Chapter 4: Girl's Best Friend

September 17, 1970

Dear Diary: Sweet sixteen! Thought I'd never make it, but here I am. I have to thank Tara for it too. "Tara" is the name Jane Hawser's taken; it came to her on a boss D.M.T. trip. She's about the hippest girl at Langousta High.

Merrilee's now going out with... and going down on... white boys and having the time of her life. All it took was a little nudge in the right direction. Oh, also, she got a dog of her own... a monster German Shepherd, all glands and hormones, a real lover-boy.

And speaking about boys... Tara told me what she thought my trouble was. Yes, fear of boys. She psychoanalysed me and figured it all out. She said I was avoiding the problem by doing it with dogs, that basically, I was scared of making honest, human contact. I said she was wrong, that I just didn't like playing all the cutesy games we girls were supposed to play before we got some of the old porker. She said that was a "rationalisation."

I guess what made me come around to her way of thinking was all the hassle Mom was putting me through. She figured that if the guys weren't pounding on the front door with their tongues hanging out at all hours of the day and night, I was a social failure. Mom couldn't stand the idea of me being something like that.

Oh, it wasn't that I didn't get lots of offers... in front of my locket', on the gym field, in the auditorium... or that guys didn't follow me around. Jeez! A girl can't grow some tits and fill out on the bottom without some goons making a big deal over it. Not that I didn't like my new attributes, but some of the creeps I caught sniffing my bicycle seat! God! Take that gross Harold Himmler, for instance. Thinks he is absolute primo-grade shit. His dad is a big real estate broker, handles the new development over by the creek, lots of money. He is the big athlete, all 280 pounds of him. Super Jock! Looks like a cube, Neanderthal skull, shaves his head down to this stupid eighth inch Marine regulation length. Walks around school growling at everybody. Anyway, he decided that I was going to be his girlfriend. Just like that. "Me, Throwback, you, Polly."

I would've done something really dumb, like spit in his ugly face, if it hadn't been for Tara. She really straightened me out.

"How're we gonna get to be cheerleaders, if you go spitting on the team's star line-backer?" she asked.

This was the first time she'd ever mentioned cheerleaders.

"Sure, Polly. It's the American Dream. Every girl wants to be a cheerleader. It comes with the muff..."

Hey, well at first I thought she was putting me on, that she'd had a micro-dot for lunch and she was just tripping. I was wrong... she was dead serious.

"Look, Polly, you wanna be a model, right?" she said. "And we both know you got what it takes, looks-wise, but that isn't enough. You got to learn how to handle men. They're not much different than dogs, very dumb dogs. It's men who're gonna try and get control of you, who're gonna want to run your life. You have to get on top and stay there."

Tara's bloodshot eyes glared at me, burned right into my soul. And I knew she was right. Manipulation was the name of the game. It sounds cold and calculating when I write it down, but if it's either them or you on the end of the string... better it be them.

"You need to be a cheerleader, Polly," Tara continued. "It will get you out in front of lots of people, stage experience, and maybe, if the Langousta team wins All-City, you'll get some exposure in the papers..."

Her eyes, the pupils mere pinheads, gleamed dully. "And speaking of exposure, lover, imagine yourself out there in front of the bleachers, doing high kicks in see-through panties!"

She had to say no more. The two of us signed up to try out for cheerleader. My Mom, of course, was over-joyed. To her it was another example of the wonderful influence that sweet Jane Hawser had on me. Mom began to push and nag like she'd never done before. Always giving me "good advice," like it was her that was doing everything, like she could maybe do it a hundred percent better. I started hating her guts. Not only for the tips on how to be a great cheerleader, but for the encouragement she gave Harold Himmler.

I started dating the glandular freak right after Tara and I hatched out plans. She said it would be a good idea if one of us was going out with the team's big star, that would cinch the cheer-leading spots for us, as well as give me needed experience in paper training a pubescent male. So the next time he cornered me in front of my locker and asked me out, I accepted. If I was afraid of him before... because of his huge bulk and little pig eyes... the look on his face after I took him up on the offer, that shocked, gleeful grin, cured me. He was a total bozo, proverbial putty in my hands. I made up my mind right then that I'd never let him even touch me, that I'd give him terminal blue balls before I let him have a piece of my ass.

After the hysterical fit, an Oscar winning performance, I threw in the back of his woody when he tried to get his finger wet, he was completely cowed, a stuttering, blushing lummox.

Mom really laid it on heavy every time the clod came over, telling him how much I liked him... complete garbage, of course, but she felt she had to gaff my "catch" for me, even though it was obviously gut-hooked. I couldn't stand to listen to her sucking up to the cretin, puffing tip his already bloated ego. After every session with Mom, it took me a half hour of cold shoulder, sarcastic comment and debasing commands to get things back to normal between us.

