3 comments/ 282760 views/ 7 favorites Dabney Hunter Ch. 1 By: gushogan Dabney Hunter, or was her name Hunter Dabney, I never could get it right. She was one of those southern preppie new money trust fund chicks whose parents gifted her with an androgynous last name as a first name so that folks could never figure out if she was a boy or a girl just by seeing the name. There was no mistaking her as anything but all girl when you met her in person. The first thing about Dabney is her hair. She has very red hair. Lot's of very red hair. In a crowd of people at a concert, stadium, or in a restaurant, you can always find the hair. Dabney is also a busty girl. She is not fat, but never will be thought of as thin. She has big breasts and hips to match. Her breasts enter a room, announce her coming, and the rest of her body follows. She is all about oversized breasts and hair. She is all about designer clothes and designers don't really design for women with a chest so Dabney can't help but look stuffed into whatever she is wearing. The material always strains and her nipples always look eager to burst the fabric. I picked Dabney out on the first day of my freshman honors seminar at Hemmings. Every semester I rewarded myself with one of the freshmen in my honors seminar. It seemed only fair the wisdom I shared with them that one of them would share back. The class was called "aesthetics" and I quite enjoy the finer things. I must admit, in many ways, Dabney was slumming for me. I usually preferred slender, lean, brown eyed brunette girls. I was happiest with a c-cup with aggressive nipples on one of those 18-year-old bodies honed thong bikini thin at the gym. Dabney broke that mold. But there was something about the hair. I had visions of a rich red bush maybe overflowing to her thighs (after bathing suit trim season ended). And there was something about the breasts.They were obviously more than a D-Cup. Sad, but Dabney was most probably at her beauty peak at 18. We have all seen the sorry chunky red head type. Gravity would take its toll. The sun would work wrinkles into that red head's skin. The hair would lose some luster. She would gain those 20 pounds that all women gain at 30, and maybe 15 more if she had kids, and then she would be chunky. But at 18, I had to see her naked. It was all about the moment. "Ms. Hunter," I began on the first day of class. "Please read for us..." I had her read a bit of poetry from the course packet to put her on edge. "Dare I munch a tangerine," she began in a cute southern twang. I stopped her. "Explain why that is different from Prufrock's 'dare I eat a peach'." She just looked at me dumbfounded. I clearly was asking too much on the first day of class. "A peach and a tangerine are both fruits," I went on. "Isn't fruit, fruit? Aren't parts simply parts? Are these phrases different at all?" She gave me that "mounted trout" look with her mouth open but no words coming out. "Do you speak Ms. Hunter?" I didn't mean for her to answer, but merely wanted, with a bit of sarcasm to drive home the point that I was in control, and that she had no clue what to say...not that anything she could have said would have been correct at that moment. "Can anyone help the mute Ms. Hunter?" I drew attention to her plight. I liked the idea of Dabney feeling on display. I wanted her to feel naked. A mousy girl from the back raised her hand. I pointed. She spoke. "I think a tangerine is a fruit, but the peach is supposed to refer to female sex parts." The mousy girl had an Appalachian coal holler twang to her voice. The girl was frequently quite graphic. "And what is wrong with wanting to eat a fruit?" I asked in a bit of falsetto."Any fruit eaters in our midst? Don't you all like to sample from all of the food groups?" I asked and didn't expect any answer. The class laughed at the obvious homoerotic overtones. "How about you Ms. Hunter," back to the prey. "Can you describe for us the taste of a tangerine? Or perhaps," I paused a beat for emphasis, "Why don't you describe for us a peach?" I slowed the pace of my words and deepened my voice. "You have eaten a peach at some point in your life, haven't you Ms. Hunter?" Dabney's mouth moved. A few boys grinned. "Well Mr. Wheatfield...um um...a peach is furry." "How furry?" I shot back instantly, then paused a beat. "Well?" I expressed a bit of impatience. "What color is this peach? And don't you dare say 'peach'." The class laughed. Dabney just blanched. I looked at my watch. The period was ending. "Saved by the bell Ms. Hunter. Class, for next time read the next 100 pages in the course packet. And Ms. Hunter, give us about 75 words describing a peach. And make us want to taste your peach when you write about it." I expected that had I given the peach assignment to the mousy girl, I would have gotten 75 words about an unkempt brown Appalachian muff. Dabney likely would