"I'm really proud of Danny, and I think you should take back some of the bitchy things you've said about him."

"Like what?" I asked, sipping a cup of coffee, surprisingly well-brewed for once, in my sister Sandy's kitchen. Danny is her low-life husband.

"Like that he's a loser just because he works on and off at the tire factory. Like that he mooches off me half the time."

None of that was untrue, but I kept my counsel for once.

"I don't see that this new business thing of his really changes things. After all, what does it bring in?"

"He doesn't tell me the details, but it must be hundreds. He bought me this!" She showed me a bracelet, probably costing about a hundred bucks. Well, at least he was sharing the proceeds with my sister to some degree. My guess was that he was clearing around a thousand a week in his "entrepreneurial venture," and of course he was paying no taxes on it.

"So, umm, any idea what this business of his is?" I asked disingenuously.

"I'm not sure, some kind of service, like a personal shopper kind of thing. Except he says it's for stuff that guys want, not clothes and stuff. Whatever it is, it's going great. He says revenues are about to pick up. Says he's got a special new class of customers who will pay top dollar for his service!"

I quailed. I decided to change the subject — sort of. "So Dad bought you a new dog, huh?"

Yeah, a Great Dane, about two years old. Buster. He's down in the basement, caged in his crate most of the time until we're sure he's settled in and won't tear up the house. Wanna see him?"

"Um, maybe later. By the way, I was wondering, does Dad still wear Old Spice?"

I was by now quite familiar with the particulars of Danny's entrepreneurial venture. Naturally, it was feeble, puerile, and disgusting, as befits my re-tread of a brother-in-law. I had only agreed to help him out with getting it started for the sake of my sister, who works sixty hours a week bringing home cash for the household, while Danny bounces from unemployment check, to low-wage check, to no check at all every few months, it seems.

I can't stand my brother-in-law, and I think he treats my sister like garbage. I suppose in our town, she really couldn't have expected to do any better, since unlike me, she never went to college. Since I did, of course, I am able to enjoy a lifestyle of an entirely higher order.

I've been married now for about six months. I'm twenty-four years old and I'm already an important person in the community — the wife of an associate professor of Gender and Minority Studies at the local four-year college. Stewart — my husband — is exactly the opposite of my rude and crude bother-in-law. Whereas Danny treats my sister Sandy like dirt, my Stewart worships me. In return, I have the utmost respect and adoration for him.

For Danny, I have nothing but contempt.

One thing I hate about Danny is that he has no honor. Sure, I had agreed to help him with his new business. I had even agreed not to take a cut, hoping, I suppose, that the sooner Danny got back on his financial feet, the sooner he might (finally) start to treat Sandy better.

And the business was Danny's brainchild, I have to admit. And he handled all the marketing. I only played a small part — doing "piecework" assignments as they came up. Sometimes he would tell me where to meet our customer, and sometimes he would let them hunt me down, as long as they showed me the "receipt." Since Danny's business wasn't exactly on the IRS tax rolls, he had adopted a simple receipt method. If anyone showed me a chess piece, then I would know the customer had paid and was ready for their order to be filled. This was all well and good — anything to help my sister. But Danny had promised that I would work only with strangers — that no one I actually knew would ever learn that I was helping the loser in his low-life business. But about three weeks ago, he broke his word. You see? No honor.

THREE WEEKS AGO

"Rachel? Rachel Simmons?"

"Yes? Oh, Principal Mellows, how nice to see you. Only it's Rachel Panderwayste now."

"Oh! You're actually MARRIED?"

"What? Why be so surprised, Principal Mellows? Of course I'm married. In fact, I'm married to a professor at the college."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, well, an associate professor. But why are you surprised? I was always going places. 'Most Likely to Succeed' after all."

"Yes, you were always a good student. I was happy that you went to college."

"I'll say. It really made a difference. I wasn't going to end up a loser, like my sister or my friends."

"Um, well, yes, I see."

"Anyhow, what brings you down this sidewalk — do you live around here?"

"Well, um, actually, I was looking for you. I was told you would be going door-to-door in this area."

