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Tales Told Out Of School. 6. Stuck, On A Ladder!

By johnksutherland All Rights Reserved ©

Erotica / Romance


Marilyn is in a panic. She climbed to the top of the ladder as she had intended, but then looked down. It was her own fault, This had been the only way she could get to meet up with Mr. Holdren. Her ‘Associates in Mischief’ look on, hiding, intending to photograph everything. It should have been one of them up there making his intimate acquaintance. They were nonetheless delighted with the way things were going. When David returns, he sees Marilyn’s predicament. He can see and hear that she desperately needs his help. He climbs, deciding to be considerate with her, sympathetic, even amused. He could not help but notice that she did not appear to be completely dressed. He could see everything. This was the cleverest ruse those girls had ever dreamed up for him and he had to give them credit for that. Then he recognizes her. Marilyn? Perhaps it is not as he thought. The circumstance dictates a radical approach. It begins to rain heavily, obscuring everything. It is a warm downpour wetting everything through and through, and it thankfully obscures what is happening between them at the top of the ladder. He might not survive the excitement. He doesn’t want to. Nor does she.

Chapter 1: In The Beginning...

The pangs of first love.

Marilyn had gone through all of the painful and awkward stages of growing up, and had experienced most of it in this school as her life had slowly unfolded and opened up before her.

As she matured, her life was a continuously changing cycle of circumstances, worlds encompassing, and worlds excluding, growing, liking, not liking, fetishes, struggling with mental and physical changes, hormonal swings, awakening sexuality… new feelings not well understood, bodily changes, interesting and awkward changes, even hair growing where it hadn’t before… clothes that no longer fitted her, constantly needing new bras, learning new things, taboo things, unbelievable things about herself and about that mysterious, opposite sex.

There were rules, dress codes, behavioral expectations; conformance, regimentation. No chewing gum! No swearing! No boys! No fun! Developing lifelong friends and enemies, finding food to be both friend and enemy. Learning about the world around her.

Life was a painful learning process. There were times she did not know what to do with herself; did not understand her own feelings. Times when she cried for no known reason.

Everything was clear one moment, then confused the next. She was a welter of warring emotions where minor things became major, and major things were forgotten.

In short she was a typical girl coming to grips with her own internal changes and growing sexuality in a topsy turvey world.

At least she was protected here, but from what? Mostly from herself and her strangely rebellious feelings to do with growing breasts, spreading hips and other changes down there. A few unpleasant changes. And men. A man. One particular man. The only man she knew about.

Now in her eighteenth year and finishing school, she was still caught up in indecision and uncertainty, as all lives were at first, not knowing where her life was taking her as she gradually put childish things behind her, and walked proudly toward womanhood, hoping that she would not stumble and fall flat on her face, yet knowing nothing of what the future would bring her. No one knew that.

However, she knew what she wanted it to be, what it had to be.

He had come to work in the school just over a year ago. His name was David Holdren, and she was in love with him.

It was not a girlish crush, it was real love that had grown imperceptibly over the year. She had not believed it herself at first. No one could fall in love like that, but she had.

The moment she had heard his voice, something changed within her. She became addicted to him, watched him, learned about him and tried to persuade herself that what she began to feel could not be real. There must be something wrong with her.

But it was real.

She could not imagine life without him being in it with her.

She could not get close to him to say anything. Just as well. What could she say that would not sound immature and foolish to him and cause him to laugh at her folly? She stayed well back and waited, while advancing her studies. There would come a time when he would notice her as she noticed him, but it was difficult with hundreds of girls surging through the corridors everyday. Something would eventually change. It had to.

Her refuge from real life disappointments that she began to feel, could take place in her dreams, which had also changed as she had grown older.

Marilyn’s dream was the same each time she had it, but with a hundred minor variations as it evolved, with familiarity becoming progressively more personal between them.

Their age difference, about five or six years was just about right, as girls matured much faster than men. Her dream over the following weeks, developed with the progressive removal of more and more clothing, grading not at all quickly, to complete nudity between them, and without any stumbling or embarrassing awkwardness, but with the characteristic male features in that other place always being slightly obscured, unclear, not well defined. Not defined at all. She didn't really know what they looked like, other than on a statue or in the illustrations of a medical text. There was nothing overtly sexual about it. It just seemed more natural for them to be without clothing as they grew closer together.

