Carl's "stahle," but not to his face. You could not help echoed him in your head as he spoke. Not going to make this a dialect story, though.

Carl pitched the weekend: "Nice beach house, quiet this time of year, Provincetown's real pretty in spring..." He added, "Yuh git yuh own baidroom..."

I gave him my 10-power smile and smoldering brown eyes. "Sounds wonderful!"

"Git t'know yuh, Ellen," he said, and smiled.

Weekend comes. Packed and ready by end of classes Friday (there still were Saturday morning classes, then, but we all tried not to schedule them).

Beauregard has brought his Roadster (not really, just a nice Toyota Camry) from some garage and parked outside the gate of the quad on Waterman Street. Gorgeous afternoon. White and yellow daffodils blooming in the front plots of the fraternities in Wriston Quad.

Less than two hours by Route 195 from Providence to the Bourne Bridge. But then that long again to Provincetown. No traffic, at least not compared with real summer. You know what they say in New England, "No one goes to the Cape, anymore. It's too crowded."

Nice to zip past pine forests, then dunes, clam bars still shuttered, glimpses of the bay or sea.

"No idea who'll be here," said Carl. I liked how his tennis arms steered the Toyota and his hair blew. Not a convertible, but the windows were open. He had blue eyes, on the pale side, like his complexion; it made him seem to gaze at the horizon or into the future like Lee after Appomattox. ("He seemed to look far into the tragic past and far into the tragic future...")

"Just mah friend from back home, studying in Boston—music conservatory. He's doing a party; first weekend of the season. Summer rental."

We reach a beach house. Big, two-story. End of a winding road through dunes, up a steep driveway. Driftwood grey house, colonial blue roof shingles and shutters, white porch with a view of rolling dunes and stunted pines, the sea a quarter mile away.

I never saw weekend trouble start so fast.

Carl's friend hadn't arrived. Only two guys from Boston, studying theater, I learned. I sensed right away they were supposed to be a "couple," but one, Jim, seemed about sophomore level, and the other, Steve, about senior. Nice to have an age spread in a couple when you get older.

As soon as Jim saw Carl and heard his Dixie accent, he began ragging him. I psyched-out that Jim was attracted to Carl, but annoyed at his macho southern style. Or maybe I made up all this afterward, in the psychiatric hospital, to explain everything...

Also, Jim was from D.C., both parents in government. He was "full of himself," which I don't mind if you don't lay it on too heavy.

Jim laid it on with a trowel. Has anybody not heard, yet, that the leftish, politically correct, "connected" northern liberal sees southerners as gun-toting, backwoods, slave-whopping, coon hunters? Yup, everybody has heard.

Jim had short black hair, firm jaw, sensitive eyes, a good build that was a little stocky. He swaggered, following us upstairs to check out where the country hicks were putting their things. His friend, Steve, quiet, rolled his eyes, ruefully shook his head, said nothing.

It took until dinner and drinks for the spring-loaded tension to wind up to the max. and some drinks to pull the trigger. Jim and Steve came back from the beach in damp bathing suits, carrying towels. I pursued my hobby, assessing the shapes beneath bathing suits. No curled-up iguanas like Tiny Bloker carried in his underwear. But I wasn't into size, still am not. I could see some promising outcroppings and ridges. Maybe things would get to nude sunbathing tomorrow. Or a nude beach.

Some coded language flew back and forth about gays, their unimaginable sophistication, "bigots," "bashing," guys "doing it," girls "doing it. This young man was obsessed!

My guess? He might have had a few ultra-sensitive "experiences" with the like-minded and sensitive. But he didn't want to come across that way to some pretentious scion of southern plantation owners.

It was all one way, with Carl saying little, Jim becoming more frustrated and aggressive, Carl's cool blue eyes revealing little. But that message was making Jim crazy.

Jim said, dismissively, "A southerner no more would have gay sex than do it with a pig." Sort of a laugh. "Well, not sure about with the pig..."