Tara and I did get the cheerleader jobs, of course. I never realised how much "practice" went into doing a few rah-rahs. Neither did Harold. It was great. I hardly had to spend any time with him at all.

I'll describe the last session, so what I mean is perfectly clear.

After supper, Harold came by to pick me up. Pop left the room when Mom started in with the "Why, Harold!" bit. It made him as sick as it made me. And old pea brain standing there, toeing the rug, basking in the toothy admiration of a fifty-five-year-old woman! It never failed to get his juices flowing.

On the way out to the woody, he got so overwrought that he actually put his arm around my shoulder!

"Watch it, moron!" I snapped, shrugging his hand off, and swishing my butt extra nice as I moved ahead of him.

"Uh... Pol... hey, I'm sorry," he blubbered.

Keep them groveling, that's my motto. Off their toes and on their knees. All the way to the practice room, a sound proof room in the home of one of the woman gym coaches, I gave the guy the silent treatment. It was a kick seeing his huge hands strangling the steering wheel in impotent fury. This cat was a killer on the football field. They called him the "Monster Man" because he took such satisfaction out of breaking bones. And I had him chewing his lips and sniveling like a four-year-old.

I was sitting next to him in my cheerleader outfit, super short pleated skirt, tight sweater that emphasised my firm tits and narrow waist, a teenage queen. I couldn't help but rub his nose in it. When he stopped the car in front of Miss Kundard's house, I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a big, wet kiss on the cheek. He was totally stunned, blushing up a storm. Then I let my hand slide down over his mammoth chest, down to the bulging crotch of his levis.

I'll say one thing about Weird Harold, he does have a big dick. And after all the deprivation therapy I'd been giving him, it was easy as pie getting a rise out of him. I kind of squeezed his entire lump once and BOING! His fire-hose stiffened and sprang half way down his thigh.

"Oh, Harold!" I breathed huskily, giving it a pinch at the bloated head. "It's SO BIG!"

"Pol... darling... uh..." he groaned, making a clumsy attempt to get his hands in under the short skirt.

That was the signal to split the scene. "Oh, I'm late!" I exclaimed, pushing away from him and sliding out the door.

"B-b-but, Pol..." he whined helplessly, his cock pulsing against his jeans.

"After practice... lover," I promised, blowing him a kiss, knowing full well that after practice ['d be far too exhausted... and satisfied... to want to have anything to do with the ass- hole.

I worked the same sadistic scam on him week after week until I could hardly keep a straight face when it came to the "SO BIG" part. But the nitwit never questioned me, never dared accuse me of prick-teasing him. He took all his violence out on the field, snapping collarbones, wrenching backs, handing out concussions right and left.

It would've really driven him nuts if he'd ever seen what kind of "practice sessions" went on in Miss Kunard's sound proof room.

After I blew the bozo a kiss, I went up to the front door and rang the bell. As usual, the door opened as if by a ghost and I slipped in. Behind the door was Miss Kunard, our gym coach, five- foot-five inches of cunt-licking lesbian. She was wearing her silver whistle on a leather thong around her neck... and that was all.

"Hi, Polly," she said, closing the door and sliding into my arms. Her body was warm and soft and sweetly perfumed. She kissed me and her blonde moustache tickled my nose. It wasn't a heavy growth, just enough to be interesting.

I put a hand to her big, fluffy bush and gave the hot gash a rub with my palm. Miss Kunard opened her rather short thighs for me and I really massaged her whole crotch, digging the feel of her dense, womanly fur, and the slick stuff slipping from between her pendulous cunt-lips.

"Ooh, stop!" she said, drawing back. "Stop or I'll rape you right here..."

Having had the pleasure of being raped by Miss Kunard and her magic dildo before, that sounded fine to me.

"... No! Really, dear. The others are already here and we've got things planned," she said, giving her whistle a toot. "Come on, it's a surprise!" she said, leading me into her living room.

From the piles of clothes strewn over the rug, the couch, the armchair, panties, bras, skirts and sweaters, I figured the fun had already begun.

"That's it, Polly, get down to basics," Miss Kunard said, watching me peel off my sweater. The dyke sure liked young meat. Her eyes practically bugged out as I rolled my panties down over my thighs.

"Is your mouth watering, Miss Kunard.?" I asked, spreading my legs and giving her a full view of my plump, downy little mound.

"You are a cool little bitch," she said, smarting from my words, words that got to the nitty gritty, that got to the source of the power I had, we all had, all of us light young things had, over her. For a bull dyke, she had the tastiest job imaginable... the care and training of a half dozen of Langousta High's most delectable cunts... and we used her weakness like a blunt instrument to club her into meek, servile submission.

