Frat Mom (Scarlett Johansson)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

I don’t know if it works combining a silly and fun “A plot” (Scarlett Johansson teasing horny college boys) with a dark “B plot” about mental illness and bullying and so forth. I wrote it after watching Heathers.

Mu Sigma Phi has one rule: you can’t fuck the frat mom.

(tags: m/F, f/F, mm/F, handjob, blowjob, clothed titfuck, teasing, voyeur, MILF)

Frat Mom



Chapter 1: Scarlett, Why Are You Here?

Brad and Kyle did not wake up, exactly. It was rush week at Mu Sigma Phi. They went from comatose to fractionally less comatose.

A breeze stirred Brad’s hair. “Muhhhh…” he gurgled on the party mansion floor. “Nate left the fucking door open again.”

“On God…” Kyle lay face-down on the couch. “I’m pledging that geed until he dies.”

“Don’t blame Nate,” a woman’s voice whispered from behind their heads. “I did it.”

…The fratties jerked upright like they’d been assfucked by forty thousand volts of campus cop taser.

“Good morning, boys!” Scarlett Johansson skipped past them to the center of the house, bright and perky and bouncy, her butt jutting back at them.

“Good morning,” Brad and Kyle mumbled, conscious of the filth they were lying in.

Scarlett spun to face them. Her effervescent grin had the avid chill of surgical steel.

“Show some college pep!” Her green-eyed stare flicked left, then right. They cowered, like her gaze was a bullwhip. “It’s ‘Good morning, ma’am!’”

“Good morning ma’am,” they chorused, trying not to stare at her big heavy tits.

The frat mom wore a tight cashmere sweater today. Her obscene chest stretched the ΜΣΦ letters to bursting point. She wore a tiny, box-pleated miniskirt that would have had a cheerleader sent off the pitch for indecent exposure, and white socks that sucked their way up past her knees; like clasping hands, eager for her ass. Her acid-blonde hair was whorled into pigtails. A fanny pack was slung low on one hip, Clint Eastwood style. Instead of a six-shooter, it held cleaning supplies. A coach’s whistle bobbed between her balloon-sized fuck-jugs.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t good…”

Scarlett leaned down, cleavage sloshing toward them inside her bra. They smelled her sweat, her bodywash, and began to get erections.

“The state of this room!” It’s absolutely disgusting! I think I’m going to vom!*"

Kyle and Brad looked guiltily at the remnants of last night’s Mu Sigma Phi rager. Broken bottles. Stains on the floor. Dirty laundry tossed everywhere. A jumbled of Coors Lite cans connected by ragged duct tape from where a luckless PNM had tried to make a wizard staff.

Scarlett reached up to her ear, and began spinning one of her pigtails in a high-velocity loop. One of her gestures, habitually used when meting out justice to young male delinquents.

“You guys paid a cleaning deposit to the frat. Five hundred bucks or something, right?”

“A grand,” Kyle admitted.

“And actually our parents paid—” Brad’s brother drove an elbow into his side too late.

Scarlett’s smile hit a balmy zero degrees Kelvin.

“As house mom, my job is to make sure this place still stands when—if—you graduate.” She gestured at the mess. “So, there are two ways we can play this. One, I make a call to the chapter, mom and dad’s thousand bucks goes bye-bye, and you both get black marks on your academic records.”

Brad and Kyle looked crestfallen. Scarlett raised a finger, her smile driving amused dimples into her face.

“But there’s another way! We could clean this place! What a concept! Since I haven’t photographed it, I wouldn’t be able to make a report, would I? Who knows, if the room is clean in ten minutes, maybe I’ll give you a treat!”

Scarlett quick-drew a stopwatch from her fanny pack, and tapped it.

Ticktickticktick…

“Your time has already started! Get to work, boys!”

Brad and Kyle leaped up, collided like a Three Stooges act, fell down, leaped up again, and began picking up garbage.

A treat…

Everyone at the frat shack loved Scarlett’s treats.

* * *

Usually, the a house mom is a glorified narc. An older woman—appointed by nationals, the college, or by her own damned self—who hangs out at the frat mansion, cooking and cleaning, checking your pillow for bongs and your parties for underaged girls, trying to get you in trouble with anyone who will listen. A chick who puts the rat in frat. Hard to respect. Harder to love.

But Scarlett was different.

For one thing, her threats of punishment had genuine teeth. As they’d had ample opportunity to learn in the past four weeks, she had the power of God at the frat house. She could fine you, suspend you, detain you, maybe expel you, and probably execute you. She seemed to have friends in high places among the alum society. If they knew why a big-screen movie star with 50% of an EGOT was slumming it at a second-rate party college’s frat mansion, they weren’t telling.

She also had…other powers over the rambunctious frat boys.

Two of which lay under her sweater, almost turning the cashmere sheer with their jiggling size and fullness.