go to the grocery and buy a peach and actually talk about it. I would have a taste of that peach before long. The next class and the next class and the next class were all the same. While Dabney clearly had been a good student in high school, she was no match for my withering sarcastic classroom bite. I always made a point of putting Dabney on display. Of course I made the class write a few short biographical essays. Tell us about your parents, tell us about home, describe what you know as fun. I learned that Dabney was the oldest of three children. She had an alcoholic mother. Or as she put it, "Mom likes a cocktail or two with lunch, one or two before dinner, then a few more before bed." Her father was obsessed with "appearances." He was all about designer clothes and very white straight teeth. His parents could not afford braces when he was growing up so now he wore the most perfect porcelain veneers. His family had to look pretty. Mom had her eyes done. Her sister had had her nose straightened for her sixteenth birthday and was going to get a boob job for her eighteenth birthday. They were one of these poor white trash southern families made good, earned more than a few dollars, moved into a big house in the right neighborhood, drove the right cars, but no one had thought with all of this success to invite them to join the country club. Just always a step below. And her father was in sales. He sold things he didn't make things or own things. So there was always that measure of insecurity no matter how much money daddy had put into the bank many times over. Daddy expected the kids to work very hard so as not to squander the fortune he had made or the leg up into society that he had given them. Dabney could never be thin enough, smart enough, rich enough, or any other enough to make up for the fact the family was always that little step below and daddy always expecting more. That was my entering wedge. At the open of one Wednesday class session I began, "Ms. Hunter? Make a point to talk with me in my office after class." Seed planted. She would have 50 minutes to stew on my reasons. The mousy girl used the first fifteen minutes of our time to read from her essay on growing up dirt poor in Appalachia. There were many hot summer nights when she and friends would lay naked on the porch because they had no air conditioning and it was simply too hot to wear clothes. Dabney looked visibly uncomfortable at the prospect of folks just lounging naked on a porch. "Ms. Hunter? Does mousy girl's story give you a taste of poverty?" "Well, um . . . I don't know that she needs the naked people." Dabney of course pictured herself naked on the porch as she said this. "Oh I need the naked people," the mousy girl chimed in. "Where I live, you take your clothes off when you are hot. What else do you do? You just are what you are where I come from." "Mousy girl has a point Ms. Hunter. What do you do when you are hot? Oh never mind." I moved the class on to a discussion of images of poverty. They had read some Dickens, Steinbeck, and of course Caldwell's "God's Little Acre." "Ms. Hunter does it bother you that all of those people are having sex in Caldwell's book?" "Um...it seems pretty crude Professor Wheatfield." "That's the point Ms. Hunter. Without your TV, your DVD, your CD . . . what could be more basic human pleasure than sex?" "Um, huh, Professor Wheatfield, I just don't . . ." "Time's up class. Saved by the bell once again Ms. Hunter. And don't forget my office." Dabney made her grand entrance into my office fifteen minutes late, of course, and looking somewhat flustered. She knew she was in trouble. She just did not know how much trouble. She sat down in the chair across from my desk. "Professor?" she stammered, "What have I done?" "It's what you haven't done . . . dear. For a woman of eighteen you seem singularly unenlightened. Your peach essay talked about . . . peaches. Today, instead of picking up the obvious unstated sexual tension in mousy girl's essay-I mean what is an eighteen-year-old girl doing naked on a porch with a 35-year-old neighbor woman-you complain about the naked people. We need to cure this problem." "I can work on my writing?" She was either naïve or obtuse. "It is not subject verb agreement dear. Your participles aren't dangling. It is substance. It is imagination. The assignment was not write about a peach from the grocery-the assignment was describe a peach and make me want to taste your peach." "Well huh." "Describe YOUR peach Ms. Hunter. Let's see if you can do this if I give you another shot. Just try to put it in words. Your peach." "Um," she looked ready to cry. "Um..." "How does it look Ms. Hunter. That's always a good place to start." "I have red hair." A tear rolled down her cheek. "Details dear. How much hair? Is this a fuzzy peach? A furry peach? A bald peach? Is this peach juicy, ripe? Is it