Shaggy Dog Story
Chapters 3-5

Copyright© 2016 by awnlee jawking

Fiction Sex Story: Chapters 3-5 - The class weirdo exacts revenge after being humiliated by the rich bitch. Codes are used parsimoniously.

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft   ft/ft   Reluctant   Analingus   First   Violence  

Note: Each chapter is from the POV of the named individual.

***** Chapter 3: Millie ****

I was temporarily paralysed by the seething maelstrom of sensations and emotions coursing through me, unmoving despite the very real possibility that someone might discover me in such a compromising position.

The entrance to my pussy stung where the dog had remorselessly sundered my hymen. I wasn’t supposed to lose my virginity this way!

My father and Mr Walker had built one of the largest privately-owned companies in the country. Brad was Mr Walker’s only offspring, unless you counted ‘Ryan the Reject’, which I didn’t since he was adopted by the Walkers when Brad was five. I had no siblings, biological or cast-offs. To protect the company’s future, our parents had thrust Brad and me together at virtually every opportunity. It was almost like an arranged marriage. According to my script, Brad was supposed to be the one to take my virginity. I had romantic visions of that happening on my sixteenth birthday, together with a ring and a marriage proposal as a declaration of our intent.

Recently Brad seemed to have been preoccupied. It didn’t help that he went to a different school, a sports academy, not the first choice you’d expect for someone whose future would involve running a company. Yet he seemed to have thrived there, developing into a muscle-bound hunk. But more and more he’d been spending time with his school friends, despite their being below him in status. He’d even been spending time with Ryan the Reject, seeming reluctant to openly call him ‘Reject’ any more.

Inside, my pussy felt sore, and it had an empty feeling, as though missing being stretched by the dog’s knot. And I kept getting delicious tingles, aftershocks from the orgasms the dog had given me.

Where had the dog come from and who had trained him so well? We lived in a select area and I thought I knew all our neighbours’ dogs. But the dog had seemed in good condition, so probably wasn’t a stray.

I was aroused from my inertia by a glob of pink-tinged creamy stuff which had trickled down my thigh and was threatening to stain my panties, which were still wrapped around my knees. I grabbed a wodge of hay and wiped myself clean as best I could, but more continued to seep from my pussy. Looking around, the only thing I could find was an old rag which had been used to polish tack. I placed it over my pussy in lieu of a panty-liner, then pulled up my panties and jeans to hold it in place.

The soiled hay I took to the stables next door and fed to my mother’s horse, Prince Philip. He wolfed it down without noticing the cream topping. My mother’s career was my father, and she had taken every opportunity to boost their social standing, including learning to ride and getting her own horse, although she rarely rode him nowadays since he had long since served his purpose.

I supplied some clean hay and fresh water to my own pony, Chardonnay, then made my way back to the house, hoping nobody would notice I’d been longer than usual. Fortunately I was lucky and I was able to have a shower and get a clean pad for my panties without anyone noticing.

***** Chapter 4: Millie ****

At school the next day, I found myself in an unusually complacent mood. I even let Sophie Perkins, one of the followers I termed my ‘retinue’, fondle my Gulci & Kumbayana designer book bag, cooing and purring as she stroked its exquisite stitching and prominent label. Of course I didn’t bother to enlighten her that it was only a cheap knock-off, costing barely a grand, from a discreet back-street outlet my mother knew. There was no point carrying the genuine article when mingling with ordinary people.

I realised I needed to reassert myself. “Millie, my dear,” my mother often used to say, “you have to get used to the idea that one day you’ll be extremely rich and powerful. You’ll have to mingle with ordinary people, but never let them forget you’re their superior.”

Greg, the class weirdo, seemed to be watching me even more than usual. In a way he was rather cute to look at, but he gave off a freaky vibe that tended to discourage people from befriending him. I tolerated his attention until the mid-morning break. My retinue gathered round me some distance from the lesser beings, but Greg, as always, seemed to be not far away.

I caught him looking at me again. “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU PERVERT!” I shouted out. Greg turned bright red and turned to hurry away. I liked how easy it was to embarrass him. “Some kids are such losers they should have been euthanased at birth,” I commented to my retinue, loudly enough for Greg to overhear.

I was back on my game and queen of all I surveyed, but something still seemed off. The week dragged on endlessly but I coped, buoyed by the prospect of a Saturday evening date with Brad, an event I’d entered on TwitFace as soon as it had been arranged.

On Friday my life turned to Hell. Mid-morning my smartphone pinged to let me know Brad had made a TwitFace update. Mrs Smithers, our English teacher, scowled at me. Students were banned from using cellphones at school, although obviously the rules weren’t meant to apply to people like me who had important things to worry about. Nevertheless I didn’t check the update until lunchtime. Brad had posted an event for Saturday evening, bowling with his weight-lifting team.

I was really, really pissed off. I kept my TwitFace relationship status as ‘in a relationship’ but I deleted Brad’s name. I deleted my date with Brad from my Events Calendar then I unfriended Brad and blocked him. That would teach him!

We were in the middle of Mr Walgrave’s Geography lesson when my smartphone pinged to let me know I had a text message. It was Brad, asking me to call him. I made him wait until the mid-afternoon break then went over near the groundsman’s maintenance shed for some privacy. My retinue followed me so it wasn’t all that private, but at least the complete weirdos and losers wouldn’t be able to hear me.

Brad picked up on the second ring.

“Hi Babe,” he said. “What’s up?”

“We had a date on Saturday and you didn’t even bother to warn me you were cancelling it.”

“Sorry Babe, I forgot. But there’s a team bonding exercise on Saturday and I have to go to show solidarity.”

“But you’re not one of them, Brad. In the years to come you’ll be their boss. You shouldn’t lower yourself to consorting with ordinary people.”

“I’m sorry Babe. But our family arrangement’s still good, isn’t it?” he whined.

Brad’s subservient tone pushed my anger up another level. He was supposed to be a leader, not a goddamn pussy.

“That’s not good enough. I’ve had enough. I’ve met someone else, a real alpha male. He’s a fantastic lover and has no hangups about licking pussy. Have a nice life Brad.”

I wished I could have slammed down the phone instead of angrily pressing a little ‘disconnect’ symbol, but that had to do. My retinue were all agape. Then it dawned on me that I’d publicly admitted to having my pussy licked and, even worse, having sex. I quickly dissembled.

“What?” I said to my retinue. “You’ve never exaggerated a rival’s prowess to get a boyfriend to up his game?”

Instantly I was appalled at what I’d just said: my mother had frequently impressed on me that we should never explain our actions to ordinary people. But the retinue smiled and nodded their heads at my pearl of wisdom.

Then I spotted the groundsman, Mr Blenkinthorpe, ushering Greg the Weirdo away, telling him that students were not allowed in the vicinity of his maintenance shed. The weirdo had probably overheard everything I had said! I’d have to think of some suitable punishment for him, but my first priority was the problem of Brad.

I think my parents knew something was wrong by the way I snapped at them all weekend. Saturday I indulged in some seriously expensive retail therapy but it didn’t seem to help. In the evening I watched several ‘mean girl’ movies on the 48” plasma in my bedroom, turning them off just before the loser ‘nice’ girls turned the tables. Why couldn’t Hollywood make more realistic films!

 
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