Power Chapter Twenty Five Whatever Could Go Wrong With That
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Power Chapter Twenty-Five: Whatever Could Go Wrong With That? free porn video
Late in the summer I was sitting in a lounge talking with one of The Twins. She had a great story to tell. Walden, the donkey-schlong guy from my swimming class, had visited the campus to audition for nude modeling and acting. He was asked to sign up for every available slot. He thought he could work fourteen hours a week and still take a full class load.
An art student named Sonja posted a naked picture of Walden on her campus profile page and listed which classes he would be working. It appears that none of the girls ever looked at this face as he was actually somewhat homely. By the end of the day there were Four hundred ninety-six replies to the post, most from girls but a surprising number from guys whose notes were dripping with testosterone and lust. The replies were quite explicit about what the students wanted to do with Walden’s naked body. Sonja invited everyone to her dorm to meet Walden in person. She forgot to ask the Senior Resident.
The dorm was mobbed. The Twin got there early and joined Sonja and a naked Walden on a couch. They took turns trying to deep throat him to no avail. Walden didn’t have to do a thing, just lay back and let women focus on his popsicle.
Within half an hour more than a dozen women gave his popsicle a lickin’; it was still tickin’. Some of the guys were jockeying for position to take a turn. Until the Senior Resident walked in and ordered them all out.
Walden was buried in writhing female flesh. Tongues that couldn't reach his piston were satisfying himself with whatever parts of his body they could reach. That’s when a very tiny, very white, and very loud woman of about twenty walked in.
“Walden, get your black ass over here!” The woman’s shout could be heard in three time zones. Walden got his black ass over to her.
“You mother-fucker,” she started. “I saw that profile page and read it. Apparently every white chick and half of the guys on campus want your dick. It ain’t gonna happen! I’m the only white chick who gets to use your dick. Do you understand me scumbag?” Evidently Scumbag understood.
The woman, Walden’s girlfriend, grabbed him by the nuts and walked him naked out of the dorm and straight to her truck. Walden got in, then his girlfriend turned to address the throng that had followed them.
“If any one of you god-damned mother-fucking son-of-a-bitching cock-sucking asshole-licking camel-pubic-hair-eating bastards so much as lays a finger on my Walden you will wish you had never been born.” With that she got in the truck. As she drove away, one of the throng pointed to a gun rack in the back window; it held a shotgun capable of firing small nuclear weapons. Nobody laid a finger on him, and the Art and Theater Departments were left with huge holes in their schedules.
They called Miss Carmichael of swimming class fame. She was the only person on campus guaranteed to have seen every penis. Expectations had been raised by Walden’s picture. She had two words for them: Daryl Bowdain.
Trixie (she said she was Trixie) told me that in her dorm that speech by Walden’s girlfriend (god-damned mother-fucking etc) had been shortened to “camel.” Now, whenever a girl wanted to insult someone, she just pointed a finger and said, “Camel.” That got the message across.
While we were laughing Mike came in wearing his formal outfit, white boxers. He was accompanied by a short, slender, darker-skinned woman clad in some sort of uniform. Mike told us this was Sheriff’s Deputy Crabot. The woman walked around the room while ignoring me and The Twin, and then spoke to Mike.
“So, this is the room where students come to drink, to make noise, to drink, to get rowdy, to drink, to get naked, to drink, to have sex, and then to drink again. Whatever could possibly go wrong with that?”
Gosh, I’d never thought of it that way. It was just a lounge.
At the end of summer I flew home for a week. Bethany picked me up at the airport. We were invited to the Parkers’ to spend the night. “Not sober,” I said, “and I have no intention of getting drunk.”
My mother wanted all the details from my first year. I told her about the courses I had taken. She asked about my sexual activity, and I told her there had been plenty, and plenty of variety. Beyond that, it was none of her business.
My mother cried, of course. I was growing up. I told her I had done what she wanted me to do and become a complete man, which meant supporting myself. That seemed to mollify her, but I wasn’t sure she had understood. Which brought to mind Pete’s comments about my sister’s fathomless stupidity. Maybe the dead guy hadn’t been my father after all. I called Pete and asked him. “You never know,” was all he said.
Second year courses were going to start getting more difficult. I signed up for geometry and topography, mathematical logic, and analysis. I tried to sign up for applied analysis and differential equations, but the basic analysis course was required first. So, I signed up for Algebra and Number Theory II. Another Spanish course and Human Sexuality 201, Sex and Love, rounded out the courses.
Pete came by and asked me to spend a day with him at his business. He assured me that Ben would not be darkening his door, so I went. “The income from the catalog is great,” he told me. “Do you have any other ideas?”
We talked about a sort of “frequent flyer program,” except it would be frequent wanking instead. Let members climb in level by spending more money, and get new benefits at each new level. I told him what data I’d need to analyze to set it up.
He called in Andy and a few of the brighter regulars. I asked Andy and Pete if they thought the members’ stories were really fantasies about themselves. “Of course they are,” they said together.
I thought for a moment. “Then, at some point, you offer the member a free private shoot taking part in the fantasy.” Andy had to think for a while; Pete said he would have to run the numbers. They agreed to talk it over. I thought about Brigitte and, when I got back to campus, mentioned it to Carl. It took a while, but that had a very positive outcome for a lot of people.