That part of it—the obscurity of the genital area—was not surprising as she had never actually seen an adult, living, breathing, naked male before, so she could not be sure what might be lurking there, and she was pretty sure that an adult male was nothing like the cherubim she had seen in the local cathedral, nor like the statue of David, by Michelangelo. However the David of Michelangelo would have to do for her to visualize Mr. Holdren, the subject of her dreams, and who was also, by happy coincidence, called David. She often thought of snuggling into his gigantic embrace, being held against his naked body, naked herself, being kissed, caressed and even going to sleep in his arms.

Unfortunately, the dreams seemed to be likely to be the closest to him she might ever get.

He was still distant, in the real world, and he still did not see her as she wanted him to see her, but usually seemed to look right through her, along with the three hundred other girls in the school.

She did not know what he looked like without clothing, and told herself she didn’t want to know, that that was not part of being in love; love was above that; something more, but that was a lie. Her own mind and body told her that all of the time, the way her body sometimes ached for a deeper knowledge of a man, and what he might do for her in some private moment.

She had to try and imagine him, but without something to base that vision upon other than a few Greek statues or a picture of Michelangelo’s gigantic--twenty foot tall--creation (flaccid, she had heard his phallus, quietly described, and had to look it up, meaning, without an erection; creation, erection, almost the same letters), it did not ever become plausible. It was all so frustrating. It would also have been interesting to know what that part would look like, erect, but she could not imagine that. One of the girls looking over the illustration with her, had guessed that were he erect, that part would be about twenty-four inches of cold, very hard, marble. She soon learned what that word, 'erect', meant. As her own body from crotch to shoulder was only about that length, that item would do a lot of rearranging of internal organs in the female body. Her, female body. It made her uncomfortable to think of that.

The dream involved her, exclusively her of all of the older girls in the school, and him, the grounds-man. She’d dreamed about him (so had a hundred other girls) ever since he had first come into the school.

David Holdren was a handsome man of about twenty-four or twenty-five years of age and he was responsible for looking after everything around the school: the gardens and outside structures, the roofing, painting (though he brought others in to do that to get it out of the way quickly, usually on a weekend), snow clearing in winter, repairing walkways, and keeping the miles of walking, cycling, and ski-trails open, and groomed, which also meant taking out older trees that had been damaged by wind, lightning, or snow-load. He managed the ice surfaces in winter for ice-hockey, ice-skating, or ringette—a team sport also played on ice with a straight stick, and using a rope ring or quoit, about six inches in outside diameter—the tennis courts and hockey field in summer, and the modest indoor swimming pool, year round. But he was never near it when girls were using it.

He was called, David, by all of the girls behind his back, but was respectfully addressed as, Mr. Holdren, if any of them needed to speak directly with him, which no more than a handful of them ever had needed to do in the year he had been in the school, to tell him of an emergency problem that the teacher had sent them to report to him.

He dropped everything and responded at those times, soon learning which teachers really had an emergency and which ones didn’t know anything, but he still responded. That was his job. He never complained.

He supervised the heated greenhouses for bringing plants along for spring planting, and other plants for placement throughout the school. A pot of chrysanthemums or other flowers, regularly changed in each classroom, did wonders to buoy the spirits, with other plants growing in sunny areas throughout the school.

Such greenery in the midst of the cold and white, of a long winter, tended to lift the spirits, even of hundreds of unobservant, unappreciative, and unseeing, hormonally-challenged girls. Though some of them noticed. Marilyn did.

She had observed him closely ever since he had arrived in the school, and knew everything about him. Almost everything.

He read prodigiously, as she found out by the books he signed out from the library of an evening when no one else was there, but where and how he found the time to read, she did not know. He did not seem to have a life outside of the school, yet he had a vehicle; a mobile workshop that was always parked in a different place. He would have to sleep sometime. She knew his routines around the school fairly well, and generally knew where he could be found as his work schedule was posted in the school office each day if others needed to find out where he was.

Other girls watched him too, all of the time, but for other personal reasons known only to them, and none of them innocent. Some of them didn’t even know why he interested them as he did, just as the bird, said to be mesmerized by the snake, didn’t, and the outcome would be the same in their minds. Fucked in some way! When they grew up a little more, they would soon find out what that might really mean.

