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The College Pro
Copyright © 2016 Taylor Teen
Darque Taboo Press
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All Rights Reserved: No part of this publication may be reproduced or retransmitted, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher; with the exception of brief quotes used in connection with reviews written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper.
Disclaimer: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic, adult language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable which might include: multiple sexual practices, heavy and strong BDSM themes and elements, erotic elements and fetish play. This e-book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/Fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles. All characters depicted at least eighteen years of age or older.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.
By the time Jerry August shot his red Jaguar into the circular drive in front of the Powell College Administration Building, he was in the mood to kill. He hated the inactivity of driving, and the six hours from the city had been long and hot. What was bothering him most, though, was the nagging fact that the Chief of Police won a point at his expense. These three summer months he was going to have to waste at this school would give the Chief plenty of time to get one of his own boys in Jerry's job.
There was no parking spot, so Jerry stopped in the middle of the narrow drive, blocking it entirely, and hopped out. He was halfway to the door of the old brown brick building when a triple horn blast and a shouted, "Get that damn red toy out of my way!" stopped him. He turned to see a black, chrome-heavy convertible carrying a fat man, whose face was a soaking red from the heat of the early June day and his own anger.
The fat man made a sweeping gesture that started as a beckoning swing to Jerry and ended up pointing to his car.
"Come on, Jack," he yelled. "Move it!"
Jerry looked at him and was delighted at the prospect of a way of releasing his ride-tensed nerves.
"Screw you, fat boy," he called back. "Reverse out and go around."
The man reacted just the way Jerry wanted. He got redder and started to race his engine as he yelled, "You move or I'll ram it, you lousy punk."
Jerry started to move toward the convertible. He walked with the long rolling stride of a man who used his six-feet-high, two-hundred-pounds of muscle. Not with the light bouncing step of a runner or a basketball player, but with the force and purpose of a wrestler crossing a ring or a center charging a ball-carrying quarterback. At one time, he had been the latter and he had the bent nose and the hint of a cleat scar below his left eye as reminders. The fat man never saw the scar. He was too far away by the time Jerry reached the curb. As the convertible started forward in the street after backing speedily out of the drive, Jerry heard the man yell, "Lousy punk!"
Jerry had been set to work off a little energy. Now that that was frustrated he felt even worse than before, as he entered the vestibule of the Administration Building.
The walls were painted a dull grey and were heavily chipped, scarred, scratched and written on. Above the silvered, flaky-looking radiator was a pencilled bit of information: "Senorita Betty es una puta". Jerry smiled as he remembered the college he had attended, where the washroom walls in the Language Building had been an education in themselves. All he could pick out of that twelve-year-old memory was the most popular and the most innocent: Kil-roy esta aqui."
In the hall he found the door marked "Dean of Admissions". Jerry walked into a small reception office with a sight standing behind the one desk that made him forget all about his tension and annoyance. The sight was bent forward with her hand inside her blouse, apparently fixing a strap. She was looking down at herself and didn't let his entrance disturb her.
Jerry studied the movement inside the blouse for a moment before asking, "One of 'em get loose?"
"Yeah!" the girl answered. "Damn things are always busting out." She straightened up, laughing, "Hey, how about that? Get the pun?"
He got it and he also got a good look at her. He had never seen such an immense and per-feet package of woman. Her dark red hair was piled so high on her head that he figured the top would be an inch or two taller than his own six feet. Huge, heavily shadowed green eyes watched him with the same interest he was showing. The broad mouth stayed shaped into a smile. He saw why the objects if her corny pun were always "busting out". They were nothing to joke about, but they looked big enough to walk by themselves. Then he let his eyes sweep around the straining skirt and he thought of pillows - tremendous, soft, warm, living pillows.
She pushed one shoulder forward and the other back to give him a more profiled view of her great, lush breasts. At the same time, she slid her palms down and up each hip, causing her taut skirt to wrinkle in the outline of the bottom of her belly.
"Want to buy?" she asked.
"It's like a yacht. If you have to ask the price, you can't afford one."
She sat at the desk and put on a pair of heavy green-rimmed glasses. She leaned forward and her breasts nearly hid her crossed arms.
"Aside from the obvious," she asked, "what can I do for you?"
What a night she's going to be! he thought as he answered, "I have to check in with the Dean." The girl studied Jerry's swarthy, square-featured face dominated by the nearly continuous line of heavy, black eyebrows. Then her eyes went to the short-cut black hair, heavily laced with white streaks.
"How come?" she asked. "You're sure no college kid."
