"Scandal school" - читать интересную книгу автора (Crane David)

CHAPTER FIVE

John Tremont felt like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Everyone in History class had noticed his hard-on, including the teacher, of whose manliness John was not too certain, and John was filled with shame. He could not stop blushing. He didn't dare look at anyone and, just to add insult to injury, his prick would not go down. As if that willful hunk of meat were mocking him and defying convention, it remained arrogantly upright, pulsating within his trousers.

He had not gone to his next class, for he was too embarrassed to walk into the room with his shame in bas relief for all to see. Now he was wondering how to subdue the iron-willed pecker.

He thought about taking a cold shower. Ann Landers recommended cold showers for incontinent symptoms, he knew, but he had found that they never worked very well. It was perfectly natural in the shower to soap oneself, and a well lathered dick just screamed to be whacked off.

He thought of cutting the rest of his classes and going home, but couldn't figure out how to walk through the streets with a great boner jutting out before him.

Finally, he decided that there was nothing for it. He was simply going to have to pound his meat to a limp lump, to beat the arrogant sod to a frazzle, to pump the living beejezus out of it until it begged for mercy.

It was not only the only solution to his erectile problem, but the most satisfying one.

Eager to take revenge on the dark that had mortified him, John wondered where he could perform the vendetta. There were various possibilities, for John had been a Meat Beater Supreme for some time, and with his meat beater's eye, he had ever been on the lookout for proper wankeries.

The library, be figured, was the best bet. Lurking in safety among the dusty shelves, be could pound the pork to his heart's content without fear of interruption. Holding his books tight to his turbulent loins, be waddled on to the library.

The librarian was thirty-five years old, with platinum blonde hair that came from a bottle and forty-two inch tits that came from her torso like cannon shells. Her name was Irma Cambridge and she liked her job, liked being surrounded by books. She could not ready very well, and seldom tried, but despite that – or because of it – she liked to be surrounded by weighty, learned volumes and scholarly tomes. It made her feel intelligent. She figured that plenty of knowledge would seep, as if by osmosis, into her platinum head – eventually, anyway. Up until that point in her life, however, Irma had found that the only thing that ever seemed to seep into her head was jism, of which she drank in abundance during the course of her social life.

The was not a very efficient librarian and had not mastered the card catalogue system, but in one limited field she was an authority: Irma had read every sex manual in the library. She had created her own card system as well, one just had nothing to do with books and of which Dewey had never dreamed, but which, in its own way, was a great breakthrough in the cataloguing of her collection.

It was a Cock Catalogue.

Irma was busily bringing her catalogue up to date when John Tremont came in, with books in front of his crotch. Irma had had a busy night the day before, and it had, taken her all morning to get the required data down on the two-by-four cards that she used. Now she was filing them in the shoebox which housed her unique system. It was a decimal system in that the number printed at the top of the card referred, in inches and fractions thereof, to the length and circumference of the cock in question. Length was given first, being the most important to her way of thinking, and it was by that digit that the card was filed. That went in the top left hand corner.

In the top right hand corner she listed the circumference as measured around the widest point of the knob. Next – if she happened to know it – came the name of the gentleman attached to the cock being classified, and that was followed by a brief and accurate description of the cock's general appearance and delineation, i.e. hastate, saggitate, ovoid, etc., followed by mention of any unusual attributes such as scars, blemishes, warts, or birthmarks. At the bottom she listed the intangible qualities: taste, texture and aroma. She graded the balls according to cubic displacement.

It was a good system, accurate and infallible. Irma always carded a tape measure with her when she went out to socialize, and she thought she had a pretty good cross-section of the local men in her box, as well as a goodly number from neighboring cities.

But Irma cared nothing for men.

In that regard she could be thought of as frigid, for she sought no romance, no love, no affection. Nor did she care if a man was tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or ugly. Those were mailers of no significance.

With Irma, the cock was the thing.

The night before, she had jotted down the salient details of seven new cocks, and she was quite pleased with the new additions. She was just fitting the final one into its proper slot when John came into the library. She scarcely noticed him; she was giving the card a final check to make sure it was correct.