He noticed none of them other than to give a brief nod in passing, but only for a select few. He never made eye-contact unless he spoke directly to someone, but he never did that for more than a few seconds. They might all have been lint, apart from that.

Her day-dreaming, and other dreams after she retired, always involved him.

The dreams started out innocently enough, as they walked together and conversed in her imagination, even if not in school, talking of feelings, and of love (which young girls often dreamed of, and the older girls sought to make real) as they sat talking, exchanging notes about books they had read, progressing to holding hands and then to more familiar touching and then to kissing, though never going so far as to any greater intimacy. She was not sure what would be involved with that, so let her mind dwell upon what was familiar to her.

With none of it real, she had let it grow progressively more romantic, even nudging into immature sexuality, though she had no experience of that intimate side of human behavior, as other of the girls had, if they could be believed.

Some of them could be believed.

Those girls didn’t even mind speaking about it in their gatherings, to reveal how outspoken, and even gross, some of them could be. They had better be careful they were not overheard by any of the teachers, or by ‘Polly’, herself.

‘Polly’ was the nickname given to Miss Holub, who was the Principal of the school.

Marilyn let her dreams run away with her sometimes, entertaining not only words of love being exchanged, and dreams of love, but philosophizing about love, trying to hit upon a definition that made sense to her, just as thousands of poets had tried, before her.

Love, or lust? There was a big difference, but it was all in the semantics and words. The mechanical aspects of it were the same, as far as anyone knew.

No matter how much she thought about it, she was never quite sure what love really was, other than the way it was described in books, with heroes behaving like heroes, rescuing the fair damsel tied to a large rock at the edge of the ocean, or at the lair of a dragon or a lion. You must have seen the drawings in those books and read Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky. The hero penetrates the Tulgey wood, cuts off the dragon’s head with his vorpal sword, snicker-snack, and then goes hunting for the female, ready to bring another sword into play, his two-legged sword this time, as he penetrates her in turn.

She is clothed, if you can call it that, in only a seductively wispy veil that hides little to nothing of her voluptuous body.

Why were these damsels all so poorly clothed? It was almost as though they wanted to attract the worst kind of attention from him, and it didn’t give a good impression of them, but maybe that was the intent too. What did men care about maidenly modesty, or shyness, when there was a naked woman within reach?

After the handsome, and horny hero rides up and slays the dragon, he rescues the maiden to deliver her to a different fate, perhaps even the one she cleverly intended for him after he rescues her. She swoons into his arms of course, overcome by his heroism to be carried off back to his own lair. Clever move that. He couldn’t just leave her lying there could he? It all gets pretty vague after that. She may have been better off staying with the dragon, but no girl ever thinks of that until it’s too late for her.

Some rescue, swapping one fire breathing monster for another much more horny one. Her veil is lost on the wind, deliberately torn off as she swoons (she couldn’t risk him leaving her lying there could she? So she does everything she can to make sure he won’t ignore her) as he scoops her up, and she has to ride, completely naked, helpless in front of him with his hands all over her and god knows what else he can get up to with her, naked, on the back of his horse, to his palace, where she is held prisoner, permanently naked now, with silken bonds, on a fairy-tale bed with satin or silk sheets where they continue this love story, and spend the rest of their lives together, naked, screwing all of the time, messing up the sheets. Some love story!

Then, in the best fairy-tale tradition, the pair of them get married by sprinkling a bit of fairy dust around, muttering a few words, sort of, but only after he’s tried her out numerous times with his personal sword, constantly searching for her warm and moist scabbard to rest in (though the story never goes into detail about that either, and there is no rest once he gets into that), and they live happily ever after if you can believe it, and he screws her for the rest of time, which, in reality, is about six months.

About then, is when the fire of lust dies, and his libido drops off in an inverse relationship the more her belly swells with what he left in her on the exciting ride back from slaying the dragon, and many more times after that. One of those billions of lucky sperm managed to get a toehold in her unlucky, vulnerable body.

As an aside, if you think sex on the back of a horse is difficult, you obviously have not considered the desperate ingenuity of a horny man. If need be, he can do it standing up in a hammock, swimming in the midst of sharks; while riding a motorbike as well as riding the damsel sprawled out in front of him on her back (that one’s fairly easy if you think about it), or sky-diving, though one has to watch with the timing, and keep the clothes from floating off before you get dressed again, if you take anything off. The landing comes last of all. If you get that ‘coming’ part of it, mixed up, or out of order and a bit later than coming-in-to-land, by being distracted, then you’re toast, and just a small blot on the landscape.