"Yes, I'm petitioning. We're hoping to open a Feminism Center on the campus, one that's going to serve the whole community. Did you want to sign the petition or something?"

"Well, er, yes, let me sign it ... there ... but, um, there was something else. Somebody I talked to, um, he sold me this, and told me I should show it to you..."

He opened his hand. A chess piece — a bishop — white.

So that was the first time since I had started helping Danny with his business that he directly broke his word. Clearly, Mr. Mellows, my former high school principal, qualified as somebody I knew. Well, that wasn't Principal Mellows' fault — I'd have to take it up with Danny later.

It turned out that Principal Mellows lived alone, and nearby. It further turns out that when I walked into the bedroom of his modest apartment, there was a Catholic schoolgirl outfit laid out lovingly on the bed.

"Er, Rachel, um, if you don't mi—."

"Well, well, well. As you probably know, I'm not allowed to argue. I must 'mind' anyone who shows me a chess piece. You showed me one, so I have to do as you say. You probably want me to change out of sight, for the full effect, don't you think?"

"Rachel, I want you to know that if you don't want —."

"That it's just too bad for me? Yes, I know, there's nothing I can do or say to stop you from having it your way, and that means any way you want. Even though we didn't even have uniforms at our school." I slipped into the bathroom with the pathetic man's fantasy outfit. It was just a job to me, a charity case really, for the benefit of my sister. "And even though I'm not even Catholic!"

When I came out, wearing the blue plaid skirt over a tidy white pair of cotton panties, a white blouse over a white cotton bra, my hair in two pigtails, black knee socks and shiny black shoes, I was chewing and popping a piece of gum I'd happened to find in my purse. That touch was my idea. Listen, I don't enjoy this sort of thing one bit — let's just say I'm WAAAY too sophisticated to enjoy any weird fetish — but I do believe that if you're going to do something, you might as well do it right.

"Wow."

"So, you wanted to see me Principal Mellows?"

"Um, yeah, I wanted you to come to my office."

"Because I've been naughty?"

Bent over my former principal's lap, with a schoolgirl skirt pulled up over my waist and a pair of white cotton knickers pulled down to my knees, I grunted in a combination of pain and need. Principal Mellows was giving my ass a good thrashing, and my pussy was responding to the stimulation quite against my will.

It's not that I have anything against Principal Mellows. He had always been a nice man — at least to us "smart kids" — and I remembered him especially well as the advisor to the Student Council. I was the treasurer. A couple of times Mr. Mellows had even driven me home from school, although on those occasions he had always acted kind of fidgety, and he talked a little funny, especially as he got close to my house, like he was struggling with a decision or something. But like I said, he was always very nice to me in school.

No, my resistance stems from my sincere loathing for my brother-in-law, who has persuaded me to help get his unofficial company, Escort Resource, going. The spanking I was receiving under Principal Mellows' firm hand reminded me of the first time Danny had spanked me for trying to give him a piece of my mind vis-à-vis his treatment of my sister. On that Saturday morning almost a year ago, he had spanked me — the nerve! — and spanked me, until, as now, my vagina had become a swampy mess and the loser had taken that as some kind of invitation to fuck me through three orgasms before giving his buddy Bob a crack at me.

So it was Danny I was angry with, not Prinicipal Mellows, when I whined, "Please stop, sir! I'm feeling all squishy inside. Is there something wrong with me?"

"Um, maybe I should check you out, my dear, just to be sure."

"Okay, but I'm sooo embarrassed. I'm just a little girl, after all."

Principal Mellows must have secured some Viagra while he was securing my costume, because he had no trouble checking out my squishy pussy with his healthy cock repeatedly. Sure, I thought, my slender legs extending straight up in the air, as he pounded at my pussy from a standing position next to the bed, about to deposit his third helping of pervert semen into my womb, I had helped him recuperate between fucks with blow jobs. And he had needed to spank me again after the second fuck to recharge for round three.

"Oh, god, yes, suck on my toes, Principal Mellows! That's it. I'm still too naughty!"

