People think that people who choose to be professors of poetry are queer. Well, that's not true at all. What is true is that all Texans think that people who choose to be professors of poetry are queer.
'Cause, first of all, everybody in the Lone Star State has a hard time reading – oh, they can make out what their oil wells are doing on the Dow Jones index, and they can read the box scores of the Texas Rangers, but when it comes to Petrarchan sonnets and Spenscrian stanzas and odes and dirges and wordy things, well, they just think it's dumb-ass queer.
And that's what most of the people on Sophocles Street thought about Professor Ivan Wellington. The only ones who didn't think he was queer were the Marples, but that was because they were fairly normal.
Well, actually there were three people on Sophocles Street on the north side of Waco who didn't think that sixty-one-year-old Professor Ivan Wellington was a gay blade, a Thursday boy, a closet hanger, or a glory-holer. That was Betty Ann Wellington, the professor's wife.
She knew first-hand that old Ivan wasn't any three-dollar bill because that was one of the reasons why she had married him – he could fuck up a storm, fuck as hard as any man who had served twenty years on a deserted isle, fuck as fast as any male who thought that fucking would be outlawed tomorrow.
Yeah, old Ivan could really fuck. He proved that on the first day he had met Betty Ann – or rather, on the first night that Betty Ann met him.
It had happened when Ivan was fifty-nine and Betty Ann was a nineteen-year-old coed at Waco State, a prime candidate for Maid of Cotton, chosen most lovable catch in the dormitory where she had slept only one night, and a typical hot-to-trot, blue-eyed, blonde-haired Texas girl.
It had happened at Ivan's cottage that he rented from the Dean, who in turn had rented the cottage using student athletic funds to provide him and some of his cohort faculty to use for some prime-time athletic endeavors – a sport known as "Fucking Texas Maidens".
There, Betty Ann Jenkins had come to Professor Ivan Wellington on the pounds that she did not deserve the B grade he had given her for her poem entitled, "Ode to Waco". And she was planning to persuade the good old prof to change the grade to an A by using some old-fashioned Texas know-how – namely, she was going to fuck the shit out of the old fart.
But, as most tall Texas tales go, the little heifer was playing around with the bull, and the old fart fucked the shit out of her.
Betty Ann knew her plans were going awry when Professor Wellington greeted her at the door with his ten-inch cock hanging from his fly. Nobody had ever greeted her that way!
"Come in, Miss Jenkins. What seems to be the problem?"
Betty Ann couldn't believe it! His cock was actually hanging naked from his fly – like it was the latest fashion, like it was the latest style in men's clothes, to have a pecker sticking out where there ought to be buttons, or zippers, or tabs, or something to keep that hunk of meat from scaring the shit out of little girls who would later grow up to be big girls who would then appreciate a real man when they saw one.
But there it was, Professor Ivan Wellington's ten-inch prick hanging out of his slacks as naked as the day he was born – only Betty Ann knew that his cock was a lot smaller when he was crib-size. Shit, it just had to be or his mother would have either died on the spot or started having some incestuous notions, depending on what kind of mother she was, of course.
Betty Ann was speechless. Her lips were slack. Her jaw came unhinged. She stared and stared and stared some more.
Naturally, any man with a ten-inch cock who gets ogled that much will start to have ego trips about how well-hung he is, so Ivan started to have an erection. In lifts and surges, his cock was coming erect, growing larger and lengthier with every pounding spurt of blood that high-tailed it to the end of his prick.
Betty Ann's eyes looked like Little Orphan Annie's, and she wanted to scream Leapin' Lizards at that incredible monstrous snake-like thing that was pawing from that gap in the crotch of her professor's pants.
"Why don't you sit down, Betty Ann, and make yourself comfortable."
Betty Ann moved as if her limbs were on puppet strings. And it was very hard to find the couch because her eyes were gazing so intently on that magnificent-looking hunk of cock that didn't look like it would ever stop growing. She sat down without meaning to – sort of backed into the couch and the next thing she knew she had fallen into the cushions. But that didn't mean her eyes left that gorgeous, ever-growing prick that loomed inches from her eyes.
Then that prick got really big because it was coming closer and closer to her face. God! She didn't even have to look crosseyed to take in the tip of the cock and run her gaze all the way back to where brownish, curly hairs sprouted from the beginning of that enlarging prick.
"Would you like to suck my cock, Betty Ann?"
Shock? Revulsion? Retching? Virgin fear? Constipation?
Yeah, old Betty Ann could have felt all of that and more – but she was too enthralled by the size of that monstrous prick. It was like being in Texas all your life and knowing everything comes larger than life, but to actually see it, to know that it is that way – it's enough to make God fear that Texas was bigger than him.
