This choice: Find a new disguise in the school. • Go Back...Chapter #8It's Good to be the King by: Seuzz   "I need to get back into the school. I need to keep an eye on Blackwell and find some way of getting him alone," you tell her.
"How are you going to do that?"
"I'll need your help. You need to bring me someone."
She regards you warily. "You mean kidnap someone? Replace them? Like he did to us?"
"I don't like it any more than you. But with luck it will only be for a day or two."
She takes a deep breath. "Okay. Who?"
That's the thing. Your circle and her circle—the few students at Westside she still knows, like Patterson—are entirely different groups. Besides, you really don't like the idea of kidnapping one of your friends, though they would let you get closest to Blackwell.
"Surprise me," you say at last. "Use your judgment."
She makes a face. "You just don't want to be the one to have to pick."
"I'm in it just as much as you. More so, since I'll be the one stepping in for them."
* * * * *
You won't be able to put them in the basement at Blackwell's: the window is still busted wide open. But you examine the mausoleum, and find that it has a strong door that can only lock from the outside. It won't be a pleasant prison, but it'll do. You stock it with several bottles of water and lots of dried fruits and meats, and wait for Lucy to show up with your victim.
But she's alone when she pulls up. "What happened?" you ask.
"Keep your shirt on, Professor," she says. "He's coming. I told him I needed to drop my car off here and needed a ride back."
"Who is it?" She turns to look back down the road. You look too. A vintage orange VW Beetle chugs into view. No. She couldn't have gotten him.
"I figured you could use some muscle," she says. "And, anyway, after Patterson last night I found him easy to convince."
Gordon Black, captain of the basketball team, and triple-alpha dog of the school, unfolds himself from the tiny car. He nods vaguely at you and keeps his attention on Lucy. "Yo, you ready to make this drop off?"
"I guess," she says, and there's a guilty tinge to her voice. "Gordon, this is my professor. And this is Gordon Black."
"Charmed, I'm sure," you say. You grasp his strong right hand and quickly—if clumsily—shove the mask at him with your left.
* * * * *
"Don't start with me, wench," you warn her. Chelsea shifts to present even more of her back to you. "You don't even know what you're talking about."
"Well then, one of you is a liar," she spits over her shoulder. "Either you or Steve."
You throw your head back and groan. "So I gave Lucy Vredenburg a ride after school."
"So you admit it," she retorts. "Steve gives her a ride last night and you give her one this afternoon."
"God fucking damn it!" you roar, and pound the steering wheel with the palm of your hand. It's not just Gordon's frustration you feel, but your own. You are this. Freaking. Close. to nailing the head cheerleader, the queen of the school, the girl with the hottest body at Westside, and she turns on the bitch act over an innocent favor.
Well, over something Gordon is innocent of, at least.
You leap from the car and slam the door shut and pound the roof with your fist. Your girlfriend can be such a bitch. Your cock strains at your jeans. If you don't get it in her quick, you'll have another one of those embarrassing accidents.
You sag, and heavily trod over to her side of the car. You kneel down and tap at the window. "Chelsea," you say in a small voice. "I've been a bad boy. I'm sorry. You can spank me if you want."
She rolls down the window. "What did you say?"
Fuck. "I said you can spank me. Please?"
There's a pause, and the door opens. "Beg," she says. You make the puppy eyes and whimper and hold up a paw. "Now stick your nose in your mess." You hunch over and rub your nose in the dirt. She slaps you lightly on the ass.
Hurriedly you unbuckle and pull down your jeans and briefs. Your cock bursts forth. Her tiny hand spanks you harder and harder. You groan and whine and thrust at the empty air ...
When you were twelve, your dad gave you a lecture on the "sin of Onan." You doubt this is exactly how it unfolded in the Bible.
* * * * *
The next morning you charge into the boys' locker room, pushing all aside until you reach Patterson. He glances over at you with an innocent expression that turns to wonder when you shove him so hard that he topples onto the concrete floor. "Don't you ever fucking tell my fucking girlfriend who I'm fucking talking to what I'm fucking doing with her," you yell as you tower over him. "You got that, cocksucker? I will fuck you up so fucking hard your fucking ass will be riding between your fucking shoulder blades."
"The fuck did I do?" your best friend asks.
You kick him, hard. "Keep your fucking mouth shut around Chelsea!"
"Someone didn't get a blow job last night," a voice says behind you.
You turn and survey the stricken basketball team. "Okay, ladies, you have until the count of five to tell me who said that, or I collect teeth from all of you. One two three four—"
Half the players scurry away from Jeremy Richards. He looks around in panic, and his face falls. "Assholes," he mutters.
You get in his face. "You wanna say something funny about me and my wench, get your own late night show." You point to the floor. "Assume position number nine."
His face works as he tries to remember which one is— "Oh, fuck, Gordon."
"NOW!"
He bends over and pulls his shorts and underwear off. At a gesture from you, two of the other players fetch a dirty t-shirt, soak it under the showers, and then use the sawed-off end of a broomstick to screw the sodden mass firmly into his ass. You then order him to waddle, under his own power, out into the gym, to stand with everything hanging out on the sidelines while everyone else heads out for practice. After ten minutes of humiliation, you jerk your thumb to tell him he can go back and finish suiting up.
But Gordon Black doesn't rule the school only through fear. After practice, you hold Richards back with the palm of your hand until the rest of the team has exited the changing room. Then you take him your arms and cradle him. "You did good, Richards," you whisper in his ear. "It was your first time, and you took it like a man. You've got the stuff." He hugs you back tightly.
* * * * *
Prescott is nowhere to be seen, though you prowl the halls alertly and make sure to pass by your old locker between each period. You see Caleb, though, and after fifth you decide to take out your frustration on your old locker mate. You make sure to linger nearby so that he bumps into you as he turns.
His eyes go wide when he sees who he's jostled. You heft him up to eye level—almost four inches off the floor—and glare at him. "You hate your life, little man?" He shakes his head. "Then why are you hassling me?" He bites his lip. "I'll give you time to think up an answer. Have one ready the next time I see you." You drop him.
Nothing against Caleb, of course, but it will give you an excuse to nail Prescott if and when he shows up again. You're so low on the totem pole that Gordon Black doesn't even know who you and your friends are.
* * * * *
"The fuck are we doing this?" Seth Javits whines. "We do it all day. And why out here?"
You make the free throw. "Richards! Answer his question."
"You gotta love the ball or you'll fuck it up when it counts," he tells his friend. He tosses it back to you and grins wetly.
"Fuckin' A, bro," you say. "Richards, love the ball!" You hurl at him, hard. He catches it easily. He's like a puppy, doing exactly what you say, and stupidly happy each time you say something even a little bit nice.
"But why here? This is a shitty court."
The blacktop at the old elementary school near Prescott's house is in shitty shape, but you want to keep an eye on it for Blackwell. You left the busted lock hanging from the basement door. If it moves ...
You lope over and hang an arm around Richards' neck. "I don't think your friend loves the ball, Richards. What do you think?" He grins even more widely and shakes his head. "I think he and the ball need to make a closer acquaintance." The two of you smile maliciously at Javits.
He holds his hands up and backs away. "No. No," he says. But you are after him, and he runs away as fast as he can while you and Richards, hooting and howling, try to corner him. You drive him in the direction you want, and nail him hard on the back of the head with the basketball. He pitches face forward into the turf.
You ignore him, though, and step around him to squint at the basement door. The lock is gone.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author