It was an unsatisfying dream. Unreal. Too much glossed over, left out. Always that voice of sobering reality. Then the children came along to destroy the fantasy, along with her fading looks, and her allure, and he would lose interest in her, and go hunting for another young damsel to seduce, ravish and impregnate.

Being ravished did not sound so innocent, or so gently loving, but had a suggestion of violence, and then of tragedy to end it, just as it began to get cozy.

Some of the more reckless girls were outspoken enough to say that being in love, meant that their boyfriend was fucking them at every opportunity, just as that prince did in that revised version of most of their fairy tales, as that was what love really was, when you stripped away the tinsel and the frills with all of her clothes, but no one had the balls, to say it that way in those soppy books that girls consumed for breakfast, lunch and dinner, or held on their knees beneath their desks in class, to read. The books always skated around the meaty bits and sex, intent on maintaining the illusion of the magical fairy tale lies for as long as they could. Until they got nailed by the real monster in their lives.


Reality would strike soon enough, and hard enough (yes, ‘hard’ always conjuring up a vision of an erect penis) once they left school, got fucked, and grew up tasting of the real world, and in that order. It would be all downhill from there. There were few happy endings.

Marilyn felt quite sure that those girls were wrong, seeing love in such earthy terms, and were being deliberately provocative in their re-interpretation of timeless fairy tales, to get an argument going. But deep in her mind there was a nagging fear that they could be right when they recited, as a nightly ritual, about Little Miss Muffet, amidst great laughter.

’Little Miss Muffet,

Sat on a tuffet,

Her knickers all tattered and torn.

It was not the spider

That sat down beside her,

But Little Boy Blue,

With the Horn.’

“And he’ll go after Little Bo Peep next, when she goes looking for her sheep, and then she won’t be ‘little’ Bo Peep any more. Not after he gets that thing into her.”

She’d never had a boyfriend to know for herself what was truly possible between a romantically inclined pair, or how the physical aspects of love would be done, or even what a ‘horn’ was, but she’d often fantasized about it.

Even in that tragic romance of Romeo and Juliet, which they had studied in class, Shakespeare never did go into much sensual detail, and nor did the teacher. Everything remained mysterious, hidden, hinted at, and obscure, though that pair were certainly in love, as well as lust, (at least Romeo was, when she thought about it), but how had they expressed it other than with words?

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? As if Juliet needed to ask. Long before then, he had lifted her dress and was in her panties, except she wouldn’t have worn any panties at that time, so he would have had an easier time of getting into her, with no fumbling at underwear.

They must have had carnal knowledge of each other, waking up in bed together at daybreak soon after that, but then they had married beforehand with the blessing of the church, and had upstaged poor Paris, her older suitor before he could nail her, so respectability was maintained.

No sex outside of marriage.

They hadn’t been discussing church dogma while they had been in bed together, or the gospels, that was sure, but the teacher had been shy to delve into what might have happened between them after they hit the sack together.

When daylight came Romeo had to remove himself pretty sharply from her, and that bed, before being caught in flagrante delecto with an underage girl, and being murdered, or castrated by her father and other relatives. She was only thirteen years old after all, but a mature and headstrong thirteen. Romeo hadn’t stood a chance, the poor sap. It obviously couldn’t go anywhere but downhill for them both after that, considering what both of their families thought of what had happened.

It ended badly for them both anyway.

What had happened between them that night. as they discovered that special love together, was never spelled out, but was left to the imagination of the reader to keep the illusion alive.

The reader, or the observer of the play filled in their own views, according to what they could accept, or tolerate. Shakespeare had been clever to leave it all as cloudy as he did about the nitty-gritty personal interactions which nonetheless took place, but weaving a powerful, yet tragic love story despite those omissions.

That more shocking, physically expressed lust (surely that could not be love, proper, or the love of poets) was animal lust, and something Marilyn thought she knew about, having watched the explicit behavior of some very forward monkeys at the zoo, but she had never experienced it for herself. Her dreams were adequate enough, thank you.