The card, neatly printed, read:

7.52 inches x 6.23 inches

JOHN DOE

Cunneal crown

Tubular shaft

Heavily veined

Circumcised

A slightly, shapely cock without any disturbing marks

Taste: saline

Texture: velvet

Aroma: faintly spicy

Cubic displacement of balls: 8 ounces

Irma slipped the card into the file, smiling as she recalled how surprised John Doe – what a funny name – had been when she dipped his balls in a bowl of water to measure the overflow and deduce the displacement. But it had to be done, and now that he was on file, she would recognize that cock anywhere. It would stand out in a crowd, identifiable even if it sprouted from a field of peckers. No two cocks were alike, Irma knew.

She wondered, idly, what sort of cock John Tremont had.

That was why, her eyes wandering down, she saw that behind his text books lurked a hard-on. Irma's eyebrows went up, just as if his erection had lifted them, and she pursed her lips.

John, she noticed, had headed directly for the shelves at the back that housed the sex manuals and studies in eroticism.

Well, well, well, thought Irma.

John figured that since he had to beat his meat, anyhow, he might as well find some interesting books to look at while he pounded the potency from his pork. He went into the maze of shelves at the back and, feeling perfectly secure there, looked down the row of books and decided on a volume called: "Variations and Permutations in the Art of Love" by Dr. Aaron Plotnik. He braced the weighty book against the shelf and began to skim through it. Soon he found himself fascinated by the text, overjoyed to find that some of the variations, too difficult to describe in mere words, were illustrated. Breathing hard, he licked his lips and let his eyes pour over the definitions of the big, dry sounding words that, behind a facade of Latin and Greek, described such joys as cocksucking, cunt eating and asshole fucking.

John was enthralled. He opened his fly and let his dick spring out into his hand. He began to beat his meat nonchalantly as he read the dirty words.

He was so engrossed that he failed to hear the librarian as she approached.

"Well, I never!" said Irma.

She sounded disgusted. She was standing right beside him, her hands on her hips and her big tits sticking out like shelves. John jumped at the sound of her voice. He had been so absorbed by the book that he forgot he had his cock in his hand, and he thought that the busty librarian was disgusted because he was reading a sex manual. He thought he had better tell her that he was doing required research for biology, but before he could speak he saw that her eyes were directed not at the book, but at his loins. Looking down himself, he realized to his horror that his pecker was not only in his hand but that, from force of habit, he was still pumping it.

"Gee how did that get in my hand?" he said weakly. He tried to look absent-minded.

"That's perfectly disgusting," said Irma. "It's an honest mistake," he said. "A likely story, young man! A mistake, certainly, but not an honest one. This is a clear cut case of vandalism!"

John had heard jacking off called many things, from self-abuse to seed wasting, but he had never heard it referred to as an act of vandalism before. He was so bemused that he gave his dick another healthy frig from sheer inertia.

He said, "Huh?"

"Vandalism," she repeated. "Why, it's perfectly clear that you intended, to ejaculate on the library books. You nasty young vandal! You don't even have your handkerchief out!"

"Gee, I'm sorry," he stammered, not at all sure that he understood the situation: that the jerking off was not the crime but the soiling of the books was, seemed hard to believe. Would she have merely smiled encouragingly if he'd had the snout of his pecker aimed at a cum rag?

"So you should be. Well, I won't report you this time, but don't let it happen again."

"I sure won't," he said.

Through it all, his uncontrollable pecker had remained rampant. John was trying to tuck it away but it wouldn't bend. It refused to return, unwanked, to his pants.

"Don't break it!" said the librarian as she saw how hard he was manhandling his dork. "You have to be gentle with a pecker, you know… they aren't as hard as they look."

"If it gets any harder…" he grated, mauling it without success.

"No, no! Never, never try to force it," Irma said. "Never bend a hard dick. That's more dangerous than cleaning your ears with a matchstick, didn't you know that? The way to treat a hard dick is twofold. You can ignore it and wait for it to subside through boredom, or you can whack it off."