"And you're no secretary," he answered. "What do you really do here?"
She smiled and said, "That's not a very delicate question."
"I don't know how to be delicate. I'm just curious. It's certain that with your face and that body you don't just take notes for some second rank dean in an off-the-road little college like this."
"There's a lot of money in a school like this, big man," she said, throwing her one arm over the back of the chair and leaning back - a movement that brought her breasts up into sharper point.
"Okay, so what do you do here?"
"It's none of your business, but you might say I'm a professional fund raiser."
"What does that mean?"
He wondered if they would keep their shape when she was nude, or if their beautiful bulk would sag disappointingly.
"It means that I sleep with wealthy Alumni," she said.
He felt that she was watching him closely to see his reaction to her job description. He didn't say anything, just let her go on.
"In my own way," she said, stretching her hands over her head and aiming the two perfect mounds directly at him, "I built the Chemistry Building and have added a new wing onto the Memorial Library."
Jerry wasn't sure if he was being kidded, so, in mock but uncertain seriousness, he offered: "Congratulations."
"Thank you. Now, if that answers your stupid question, you may go in to see the Dean." As she said this she pushed a button on her desk.
"What's that for?" Jerry asked, pointing to the button.
"Whenever someone's coming in, I'm supposed to warn him with a buzz. I guess it's so no one'll catch him scratching himself or something."
Jerry laughed. "I want to see you when I'm through in there."
"I'll bet you do," she said; "but I'm booked."
"How do I get a page?"
"Get to where you don't have to ask the price."
The girl's blunt crudeness made her even more appealing to Jerry. "What do they call you?"
"Well, what did your father call you?"
"Bitch-the last time I saw him."
Jerry was annoyed. He moved behind the desk in a few quick steps. He felt the muscles under the girl's soft skin as he grabbed her upper arm and with a wrenching twist stood her up to press her body against his.
"I take just so many smart-ass answers," he said, his lips barely moving.
Her eyes were wider, but with interest. There was no sign of fear in their green depths. "I'm Anna," she said as she forced herself hard against him. She began to twist her hips slowly, and Jerry felt himself stiffen into her soft flesh. His hands lost their grip.
The girl pulled away. She looked down at him and laughed.
"You gonna be able to walk?"
In spite of his urge, Jerry laughed at the girl's remark. His reaching hand was stopped by three sharp buzzes from the box on her desk.
"Better hold back, Tiger," she said. "There goes the school bell."
He reached out to pinch and give a quick twist to a nipple, temptingly outlined under her green blouse.
"Hey, that hurts," she yelped, slapping his hand down.
He laughed again and turned to walk to the door of the inner office, where he turned back to her and said, "I'll see you at recess."
She gave him the time honored gesture of the middle finger pointing straight up, but then she smiled and winked. Jerry wasn't sure just what she was telling him, but it looked good.
The man behind the desk was very thin. His face, with prominent cheekbones, long chin and shadowed, sunken eyes, was skull-like. He was friendly and even gracious to Jerry as he stepped from behind the desk to greet him.
"Mr. August, a pleasure to welcome you to Powell College. I recognize you from your application photo, of course."
Jerry felt the man's nervousness in the short pumping handshake and the way he kept triggering the tip of his ball point pen when he sat back behind his desk. The man's voice, though, was precise and practiced with a trace of an accent-probably English.
"Now, my name is Groves, and please feel free to call on me if I can do anything for you during your summer on our campus." The man said the last automatically as he pulled out the file drawer in his desk, picked out a folder and spread it open.
"The Dean of our Department of Social Science was telling me about your coming. He was quite enthused about the program the Chief of your police department had suggested for you. He commented that apparently your Chief takes a very deep interest in your activities."
Jerry smiled as he lit a cigarette and said, "He sure does. He's very concerned."
The man didn't seem to catch the irony in Jerry's comment.
"As I understand it," the Dean went on, "your Chief has sent you here to take part in some Criminology and Sociology courses for the purpose of bringing your police department up on the latest in the academic approach to these subjects and, at the same time, to offer your own practical comments on some of these same, more theoretical, views."
The guy talks like a book, Jerry thought as he answered, "That's the idea, Mr. Groves, but I may as well put you straight on a few points. Number one, I don't work for the Police Chief. I'm assistant to the head of the City's Department of Probation. But since the Chief wants to worm his lousy nephew into my job, and since he's a fast talker, he sold the Mayor a bill of goods on this goofy college bit. By the time the summer's over, I'll probably be back working a file of cases or be out of a job altogether." The clicks of the ball point pen increased to the tempo of a nervous chatter until the Dean, himself, seemed suddenly aware of the noise. With an apparent effort, he stopped the action. He forced a smile and commented, "I suppose that would be an example of a 'practical comment on a theoretical view'."