Brad and Kyle slaved and sweated and cleaned, hangovers forgotten, conscious of the stopwatch ticking in ScarJo’s palm.

The frat mom’s rewards were infrequent but very cool.

* * *

With thirty seconds left on the clock, they stood before her, panting with exertion.

“We finished!” Kyle’s face had begging puppy-dog look.

Scarlett glanced around, and gave the boys a grudging nod. “I suppose that will do. I’ll let you both get to your classes.”

They whined piteously as she turned to go.

“But ma’am…!” Brad and Kyle choruesed, their cocks throbbing furiously in their shorts. “You said we could have a treat…!”

Scarlett rolled her eyes—and heaved out a theatrical sigh.

“Ugh. Fine. Get your shorts off.”

They shuffled out of their boxers. Two huge teenaged boners swayed and bobbed in front of her.

Scarlett gave an indignant the-things-I-do-around-here huff, retrieved neoprene medical gloves from her fanny pack, and tugged them onto her hands. She slooowly pulled them up to her wrists like that chick on the Blink 182 album cover, making the act pornographic, stretching out the gloves until the rubber latex hand-holes almost screamed, then releasing them to snap against her wrists. She pumped a quick squirt of lotion onto each palm. Squik-SPLURT!.

Then, her rubber-gloved hands settled on their cocks. They squirmed at the cold slippery chemical sensation.

Scarlett gripped their stiff, jutting dicks, feeling pulses go beatbeatbeat under the rubber…

“Don’t get used to it, boys.”

…and started jerking.

squiiiick shliiiick shuuuuullkkk!

A lewd liquid sound bubbled up from her hands, rolling out a slippery, sticky cadence upon the air.

Her strokes were long. Slow. Excruciating. The pauses between the strokes were even more devastating.

Brad and Kyle shuddered, knees buckling as she slid her palms over their erections. Their eyes bugged. Pre-cum belched and drooled from their pricks.

They couldn’t believe what she was doing.

Scarlett’s jerkoff technique was poetry. The type of eloquent warrior philosophy normally reserved for a samurai’s Hagakure. Her hands skated smoothly across the cocks’ oil-slick surfaces, fingers folded like origami around the engorged poles, speeding up, slowing down, calibrating her rhythm with a watchmaker’s precision to their grunts and whines, keeping them tightly in sync so that neither boy popped before the other.

They were two studs racing each other, and Scarlett wanted a photo finish.

The two cocks throbbed between their legs and against her palms, releasing a steady river of prostatic fluid that traced dual paths down Scarlett’s gleaming hands and wrists. Brad and Kyle shuddered and gasped, mouths opening and closing like carp. The only other thing that moved was her hands—and her breasts, which wobbled heavily under her cashmere sweater with each yank and pull of her wrists.

Scarlett smiled one of her Scarlett-smiles—small and laden with thespianish irony. Her hands pistoning up and down their slippery shafts with increasing speed. The slow discursive squelches accelerated into a rapid incoherent discourse as rubber luged wickedly across flesh.

squick! squick! squick! squick-squick-squick-SQUIKSQUIKSQUIK!

Their eyelids fluttered, their mouths dropped open. They were about to orgasm. Moments away, seconds away, milliseconds away…and then her hands stopped. From fifth gear to no gear to reverse.

Scarlett slid her gloved hands back to the heads of their penises, where her fingers lay poised like waiting cobras.

The boys trembled in pent-up tension, sweat shining on their thighs, knees quivering, cocks throbbing frantically. Their faces were burgundy-red with desperation

Don’t stop. Their eyes said. Don’t stop.

Balancing their orgasms on a knife’s blade, Scarlett found a trash bin, hooked her sexy foot around it, and pulled it close. Then she took the stiff, throbbing dicks, and aimed them at the bin.

She gripped and twisted each cock just once—like cracking walnuts.

They howled, orgasms exploding.

Their piss-slits yawned, and cum spewed out in slippery, messy ropes. Brad erupted first. His cock bucked like a shotgun in her hand, loosing an enormous white ribbon that looped in an arc across the room, splattering into the trashcan like a bomb-blast. Kyle burst a split-second later, his cock firehosing out rapid jets that crisscrossed Brad’s in the air.

Combined, over twenty cum-ropes streamed out, hitting the back of the trashcan with fat percussive splats. Scarlett aimed and angled both dicks carefully as they drained their balls. Not one spurt went on the carpet. Finally, the cocks stopped spewing and went soft in Scarlett’s sperm-splattered hands.

She released the cocks to flop limp and drooling between the boys’ legs.

Brad and Kyle shared a guilty glance, faces flushed and boxers around their ankles.

Moving with a flight attendant’s alloyage of warmth and professional detachment, Scarlett stripped off the soiled gloves, threw them into the bin, pulled the trash bag out, and yanked the drawstring tight.

