He continued: "You have faced the lonely and difficult road of the warrior. You have been instructed in the ways of discipline, sacrifice, and sensual awakening. And you have emerged as champions. And so, tonight, we say: to the victors go the spoils!"
"TO THE VICTORS GO THE SPOILS!" the crowd exploded in a cacophonous mirth: whooping, stomping, whistling, screaming. Tomlinson encouraged the boisterousness with his outstretched arms, then quieted them with a flick of the wrists.
The music began to play again, but with a much different vibration. It was sonorous and tribal, evoking a Druidic ritual or a Medieval chamber orchestra. Jake watched on the monitor as Tomlinson began to open his robe, his hairy chest coming into view, then his paunch, then his gray sex organs and thin legs. He raised his arms above his head as the audience yelled out in approbation. Two helpers clad in black appeared from nowhere, and adjusted the chains that supported Holly's X-shaped crucifix, working the pulley so that it lay parallel to the ground, about twenty inches from the floor.
No, thought Jake. Not him. Not like this.
Tomlinson walked in front of her, and stood between her gorgeous legs. "With this act, I welcome you into our community of excellence," he declared loudly, audible above the music without the microphone. He touched both of her thighs with his hands, pulling her closer to him. The two assistants stabilized the contraption as the athletic director worked his hands along her smooth young body, reaching at last her magnificent breasts, squeezing the nipples lecherously between his thick fingers.
The camera zoomed in on his semi-hard penis while he stroked it to full erection. He's going to be her first, Jake knew. He's going to take her virginity; that was supposed to be mine. The lesson on
primae noctis
from one of Mr. O'Malley's history classes popped into his mind. He switched to the monitor of Holly's face — she was smiling, but in his heightened altered state he could tell she was apprehensive and uncomfortable. Be gentle with her, he silently prayed, or I will fucking kill you.
Tomlinson opened her vagina with two fingers and placed his wizened old cock into her hole, wriggling until it entered midway. She ululated like a mournful feline as he pushed himself deeper inside her. Her eyes went wide; her pupils dilated. She cried out in what sounded like real pain, and her thrashing shook the chains. Tomlinson placed his thumb above his cock, where her clit was; suddenly he saw her shake, and her whole expression changed. Holly repeatedly began to moan. For an old man — sixty-five? seventy? — he moved his hips suavely to the slow rhythm of the song. Holly's eyes disappeared, rolling back into her head as her eyelids quivered. She grunted shamelessly over and over to the beat of his motion.
A whoop came out from the crowd, followed by another and another, until all of the audience applauded and cheered. In the wide-shot monitor, Jake noticed a small man with long hair being lowered down by a harness, right above his first girlfriend ever. He too was naked, save his belt, and his huge cock hung down ridiculously from his tiny body; another helper assisted him as he neared the ground so that his pelvis was over her face, his legs over her torso. Holly's mouth instinctively gravitated to the man's cock; she greedily took it into her mouth. The onlookers were jubilant; Jake was forlorn but spellbound.
Her head moved back and forth, taking as much of his cock as she could. It seemed as if this was not her first time. The Accomplice, he thought. She seemed to pause, cough, and react to the vigorous thrusting that the old man was inflicting upon her.
The black-clad assistant twirled the dangling stud a hundred-eighty degrees, so that his face was now over her pussy, as she still managed to suck his cock, which twisted in her mouth like a screw. He grabbed her legs and pulled himself into her, licking her clit; Holly quaked and convulsed, ready to explode. Tomlinson pulled out of her, his cock red from her ruptured hymen; he pushed himself lower, touching her anus with his tip. Holly eyes open wider, a look of sudden panic came over her. Tomlinson bent his legs, arched his back, and steadily shoved himself in. Holly could no longer keep sucking, attempting to cry out, her sounds stifled by the hard penis still inside her mouth. The man was lifted up again, adjusted in mid-air by his team, then let down again so that his hips were right above hers. Another assistant took his cock and put it inside her, as the other pulled on the chain, working the man like a marionette, eliciting screams of passion from Holly that sent cold rivers of sweat down Jake's brow. Part of him wanted to believe she hated this, but the more he watched the more he could see in her eyes and hear in her voice her absolute sexual bliss.
Good for her, he thought. All of a sudden he felt more joy than jealousy, and he was glad of it.
