Bethany's
Troll by
XerXes
Xu.
Author of “Bar Girl” now available at
Smashwords.http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/95688
© Copyright XerXes Xu 2011Published by Strictly4Play Productions at Smashwords.
Second Edition: 11th March 2012.
ISBN: 978-1-4661-0261-3
This short story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes.
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Chapter 1. Frenzied Masturbation.
Desperate for relief, and in a torment of sexual arousal, Bethany tore away her knickers, threw herself back into the occasional chair standing inside the balcony door, pulled up her skirt, spread her legs, then, as eddies of the fresh evening breeze tickled across her thighs, she clasped the index and forefinger of her right hand to her vagina, and began to masturbate urgently. Closing her eyes, she placed her feet on the floor, arched her back, pressed her fingers to her tumescent clitoris and rapidly stroked it with accurate and firm caresses.
As soon as her vagina responded with a flush of it's slippery secretions, enabling her fingers to glide effortlessly back and forth, causing her bristling clitoris to radiate the sweet sensations she was seeking, she synchronised the rhythm of her breathing and the twitching of her thighs, and allowed the cares of the day, indeed the whole external world, to melt away, and concentrated on her fantasy.
Seeking to achieve a relieving climax as rapidly as possible; to focus her frenzy, she conjured an old, favourite and proven fantasy. Bethany imagined herself the, limp and powerless victim of a dark, menacing troll whose face was creased into ugliness by lust and greed. She knew not why, but he had chosen her - and chosen her out of the crowd, from amongst all the other girls - and by some cunning trick had hypnotised her, and made her his biddable concubine. Frightened by his demeanour, horrified by his appearance, nonetheless, by indecent displays, she lures him to her.
Possessed of an erection, so long and so girthy that it threatens to split her open, the troll pauses over her, ready to plunge in and selfishly slake his lust. His cruel eyes pour over her, and excited by the fear in her eyes, his erection pulses with anticipation at each of Bethany's sobs. Though the troll cannot speak, she can hear his unspoken desires echoing inside her head and, against her will, like a puppet subject to his command, her body moves to accommodate his desire. Her shapely, athletic legs, which had carried her to victory on the athletic track, and mastered the most complex dance step, heedless of her appeals, part.
The troll, seeing the invitation, lets out a guttural cry, and seizing her by the hips, brutally slams his straining penis into her, abruptly stretching her vagina and penetrating deep. He plunges as deeply as he can, rudely barging up against her cervix, pushing it back into her abdomen. She receives his thrust with an involuntary cry of delight as her vagina expands to its maximum capacity to accommodate the massive press of firm, hot, male flesh. The fearful tingling in her genitals gives way to relief, then a pleasurable sensation of fullness as her vagina clings, like a glove two sizes too small, over this most welcome gatecrasher. For a moment, she sees her troll’s face soften, and a look of joy flickers fleetingly across a contented, handsome face, before he once more grits his teeth, screws up his eyes with effort, and begins to pump vigorously. Increasing the force at each successive thrust, he desperately seeks to persuade his testicles to vent their contents explosively into her. The troll's large, leaden balls begin to slap furiously against her arse, and after each slap her guts bounce like jelly until her bowels resonate like an alarm clock bell. Faster and faster he pounds, and more and more tightly her vagina hugs itself in slippery welcome against this runaway jack-hammer, liberally lubricating the silky surfaces gliding, in mutual caress, over one another.
His mouth opens, and he groans, as he approaches his climax.
In her imagination, Bethany grabs him, both hands around his buttocks, and pulls with all her might, urging him to greater efforts, to pump faster, to penetrate more deeply.
In the flesh, she now has both hands clasped over her vagina, her back arched, hanging there, while she imagines her swain's hips fused to hers as he jets sticky semen onto her cervix .
She hears her troll’s animal grunts as he jerks against her, more effortfully with each thrust, seeking to expel his semen with explosive force, willing it to blast through her cervix and flood copiously into her womb. She is picturing herself, pinned helplessly beneath this powerful, ferocious creature who mercilessly drives his penis into her, intent only on impregnating her with his profuse load. Then, the primal woman, at her core, throws opens the gates of her cervix, ecstatically steals his seed, gulps it in and, by consuming it, achieves bliss.