John gaped at her, his jaw hanging open.

"On the whole, I favor whacking it off," she continued. "It's much quicker and more direct. However, and this is one of the golden rules of librarian lore, one must never, never cum on the books. Do you understand?"

John gulped and said, "Yes, ma'am."

Irma smiled.

"Well, that's settled," she said, reaching for her tape measure. "Now we only have to decide where you should deposit your spunk."

She was a very understanding librarian, John thought.

She said, "I'm sure there must be some novel suggestions in that book. Why don't you select one while I measure your cock?"

John didn't think he'd heard her right, but then he guessed he must have because what did the lusty librarian do but kneel down and commence to gauge his pecker with a tape measure! She took great pains to be accurate, fitting the measure at the root and drawing it up to the helmet while she tilted her head from side to side, judging angles. Her tongue was stuck in the corner of her mouth, thoughtfully.

She must have felt his eyes on her, for she looked up and, explaining, said, "Some people are very slack about dicks, you know. I hate that. It's not at aft efficient. Why, there are women who don't even know the size of the their husband's pricks. Really, I've met some. The sort of women who asks, 'Is it bigger than a breadbox?' and lets it go at that. But that will never do for me. Classifying cocks is a very exacting science, and it should be treated as such."

She nodded, affirming her belief, while she folded the tape measure neatly around the flaring head of his prick.

Since the measuring of a cock necessitated the handling thereof, John's pecker was responding to this measurement in a stormy fashion, bucking like a bronco so that it was hard to take an accurate measurement. Her hands kept slipping off the slippery rod. But Irma persevered, committing the figures to her memory. Then she put the tape measure away and stood up.

"Decided where to come?" she asked.

John had been watching her, neglecting his studies. Now he darted a look at the book and spotted the first word at the head of the column.

He read it, then spoke it: "Buggery."

"Why, you naughty little rascal," Irma said. Then: "It just so happens that your pecker is exactly the right size, in circumference, for that gentle science. What a coincidence!"

"Er… what is buggery?" John asked.

"Why, it's ass fucking dear," said Irma.

John wasn't at all sure that he was ready for ass fucking, what with being a virgin and all. He wondered if he should object. But he wondered too long and by then it was too late… her skillful hands had pumped his dick up to a hard-on that permitted no objections or hesitations.

She opened her blouse and shrugged it back so that her huge tits thrust out. She wore no bra and despite the massive weight of those soft globes, they were firm and upright. The nipples were brown, stiff, elongated. She smiled at John, and John gaped at her knockers. He was afraid to do anything, and stood there with his dick out.

Irma rather liked shyness in a lad. She took his hand and pulled it to her tits, encouraging him to feel the big spheres. He was clumsy at first, not sure how to handle a tit of such proportions. He squeezed and massaged and felt her nipples expand. Then she cupped her tits in her own hands, holding them up and together so that the cleavage deepened and she arched her back, offering her breasts to John. He leaned forward. His tongue licked at her swollen nipples, then he took them between his lips, each in turn, and sucked explanatorily on them.

John felt as if he had been transported to some dream world or other dimension. The whole situation dazed him and he wondered if he was imagining the whole thing: if his brain, deprived of sufficient blood to function normally because so much of his blood had been rerouted down to his dick, might not have started to malfunction. John had a hard-on all day long, and there was no telling what effect that might have on his bodily functions.

As John sucked on her tits, Irma played with his dick some more. She folded her hand around the shaft and used her thumb like a windshield wiper on the sensitive area where the stalk sprouted out into the helmet. His pecker was pulsating like an earthquake, and rippling tremors ran the length of his rod and caused the knob to vibrate.

Irma, a true connoisseur of cocks, liked John's stout member very much. It was not as big as many she'd known, but it was pleasingly shaped and very, very hard. She might have encountered dicks just as hard, but none harder, for flesh could get no harder than the lad's pecker was now.

She lifted her skirt with her free hand.