His chains began to jingle, and he lost his center of gravity. Before he knew it, he was looking up at the ceiling, the overhead lights momentarily blinding him. He lifted his neck as high as it would go. The music changed once more; horns and reeds played a triumphant melody, cymbals crashing the percussion. He could see the silhouettes of the crowd, a red stage light behind them. A figure appeared and stood in front of him, blocking the light. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust, to see that it was Ms. Bandy.
Her hands carefully undid the toggle fastenings of her black robe. The front of it parted, but he was still partially blinded by the lights and his own weird visions. She took the robe over her shoulders, then let it fall gracefully to the earth like a feather. His eyes adjusted more. There she was — Ms. Bandy, Trish, Minerva Mentor — the desire of his heart for a year — fully naked — perfect breasts and nipples and hips and legs; she even leisurely spun around to show him her perfect ass — perfect everything, everything! — smiling beatifically at him.
"With this act, I welcome you into our community of excellence."
She playfully pushed his cross, rocking him like a child on a swing set, until two more assistants took the reins and supported his weight. Trish crouched low like a cat and climbed upon his chest. He took in her smell, the softness of her skin, the devilish twinkle in her eye as she made her way forward to kiss him, her bent knees up at his armpits, her warm vagina resting on his abdomen. She reached around his head and released the ball gag, letting it drop to the floor. She leaned in. They wrapped their tongues around each other's, swimming in the other's mouth, for what felt like whatever he imagined eternity was.
She transferred her weight forward, placing her hands on his shoulders and her elbows on his pecs, and she brushed her tits back and forth across his face; Jake opened his mouth, tongue out, attempting to lick her nipples as they passed, like one trying to catch snowflakes in a flurry. She stopped, allowing him to take one; Jake suckled at it, relishing the taste, drinking it in. A tear escaped the side of his right eye.
She inched her bottom toward his crotch, as he became aware that he was already incredibly hard. She arched her back and imperceptibly lifted her rear, opening herself up, kissing his tip with her labia, expertly sliding him into herself. His virginity was shed by gradations: first like scratching a long-held itch; then, as she enveloped his cockhead, he felt like he was coming back to a home he never knew. As she pushed him in deeper, he could feel everything; she clenched at his chest with her fingernails, making noises only he could hear, her face a blend of indescribable emotions as his rock hard phallus forced her walls apart, and sex became his immediate obsession. He was now a man, and men fucked.
Trish Bandy fell on top of him, her face at his ear. "Oh, god, Jake," she moaned. "I've been waiting so long for this . . . I've wanted you inside me since the first day of school . . ." As she squirmed back and forth, he felt the cool of the air on his wet cock melt into the feverish heat of her tight pussy. She sat up, too quickly it seemed, as a look of shock rang across her face. "Oh! You keep hitting my . . ." Her words transformed into a birdsong of elated delirium, as he found he could manipulate her facial reactions by undulating his hips. I'm gonna make you come, he thought, his eyes squinting at her malevolently. This is my sweet revenge.
Jake sensed that there were more hands caressing his body; he swiveled his head left and right, and saw two more naked women at his sides: one he recognized as the Channel Five meteorologist - about thirty years old, auburn hair, breast implants, freckles all over her body; the other he did not know - dark black, with frizzy hair and full, pouty lips, athletic arms and shoulders, gorgeous eyes. They kissed at his ears and neck; the black woman fed him her nipple, which he sucked readily.
Ms. Bandy was howling and shaking while riding his cock: "Uh-huh, yeah . . . yeah, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your big fucking dick!" A hand was now fondling his balls; he did not know whose. He looked into the crowd; some watched, some danced, some masturbated, some writhed on top of each other: nude, oiled, slithering like a pit of snakes. He turned to his right, watching two men fuck Holly to orgasm, who heaved gutturally as she came, and it seemed to him as if a ray of light shone straight out of her mouth. He could no longer tell the difference between his hallucinations and reality, and he did not care.
His gaze returned to Ms. Bandy, and they locked eyes. He relived every moment between them — their first encounter, her now obvious ruses and machinations; his simple, sweet nervousness around her, and all the lessons she taught him, unconscious as he was to them, which only now made sense — as he watched the subtle changes in her face, as the orgasm grew inside of her, exciting his cock further.