Where was I? Oh yeah, I had given him some help in re-erecting between bouts, but nonetheless, it was still pretty impressive that he was about to come in my pussy for the third time any moment now, especially when you considered the fact that he had also come in my ass after the second spanking.

"Oh, you sweet little bitch! I'm going to fuck triplets into you! God how I've wanted to fuck you since I first laid eyes on you your freshman year. How — oh that pussy is sweet — how old were you then? Fifteen?"

"Fourteen."

"Oh Jesus! What I wouldn't give to have fucked this sweet little cunt when it was only fourteen!"

"Mmmm ... what a thought. Well, tell me Principal Mellows — oh, just like that, you're going to make me come again, Principal Mellows, there, keep twisting like that — um, so, tell me, are there freshman girls running around the halls today you'd like to fuck?"

"Hell yes!"

"Well, don't think I enjoy doing this or anything, 'cause you're really a pervert Principal Mellows, but I am willing to help you keep out of trouble. Any time you get the urge to fuck a schoolgirl, you got Danny's number."

"Really? Oh, I really appreciate —."

"Oh, shut up and fuck me harder, I'm coming again!"

So that's Danny's all-important business, the one that my poor deceived sister is so excited about. I hate the way he does so much shit behind her back.

I decided not to continue petitioning for the Feminism Center that day, but headed by my sister's house to turn over the white bishop to Danny. That was just another thing to infuriate me. He had selected the chess-piece motif because I was bragging about how much smarter Stewart was than he. As an example, I mentioned that Stewart had been the town chess champion at age twelve, while by constrast Danny at twelve had been caught screwing his Sunday school teacher. I really scored a point on Stewart's behalf over my Neanderthal brother-in-law with that jab, so I guess his making me fuck for chess pieces was really my victory over him, if you think about it.

When I got to their house, I noticed my sister's car was in the driveway next to Danny's truck. I waited, parked down the street, until I saw her leave. I then went in to find Danny in his boxers, watching T.V. I gave him the chess piece, laid into him for breaking his promise about keeping it to strangers, and soon found myself sucking his cock without even being asked. Right in my sister's own house, just minutes after she had left to buy him beer. He is such a lousy husband!

The next day I completed my petition-gathering and headed over to the college to hand my sheets in. Not only was I personally committed to the cause of feminism (and affirmative action, social justice, and everything else the Center was going to stand for), but I also wanted to make a good impression on Professor Agnes Leftward, the project coordinator and Stewart's boss as the head of the college's department of Gender and Minority Studies.

Her office door featured a bronze plaque engraved with her name and the title "Department Head." Below that, it said "The Endowed Chair in Womyn's Progressive Herstory." I think Stewart had told me that her professorship had been endowed by the National Organization of Women — or rather, by a more radical — I mean, a more advanced — offshoot group. She was obviously a very important woman!

I knocked, and upon hearing her "C'min!" I entered.

Professor Leftward is a striking woman, about forty-five years old, with a no-nonsense, businesslike air about her. Frankly, I've always been a bit intimidated by her. I get the impression that my feminist credentials don't quite measure up in her eyes. I've always wished she credited me more; although I had gone out and married a successful man shortly after graduation, that man is a professor of Gender and Minority Studies in this very department, after all. And sure, ever since our marriage, I haven't worked outside the home in an "official" job but, on the other hand, aren't nine-to-five type jobs really just an artifact of the patriarchical system designed to serve white males anyway? If she only knew about my efforts in helping my sister, by working in a counter-cultural business like Escort Resource, maybe she'd understand better that I was in no danger of becoming a sellout.

"Why it's you, Rachel! Pretty little thing as ever. Please come in. Oh, and, shut the door, dear. You know, students constantly just barge right in here, so would you mind turning the latch — that's it. Now we can speak without interruption. What's on your mind, honey?"

"I've got the petitions here, Professor."

"Oh, good, let me see ... yes, a good effort. Thank you.

"Rachel, I'm glad you dropped by this morning ... there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Oh? What is that, Professor?"

"Well, you know that a significant component of the feminist agenda is the overturning of patriarchical, exploitative use of women by men."

"Why, of course!"