swollen?" I sounded quite impatient. Dabney paused for the longest time. She trembled. I let her sit. I thought she would get up and walk out of the office. Odds were running 50/50 at this moment. No need to push too hard. I had the whole rest of the semester. "The hair is long, it doesn't curl." More tears rolled down her cheek. I had an opening. "I want to taste this peach Ms. Hunter." She just looked at me. Blank. I actually hadn't crossed any lines. I was using the same words that a drama professor might use to encourage a student to put emotion into a scene. I was very good at this game. "Stand up." I ordered. "No don't make me leave," she begged. "I can do it. Daddy will kill me if I don't earn an A." I had her. She made the offer. "I didn't say leave Ms. Hunter. Close my office door and lock it. Then come back." Lovely Dabney did exactly as I said. "Now take off your panties." She was wearing a simple cotton dress. Her legs were bare, smooth. It was a warm humid Indian summer day. She just stood. I focused my eyes on her blue eyes and pursed my lips. I sat motionless. She stared back. Her eyes glazed a bit. Then she moved. She reached under her dress and eased her panties down. I caught just a glimpse of red hair before her dress dropped back to her knee. "Lift your dress and show me the peach." I gave her no time to think before I issued commands. She hesitated. "I think you said in one essay that B means bad in your family and C means catastrophe? And dare I describe D?" She grabbed the bottom of her dress and lifted up to her navel. There it was this rich mass of red hair. She also had bold lips, some of the longest and puffiest I had ever seen on an eighteen-year-old. Very nice. The red hair was long, not trimmed, bushy. "Touch your peach Ms. Hunter. Touch the dew." She looked for a moment as if she didn't understand then she moved her hand down and spread her lips and rubbed. She moved in slow motion. "Taste it Ms. Hunter." I kept the commands coming rapid fire so she would have little time to think. She froze. I thought I might have reached her limit. She took a deep breath. Let it out. Sighed. Finally, she moved her fingers to her lips. "And how does the peach taste?" She moved to speak . . . I stopped her. "Show me how it tastes." I was pushing a step farther to see just where her limit stood. Her hand moved back down between her legs, she touched herself and then bent over my desk and put her fingers to my lips. I took her wrist and sucked the fingers delicately. Her eyes puffed to tear. She barely held the tears back. She trembled. "Take a step back Ms. Hunter." Dabney complied. "Remove your dress...and your bra." She shook. I thought for a moment she would cry rape. Her lips quivered. Her throat moved like words were forming. A tear rolled down her left cheek. She took the dress off and unsnapped the bra. Her breasts were huge. She had saucer sized quite pink aureole, pert strong nipples. Though she was only eighteen, the weight of her breasts already caused them to sag a bit. I let her stand and linger. "What's wrong with being naked Ms. Hunter? You have a delightful body. I don't get your ill ease with the idea of lounging naked with mousy girl on the porch." She didn't say anything. I let her stand for five minutes. She shifted her weight but didn't move or speak. I just took in the sight. At first her hands sort of covered her bush but eventually she just held them at her sides. It was a gesture of surrender. "Sit in the chair dear, spread your legs so I can see your peach, and touch yourself. I want to see you cum. Spread the lips for me." She sat. She started to rub her clit. I was actually surprised that she did it so quickly. Perhaps she just wanted to get this over with. She made gentle circles with her fingers. I reached in my bottom desk drawer and pulled out a thick eight-inch dildo-one of those with an eight-inch shaft and then a set of lifelike balls. "I want you to stick this inside. Pump yourself with it." "I can't," she stammered. "I'm a virgin." I reached across the desk and handed her a napkin, "You can wipe the blood up with this...now put it inside. All the way." She hesitated. More tears. She looked at the dildo. She wiggled her wrist up and down as if she was getting a sense of the weight of the dildo. She moved it to her lips then she stopped. She looked at it again. She stared. She put the dildo back between her lips. He left hand parted her lips. Her right hand held the dildo. She stopped again. "Just do it, and keep your legs spread wide," I ordered in a firm quiet voice. Slowly she moved the dildo inside her sex and paused. She pushed. The thick head entered her completely. It seemed a struggle as it stretched her. Her lips bulged. She stopped. "I just can't," she said in almost a whisper. I imagined she must have reached her virgin barrier. "All the way." My voice was quiet but firm. More tears. Her whole body trembled. She pushed firmly with both hands on the dildo and winced. She bit her lip because she knew that a scream would be a bad thing right at this moment. She froze when it was all the way in. She went stiff. He legs shook. Her long lips wrapped around the dildo. I imagined the lips tickling my balls were I pushed into the hilt. After the longest moment she pulled out and pushed in slowly at first then just a little faster. I could see blood on the sides of the dildo. She pumped a few more times all the way in and all the way out. She winced every time she took all eight inches. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her mouth quivered. She choked back a sob. "Faster," I encouraged. "Dare I eat a peach," I mouthed the words to Prufrock. Her hand moved faster as her body responded with what looked like a fair amount of natural juices. After five minutes of in and out I stopped her. "That's enough for today. Wipe things up, dress, leave. We will continue another time." She did as she was told. She moved quietly. She turned her back to me as she put on her panties. I could see that the mass of red hair ran up around her anus. She had a hairy butt. She carefully adjusted her bra and put on her dress. Her head was bowed and she barely glanced at me on her way out the door. After she left I locked my office door. I clicked open a file on my computer. The web cam sitting on the top of my monitor had done a marvelous job of capturing her entire show. I masturbated to that image of her breasts and bush. I would have to get a better taste of the bush and of those nipples. There was time. And there was always the final exam. Dabney Hunter Ch. 2 Professor Wheatfield is an ass. He took my virginity. I hate him for that. I was raised Baptist and was saving myself for my husband. I wanted that first special moment to be in bed on my wedding night when a strong man would press himself into me and take me fully as his wife. Ok, Wheatfield didn't actually take me himself, but he made me put an 8-inch dildo in me. I felt so filled. I hate to say this, but I liked the feel of the big dildo pushing on my clit and stretching me. I hate him for the fact that I was bleeding from my virginity being torn while I was coming from the dildo. My idea of the first time wasn't to be making love to a plastic tube while some geek sat behind a desk and watched. Mousy Girl was so good to me afterwards-well at least she made me talk and think when I was feeling pretty rotten. I left Wheatfield's office in a daze. I did not know what to think. I was sore and tingling with pleasure at the same time. I went to my dorm room and laid down. I don't know how long I laid there. I heard a knock on the door. It was Mousy Girl. I lived in a single in the dorm and not many folks knocked to say hi. It was better that way. I think it bothered them that my daddy paid for a single room. I liked the privacy. I could hide from strangers and keep my stuff to myself. I own really good stuff. "What???" I shouted at the door. I was crying my eyes out and wanted to be alone. I was naked under the sheet on my bed. I wanted to shower but I hated the open shower room at Hemmings. It was like a box with six nozzles. Everyone could see your business. I was too dirty to shower in public. I wanted to buy a motel room for the night so I could take a private shower. I wanted to soak in a deep hot bath. I didn't want the other girls to see me scrub, down there, to wash away the dried sex juice and blood. I wanted to scrub it all away. I hated for girls to see me wash down there because it always looks like you are touching yourself in a naughty way. "Hey lover its me," Mousy Girl said...she was always too perky. Poor white trash. My daddy warned me about that type. Always reaching into your pocket to help themselves. Don't get too friendly with them he cautioned. They are always playing an angle. "What?" I shouted again through the door. "I want to come in," Mousy Girl replied. "Let me in." Why was she here just now? I didn't want to get out of bed. I felt so dirty. I came twice in Wheatfield's office. I got very excited by him making me diddle myself. I got a rush thinking that a man wanted me to get naked for him and put on a show. I hate him for that. I was exposed, my legs spread, touching myself. He even made me give him a taste of my sex juice. He sucked on my fingers. I just gave him my fingers to suck. I loathe him because I tingled when he sucked my fingers. His tongue shot shivers through my body. I shouldn't have felt that. I wanted to vomit. But I got a rush the moment I spread my lips and exposed myself to him. I liked exposing myself to him. No I didn't like exposing myself. But I got so wet doing it. "Let me in!" Mousy Girl shouted again. I got out of bed, tossed on a thick terry robe and let her in. Sometimes you can't fight