Carl's half-closed eyes assessed. He was relaxed. I expected his fists to clench or something. He had said almost nothing, but the first words out his mouth almost made me spill my Chardonnay. I had changed into a two-piece bathing suit, by now. I like beaches, I like men to notice me, I like my torso, and my long legs are my hottest feature. I mean, I could have a sexy weekend without a written invitation to fuck Carl.

Steve started to speak, realizing Jim had not a clue about who Carl really was. Or how he might react. And so, Steve and Carl started speaking at the same time. Too late for Steve. Carl simply raised his volume—like a lawyer who talks over you. Once he had decided to speak, he was going to speak.

"Jimbo, Ah'm more or less up for anything, wonce..."

Jim waved his hand in histrionic dismissal and made a face. "You have no idea, Carl. It's not your little world. You probably think it's all artsy. You ever hear of the 'rough trade'?"

Give me a break! Jim? Where did he read about that? In a history of the West Village 60 years ago?

Carl said slowly, thoughtfully, "Ah been to New Orleans... Yeah, there's rough trade. Not like once..."

"Oh, you have no idea." Jim fired all possible body language of derision and ridicule. "Show me 'rough trade'!"

This was awful! Let's leave! Mostly, I was watching Carl. Guess what, he didn't telegraph his punches—so to speak. I did learn one thing. Never insult a Southern cavalier and take your eyes off of him.

I did not see Carl's move, his foot come off the floor. I just heard an awful "thock"—a thud—and I saw Carl's foot between Jim's bare legs, smashing the contents of the maroon bathing suit's crotch up into Jim's lower belly.

I was not, am not, a "hardened" woman. I had never seen anything like this. I leaped to my feet. My wine slopped. I started forward and stopped. I blinked back tears... Flashback to my family fighting.

An ungodly shriek! Like a woman with her belly slit open with a razor blade. Or some terror-crazed animal. Jim's body had whipped over, hands at his balls, half-shrieking, half-sobbing. I never saw anyone's face so red. He was breathing as though he had run a marathon.

He dropped to his knees with a "thunk." Then, he rolled over onto the floor and squirmed like a cut worm, sobbing: "No! My nuts! No, no! My nuts!"

Was I supposed to go to him? Or what? Now that I think back, I know I wasn't turned on. Thank God.

I glanced at Carl, alarmed that my count had become a large bat with long canines. My eyes must have been round with shock.

Carl was standing at ease. Head slightly cocked, pale blue eyes studying the agonized, shattered man on the floor. At the same moment, Steve had leaped up from the couch and was coming at Carl! Shit! No more weekend dates!

Carl turned and I saw his body subtly prepare to meet Steve. Otherwise, his expression, his eyes, did not change. "You fucker!" yelled Steve. "I'll kill you..."

Was Steve going to get his package smashed, too?

Nope. Carl's lean right tennis arm curved around in a punch that hit Carl's chin. I still can't get the sound out of my mind. I figured that did it. But Carl hit him again, so fast I barely saw it. This time in the solar plexus.

Jim writhing as though on a hot frying pan, clutching his balls, face red and wet with tears. Steve lying flat on his back trying to breathe, or vomit, or in convulsions.

I should have been an ER nurse.

I do nothing. Carl takes two long strides, grabs Jim by the hair, flips him like a sack onto his stomach. Then, his hand grabs the top of Jim's bathing suit and hauls it down with one terrific yank over Jim's cute, firm white ass, with sleek black hair on his butt and in a darkly mysterious butt crack. Hmm, I am getting off on this. I know, disgusting!

Jim screams, pleading, both hands grabbing his bathing suit. What? That important? What happened to his crushed nuts? He is squealing, "No, no, please, please!"

A girl never saw his penis? His grip is hopeless against Carl, who is half-lifting Jim's whole lower body as he tears the bathing suit off and flings it away. Jim has been heaved onto his back. Now, his crying is totally different.

Awww... My heart begins to soften. He is embarrassed to death at his exposed penis and balls. What the hell is this? What about the "rough trade"?

He won't take his hands off his ball and penis. He is weeping, now.

No mercy from Carl. He looks around, grabs a small lamp, yanks it so hard that its cord pops from the plug. Drops the lamp, which smashes, and grabs the cord. He's going to have to pay the bill when he checks out.