"And it wouldn't do at all if a bright young star in this academic field — especially if that young star were already laboring under the severe handicap of being a male — were to be in any way stained with the misogynist mainstream culture."

"Why of course not — are you talking about Stewart? Why, he'd never —."

"Hold on, dear. Yes, I'm talking about Stewart, and his career. But it's not his activities that are causing me my concern."

"I don't understand..."

"Rachel, my sweet impressionable child, I need to talk with you about this." To my absolute mortification, she held up a chess piece — the black queen, to be exact!

"Professor Leftward, I can explain — it's not what it looks like?"

"You mean it is not a token by which you are obligated to submit to the sexual commands of men?"

"Well, yes, but, you see, my sister, who is a woman, well she has this husband --."

"A man named Dan, is that right?"

"Well, yes, but I hate him."

"That's good. But the question is: do you think that the sexual exploitation of women by men is a good thing?"

"Absolutely not!"

"And do you think that traditional, repressive heterosexual relationships are superior in any way to alternative lifestyles, such as, say, lesbianism?"

"No, Professor. Everybody who's ever been to college in America has had the moral superiority of homosexuality drilled into them. Although I am not lesbian or bisexual, I understand that being so demonstrates strength. I mean, if I thought otherwise, how could I have ever graduated college?"

"I'm glad to hear it. And do you understand that under our repressive male-dominated culture, the most appropriate thing 'womyn' can do to resist is to enter into lopsided, abusive sexual relationships with other 'womyn'?"

"Professor, that is one of the main learning objectives of the course you are teaching this semester: 'Overturning Sexual Repression.' You know I am auditing that course — you signed the paperwork. Let's see, oh yes: 'the more exploitative the lesbian top is of her submissive partner, the more authentic the rejection of male repression by both participants'."

"Very good, you have obviously been taking notes. So, I needn't fear for you on an orthodoxy front?"

"Um, yeah, I mean no, you needn't fear."

"Good, I'd hate to think I paid so much good money for a useless chess piece. Come around here and sit up on my desk. Now!"

Now, I'm not lesbian at all, but of course I am sophisticated enough to applaud the gay lifestyle. I told Professor Leftward as much while she yanked my panties down and pushed my skirt up over my waist.

I thanked her for considering me worthy of her demonstration until me she growled "shut-up you stupid cunt!" which I thought was a delightfully liberated thing to say. I tried to tell her so but as I felt her tongue scoop into my already-oozing groove, I was momentarily speechless.

Now, Stewart is, as I've mentioned, a very considerate lover. In fact, I usually limit my relations with him to cunnilingus, because he is so attentive and diligent with it, and frankly I really need the soothing sensations sometimes after a day full of fuck-battering at the hands of, or should I say, at the cocks of, whichever less worthy man my useless brother-in-law has had me fuck.

So really, Stewart is quite accomplished in the art of orally pleasing a woman. But let me give you an analogy worthy of the S.A.T.: Stewart's pussylapping, as compared to that of his bull dyke department head, was as pathetic as his fucking was, as compared to that of my bull-cocked brother-in-law! She was fantastic!

I had already come once from her masterful ministrations before she yanked open my top and started twisting my nipples mercilessly. This made me come a second time, just as my political convictions require — I am not a collaborator in the war of the sexes!

I did a wonderful job of submitting to the woman, even when she bent me over the desk to wallop my behind with her shoe. I proved myself as open-minded about such things as you can imagine. For example, I got just as wet from an ass-beating at her hands as I do at a man's!

I yelped at first — but quickly apologized — when Professor shoved the big black chess piece up my rectum.

I am proud to say I am no hypocrite. I remained true to my political principles throughout the next hour, as evidenced by my absolute obedience to this lesbian top. I didn't let the chess piece slip out of my ass once — not while I orally serviced a woman for the first time in my life, and not when she beat my ass again, this time with a leather strap. I was able to anally retain the token of my subjugation to her through four or five of my own orgasms, even the one I diddled myself to while she rode my face like an Old West bronco buster!