She was not entirely sure how a man and woman interacted that way other than having it described, vaguely, as the Missionary Position. She was fairly sure it was not from the rear, as those lustful monkeys did it, after first seeing a receptive female who sent all the right signals to the sneaky males always hovering on the fringes, ready to run away, or to run in and screw them and then run away. Surely they did not represent the suppressed desires of that supposedly more higher primate; man. Marilyn knew that all males wanted was to couple with as many females as possible, but in that troop of monkeys the females seemed equally intent on having as many males as possible, screw them! It was a disturbing and discomforting thought. But some of the girls around her were that way. Was that what she could look forward to thinking, and wanting as she became older? She hoped not.

One of the male monkeys saw what she wanted of him, signaling to him unmistakably.


Yes, now, you dolt! What are you waiting for?

He looked about warily to see where the alpha male was. Not seeing him, the lesser monkey became aroused, erect—a rather modest item, she thought, nothing horrifying about that, as she had heard—at what he sensed being offered to him, before approaching the female. After sidling up to her, closer and closer, giving the impression of not even seeing her, he then turned quickly to her and pushed into her, sliding it in, as she shamelessly postured, offering up her posterior for him, making sure he had an easy time of it before they both returned to foraging, as though butter would not have melted in their mouths, waiting for the next time, which might only be minutes away. Where they found time to eat, she wasn’t sure.

It was all a strange play on words with similar spellings too.

Sidling up, sliding in. Posture, and posterior.

They didn’t seem to get any pleasure out of it—no sighs or moans, or clasping each other close, no kissing or fondling of breasts—and yet they must have got some pleasure from it or it wouldn’t have happened. It had taken only seconds. How could anything meaningful have happened in such a short time? Though all it took was one quick thrust, one lucky sperm. But they wouldn’t be able to think that far ahead. It was all instinct, driven by lust. What could monkeys know of love? Maybe it was all lust, and humans were delusional, trying to find something that put them above monkeys in the grand scale of things.

There was some similar, mysterious and difficult kind of physical interaction between the human male and the human female, which she was gradually learning about from the girls around her, but it was far different from what she had seen that day between the monkeys. It must be, else why would anyone bother? It was all confusing.

Too many girls in the school seemed to have first-hand knowledge of so many awkward things where boys were concerned, and were not shy to speak of them. It was still lust. Nothing they described was about love.

Marilyn listened attentively to them in the dormitory lounge, before they all retired. She pretended to be reading her book but actually listened attentively.

Being older than any of them; the oldest girl in the school, she was not really part of their conversation, but was accepted. She always listened to them, as they often had interesting things to say; indelicate things of course, always full of sexually suggestive situations, and tales of heated intimate inter-actions that seemed antithetical to gentle love the way they told it, with their violently passionate expressiveness, and vulgarities. It all sounded far too plausible, no matter how unlikely.

Still, a girl could learn a lot just by listening, though how much of it was real or realistic, was hard to know. Some of the tales were extreme, delving into taboo topics like bondage, sadism (she knew something of him), and masochism, and male and female domination. Some of it even went on in the dorms at night between certain of the girls, but no one spoke openly about it. Two of them seemed to be in love, or said they were. They even held hands and kissed, when no one might see them.

Marilyn lay awake that night and thought about it all.

The way those girls told it, any affair between a man and a woman always got violent, and messy in so many ways, and yet most women acquiesced, and gave in eventually, finding some pleasure in it, or there would be no children to populate the school. She would have to think about it, and wrestle more with that concept of love, versus lust, and fucking (no point in giving it a fancy, polite label, when that was all it was), and how it could be applied to Mr. Holdren and her.

Then, one night before they retired, the gloves really came off.

One of the more forward girls, who shared a small bedroom with two other like-minded misfits, brought out a smallish, decorated wooden box, which contained three devotional objects: iconic statues of a woman dressed in a pale white, flesh-colored cloak, and with her hair completely covered in similar material. Her facial features were distinctly painted. She was praying, with her hands noticeably held up to her face. Such virtue in that expression.

They were all reverently nestled in a bed of red satin in that box. But why three of them? And why were they of different sizes. They were of progressively increasing size from six to nine inches tall.

The assemblage seemed to have some religious significance, with a cross upon the outside and another inside of the lid, and a religious tract to go with it to complete the illusion, because an illusion it was. None of those girls was in the slightest bit religious.