All right. Let's take moment, here. My nice Ivy League weekend date in a Cape Cod beach house with other nice college kids and my handsome, super-refined Southern cavalier, has morphed into Gitmo's interrogation rooms. My date obviously is a hardened CIA operative.

Bottom line: Is there anything I can do?

Take on Carl? Sorry, I forgot to load my Mauser. Appeal to the better angels of his nature?

I pick up my wine glass. Walk to the open kitchen. Take the magnum bottle of Mondavi Chardonnay out of the fridge. Pour. I glance up and across the room. Carl glances up. What a nice smile! Grin, really. Smirk, maybe. Are we having fun, yet?

In the name of humane stanards, I withhold a return smile. I look for a moment at the action. He has grabbed sobbing Jim's hands away from his balls, two Jim hands in one Carl hand. I see, now, with interest, that poor little Jim has a perfectly adequate five-inch cock with a good glans penis. His balls are dangling at the bottom of their pinkish-orange sack. I can't see any damage from here.

What is awful is Jim's mortification. He is glancing at me wildly, piteously, at—I guess—my seeing his stuff. His face is bathed in tears, twisted in sobs. I give him, I hope, my nicest, most encouraging, feminine smile. I imagine it does shit for him.

Looking at his manhood is turning me on, very slightly. Remember, I'm only a sophomore girl in college.

Carl knows his stuff. He has heaved Jim's naked body up onto a solid coffee table. Jim is on his back. His butt is at the edge of the table, half over the edge, so his pubis is thrust out and facing the room. His legs trail off down to the floor. At the other end of the table, Jim's wrists are hauled to the edge and tied separately to its legs.

Jim is the evening's entertainment, his private stuff thrust up and foremost. He is whimpering and pleading; it's all about exposure. And terror, I think.

I walk over with my wine glass. Carl passes me heading toward the kitchen with his wine glass. Is Steve dead or something? No, color has returned to his face. His eyes are open. He has sat up, his back against the couch. Just watching? Getting off on this? Jim got his ass into this...

I glance at him, frowning with concern. He looks back. Then, he grins slightly, shrugs. Just another weekend away from the music conservatory, I guess.

What suddenly attracts my attention is Jim. He is looking at me with helpless, pleading eyes. A girl has never seen his stuff? I should call 911? What?

I walk over, stand beside the table, looking down into his face. I say...what?

Are you okay? No, idiotic.

I settle for asking: "Are your balls killing you?" He nods, eyes squeezed shut, tears running.

"Want a drink? Want me to rub your balls?"

His eyes snap open. For a moment, nothing.

"Drink," he says. I kneel beside the table. Lift his head two inches, like a nurse, feed him Chardonnay.

I ask: "Did a girl ever see you?"

He shakes his head on the table. "My little sister."

I feed him more wine.

"But you're gay, so..."

He shrugs.

"You aren't sure?"

A shrug.

On an inspiration, I glance down. Wow! No permanent damage. His prick is so stiff it is arched back against his belly, bright red, his glans penis glistening because it has swollen and the foreskin has been hauled back by his erection.

I look back at him. Smile. "You have a nice one."

"Burning like fire. Hurts like hell."

I only have to slide my knees along the floor a foot or two and I am gazing down at the rioting dark hair out of which his thick cock arches back in its excitement, taking the yoga position known as "Ready to penetrate pussy."

I reached out, close my hand around it. Is this some kind of vampire death for a gay guy? I glance to my left at Jim. His face is relaxed, smooth. His eyes closed.

I bend my head, spit a gob, and gently pump. I, Ellen Melville, am the bringer of balm, not agony. I only torment your nuts when you are getting off on it. I tend to Jim's swelling, lengthening prick. How big does this get?

Yikes! I sort of jump--as much as you can on your knees, a little galvanized jerk. Fingers just unbuttoned my bikini top and are dragging it off. I feel the slight scrape as it is dragged across my stiff nipples. My head whirls around, looking up.

The handsome face of Carleton Beauregard Chapman smiles down at me. He is holding my top in his hand. My tits are bare, my dark stiff nipples jutting out toward Jim's arched-back penis.