John, looking down from his feeding ramp, saw that she wore no panties. His eyes sparked as he looked at her big, hairy bush – much darker than her bleached blonde head – spreading out in a wide wedge on her cunt mouth. His hands shook with the impulse to grasp that big cunt but he didn't dare. The librarian was in control, and John felt he had to let her set the pace.

She drew his dork to her and commenced to rub the bloated knob against her belly and hips. She rose on her toes and brushed the tip of his pecker through her pubic thicket. It rustled through the wiry tangle like a well-muscled but velvet-skinned rodent slinking through a thorny hedge. A glob of preliminary spunk squeezed from his knob and matted her pubic hair.

Irma gave a little whimper of delight. Irma loved cum every bit as much as she loved cock, and she often wished she could invent some system whereby she could classify her lovers according to how much jism they yielded during the average ejaculation, but the logistics of such measurement were beyond her. She could have handled it easily if she jerked them off into a vessel, of course. But that defeated the purpose, for she liked their cum in her twat or mouth. Now, delighted at feeling his cream on her vulva, she began to pant.

She drew away, pulling her nipple from his lips. He darted his head after that succulent nugget, like a woodpecker tapping at a falling tree.

Irma knelt and began to rub the head of his dick against her nipples and around her mounds. She fitted his stalk between her tits and gilded up and down on it, so that the big rod fucked up her breastbone. As the tip came squeezing from the top of her cleavage, she lowered her face and tongued the slimy knob. She savored his spunk on her tastebuds, rolling the quick silvery drops on her tongue like a wine taster sampling a rare vintage.

Passion lighted her eyes, and her lips, glistening with cum, turned into a smile of ecstasy. She stood up again.

John, his voice quavering, said, "You could do that some more if you wanted to…"

Irma grinned and said, "Maybe I'll let you come in my mouth someday, you adorable child… hut once you make a decision, you should stick to it… and you wanted something else…"

"I didn't know what it was," he said, still uncertain about ass fucking but overwhelmed by the joy of having her hot tongue lave his dick.

Irma paid no mind to his statement. She had not, in fact, been buggered in over a month and she was looking forward to it. She liked to keep all her holes active, and. John's fine young pecker was just the right size and shape to suit her asshole.

A steady flow of fluid was slowly pulsing from his cleft now, coating the head and flowing down the shaft. Irma figured she had better get his dick inside her before his cum was wasted. She turned and leaned against the bookshelves, supporting her head on her forearm. Reaching behind her back, she drew his prick in to her crotch and slid it up her pussy.

John was electrified with the sensation of being in a cunt. It felt so good that it scared him – how would he ever again be satisfied with his own hand, after knowing the joys of a pussy?

He began to fuck her cunt with fast, hard strokes, burying his cock to the hilt.

But then she wriggled away. "No, now," she chided, "none of that. That was just to get your sweet pecker lubricated…"

She shifted his cockhead to her taut brown anal bud.

John pushed, tentatively.

The crown of his cock slipped into her asshole with a minimum of resistance and her snug hole clamped shut behind the head, holding him inside her. She murmured happily. Arching her back, she hiked her big, firm buttocks upwards and spread her feet wide on the floor. She had both elbows on the shelf now, letting the bookcase take her weight. She began to fling her hips and ass about with wild abandon.

Cunt juice flew from her unattended pussy in a spray, soaking John's thighs.

The lad pushed his hips forward and ran the full length of his cock up her asshole. Her bowels clutched at him, seemed to be rippling up the length of his cock as if trying desperately to milk his load. He drew back and slammed the joint to her again, slipping easily in to the hilt. His dick had been well-oiled in her pussy, and her asshole had lost none of its elasticity during its celebrate period. Her hips darted about in a mad dance and John humped frantically away, driving straight in, fast and hard. He clutched her by the hips, steadying her, and poured the pork steadily into her ass. Then his hands glided up and he clutched her by both huge tits, great handsful of boob that he mauled and clawed as he screwed wildly up her asshole.

John's lust, pent up too long, had no stamina. He pounded the pole in furiously. His balls slapped down onto her twat and his belly slammed against her upraised ass, and within seconds he was pulsating at the height of sensation.