So them was fear in Betty Ann when she stuck out her tongue and took a tentative taste of whatever that white cummy stuff was that was oozing from the tip of that fourteen-inch prick. Then there was more fear in Betty Ann when she discovered that the taste was sort of walnutty and that the flavor was the kind she was nuts for.
So she opened her mouth wide – very, very wide. And closed her eyes for fear that she would see how much cock was left to eat once Professor Wellington started feeding her prick.
Professor Wellington took one step forward just a small, teensy, Mother-may-I type of step. But the six-inch stride was enough to slam a half a foot of cock into Betty Ann's fearful mouth.
"Mmmmmmgggffffhhhhh!" was what Betty Ann said, even though she meant to say, "I came to talk to you about my poem, 'Ode to Waco'."
Spittle and cum came oozing out of the corners of her bulged-out mouth. Betty Ann looked horrendous – eyes wide open fearfully, nostrils crammed against her stiff upper lip, mouth tilled brimful of hearty cockmeat, chin quavering and running over with drool and more white stuff. Jesus, no Maid of Cotton was she – just a simple Texas girl getting her chompers full of hot and hard, fourteen inches of prick.
Silence came to her ears, but that's what usually happens when somebody claps their hands aver a blind man's cars and says: "Guess who?"
But Professor Wellington wasn't playing any guess-who games – shit, Betty Ann knew whose cock it was that was protruding from her suckable lips. No, the good old professor just wanted to get a grip on her head, his palms holding the sides of her face securely. He wanted to get a good grip because he wanted to force more cock into that beautiful mouth.
He forced more cock into that beautiful mouth. And that beautiful face that the beautiful mouth was attached to became not so beautiful, but became apprehensive, then very fearful, then outright terrorized as eight inches of cock were forced into her mouth and down her throat.
Betty Ann wanted to gasp, but the gasp only caused ripples of hot air to course over the supersensitive flesh of the professor's cock and he said, "Aaaaaah, you Texas girls sure know how to suck cock."
Betty Ann wanted to spit that prick out, wanted to push that hairy crotch away from her face. She reached up, placed her hands on those wet and shiny hairs that were four inches from her face.
And the professor said, "Aaaaaa, so you want to feel my balls, do ybu?"
Betty Ann tried to shake her head – no, no, no – but her head was moving up and down – yes, yes, yes – because the vise grips of his hands were making her head and mouth move up and down on his hard cock.
What could she do? What could any good all American can cocksucking girl do when she was confronted with a fourteen-inch prick and when her mouth was only used to six-inchers?
She gagged.
Professor Wellington said, "Aaaaanh, the way your throat just trembles around my cockhead. Ooooooooh, Betty Ann, I know you just want more of my cock."
The old no, no, no came out yes, yes, yes again as Betty Ann's mouth was forced to gorge on more meat, forced to take another couple of inches of hot and hard prick.
And now the professor's prick was no longer perpendicular to his loins. Four inches below the bulging cockhead, his shaft was bending, following the course of her throat tube down to her stomach.
Betty Ann tried to scream!
"Mmmgggfffsssmmm!"
Professor Wellington moaned. "Oooooh, Betty Ann! Dooo that. Again!"
"Mmmmgggggghhhhhhfffssssssssmm!"
"Ooooooh! More, betty ann! More! That feels so good on my cock! More!"
"Mmmmmggggggffffssssmmm!"
It was too bad that Professor Wellington had his head bent back as he thrust his hips forward, consequently pushing more prick into Betty Ann's cock-clogged throat, because he didn't see Betty Ann's horrible expression.
She was obviously in pain – anybody in that much agony naturally has eyes as big as coffee cup saucers. And anguish was very apparent because salty tears were running down her rouged cheeks, joining the sweat and jizz and spit that dripped off her chin. And horror was very evident because she was beginning to fear for her life – which is natural when something as big as a Genoa salami was being shoved down a person's throat.
But Professor Wellington didn't see Betty Ann's agonized facial features because his eyes were closed and his face was a mask of ecstasy. God, her throat was just gulp-gulp-gulping around the head of his cock. And her tongue seemed to be like a limp windshield wiper as it swiped all over his bloated prick. And her lips felt so deliciously wet and tight against his groin. And her teeth felt so painful as she bit down on the base of his cock in order to get his attention.
"Aaaaaaaiiiiieeee! My cock! You fucked-up cocksucker, you bit my cock! You'll pay for this. Aaaaiiieee!"
Betty Ann gasped many times. Huge gulps of beautiful air filled her oxygen-starved lungs, which in turn made her tits loom outwards with each heaving breath, which did amazing things to the Waco State sweatshirt that she was wearing. Yes, even when she was in agonizing pain, she was still a sensuous creature – as most Texas girls are who have bitten off more than they can chew.