College Slut

by

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers, Consensual, Heterosexual, Interracial, Fisting, Cream Pie, School, .

Desc: Sex Story: A girl who considers herself a slut learns that there are indeed different levels of slutdom.

My name is Lacy Harris and I'm a country girl. You may wonder why my name isn't Sally-Ann or Becky-Sue or something more hayseed-sounding. The truth is, we're not all the rednecks city-folk think we are. Most of the stories you hear about country-people are totally bogus. Most, that is. Some of them are bang-on. Sex, for example. We do a lot of that out in the country. When the power goes out because some drunk idiot ran into a pole out on Highway 313 and you're sitting around bored to tears with no TV or videogames – well, sex is definitely something you can do in the dark. Out here distance is a problem too. Your options get narrowed-down when you're thirty miles from town. When you're desperately horny, you start looking close to home. Sometimes very close. There are a lot of families out in the backwoods raising kids that came out of the shallow end of the gene pool and no one says squat about it because they know their own family trees may have a few branches that don't fork.

My own family was one of those where my brothers and I had a 'very close relationship'. The only reason I didn't give my folks any surprizes was because Daddy kept a good supply of condoms in the house and never bothered to take inventory. By the time I started dating 'officially', I was experienced enough to know what I wanted and how to get it. Going out with a boy meant finding an isolated spot and screwing our brains out until the last possible moment before we absolutely had to go home. I dated every boy for fifteen miles around and there were only two who didn't stick their cocks into me. One was saving himself for marriage – meaning he was gay. And the other just went out with girls to convince his parents that he wasn't gay – which he was. Even though they wasted my time, I kept their secrets and they told everyone they knew that I was either great company or a fantastic fuck, respectively.

By the time I started High School I'd already learned what a PC muscle was and how to keep it toned. This made me very popular with the guys and by the time graduation rolled around I'd fucked a few more than my share. I used to say I had fucked all the good-looking ones who weren't fucking each other. It was the truth, too.

The only thing I hadn't had the chance to do that I really wanted to was to fuck a Black guy. There were a few in my school, but there was also a strong reactionary element among the White majority that believed that a Black cock was the equivalent of Satan's Scepter and any White girl who let one get inside her would be instantly transformed into the lowest kind of slut imaginable. Details of this magical-sounding conversion were only hinted-at, never discussed openly. No one ever came out and explained why this was 'something you just didn't do', but the message was crystal-clear anyway.

I was under no illusions about my own status as a slut. While I didn't dress slutty, or flirt with absolutely every boy in sight, I certainly qualified for the label because of my willingness to interact with male sexual equipment on short notice after a brief introduction – the polite term for which was being 'easy'. I was unclear about these other levels of slutness through which one could supposedly descend. I was also a bit jaded, and more than a little curious about what new erotic experiences might be had by someone willing to accept a lower rank on the slut-scale.

I strongly suspected that the whole thing was a myth spread around by racists to discourage interracial relationships, but like many of the myths we studied in class, I was sure it had a grain of truth in it somewhere and I promised myself that I would explore the matter personally the first chance I got. Unfortunately, I graduated and was sent off to college before that chance came along.

It was my Freshman roommate, Shauna, who reminded me of this gap in my education on a night halfway through our first semester. We were trapped in the dorm by a thunderstorm and the need to prepare for impending mid-term exams. Instead of going over our English notes, we talked about boys. When I told her about all the guys I'd slept with, she seemed impressed. She asked me where I stood on the question of size.

"The bigger, the better," I told her.

She asked if I thought it was possible to have to much of a good thing and I said 'no way'. Then she got this funny look and asked me if I'd heard about the wild party that one of the rowdier fraternities held at then end of every exam-week. She said she'd heard that they did this thing where they sacrificed a virgin on an altar to improve their chances of getting good grades on the exams. Only it wasn't really an altar, it was an old doctor's exam table, complete with stirrups. And it wasn't the girl they sacrificed, it was her virginity. I told her that it sounded like a kinky game, but I obviously didn't qualify. She said that didn't matter, that they'd given up on finding real virgins and that instead they had a local man who would do the honors ˗ a Black guy with a cock so big that he could make any girl feel like a virgin again.