it. What the fuck could be so important to her now? "What?" I asked. "What do you want?" I had a go-away tone in my voice. I was pissy. I just lost my virginity to a piece of plastic and came twice in the process while this little professor man watched. What could be worse? "Hey love," Mousy Girl always called me love, "I hear you just blew Wheatfield. Everyone knows about his closed-door moments with young hotties. You gave him over an hour behind the closed office door." I hated her. I did not blow him. Like what did the campus think about me? Oh God, was I the new Wheatfield whore? Was I the blow-me cum slut bimbo of the first year class? Why didn't some administrator shut down this campus lothario? "Hey love, you blew him didn't you? Did you do more? You had over an hour..." She asked again. "Uh no," I said quite curtly. How could everyone on grounds know? At this very moment I was out of Wheatfield's office and back at the dorm for what, maybe an hour? I was sure no one saw me come or go from his office. And it's not like he would tell anyone that he had a naked first year in his office fucking herself with a dildo-or maybe he would tell. "What the fuck?" Mousy Girl asked in shock. "You spent an hour with his door closed and you didn't blow him? What did you do? He seemed after your butt or something in class today. He made you write that essay about your peach. Come clean?" How could I tell her? She was like white trash shit. I could not tell her that a piece of plastic had torn my hymen while I was sitting in a professor's office in of all buildings Cocke Hall. I was not close with Mousy Girl. She is not the girl I would choose to share my secrets. "He raped me." It just came out. I couldn't stop the words. "He what?" she asked more than a bit incredulous. "He's too shy. You've seen him in class." Her tone switched to downright apologetic, "He's sarcastic but I bet he's all talk no action. I bet he didn't even drop his pants. What really happened girlfriend?" Why was she defending him? She should be comforting me. Total bitch. I stared at her. I finally broke. I had to tell someone the details even if it was Mousy Girl. I had to defend myself. I hadn't blown him. I had to get my side of the story out. "He made me take my panties off. Then I undressed. Then I masturbated for him." Tears started to well up again as I repeated it. I felt like I was looking down on myself seeing it happen again and again over and over as I described that moment. "You satisfied?" "You touched yourself girl in front of him?" she asked. She was making me repeat the story over again.I was so frustrated by Mousy Girl. What was she thinking? She kept wanting more details. Ugh. What a total bitch. I wanted to curl up into a little ball and here she was making me spill all. Why couldn't she leave me alone? I had this picture in my mind of my hands pushing that thick plastic dildo through my hymen. It hurt so bad but I tingled and felt so full. I would slide it out and need to put it back in. "He then handed me this huge dildo," I continued like on remote control. I started to cry harder just thinking about it again. I sat on my bed I couldn't go on. Mousy Girl sat next to me. "He handed me this huge dildo," I sobbed. I coughed. The words kept coming out like by reflex. I felt enraged because each time I thought of the dildo I felt aroused. I could feel myself getting wet again. Very wet. I wanted that stretched full feeling again. I wanted so badly to put something back inside of me. I needed to touch myself and couldn't because damn Mousy Girl was there looking. This had to be wrong because he made me do it. Wheatfield sat and watched me shove that tool into myself. The whole fat tool. Mousy Girl put her arm around me. Her touch was odd, almost too friendly. She squeezed my shoulder, or was it my breast. "I have never had anything that big inside me before," I sobbed the words out and sighed. I took a few deep breaths. I needed a tissue. I got up from the bed and found a tissue. I blew my nose. I used another. Blew my nose again. I pulled my robe closed more tightly and reknotted the belt. I looked in the mirror. My hair was a mass of knots. My eyes were puffy red blisters. Mascara stained my cheeks. "I have never felt so full. God that thing filled me up." What was I saying? I was telling Mousy Girl about how sex felt. But it wasn't sex. A man wasn't touching me. A piece of plastic was touching me. Wheatfield was making me shove that 8-inch monster toy inside of me. God it hurt. I just realized that I was sore and I wondered if I had torn anything. It seemed like I had bled a lot. But I wanted that full feeling again badly. I had 8 inches stuffed inside of me. How could it fit? Mousy Girl's eyes followed me around the room. I noticed she wasn't wearing a bra. Odd thing to notice. But she had the largest nipples, bulbous things, nasty and they