Control of her bowels is lost in this moment of triumph. A jet of silver urine spurts from her urethra, arcs towards the balcony and breaks into droplets through which the setting sun diffracts. Once - twice - three times - she watches her fountain shoot in celebration across the balcony to disintegrate, like a star-burst rocket, into glittering droplets, which cascade back to earth beyond her convulsing limbs. After this crescendo, gradually, the fantasy fades, and feelings of pleasant release ripple outward from her clitoris, invading and relaxing the whole of her body. The whirlwind of desire, which whipped her mind into this orgiastic riot, gradually abates. Violent motions cease. Control and rationality seep back, and pleasure floods her being. Now her breathing slows, and her fingers lazily circle her vagina in loving and slippery gratitude.
Bethany spits on her fingers, and for a few more minutes bathes in the afterglow of her best ever orgasm. While she contentedly massages her clitoris, she reflects on the reason for her uncharacteristc loss of control. Usually, she would plan her moments of solitary pleasure, and fit them around the rest of her life: they did not intrude, and certainly were not forced on her. Later this evening, she would masturbate again, at a time and in a manner of her choice, but she doubted whether this pleasant, but routine, recreation would prove as fulfilling or intense as the spontaneous, involuntary drama she had just enjoyed.
Chapter 2. Indulgent Self-titillation.
For seven hours, Bethany had anticipated that orgasm, and, as each hour passed, her imagination had grown more fevered, her need greater. The craving had been a snowball rolling downhill all day, ever increasing in mass to produce this avalanche of carnal delight. The snow ball had started as such a small thing.
During the morning break, she had intruded on a silly, schoolgirl conversation between some third formers. As a new teaching assistant at St Onan's Co-Ed Academy, she was still getting to know the pupils, and they were still testing the boundaries with her. She had been supervising, and gently reproved a clique of third form girls for their boisterous behaviour.
“If you continue like that, I may have to write you up for detention.” she threatened them, unconvincingly.
“Mr Hunter said he'd like to tan our backsides,” chipped in Shirley, a mouthy blonde with fulsomely swelling breasts, “like when he was at school.”
“AND, he was looking at Charlene's backside.” added Shirley's sidekick, the mischievous Nora, to group laughter.
Charlene was a black girl with a developing figure, but, most noticeably, an impressive backside.
“Now! You mustn't speak about your teachers like that. You must show respect for staff.” said Bethany, trying in vain to sound authoritative.
She was only seven years older than these girls, and herself looked a teenager. Many years would pass before she could develop either the gravitas or asperity to cow third formers.
“Miss - Devon says he's a pervert,” said Shirley, “he says Mr Hunter likes to spank schoolgirls.”
“I don't think you need pay any attention to what spotty schoolboys say, that just happens in Devon's vivid imagination.” replied Bethany.
“Miss, do you think it's really Devon who'd like to spank Charlene?” asked Nora impishly.
“That's enough, now move along.” said Bethany uncomfortably, but as sternly as she could.
As the girls slouched away, Charlene said loudly, “Devon's sister told me he likes to spank the monkey. He ain't putting his sticky hands on my arse.” and she wiggled her hips to emphasise her prominent asset.
A confident, adult voice broke in, “What was that all about? Are you having a problem with the girls?”
It was Mrs Cooper, the biology teacher. With short lank hair, and dressed in trousers, she was somewhat androgynous in appearance. Had she not been known to be married she could have been mistaken for a lesbian.
“No. They're just being disrespectful about Mr Hunter.” said Bethany.
“What are they saying now?” asked Mrs Cooper.
“That he likes to spank schoolgirls, in a perverted way.” replied Bethany.
“I don't think there is another way,” said Mrs Cooper, suddenly becoming serious, “Has he touched any of the girls?”