Who would know of their real, alternative purpose unless one held a statue in the wrong way, with the definitive facial features facing the person holding it, as though reverentially, but the view from the back, to others seeing it from that side, showed what it really was, with shading, looking like veins and arteries, on the smooth surface.

Viewed from the back, there was the covered head, of course, with smooth, whitish-pink shoulders, barely visible, swelling out from the body. The shrouded head had a distinctive groove around where the neck was. With the head covering, and cloak, molded smoothly to the head. It was a deeply religious icon from one direction, always on display, and was nothing less than an unmistakably, shockingly-erect phallus, from the rear, with the policeman’s helmet, the top of the penis, clearly shown, and fine reddish-bluish blood vessels on its surface.

There was a ripple of disbelieving laughter when the other girls saw what they really were.

Marilyn blushed, feeling a sudden heat, wash over her body, realizing what it was that she was looking at. Could a man’s penis look like that, and be that big? Was that really what she was seeing? It was. Her eyes fell, and she could no longer meet anyone’s glance as most of the other girls chuckled nervously and boldly asked questions.

As the girls breathlessly, and even disbelievingly watched with wide eyes, two of those three conspirators lifted their nightdresses above their knees, pulling them from under them, and brought their feet onto the seat of the easy chairs, exposing their lower bodies, mature, with hair, and pronounced labia, without shame or shyness. The other just opened up her robe revealing her naked body beneath. Marilyn watched as they all put their knees wide apart, revealing every detail about themselves, including growing hair, and they slowly and shamelessly began to slide those religious objects up and down their vulvas (they must have planned doing this for some time as the statues appeared to be coated with Vaseline or something equivalent), and then slipping them slowly into their vaginal depths, as they tried to relax themselves at the way they were being stretched, with some difficulty at first (possibly they were tense and nervous to be watched).

Once started, with them beginning to relax and becoming more moist, they used them with more confidence, and increasing agitation and shortness of breath as they closed their eyes and sat back, becoming more relaxed as they gasped and groaned.

They exchanged them with each other after a while, helping each other, and seeing how much of each, in a progressively larger size, they might push into their bodies, or tried to relax as one of the other girls did it for them as she, in turn reached out and touched the other girls’ breasts, or they leaned in to kiss each other.

The other girls looked on, in either breathless admiration, unease, or curiosity, never having seen anything like this before, and were shocked beyond words.

It was all faintly disturbing, and strange, but intriguing. And they hung upon every word, with the girls describing how it felt, doing this, helping each other, and that it was just a matter of time before she ‘orgasmed’, as she tried to do every night in bed after ‘lights out’, with the continuing help of her friend.

Few of them watching knew what an orgasm was, but were rapidly learning, seeing the breathless changes in her and her friends, and the obvious pleasure that those toys gave them.

Then the questions began.

“Does a man really look like that. Or is that size?”

“You’d better believe it. Some are even bigger.” There was awed silence.

“Bigger than that big one?” The questioner was still in shock.

“Some are bigger.” Now, she was much more in shock.

“How do you know?”

Dumb question! She must have been fucked by enough men to know.

“How can you possibly get that, into such a small hole in your body?”

“It stretches.”

“Doesn’t it hurt? It must hurt you, especially if you are dry, so why do you do it?”

“Is it really so pleasurable, or are you just making it seem that way?”

“Can I try it? The small one?”

The mentor was more than ready to help, and despite the recipient’s obvious discomfort, spoke to her knowingly.

“All the way. You have to put it in all the way.”

“But it’s hard, no give to it, and difficult.”

“Of course it is, like the real thing when that comes at you and wants into your body. You won’t be able to change your mind by then, so you’d better be ready for it.

“Wet yourself with saliva, or put Vaseline on it and then it will slide in easier. Better if you to do it now, this way, than find out for yourself, the hard way, when the real McCoy comes at you breathing fire, and with a hard on that cannot possibly be for real. But it is, and you will soon find out all about it. Once he’s on his way into you and starts to fuck you, you won’t be able to change your mind, and he won’t be coming out of you until it’s all the way in—all of it—and he’s coming. And not for a while after that too.”

“Why? And why all the way?”