I drove home leaving the land of make-believe sex. I got a taxi to the airport and caught a flight back to the land of make sex believe.
An art student named Sonja posted a naked picture of Walden on her campus profile page and listed which classes he would be working. It appears that none of the girls ever looked at this face as he was actually somewhat homely. By the end of the day there were Four hundred ninety-six replies to the post, most from girls but a surprising number from guys whose notes were dripping with testosterone and lust. The replies were quite explicit about what the students wanted to do with Walden’s naked body. Sonja invited everyone to her dorm to meet Walden in person. She forgot to ask the Senior Resident.
The dorm was mobbed. The Twin got there early and joined Sonja and a naked Walden on a couch. They took turns trying to deep throat him to no avail. Walden didn’t have to do a thing, just lay back and let women focus on his popsicle.
Within half an hour more than a dozen women gave his popsicle a lickin’; it was still tickin’. Some of the guys were jockeying for position to take a turn. Until the Senior Resident walked in and ordered them all out.
Walden was buried in writhing female flesh. Tongues that couldn't reach his piston were satisfying himself with whatever parts of his body they could reach. That’s when a very tiny, very white, and very loud woman of about twenty walked in.
“Walden, get your black ass over here!” The woman’s shout could be heard in three time zones. Walden got his black ass over to her.
“You mother-fucker,” she started. “I saw that profile page and read it. Apparently every white chick and half of the guys on campus want your dick. It ain’t gonna happen! I’m the only white chick who gets to use your dick. Do you understand me scumbag?” Evidently Scumbag understood.
The woman, Walden’s girlfriend, grabbed him by the nuts and walked him naked out of the dorm and straight to her truck. Walden got in, then his girlfriend turned to address the throng that had followed them.
“If any one of you god-damned mother-fucking son-of-a-bitching cock-sucking asshole-licking camel-pubic-hair-eating bastards so much as lays a finger on my Walden you will wish you had never been born.” With that she got in the truck. As she drove away, one of the throng pointed to a gun rack in the back window; it held a shotgun capable of firing small nuclear weapons. Nobody laid a finger on him, and the Art and Theater Departments were left with huge holes in their schedules.
They called Miss Carmichael of swimming class fame. She was the only person on campus guaranteed to have seen every penis. Expectations had been raised by Walden’s picture. She had two words for them: Daryl Bowdain.
Trixie (she said she was Trixie) told me that in her dorm that speech by Walden’s girlfriend (god-damned mother-fucking etc) had been shortened to “camel.” Now, whenever a girl wanted to insult someone, she just pointed a finger and said, “Camel.” That got the message across.
While we were laughing Mike came in wearing his formal outfit, white boxers. He was accompanied by a short, slender, darker-skinned woman clad in some sort of uniform. Mike told us this was Sheriff’s Deputy Crabot. The woman walked around the room while ignoring me and The Twin, and then spoke to Mike.
“So, this is the room where students come to drink, to make noise, to drink, to get rowdy, to drink, to get naked, to drink, to have sex, and then to drink again. Whatever could possibly go wrong with that?”
Gosh, I’d never thought of it that way. It was just a lounge.
At the end of summer I flew home for a week. Bethany picked me up at the airport. We were invited to the Parkers’ to spend the night. “Not sober,” I said, “and I have no intention of getting drunk.”
My mother wanted all the details from my first year. I told her about the courses I had taken. She asked about my sexual activity, and I told her there had been plenty, and plenty of variety. Beyond that, it was none of her business.
My mother cried, of course. I was growing up. I told her I had done what she wanted me to do and become a complete man, which meant supporting myself. That seemed to mollify her, but I wasn’t sure she had understood. Which brought to mind Pete’s comments about my sister’s fathomless stupidity. Maybe the dead guy hadn’t been my father after all. I called Pete and asked him. “You never know,” was all he said.
Second year courses were going to start getting more difficult. I signed up for geometry and topography, mathematical logic, and analysis. I tried to sign up for applied analysis and differential equations, but the basic analysis course was required first. So, I signed up for Algebra and Number Theory II. Another Spanish course and Human Sexuality 201, Sex and Love, rounded out the courses.
Pete came by and asked me to spend a day with him at his business. He assured me that Ben would not be darkening his door, so I went. “The income from the catalog is great,” he told me. “Do you have any other ideas?”
We talked about a sort of “frequent flyer program,” except it would be frequent wanking instead. Let members climb in level by spending more money, and get new benefits at each new level. I told him what data I’d need to analyze to set it up.
He called in Andy and a few of the brighter regulars. I asked Andy and Pete if they thought the members’ stories were really fantasies about themselves. “Of course they are,” they said together.
I thought for a moment. “Then, at some point, you offer the member a free private shoot taking part in the fantasy.” Andy had to think for a while; Pete said he would have to run the numbers. They agreed to talk it over. I thought about Brigitte and, when I got back to campus, mentioned it to Carl. It took a while, but that had a very positive outcome for a lot of people.
I drove home leaving the land of make-believe sex. I got a taxi to the airport and caught a flight back to the land of make sex believe.
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