“No, nothing like that,” replied Bethany, hastily, “he just said that, when he was at school, they would have had their backsides tanned if they misbehaved in the way they had been doing.”
“Mmmmmm – he's a bit of a mystery still.” Mrs Cooper said in her grandmotherly voice, “Like you, he's new this term. All we know about him is that he's divorced and has been working in Africa for twenty years. He seems to be from another age. The tweed jacket, elbow patches, short back and sides. He looks like my teachers did. He's very good, but he shares my grandfather's attitudes. And, in Africa there's no distance between the teachers and pupils. We don't know what he's been getting up to. The male teachers are always having flings with the girls. Then, there's the corporal punishment thing, that's still standard practice in Africa. For all we know, he HAS acquired an unhealthy taste for spanking school girls. It's an occupational disease for male teachers. In colonial days, many a missionary was sent home in disgrace after he succumbed. Is he showing an interest in Charlene? What was she saying about putting hands on her arse?”
“That was Devon, not Mr Hunter.” Bethany told her.
“Well good luck to Devon. He's aspirational, but not particularly realistic”, said Mrs Cooper, “Charlene's much more likely to succumb to Hunter's art-deco attraction.”
From that moment, Bethany's impression of Mr Hunter changed. No longer did he seem a fusty and curious refugee from a gentler age, a stereotype unworthy of attention. Garbed in this air of mystery, and tainted by suspicions of exotic sexuality, arising in truth more from her own desire for titillation than anything proved against him, she began to regard him through the immature eyes of the third formers she had rebuked, building solid bricks from insubstantial straw. In a world of soft cords and moleskin jackets, where teachers sat casually amongst the pupils, on their level, to impart their learning, Mr Hunter's Harris Tweed jacket, cavalry twills and polished brogues, his ramrod straight back as he stood, towering above his pupils, at the front of the class, set him apart.
Through the remainder of the day, Bethany clothed these physical certainties with imaginative flesh. The frisson she first felt, when Mrs Cooper speculated that his duties in Africa may have infected him with an unwholesome interest in his charges, delighted her, and in the tedious interludes inevitable in her work, she cultivated it. She imagined him divorced, living alone in a bachelor apartment, but each day having to teach classes of nubile young girls who posed and postured provocatively in response to their surging, pubescent hormones, unconscious of their invitation to any interested male. These girls, who would excite him, would inevitably misbehave.
She considered also that because of the aids holocaust, Africa would not be a place where a sensible man would resort to prostitutes or even casual partners. The only physical intercourse he would have with womankind, would be when he administered a just punishment in the course of his duties. She thought, what torment it must have been for him to have these lovely girls laid across his lap, to feel their warm soft bodies press against his crotch, to see their lovely buttocks displayed before him, and to be able only to touch briefly as his hand struck home, in chastisement. Bethany could readily imagine that a man in his, desperately deprived, situation, no matter how pure his motive, would find himself aroused to involuntary ejaculation.
How long would it be before such a poor creature would seek out misconduct, telling himself that if peace of mind resulted from justly administered censure, no harm resulted, and the fact that he received a collateral benefit in no way diminished the benefit resulting to his pupils. She understood that. Indeed, she could feel sympathy for him, even pity. After all, he was upright and responsible, a good man who deserved the enjoyment of a woman, an enjoyment from which he was cruelly cut off for so long. She felt a tender understanding of his predicament and was, in a way, relieved that he had been able to achieve some comfort during his long years of deprivation.
During the day, in passing, she saw Mr Hunter several times, and now observed him with a keen eye.
At lunch time, he was in the cafeteria. Her attention was drawn to him, and she kept him under furtive surveillance. As he chatted with his colleagues he sat straight in his chair. He spoke freely, and from time to time his stern face would break into a winning smile. When he finished lunch, his plate was clear, save for his cutlery which was set at right angles to the table's edge. Five minutes before the bell rang for afternoon class, he checked his watch, rose, tugged on the lapels of his jacket to ensure it hung correctly, and strode with purpose towards his classroom, leaving his reluctant companions to rifle among the paper garbage in front of them for the final biscuit, to then slouch off, two minutes after the bell rang, to arrive last, in a classroom in chaos.