For the privilege of watching us frolic in the nude. and the pleasure of occasionally dining on fresh pussy. it was her job to provide us with new and demented thrills. She, with her dark brown nipples, her slightly sagging tits, her mammoth bush and faint moustache, would orchestrate the orgies, directing the action with her silver whistle.

I followed the rotating cheeks of her thirty-eight year old ass over to the door to the "practice room." She wasn't bad looking from behind. She wore her light brown hair in a short, mannish shag and the tuff of fuzz between her buns was really kind of cute.

She opened the door and immediately started blowing the hell out of her whistle. "Girls! Stop it this instant!" she ranted, making the whistle do a nerve-racking "TWEEEEET!"

I looked in and saw the tangle of slim legs, silky bodies, firm titties, moist snatches and wagging tongues. They were having a real suck session. There was Twinky Blair, the tanned, sun- bleached blonde, surfer chick; and Pam Rumfurd with her auburn pony tail and bubble gum pink nipples and slit; and Sueann Tsin, a slanty-eyed, black-nippled, half-oriental with ivory skin and just a hint of downy black pubic fuzz; and Rhoda Lugo with her super long, super thick brown hair and her super ample body; and, between the slim, white thighs of Rhoda Lugo, face gooey with Lugo-juice, my friend and fellow pervert, Jane "Tara" Hawser.

"Hi, Polly!" she exclaimed, giving the Lugo slot, hot and puffy pink under the dense brown bush, a loving slurp.

"Alright girls," Miss Kunard said, lezzie eyes eating up all the tender flesh. "Let's do our warm ups."

The "warm ups" were our single concession to the needs of an aging homophile. They consisted of doing toe touches with our legs spread as wide as they'd go while the coach watched from behind. She got a real charge out of the six puckering ass-holes, the six damp muffs bobbing up and down, one-two-three-four.

Then she blew her whistle again. "That's fine, girls," she said. "Now line up and I've got a big surprise for you."

We lined up, but not without copping a few quick feels off each other. I loved the way Sueann's ass felt, a real baby soft butt.

"Keep the groping to a minimum!" she ordered. "Now, when I introduce our special guest to you, I want you to STAY IN LINE! No rushing him, no trying to get a few feels before the others. We're going to play this game by the rules." She gave Tara a castigating look. "Hear that, Hawser?" she asked.

Tara grinned impishly. I could see what the teacher couldn't. Tara's hand was snuggled in between Rhoda's round cheeks; her paired fingers were doing a hell of a job of muff diving.

"Girls..." Miss Kunard said, "meet Tobor." She opened the back door of the room and in bounded the biggest, most beautiful dog I ever saw. It took a three second blast of the whistle to restore order to the chamber.

He was a Great Dane, a huge, drooling monster of a dog. His coat was a sleek grey, shiny, silky like, a two hundred pound silver fox. God! Was he ever gorgeous! He was all legs and jowls, a regular horse of a dog. And every one of us girls were leaning down, trying for a look at his parts, cooing to him, blowing kisses.

"Here, Tobor! Come on, boy..." Tara shouted, waving her sloppy-wet, curly muff about under his nose.

The poor thing snorted, its immense nose spraying slobber every which way. It looked very confused.

"Now that'll be enough, Hawser!" the coach said, clapping her hands for attention, making her boobs flop all over her chest. "You all know how we play the game. Our honoured guest has his choice of the first partner. After a delightful, three minute interval, at the sound of my whistle, the partners will change. On and on, until we all are quite satisfied. Right?"

"RIGHT!" came the deafening reply.

"No coaxing, now Lugo!" the dyke warned, releasing Tobor's collar.

At first the great hound didn't know what to do. Everybody was so excited. He trotted back and forth on his big, soft pads, snuffing along the floor, looking worried. Then he lifted his leg... and pissed all over Miss Kunard's water bed, a splattering, hissing stream that pooled right in the bed's sagging centre.

"God! He could do that on me, anytime!" Twinky cried, fingering herself. Her straight blonde bush was shining with her own fragrant lubricant.

Pam Rumfurd, who was the closest chick to the hosing, squealed, "What a pud! What a pud!"

Then the big fellow lowered his leg and paused with much groaning to scratch his fleas. After sniffing his foot, he scrambled to his feet and inspected the troops.

Poor little Sueann got a hot, wet dog nose right on the hairless cunt. We all laughed at the way her knees knocked together when the animal snorted and gave her juicy slot a long lick. His tongue was immense and pretty doggone wonderful from the way the slender oriental began whimpering and snapping her silky buns.