Jerry nodded. He wondered why the Dean seemed so jumpy. He studied him as the man leafed through the folder on his desk. There was a refinement, almost an elegance about the man's emaciated but still handsome face.
Jerry recognized the quality of the man's loose-cut grey tweed jacket. Suddenly, Jerry was on guard, with a cop's suspicion, when he detected an attempted casualness in the man's remark, "Oh, I see on your application that you've been in the theater."
Jerry nodded and didn't answer-waiting for the next question, letting him lead.
The Dean, too, was waiting for a comment, and when none came forth he was obviously even more uncomfortable.
Finally, he asked, "What were you? That is... what did you do? Act or... something else?" His question trailed off.
Jerry sat forward in the chair and put most of his weight on his left arm in a pose that he had used when interviewing parolees. It looked like he was ready to jump up and it told the Other person to get on with it-stop wasting time.
"I did a little acting, Groves, but most of the time I worked as a director's assistant. It was a job to get myself through school. I went to the City College mornings and early afternoons, then put in a full evening at the theater."
"Well," the Dean said, "that was certainly a good arrangement."
"Yeah, wasn't it, though."
Jerry stood up and asked, "We all set, pal?"
The man looked surprised at Jerry's fast stand. He got up quickly himself and said, "Actually, no. Please sit down, Mr. August. I have a favor to ask you."
Here we go, Jerry thought as he sat back in the chair. "Really, it's not just a favor for me," the Dean said, lowering himself into his own chair. "It should also be a lot of fun for you. You see we have a Little Theater group in the town that my wife..."
"Sorry, man," Jerry interrupted. "Not interested."
"But, why?" The man was surprised by the immediate response. "What's wrong with Little Theater groups?"
"For one thing the name of those operations: 'Little Theater'. They sound too damn cute! Mostly, though, I just don't go for things like Little Theaters, or church discussion groups, and I'm not strong for service fraternities or garden clubs either. I just don't get my kicks that way, Groves."
The Dean's laugh was strained as he said, "It certainly is refreshing to talk to you, Mr. August. You're probably the most direct person I've ever had in this office. Let me be equally direct, if I may. This is a small college town that you're going to be living in for three months. Since I'm certain you're also not 'strong' for lectures, travelogues, sorority sings or Intramural baseball, you may have a difficult time finding any material for 'kicks', as you put it."
He had a point. Jerry had been wondering where he could find any action in a town like this.
"Now, this theater group is made up from staff and a few students from the college," the Dean went on. "Also, many of the townspeople are members. A number of these individuals are single, like yourself, and, to be frank, they joined the group simply because it's the only way they could party and fool around in a town as restricted as this. How about it? Why not give it a try? You can always drop out if it bores you."
Jerry gave it a quick thought and nodded to the Dean.
"Okay. Might not be a bad idea."
"That's fine," the Dean said. He seemed relieved for some reason. Jerry was about to ask why the concern about simply getting a new member for the group, when the man's next statement gave him a hint.
"My wife will be glad to hear you'll be working with her. With your background, she wants you to direct the next play."
"Your wife? What does she know about my background?"
The man looked embarrassed as he picked up Jerry's application form and said, "I showed this to her when I saw your... your experience in the theater. I hope you don't mind."
Jerry shrugged and shook his head. Apparently the man was interested in getting him in the group because his wife would raise hell with him if he didn't. The poor guy looked like he was a henpecked type.
The man smiled and reached for his phone. "Cynthia asked me to call when you arrived and tell her if you would be willing to help her out."
The man kept smiling at Jerry as he dialed. While the phone rang on the other end, the Dean handed him a typed class schedule. Jerry studied this as the Dean talked into the phone, and he saw that he was going to have a lot of time to kill that summer. Three days a week he had only one two-hour session-an undergraduate Sociology course. There was a graduate level Criminology session and a probation seminar, that he was supposed to help conduct, to fill the mornings of the other two days. The simplicity of the schedule irritated him. About as useful as the well-known tits on a boar! he thought.
"Are you doing anything this afternoon?" The Dean's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Have to find a hotel room, that's all."
"Oh, I can make those arrangements for you," the Dean said. "There's really only one place in town-The Campus Motel' it's called. Cynthia would like you to drop over to discuss the play and to pick up a script. Okay?"