Groaning like a beast in torment, he blew his overloaded balls in an eruption that shook him to the toes. His teeth jarred, his eyes rolled, his neck snapped backwards as the burning lava gushed from his knob and filled her asshole to the brim. Too great a load to be contained, cum came trickling back out and down his shaft and seeped into her neglected cunt.

He hammered four separate spurts into her asshole with violent, savage force.

Then he staggered away and his dick, momentarily spent, pulled out of her clutching asshole, stood straight out from his belly for a moment as if frozen, and began to droop.

Irma, smiling, turned around. She had not come, but it didn't trouble her. A girl that took as much dick in as many ways as the lusty librarian did could not be expected to come every time, she knew. She had a very healthy attitude in such matters, having never been an exponent of Women's Liberation. She was satisfied, and she beamed upon John.

She said, "Well, that takes care of buggery. Tomorrow we can try the next variation." She smiled in expectation because she had memorized that alphabetical list and knew that cunnilingus followed buggery. Although she didn't ever come with a cock, she never failed to come on a tongue.

Not that she would have to wait that long to get her jollies, of course. She did cock catalogue research every single night.

As it turned out, Irma did not have to wait until that evening for her thrill.

No sooner had John – with his schoolbooks at his side now, and a dazed smile on his face – left the library than who should come in but Coach Miller, all clean and pink from the shower.

He leaned on the desk.

Irma smiled up at him, wondering if his dick was in proportion to the rest of his big, broad body. Such, she knew, was not always the case, and often big men had tiny dicks and vice versa.

"I'd like a book on nutrition," he said. "I'm sure I can find what you want."

"This… errr… this is rather a delicate matter," the coach said, looking at her tits which, although splendid, could not be termed delicate.

"Delicate? Indeed!" Irma said, staring at his crotch. She didn't much care for delicate cocks. She liked robusts, roughshod rods. His pants bulged promisingly.

"In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, I want to know the caloric and nutrient value of… errr, juice."

Irma batted her eyes and Coach Miller blushed. But he continued, dogged and determined: "And cum, too. It's a reciprocal arrangement, you see."

Irma knew all about such things. Not at all taken aback by the weird request, she thought for a moment.

She said, "The latest research into the subject finds that there are approximately seventeen calories to the average gentleman's orgasm. But that will vary, of course, from man to man. And according to the time period between coming. That is, the longer you wait, the more spunk you blow and, it follows, the more calories in the load. As far as vitamins and minerals, I'd have to look that up, I'm afraid I've always concerned myself more with volume and texture and heat than with content. But cunt juice… I'm not sure any research at all had been done in that field. Surprising, to say the least, in this day and age when everyone is concerned about keeping fit and losing weight while, at the same time, all and sundry suck pussy."

Miller was gaping at the librarian. Her worry had gone right to his balls, and his dick was uncoiling like a spring in his pants. This did not go unnoticed.

Irma said, "What I would suggest is that we gather together a few grams of each and take them to the laboratory for analysis. We might even combine on writing a paper on our findings."

Coach Miller had always secretly aspired to scholastic recognition. He said, "What a good idea."

"If you'll supply the cum, I'll be more than pleased to provide the cunt juice," Irma said. She smiled meaningfully. "Of course, you will have to fetch it from the supplier."

Millet grinned crookedly. "I'm good at that," he said.

Irma was thrilled, but she knew that she mustn't let her new research interfere with her cock catalogue.

"The first step, I think, is to measure your dick," she told him. "Their we can use that as a yardstick to measure the cubic capacity of my cunt."

She whipped out her tape measure. Coach Miller, undaunted, whipped out his dick.

Irma, in her lifetime, had looked fondly upon six thousand cocks, giving or take a few that had shown up before she started to catalogue them. She estimated that about forty-two thousand inches of pecker had been in and out of her body, more than half a mile of track laid in her various holes. Irma thought she had seen it all.

Irma took one look at Red Miller's bludgeon and fainted dead away.