Professor Wellington looked at his cock, saw the little teething marks on his prick, saw the little trickles of blood that dripped off his pubic hair, saw where the Goddamned Waco State vampire had managed to sink her Colgate teeth.
"You'll pay for this, Betty Ann! I was thinking about changing your grade to an A for your 'Ode to Waco' poem, but now, you little cannibal, you're going to fail, flunk, get a big fat F… like in fucking. Yeah, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to fuck you then flunk you."
Betty Ann was shocked. Repulsed. Disoriented. And petrified – just as petrified as that huge cock that swayed menacing near her face.
How could her professor talk to her like that? He was a romantic at heart, a classicist in mind; yet, he sure was a realist when it came to putting cocks to coeds.
It was hard for Betty Ann to speak because her vocal cords seemed to have been in her stomach, pushed there by a fourteen-inch prick.
And it was hard to see because of the tears that filmed over her contact lenses – naturally, she wore mini-specs because glasses would make her look too intelligent, and most Texans prefer their whores and wives to look like skits and harlots, not some Goddamn career girl who scoffed at crotchiess panties and cupless bras.
And it was hard to hear because Betty Ann's head was buried in several throw pillows that had been thrown by the professor when he had become pissed off at her for chomping on his cock.
And it was hard to feel anything virtuous now because the image of a poetic professor had been ruined by this man who was putting on top of her and grabbing handfuls of tit, then handfuls of aunt as he reached under her skirt.
And it was getting harder to feel anything but the harder-feeling thing that was snaking up between her splayed thighs and entering the very recent tear in her pink cotton panties.
Oh, no! Betty Ann shook her head. No! Not that big cock! Not that monstrous, obscene, oversized piece of meat that most men would call a real humdinger and mast whores would call a real money maker – that's if they charged men by the inch, of course.
But, oh, yes! That humdinger of a prick was just entering her cunt. And, oh, yes, Betty Ann was just going to get the Texas daylights fucked out of her pussy – or rather, her cunt would be so fucking huge after being pronged by that fourteen-inch cock, that there would be plenty of daylight seen between the gaping lips of her pussy.
And now the daylight was entering her pussy. And a dusky darkness was settling over her consciousness.
"Aaaaiiiieeee! It's too big! It's too big! Take it out! I can't take it! Please! Don't fuck me with that huge thing!"
Ha, ha, ha, thought Professor Wellington. Same old words that every coed screamed. Same old tone of voice, too, come to think of it. In fact, they all sounded so real whenever he started wedging his fourteen-inch cock into their tight cunts.
Sob, sob, sob, thought Betty Ann – like in S.O.B.. He was killing her! He was wrecking her for all those future Texas lovers who had normal sized cocks and who would want to fuck her, and once they fucked her, they would walk away thinking that they had just fucked a cowboy's boot instead of a woman's cunt.
"Aaaiiieee! Stop! No more! Please! It's too big! Take it out! No more! Please!"
Professor Wellington paused, gave due consideration to what she said. Was she serious? Nah, shit, he had only gotten in the first inch of his cock – hell, he was just starting to really get into the groove of fucking. She had to be kidding – yeah, typical Goddamn Texas girl always telling their fuckers to stop when they meant go, always saying no more when they hadn't had enough. Pigs, that's what Texas women were. Lying pip.
Betty Ann felt like a pig – a stuck pig, a porker that had just been skewered right up the middle by a pitchfork – not the end with the tines, but the handle. And she felt like a lying pig – lying flat on her back and squealing for her life, her liberty and her future pursuit of happiness with all those soon-to-come Texas lovers with their normal-sized cocks.
But Professor Wellington knew when he had a choice piece of meat under his belly. Shit, she was just like a sow in heat, a bitch with the hots, a mare for mating.
Typical animal woman from Texas.
He shoved.
She screamed.
He reshoved, because the first shove had managed to push his cock in three inches, and there was a good ten more inches of cockmeat to go.
She screamed again… and again… and again. Like this: "Aaaiiieee! Aaajiieee! Aaaiiieee!"
In a series of hinges and jerks and sweat-heavy pushes, the professor got all his fourteen inches of cock rammed home in the deliciously tight meat of Betty Ann's ravaged pussy.
Betty Ann wanted to gag – which is natural for most American girls who are getting fucked by a fourteen-inch cock, because the prick feels like it's somewhere up near their throat instead of near their womb.
Professor Wellington wanted to fuck – which is natural for most American professors who are surrounded daily by the choicest, most available pussies in all of America: the cock-hungry coed.
Betty Ann did gag. Like this: "Aggggghhhh!"
Professor Wellington did fuck. Like this: withdraw twelve inches of cock, then re-enter from where he had withdrawn. Listen to the sound of her cunt sticking to all sides of his cock on the withdrawal; listen to the moist noises as he shoves a foot of prick back into her pussy. See the goo glisten from his cock as he withdraws; see the goo drop all over the new rug as he squishes back into her pussy.