She had to tell her all over again. “Because when a man comes at you with the biggest, raging hard-on, you have ever seen, even bigger than you ever imagined, your worst nightmare will have come true, and they’re all like that, he will not be coming for a gentle discussion of anything philosophical, or to talk about the weather with you, nor will he be planning on putting just the tip of it into you, or only half way now, and then half-way tomorrow, but will insist on giving you all of it, right there, and right then, and you’d better be ready to be sent through the roof that first time. You won’t be able to get away from him until he’s done you at least once. But it will get easier for you after that. After about a hundred visits you might even be enjoying it.”

She had the attention of everyone about then.

“But won’t I risk getting this in too far and it won’t come out?”

“No. That’s why it has a large base, so that it won’t all go in. Besides it’s too big for all of it to go into you the first time. Somewhere out there is a Goldilocks cock for each of us.”

“What’s one of those?”

“Not too big, not too small, not too thin, not too fat, but just right: a Goldilocks cock.”

“You won’t get one of those nasty sexually transmitted diseases from using this.”

“What is this plug in the bottom of it for?”

“To fill it with hot water, so that it gets warm, and feels right, like the real thing. The only thing it won’t do is ejaculate, but you can buy ones with a little bulb at the bottom that do. Then you can fill it with your favorite tipple, like whisky, and enjoy doing a blow-job when he comes, on cue, in your mouth.

“Others have a battery and vibrate, and others, bells and whistles.”

“Why would they….” The girl realized that it was just an expression, so shouldn’t ask.

“And the clip?”

The girl in the robe took off her sash to show her. She clipped the sash onto the bottom of the medium-sized toy and then tied it tightly around her hips, pointing out, as though she had just sprouted a penis of her own, then knelt in front of her friend, raising herself to guide it to slide into her friend’s receptive body, receptive by now after all of the initial foreplay, as she laid back to receive it. They’d obviously done this many times before.

“Look mother, no hands!”

As she slid the toy into her friend’s body and began to move it as a man might presumably do, they were able to caress each other’s breasts, and touch each other in various intimate ways as they kissed, with her friend even bringing another toy into play, in their breathless excitement with each other. Fucking each other with dildos.

There was something vaguely disturbing, even disgustingly deviant, about two women doing each other like that.

“Or you can reverse it and use the belt to hold it in you, but it gets hard to move around if you do that, but you can sleep with it in you that way, all night. You can wake up and take over as you imagine a man doing it to you.”

“What if Miss Holub comes?”

“She won’t, but if you hear her, you will have at least a minute. Leave it in you, bring your feet to the floor, and either hobble off to bed as you are, holding it in you, or just bring your nightdress down to cover you, and sit normally, if you can. Don’t take it out, or she might see it. It will need to be washed off. I’ll close the lid on the box and leave that religious stuff on top as though we were having a religious discussion. Try not to look guilty or uncomfortable.”

“But it is uncomfortable.”

“Only the first time. You’ll soon get used to it, and then you can try the bigger ones and progress to what we were doing. Get some tape on it, or a belt, like I said, and you can sleep with it in you and not lose it. That will really help.”

Most of the girls had never known that anything like this was possible.

Another girl joined in with her views on love.

“Love is ephemeral, but a man’s penis is insistent and forever. So my mother said, and I don’t think she was saying anything nice. Men and women have different views of what love is. To a woman it’s all about emotions, kissing, being held, fondled, touched, gentle romantic words and settings. To a man it’s all about fucking, all night, and every night.

“Ask your mother, or some other female relative who is married. Love, or what passes for it, is really all about getting fucked regularly by someone who turns you on and whom you like fucking you (you hope), rather than someone who is just pushy or is insistent, or a sexual tyrant, and who slowly wears you down, or who slipped you a mickey at a party so he could have you as often as he wanted to without you objecting.

“Love is when a man climbs into bed with you with the biggest hard-on you’ve ever seen, and you welcome him. That’s love.”

Another voice broke in. “And when he’s had you he’s gone until the next time. That’s love too. If you try to run, or resist him when he intends to fuck you, then it’s not love. It’s rape. Same thing in the end, just a different prick. Or the same one.”

Another of the three spoke up. “There are only three virtues that a wise woman needs to consider in life: submission, obedience, and acceptance. All of them lead to her getting fucked that much sooner, and to getting her own way with everything else. She can be rebellious on her own time after he’s gone to work, and be as outgoing and as awkward as she wants; smoke, drink, get a boyfriend.”