As a classroom assistant, Bethany quickly learned that it was a mistake to arrive promptly in class. Most teachers would seek to foreshorten their ordeal by arriving five minutes late, and a prompt classroom assistant would find herself, shorn of authority, but responsible for the behaviour of an unruly class.
Not so with Mr Hunter's classes. She had heard that before the first pupil arrived, he was there. As they trooped in, he greeted and seated them and set them some useful task to keep them productively occupied. Unless he gave permission, he permitted no voice other than his to be heard. When he gave instructions, no discussion was permitted, he expected them to be promptly carried out. She remembered, at the beginning of term, his voice could be heard at the other end of the school as he reprimanded those who were slow to adapt to his rules. However, over the first two weeks such occasions had grown fewer, and now he was rarely audible outside his classroom.
Chapter 3. Febrile Imagination.
After lunch, through a long period of tests, when her function was to invigilate, Bethany occupied her mind once more with teasing speculation about Mr Hunter's history. Respectable though he was, she wondered how corrosive the sexualised punishment, she fancied he was forced to administer, would have been to his moral fibre. Through all those years, could he really have resisted the temptation to seek relief in purely recreational contact. Surely, like a lawfully prescribed painkiller, such just chastisement would become addictive, and the desire become for - more often - and more powerful. This would lead him to stray onto the dark side to meet his needs.
She remembered that in Africa there were so many pretty girls, just as naughty as any you find here, but poor, and amenable to any offer of “une petite cadeau”, especially if no work was involved. In all those years, could he really have resisted the temptation to place the prettiest girl, the one who excited him most, in detention, and offer her the possibility of, not just early release, but also some pocket money to buy a new dress. Bethany asked herself what she would do in that girl's situation. She knew what Charlene would do, but would she do it herself? Charlene was, one of those girls who was naughty so often, that you knew she deserved chastisement for something, even though you knew not precisely what. Indulging her fantasy, Bethany imagines Charlene, in Africa, in poverty, in detention, in Mr Hunter's form room.
She pictures that greedy, lustful expression on the face of her troll, imposed on Mr Hunter, and imagines the disturbance in his cavalry twills as he admires this lovely young schoolgirl sitting before him. The wretched girl is coquettish, and he knows she has been up to something. They are alone in the room, neither wishing to be there but knowing that they cannot leave until Charlene has atoned. Mr Hunter sees a way that this can be achieved and they can both be on their way.
“Charlene,” he says sharply, “your behaviour seems to be getting worse, what have you been getting up to.”
“Nothing, Sir.” she says.
“I know you haven't been getting up to nothing. You've been getting up to something, but I don't yet know what it is. I'm disappointed in you, I expected better.
”Charlene hangs her head, and stares guiltily at the floor.
“This isn't detention only for you, you know, it's detention for me also. Do you think I enjoy wasting my evening sitting here supervising you?” he asks.
“No Sir”, says Charlene, faintly.
“I think it would be better if I spanked your bottom now, get it over with, and then we could both go home. What do you think?” he suggests.
“I don't like being spanked. It hurts.” says Charlene.
“In the circumstances I don't suppose I have to spank you hard, after all, I don't really know what you've been doing, so I can give you the benefit of the doubt. I won't be like your father.” he cajoled.
“I don't know, Sir.” she replies, still looking at the floor.
“Look at me Charlene.” Mr Hunter instructs.
She looks up at him, starts, and asks anxiously, “Why do you look like that sir? Your face frightens me.”
“I'm sorry if I appear frightening, I just feel a little unwell and really do want to go home as soon as possible.” he explains, “but you're keeping us both here.”
“Sorry Sir” she apologises.
“Look, would it make any difference if I promised to smack you gently, and gave you one of these.” He holds up a bank note.
Charlene's eyes light up. “Ohhh Sir.” she says enthusiastically.
Seeing that Charlene is now disposed to accept summary punishment, and go home, Mr Hunter explains the course he proposes to follow.