As she climbed off of my face and off of the desk, I caught my breath, assuming that my feminist credentials had been firmly established. Professor Leftward settled back into her chair and motioned for me to sit up on the desk edge. As I did, I felt the large wooden chess piece shift in my fundament. I attempted to slide off the desk, but she stopped me.

"Not bad so far, but I still haven't seen you ejaculate."

"Ejaculate? Like a man?"

"No! Ejaculate like a person! Do you mean to tell me that you endorse the sexist, chauvinist lie that only men ejaculate?"

"Um, I noticed that 'Female Ejaculation' is on your course syllabus, later in the semester ... I guess I thought that was a metaphor..." I stopped when I caught the look on her face — a combination of anger and disappointment. I tried to respond.

"I'm willing to learn about it. Please tell me."

"Tell you? WILLING to learn?" a look of downright lust crossed her face. "I'm going to SHOW you. You will not be allowed to leave this office until you ejaculate, just as all females can and should. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes of course, Professor. What do you want me to duh-OOO —." My chatter was abruptly cut short as the world-renowned scholar drove half of her left hand right into my vagina. Before I could formulate a response to this unexpected intrusion, I felt her fingers — now imbedded in my sex — begin to squirm and twist around energetically.

I guess considering what happened over the next several minutes, I finally had something to thank Danny for. As I mentioned, my husband Stewart is my only love, and in fact, I don't want to have sex with anyone else — I hate it. But I am forced to, you see, because Danny always seems to trick me into to it, and then my pussy always seems to betray my more exalted character, so despite my pure and loyal heart, I have, over the last several months, been fucked quite regularly by men of undersized brains and oversized cocks. The occasional coitus I experience with my dear husband's modest member — while representing the pinnacle of our spiritual union — would have completely failed to prepare my twenty-four-year-old vaginal passage for the very urgent — and very ungentle — thrusting it was receiving from the aggressive hand of Professor Leftward.

Humbly, I am forced to acknowledge that, thanks to an almost daily dose of Danny's fat cock, along with frequent cuntsplitting courtesy of his buddy Bob, not to mention numerous repeat debauchings at the hands of Danny's several friends who I first met the night of Stewart's bachelor party — especially the black bouncer Melvin, who if I didn't fuck weekly, might accuse me of racism (goodness it was hard hunting him down after that first night!) — and finally, of course, by virtue of the multiple cuntal workouts I had been receiving daily since offering my services to Escort Resource ... thanks to all of that, DESPITE the fact that basically it was all the despicable Danny's doing, thanks to that, I was able, without too much pain, to take the learned Professor Leftward's scholarly hand completely into my newlywed pussy.

It was an amazing accomplishment for womankind, I thought, as I stared, awestruck, at the sight of the department head's none-too-petite wrist protruding from the sopping wet, slightly straining and, incidentally, completely shaved organ that was, and is, in many ways the manifestation of my devotion and loyalty to my sensitive husband Stewart.

It was even more amazing that as she began to thrust her intruding limb in, out and about, her expensive watch, in scraping and scratching at the now-oversensitive skin of my overstretched vulva, produced a pleasure in its pain that would have been inappropriate and shaming at the hands of a man. In contrast, as a feminist, I was proud to be able to feel pleasure in response to lesbian abuse. My credentials were sound!

Speaking of sound, my intention to point out my orthodoxy to my Professor of Progressive Womyns Herstory was truncated by the grunt that emitted, unbidden, from my throat the moment I felt the highly-regarded lecturer uncurl her fingers, stiffen them in an angle of attack perpendicular to her forearm, and thrust four mercifully close-manicured fingertips assertively into the yielding mushiness of what was clearly my G-spot.

"Uhhnn!"

"That's it, sweetbitch, grunt for Mommy!" The fingertips jabbed again. Wow.

"Ahhn!"

"Little cheerleader whore, not too good to serve my pussy now, are you?"

"Nnnnh!" I didn't know what the hell she was talking about — probably some unfortunate memories the scholar retained from an unjustly chauvinistic high school in the distant past — but I played along because I couldn't dream of doing anything that might stop the inhuman punishment her stiff fingers were perpetrating against the front wall of my deepest mating channel.