"Okay," drawls Carl. "If you get off on this pathetic little queer, then go ahead." He adds, "I met this kind. They're nothing." He adds, "Besides, he ragged me all afternoon, just for being a Southerner."

I looking up, a topless a Vogue model, and say, "It was disgusting. He goaded you. I thought he was ridiculous." I pause. "But, most of us don't respond with violence." And I add, "We could have left."

He gives me a huge, beautiful, sexy smile that definitely is a titty stiffener. He says, with a grin, "Ellen, you never heard the song 'I'm A Good Old Rebel?'"

Meanwhile, I am playing a melody on Jim's ivory keyboard. My fingers stray to the underside of his fat red glans penis and taunt the little meatus. Electricity! Jim's hips arch, his pubis thrusts up.

"He lahks it," Carl pronounces. He adds, "He challenged me. Don't know about sex. Don't know about rough trade. New Orleans is a joke..."

"You get off with men?"

Carl shrugged. "Ah attended military academy? Do you know about 'scuts'?"

"I think so."

"They pretend it isn't about sex. It's about seniority, initiation, duty, discipline..."

I nodded.

Carl sighed, "Let's get on with it."

Where is this going! Carl unbuckles his belt, gives his trousers and underwear a shove, kicks them violently off his feet...

Nude-titty Ellen is looking, at eye level, at the longest, thickest, most deliciously divine male organ in her all-too-brief experience. I can't stop staring. It's long—very—and thick, with a gong-ringing scarlet glans penis. When he has taken it out, it dangles there for a moment before I comprehend what I am seeing spring from its nest of curly light-blond hair.

I am an instant slave. My hand reaches, on its own, and closes around the thing. My lips pucker and my head bends toward it.

Carl's hand is on my head, affectionately mussing my hair. "No," he says, "let me just do him..."

Obvious.

Jim's eyes are open. In fact, his face looks serene, now. Carl throws one long leg over the coffee table, stands astride it facing Jim's head. And that incredible cock hangs and swings gently just above Jim's face.

Suddenly, Jim's face changes. A look of horror. He is babbling in fear, "No, no, I never... Please, I never..."

What the hell is this? Gay, rough trade?

Then, from behind us, where Steve is still lying back against the couch, "No, it was all just bull shit. Jim and I...we never..."

Jim is still getting it up, but, till a moment ago, his dick almost quivered with rigidity. Now, it is wilting.

I had a lot to learn. A stern masculine voice with a heavy southern accent is drawling: "Do it, Jimbo! You wanted rough trade..."

And Carl's hand has reached back. I had been gazing with some pleasure at Jim's nice big nuts, in their pink ball sac, gently swelling with arousal. ¬

The hand, with a heavy silver graduation ring I had barely noticed—maybe senior ring from the military academy—has grabbed Jim's soft balls. I see the muscles in the hand and the tennis arm bulge with tension. Jim shrieks. "My nuts! No!"

The hand is dragging and squeezing. Wrenching.

"Pleeaasseee!"

The muscular hand opens, drops the soft pink sac. Then, the hand comes back, stiffened, and whacks Jim's package. I jump, it is so violent.

"Do it, Jimbo. You wanted rough trade."

Suddenly, Steve is beside me, kneeling at the table, and saying, "No, no, please! Let me do it, Carl! Let me suck your dick!"

I turn to him. NO ONE seems interested in my cute, rigid tipped, uplifted titties and shaggy cunt.

"No, him first," I hear Carl say.

The muscular hand with the silver ring lifts and for the third time descends with a slap on the helpless pink package. Shrieking. By now, that is just background music. I barely notice, but Jim is keening, his voice quavering like a castrati with pleas. Nurse Ellen cups her hand over the balls. Enough, already.

I hear Jim's high-pitched, desperate, "Okay, okay, okay..." and then, I guess, a sort of 'glub'!

Carl's Olympian hard-on disappears between Jim's lips. Jim definitely has a nice, strong masculine face and a sweet mouth. He has taken about four inches, with five still to come. His eyes bulge.