’Oh William, do you truly love me?

Of course I loves you, you dopey beggar, I fucks you don’t I?’

“That’s a man’s idea of love.”

Their mentor repeated what she had said earlier.

“Half way is no good, Edwina. You have to take all of it. If half of it is all you’ve practiced with, then you’ll be in for a hell of a surprise when you have to take all of that real meat-popsicle at the same time.” The more sophisticated girls had not heard some of those expressions before.

“If he can’t get it into you, he’ll soon move on and find another girl that can take him. That’s how you lose a man, so you’d better be prepared.”

They were indeed devotional objects for those girls who used them each night to advance their preparedness for what was sure to come at them in life. What came at them; solid, hard, and attached to a real male, would not be inanimate, or a toy. She would also have little say about whether or not it would happen to her at that moment. When that thing came at her, it would really be coming at her, and she would have little say in the outcome by then, but had better be ready for all of it going into her.

That was when they were rescued by the bell sounding for lights-out, curtailing that shocking and unexpected lesson for the day.

They had five minutes to pack their toys away after washing them off in the bathroom to hide all evidence of what they had done, and go to their beds to think about what they had learned, and maybe to take one of those toys with them.

Marilyn lay awake that night and thought about it all.

The way those girls told it, any affair between a man and a woman always got violent, and messy in so many ways, and yet most women acquiesced, and gave in eventually, finding some pleasure in it, or there would be no children to populate the school. She would have to think about it, and wrestle more with that concept of love, versus lust, and fucking (no point in giving it a fancy, polite label, when that was all it was), and how it could be applied to Mr. Holdren and her.

She remembered something, and climbed out of bed to go back into the common area where they had been entertained by those girls and their toys. Being last to bed, she had noticed the smallest of the three toys had been left at the edge of one of their chairs and had been overlooked.

She recovered it and took it to her room with her.

She washed it off in her bathroom sink, knowing where those other girls had had it, and what they might have left on it, went back to bed, and tried to imagine that this was David Holdren coming to her one night. She hugged him into her neck, amazed at the size of him, his firmness, and then, despite an inner voice telling her that this was wrong, but she would do it anyway, she lifted off her nightdress and laid back, naked on her bed, running her hands over her body as a man might do, and then she raised her knees to put her feet flat on the bed with her knees apart, reaching under her legs, and tried to get it into her.

It was impossible! She was too small. But what if Mr. Holdren wanted her that way? Would it put him off her if he couldn’t get his cock into her the first time?

She got out of bed, smeared some lotion on it, with another dab in herself, and laid back on top of the covers. With a lot of effort she managed to get it barely half an inch into her, but it slipped out again.

She moved down the bed to put her legs over the frame at the foot of it. The wooden slat across that, when she moved closer to it, would hold the toy in her, and not let it slip out.

Once it was held in her where she wanted it, stretching her in a strange way, she fondled her breasts as she had seen those other girls do to each other, all the while imagining that it were David doing this to her. She wouldn’t try to get it into her any deeper, it was already uncomfortable, but she began to worry about what would happen if that moment ever came when she was alone with him and he couldn’t get into her either.

He wouldn’t think of doing anything to her like those other girls had talked about, would he? No, he was not that kind of man.

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TayMH: WHERE THE HELL IS THE SECOND BOOK BECAUSE...This book was just so amazing. Everything about it is so real.

Supercow97: This was a very well written book and I found no grammatical errors while reading. The author's writing style was good and it made me want to keep reading. At times I was confused and I had to reread a certain section of the book a few times because I didn't know what the author was talking about...

Bad: The Setting was applicable to the characters, the readers can relate to the story.The author use the POV which the readers can feel, and the author keeps hook in every chapter and it will make you to rethink about everything.It was a hooking story, since from the beginning to the end, it has many...

N_F_G: This story was fantastic! It was really enjoyable, and the characters and locations felt real to me as I read the story! Celeste was an amazing character, who survived all her struggles, and I felt the author did an excellent job writing about suicide and self harm- in a sensitive, authentic mann...

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aoifecollopy22: I loved how the author had the conflict come back later in the story. Also how they passed time without going over anything. That really helped move the story along. This kept my up for a few hours. YOU SHOULD READ THIS

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