It was like nothing I had ever felt before — deep, insistent, profound, and growing, or maybe more like "burgeoning." Her stiff fingers were pounding at my G-spot in a way that no cock ever had. And I knew something different — something wonderful — was about to result.

I can't recall exactly what Professor Leftward was muttering angrily while her fingers stabbed repeatedly and indefatigably against my resonating center — things like "stuck up bitch," the name "Brandy," many variations on "cheerleader whore," such as "pom-pom slut," and something along the lines of "you can take a muff diving but can't return the favor," uttered angrily, but clearly not applying to me, as evidenced by the spend from at least three full sessions of novitiate cunnilingus still drying on my flawless complexion.

I would have probably applied some of the psychological analysis I had learned in Psych 101 a few years back to decipher the experiences at the root of the gifted instructor's need, but I was developing a substantial need of my own.

I couldn't even hear her incantations after a minute or so, because an unrelenting keening began to emanate from me, beginning, I think, in my sternum, that drowned her out. As the tension in my belly rose, I was forced to curl my body towards itself, leaning into my tormentor, grabbing her head and pulling it hard against my chest as she quickened her fisting cadence.

I guess she took this as encouragement — which I suppose it was, since because she was a woman, I didn't for once have to hate a lover for forcing pleasure on me at the theoretical expense of my sweet, gentle husband Stewart. Like I was saying, I think she took my reactions as encouragement, because her teeth clamped down HARD on my erect left nipple just as the most shattering and all-consuming orgasm of my life wracked my body.

My over-extended cuntmouth clamped down like a tourniquet on the celebrated thinker's forearm for at least four seconds, before a rapid-fire spasm chain convulsed my body and ejected, to my amazement and delight, a staccato of fluid around her invading wrist with such force and volume that it soaked, in eight or nine successive, powerful squirts, the erudite academic's tasteful if not-overly feminine blouse.

Finally, she was finished with me.

"Let me never hear again the phrase 'ejaculating like a man.' Is that clear?"

"Yes, Professor. I'm sorry, Professor. That was fantastic."

"Of course it was, you stupid cunt. Why do you think men love sex so much? Ejaculation is fantastic, and now I've freed you from your repressed state, so you can enjoy it too."

"Oh, god, yes. Thank you!"

"Oh, you'll thank me."

As she dressed, she ordered me to pull my panties on with the black queen chess piece still buried in my now-numb asshole. Frankly, it had wormed its way in so far that I wouldn't have been able to take it out myself, anyway.

"I'm glad to see you are willing to further the cause of feminism, Rachel. Stewart will be glad for the security to his career, even if he'll never know about it."

"Of course, Professor, anything for the cause."

"You're right about that. I'll be needing a reaffirmation of your commitment just like today's, say, once a week from now on. And I don't plan to pay for any more 'chess pieces, ' either. Do you understand me?"

"Of course, Professor."

"Good. Now get out of here, I have another appointment."

As I exited her office, completely disheveled, I discovered two female students were waiting outside. They were both jocks — still wearing their field hockey practice gear. Wow. Professor Leftward's stamina was a credit to our gender. As I felt the chess queen shift in my bottom, I silently wished these two underclasswomyn a very educational appointment in the basics of feminism.

At this thought, I felt myself blushing, and rushed off to find Danny in order to have the 'receipt' twisting in my colon removed. After he dug it out, he of course felt like he had to fuck my ass. Loser. Typical male. Right before he ejaculated into my bowels, I came, and for some reason I shouted "God, I love you!" I hated him even more for somehow getting me to pronounce such an obvious falsehood than I did for his mocking laughter upon hearing it.

A few days later I was again berating Danny for violating our understanding about me not serving anyone who knew me. First Principal Mellows, and then Professor Leftward. Well, when I say berate, I mean I got a few words in edgewise. As usual, when I tried to start an argument, he didn't really let me speak. He just sat down in his easy chair, pulled out his vile, disgusting, and irresistible cock, and in seconds I was slobbering all over the damn thing. It's not fair — right when I want to give him a piece of my mind, he tempts me with a piece of head and the next thing I know, my mouth is full!