Shauna also warned me that, for whatever reason, few of the girls who played the part of the virgin stayed in school for very long afterward. I ignored that as just some legend intended to frighten me. After all, lots of people drop-out or transfer after their first taste of higher-education.

The game sounded like all my most erotic fantasies rolled into one. Being fucked by a guy with a big cock was something I was up for just about any time. Doing it in front of a bunch of horny frat-guys would add a wonderfully erotic touch. But it being a Black guy? The nearly orgasmic rush that went through me made the whole idea something I couldn't possibly turn down.


My mid-terms were a blur. As the week wore on, my focus was more and more on the party and less on the test papers in front of me. Friday was hell. That afternoon I was so worked-up I'd had to wring-out my panties twice; and a brand-new DD-cup bra that had fit perfectly well before, now felt like I was going to burst out of it any second. I was getting desperate by the time the guys came to pick me up to drive me to the party. They explained that because they were on probation already for other stuff as well as being closely-watched by the local cops, that the party had to be held off-campus and out-of-town at a super-secret location. That turned out to be an old barn behind a burned-out house. I could tell from the trash and the accumulation of several half-assed attempts to decorate it that the place was a regular party location for people who wanted privacy while they went a bit wild.

When we arrived, things were already underway. The keg had been tapped and there was a crowd around it. The music was courtesy of someone's bad-ass car stereo and had enough bass behind that if it had been closer to school it would have set off the Geology Department's earthquake detector.

The frat-guys took me into a back-room and tried to lay a head-trip on me. They told me this was my last chance to back-out, then they made me sign this stupid release-form saying I was doing this of my own free will and I wouldn't hold anyone responsible for any injuries I sustained. They gave me an old sheet and told me to undress and wrap it around me and they'd be back when everything was ready.

I stripped-down and unfolded the sheet, which had a big spot on it that looked like blood. I figured that was something else intended to spook me, and that it had probably been donated by someone whose period had snuck up on her in the middle of the night. Grateful that they had at least washed the thing, I draped it over my shoulders and sat down to wait.

I didn't have to wait long. The frat-guys came back wearing robes that looked like cheap Halloween costumes. When they walked me out, I saw that the crowd was much bigger than before. The 'altar' was as expected. The only thing that made it unique was a set of straps they had added. After a short mumbo-jumbo speech about beseeching the gods and stuff, they took off my sheet and draped it over their makeshift altar, then helped me up the step onto it. I lay back on the slanted table and put my feet into the stirrups and waited while they tied me down. Straps went around my ankles and under the stirrups. One wide strap went over my chest just under my boobs. Two more pinned my wrists at my sides. It was just enough to hold me in place and keep me from being able to resist whatever they might choose to do to me.

I thought the restraints were all a bit much, but I wasn't about to complain. I wanted them to get on with the show. The last thing they did was pull the stirrups out as wide as they would go and lock them in place. This presented everyone there with a clear view of my pussy. It also gave whoever was going to fuck me plenty of room to work. If I'd been less limber the position might have been a problem, but I'd had plenty of practice at spreading my legs so I wasn't too uncomfortable.

Then they brought in their High Priest. He had on a hooded wizard's robe with painted wands and glitter stars all over it. They led him over to stand in front of me before they took the robe off.

I was a little disappointed. The man was Black, all right. But he wasn't the studly, well-muscled man of my dreams. He was tall, but skinny. Almost bony. Then I saw his cock and my assessment changed. His thing hung more than halfway to his knees. Given his height, that made it close onto a foot long, an impressive datum right there, since it was easily longer than anything I'd encountered before, despite my considerable experience.

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