Fucking tends to have a rhythm all its own, depending on the conductor and the musical score, of course.
In Betty Ann's case, Professor Wellington was shoving his prick in and out to the beat of a Sousa march, and her pussy felt as if a hundred-piece band were stomping on her pussy as it paraded back and forth across her clit.
And as is usual with most horny American girls, when something is stomping that many times and with that much force over their clit, all painful though and sensations are diminished and they really get into the beat of things.
And being as Betty Ann had a normal, sensitive cunt, she didn't want to be out of step with that huge cock that was plunging so staccato-like into her pussy. She picked up the rhythm real fast, no novice was she when it came to keeping her cunt in tune with the cock that beat back and forth in her cunt.
Ah, what sweet music – the squish, squish, squish of a rhythmic cock fucking in-out, in-out, of a hot pussy.
Ah, what sweet rapture – like a duet that had been playing for centuries, they fucked as if they had been made to fuck each other.
Now, no one could keep score with the fast and furious fuck pace they set.
For an old man of fifty-nine to fuck at sixty strokes a minute was amazing, incredible, awe-inspiring.
Not only was Betty Ann amazed and awe-inspired, but she felt incredible sensations that emanated from the fourteen-inch, fifty-nine year-old cock that was fucking in and out of her pussy – sensations that made her hair stand on end, made her clit elongate, made her tits not only perspire, but peak upwards, made her throat feel warm and her ass hot, made her mouth open like a blowfish that was trying to learn the English language in order to say, "More! More! More!"
And, since Betty Ann was no blowfish, but a simple Texas girl who had suddenly become a regular meat-hungry, cock-grinder, she said, "More! More! More! Give me more cock! Ooooooooh, the way you fuck! Harder! Deeper! More cock! I need more cock!"
Thus, out the window went all those future Texas boy friends and regular-sized pricks who would have felt disappointment anyway but not having any friction around their pricks when they fucked a hole that was made more for trains than cocks.
Out the window went all those staid inhibitions, and voiced moral lessons that she had learned when she was chosen head choirgirl for the Episcopal Church of God and Saints.
But, also, out the window was Dean Jubal Mathis, who was peering in the window and making man-made snowflakes as he ejaculated in torrents, his hand flying over his cock and his cum flying in hailstones against the windowpane.
The reason Dean Jubal Mathis was out in the cold and dark, jacking off like a lust-crazy monk, was because he always stopped by the rented cottage to see who was fucking whom and with what.
Such knowledge helped him when he had to negotiate with many of the professors when they came before him for their annual salary review. Never mind that he was ninety years of age; the board of trustees for Waco State College had a lot of faith in the old geezer for getting the best professors in the land to work for slave wages, and they always renewed his contract and always gave him a hefty raise because they also knew that Dean Jubal Mathis had the goods on them, too.
Dean Mathis smiled Scrooge-like when Professor Wellington had pulled his cock out of that delicious pussy and started coming like a wildcat oil well all over Betty Ann's tits and heaving belly. Smart young man that professor – he wouldn't get caught in any paternity suit like some of those dumb-ass Waco State football coaches.
Dean Mathis put his cock away, which was relatively easy because he had a normal sized six-inch prick. He zipped up his gray flannel pants. And before walking away from the snow-white window, he took one picture of the scene inside of the cottage. That's how good he was at getting people by the short hairs – the blackmailing practice had taught him a lot about cameras and photography.
All those meetings in the cottage were flow behind Mrs. Betty Ann Wellington. She had aged since that cottage affair – she was now twenty-one and she had changed a lot.
For one thing (er, maybe two things) her tits had grown another inch. Whether it was because of drinking so much milk – she was a Pat Boone fan – or because so much jizz had caked on her titties over the past two years, she didn't know. But now she sported a hefty pair of forty-fives.
For another thing, her cunt no longer had the elasticity it once had whether it was because she had been fucked hundreds of times by a cock fourteen inches long and seven inches in diameter or whether it was because she had given birth to ten-pound twins (ten pounds apiece, that is), she didn't know either. But now she sported a pussy that felt more like a sewer manhole.
But all those things were behind her – in the past, in the by-gone days, in the yesteryears.
What was in front of her now was a drooling, wrinkly, prune-faced old geezer named Jubal Mathis who was getting ready to fuck her with his six-inch prick – it was the price that Professor Ivan Wellington had decided to pay in order to get back the three hundred prints that the Dean had made of that infamous night in the rented cottage.
The arrangement was simple. Dean Jubal Mathis would get to fuck Betty Ann in return for the prints. But, as it turned out, what that smart old fart had meant was that there would be one print exchanged for every piece of ass he got off Betty Ann.
Well, tonight was the eighty-seventh time that Dean Jubal Mathis would get to fuck Mrs. Betty Ann Wellington.
Shit, only two hundred and thirteen fucks to go.