were poking at her thin white cotton t-shirt. Maybe the room was cold. Why was I thinking about Mousy Girl naked in the shower? Oh the nipples. And it wasn't like she had good breasts or anything. "And he made me push it in and out, in and out, in and out. It went on and on and on. I was just pushing. In and out." "What did he do?" she asked in a whisper. She was making me tell her again. "I don't think he did anything. He just watched." I thought back and I only saw him behind his desk. He didn't touch me. I thought hard to remember. He licked my fingers. I gave him my fingers to lick. But he didn't touch me. He only watched. "Did he touch himself?" "No." "Did he open his fly? Did he make you touch him?" Mousy Girl asked very quietly. "No." "So it was just you and the dildo?" she kept whispering. She sounded almost disappointed. Her face twisted. Her eyes squinted like she was trying to focus but couldn't quite see what she was looking for. "Yes just me and the dildo." "So why'd you do it?" I didn't know what to say. I went to Wheatfield's office. Wheatfield started to talk about my descriptive essay about a peach and the next think I knew he was kicking me out of the office. I begged him to let me stay. I told him I could do better and then I took my panties off. No, he asked me to take them off. And I just took them off. One minute he is asking me to put adjectives into a sentence about a piece of fruit and the next I am holding my dress up to my navel exposing myself. And I felt so dirty doing it. But I was also sopping wet. "Why didn't you just leave?" Mousy Girl more argued than asked. "I don't know?" "So he held you down?" Mousy Girl kept on with the argument. "I mean you called it rape." "No." I was getting pissed again. "He pulled your dress off?" "No." "He pawed your breasts?" What was Mousy Girl doing with all of these questions? "No he didn't paw my breasts." "He sucked your nipples?' "No, he didn't suck my breasts." "He shoved the dildo in?" "No I shoved the dildo in," I spat the words angrily back at Mousy Girl. "I shoved the dildo in. Dammit. All of it. I shoved the dildo in." I began to cry again. Mousy Girl lounged on my bed. She stretched. "So you didn't blow him?" Mousy Girl's tone changed. Her voice grew sing-songy. What was this girl thinking and why the hell didn't I make her leave. "No, I didn't blow him?" "Why not?" Her dagger voice again. I had to do something. Mousy Girl continued, "You were naked in an office with a professor diddling yourself and you didn't even get him to drop his pants so you could see what kind of equipment he's got? What planet are you on girl? I was hoping you'd be telling stories about his dick. I want to know if the man has a good dick and all you can tell me is that you fucking masturbated." This was all wrong. Here I was forced by this asshole professor to shove a dildo up my sex and all Mousy Girl seemed to care about was that I didn't get into his pants and couldn't tell her what kind of dick the guy had. I screwed up by not sucking him? That was wrong. I wondered for a long moment why I had gotten so wet. Maybe Mousy Girl was right. I wasn't sure what to think anymore. Wheatfield sat behind his desk and I took my clothes off. I could have walked out. I could have screamed. He was behind his fucking desk. I stood there for an aching moment staring into space. I looked back at the face in the mirror. I forced a smile. I have great looking teeth. I have great hair. I could have left his office. I begged to stay in his office when he told me to get up from the chair. He sat behind his desk the whole fucking time. I took off my clothes and fucked myself for him. "Hey babe, take a shower, get yourself cleaned up," Mousy Girl suggested. "You don't want your public to see you with those eyes." I am sure Wheatfield made me do it. I did not want a dildo to rip my hymen. I wanted a man to make me his wife. I didn't want to touch myself in Wheatfield's office. I had to convince myself that Wheatfield made me do it. I wanted to sit on the bed and cry and now Mousy Girl wanted me to doll myself up and walk around for my public. Leave it to her to have no sense of the moment. "Hey babe, here's your towel. Show time." She continued and she just kinda grabbed me and pushed me down the hall and into the shower. Mousy Girl untied my robe and pushed me under the showerhead. I felt the water wash away the stains on my cheeks. I rubbed between my legs and washed away the dried goo that had matted my pubic hair. Here I was Wheatfield's new ho and I hadn't even seen his penis. Mousy Girl watched as I showered. I forgot she was there. All I could think about was that I badly wanted to get away from this place. I needed that full feeling again. And I was pissed that I had been so exposed in front of that ass. I would not let him get away with that again. I scrubbed and Mousy Girl watched.