Jerry nodded and noticed that the man's smile seemed to fade for a second-but just for a second.
After hanging up, the Dean gave directions on how to get to his home and then how to reach the motel where he would have a room reserved in Jerry's name. The man was smiling as he shook hands across the desk and repeated his earlier invitation; "Feel free to call on me if I can do anything for you during your summer on our campus."
Jerry was disappointed to find the outer office empty. He figured he could get back in time to see the massive Anna after visiting the Dean's wife.
Most of the people who lived in the town of Wherton were associated with Powell College or were commuters from the capital-20 miles east. The homes Jerry passed as he followed the directions given him by the Dean were mostly old, big and well kept. Even the occasional newer house usually was built in the big-porched, spacious style of its forty to seventy year old neighbors. It was a comfortable, heavily treed town and, like some of the suburbs that surrounded his own city, the place depressed Jerry August.
City born and city bred, Jerry disliked the sense of insulated peace he felt in this kind of town. To him, reality was the noise, the nighttime dangers, the daylight dirt, the people in their variation of color and kind, and the other materials and moods that make a city. The fact that so many of the files in the Probation Department were on kids and young adults from the well-known "good home in the suburbs" never surprised him. He knew that most of them got in trouble when they felt the shock of delight that came on escaping the narrow, protected world of a suburban neighborhood and meeting, without experience, the realities that had always existed a short train ride away. To Jerry, the vaunted security of a suburb was like any defense that was doomed on the appearance of reality-a shield made of wire.
The Groves' white frame house followed the pattern of the area with a huge screened porch across the front and along one side. Jerry climbed the steps, pulled the bell, which was made to look like an antique brass knocker, and listened to the chimed tune he had started.
The house was the kind he could have expected the thin elegant Dean to have, but the woman that opened the door was totally unexpected. Jerry's cop habit of cataloguing faces made him think, "Indian". He learned later that he was right. Cynthia Groves' high, sharply defined cheek bones, her wide, sleepy-lidded eyes and shining black hair-worn parted in the middle and pulled severely back into a tight bun behind the head-came from the blood of her father. She owed the finely shaped nose and full lips to the daughter of a transplanted Finnish hotel owner who had married the Indian lawyer and mothered Cynthia.
The dark eyes stared straight at Jerry. There was no automatic smile to relieve the aloof, almost haughty, beauty of her face. Her greeting was a simple, deep-voiced question, "Mr. August?"
Jerry found himself talking in a quieter voice than usual and being careful in his choice of words as he answered, "Yes. How do you do, Mrs. Groves?"
He felt a completely unfamiliar sense of uncertainty as the woman merely nodded without changing her expression.
"Your husband suggested that we might work together on a theater project you have in mind," he said. For some reason, his words sounded stupid to himself.
"I know," Cynthia said. "I asked him to approach you. Won't you come in?"
She stepped aside to let him in and, as he passed her, he realized how small she was- barely five feet—and she had heels on at that. Somehow she seemed much taller. She closed the door and preceded him into the front room. Behind her, away from the hypnotic attraction of her face, Jerry studied her hips. She was wearing a bright yellow, unbelted dress that buttoned all the way down the front. On each of her steps the yellow silk would plaster itself to the opposite hip and tuck around a full buttock. He wondered how anyone with a backside as cute as that could be so dignified.
By a nod, the woman indicated one of those canvas chair monsters that look so awkward but are at least comfortable. Obediently, Jerry sat in the funny looking thing.
"Before we start discussing the play, can I offer you a drink?" she asked.
"Yes, thanks. Scotch on the rocks, if you have it."
"We have it."
She walked by him to a door at the far end of the room. He loved the way she moved- with her tight little fanny waving at him, seemingly without the knowledge of that serene face.
He stood up and asked, "Can I help?"
She stopped to look back at him from the door, her face still expressionless, and dismissed his offer with, "No need, thank you."
Damn broad! he thought. She had a way of making him feel foolish. For a second, he considered following her through the now closed door, but sat back down when he pictured the look of relatively indifferent disapproval that would probably greet his appearance in the other room. She was back in a few minutes with two glasses. After setting one before him on the very low, very modern coffee table, she sat on the sofa across the table and began to talk about the theater group. She gave, basically, the same description of the group Jerry had heard from her husband earlier. When she commented on his own theatrical experience and asked him to direct the next play, Jerry told her he didn't want to get that involved but that he would probably try out for a small part.
"Well, that's up to you, Mr. August, but we really could use some fresh directing talent."