“I want that in the dumpster.” She handed the tied-up bag to Kyle. “You can also appoint a sober pledge to clean up after you at parties, so we don’t have this conversation again. Otherwise, enjoy the rest of your day, boys!”

Then she leaned in, pecked them both on the cheek, and wriggled out through the open door.

They gazed in awe at Scarlett’s big knockout ass, ticktocking from side to side, until she—and her wagon of a rear end—were lost to view behind a hedge.

“Damn…” Kyle gasped out, rubbing the place where her pink lips had touched him.

“College rules…” Brad panted, his flaccid penis dribbling on the floor. “Wait, did she say we have classes?”

* * *

Why was the world’s most famous actress schlepping as frat house mom for a bunch of affluenza burnouts trying to kill braincells they didn’t have via warm Natty Light and assorted head trauma?

Good question.

Nobody fucking knew.

Scarlett had just appeared at the frat mansion one day. With the alumni board’s agreement, she moved in as their frat house mom, on the condition that the entire frat sign agreements not to discuss her presence on social media. Everyone had signed. The actives, the pledges, even the GDI non-hackers. All of them no doubt thinking the same thought as they scribbled a signature on the form.

Yo, we’ve got ScarJo living at our mansion!

…Who’s gonna be the first to bone her?

The answer, they’d learned with a quickness, was nobody.

Whatever Scarlett was here to do, it wasn’t to ride the college cock carousal. Not a single frat boy had gotten the gorgeous actress in bed. Many Mu Sigma Phi initiates had made a pass at the beautiful woman. Few had made a second one.

Someone had groped her ass at the semester’s start. She’d made a call to nationals, and the miscreant had been frog-marched by campus police to a mandatory five-day Title IX training course on sexual harassment that had left his brain leaking out of his ears. There was a lesbian poetry drum circle, he’d whispered on his return, his stare a thousand yards deep.

The frat brothers had left Scarlett alone after that.

Occasionally, she would bestow a small treat upon a well-behaved boy. But it only happened on her terms, and it never involved actual sex.

The Mu Sigma Phi fraternity had just two laws.

You don’t fuck Scarlett, and you don’t fuck with Scarlett.

* * *

Outside the frat mansion, a tall and shaggy-haired teenager trimmed the hedges.

Nate Copelander was the only boy who hadn’t gotten drunk at last night’s rager. Rush was over, and he was now a pledge. An opportunity he took very seriously.

I can’t fuck this up, he thought, wiping sweat from his eyes. His dad was an Mu Sigma Phi alum, and expected his son to get into the frat, too.

The Mu Sigma Phi social chair had explained his new duties earlier that morning.

As pledge, he would mop and clean, conduct basic repairs, go on alc runs, check IDs at dorm parties, call the cops or paramedics if necessary, and if it was, accept blame for whatever cuckoo bananapants clownfuckery had just gone down.

If he did all this flawlessly—and if the brothers liked him—he would be initiated into the frat at the semester’s end.

Dad got a bid in freshman year, he thought, and this sucked the yolk out of much of his joy. But if I get a bid in sophomore, that’s not so bad, right? Beats not being in Greek society at all.

He imagined himself peacock-strutting across the campus quad, chest puffed out, wearing the ΜΣΦ letters on his polo like they were Congressional Medal of Honor.. Nobody’s gonna pick on me anymore. I’m gonna be one of the cool kids. Girls will finally talk to me.

He was lost in happy daydreams when a pair of shadows fell across him. It was Brad and Kyle.

“Yo, pledge!” Kyle threw a trash bag at his feet. “Take this to the dumpster.”

Bristling sullenly, he picked up the bag. “My name’s Nathan.”

“Sure, pledge. Whatever you say.”

As they walked away, he heard their snickered laughter. “Man, what a geed.”

Nate didn’t let it get to him. A bit of mild hazing was part of the pledgeship process. Dad had gone through way worse back in the eighties—a fact about which Steven Copelander never failed to remind his son. Whatever they dish out, I can take it. He thought, clenching his teeth. I’m going to be one of them, no matter what it takes.

Not looking where he was going, he crashed into Scarlett Johansson. Or rather, her tits. They projected quite far in front of her.

“Nathan!” she shushed his attempts to apologize. “What are you doing here!”

He gestured at the bag. “Taking out the trash.”

A microbladed eyebrow arched in suspicion. “That’s the same trash bag I gave to Kyle and Brad. Are they making you do their work?”

Nate cringed from the beautiful woman. He knew what a pledge was supposed to say.

“I saw them carrying the trash bag and offered to help.”

She sighed. “Why are you lying for them?” She crossed her arms over her breasts, and shook her head. “What’s in it for you?”

Nate shrugged. A woman wouldn’t understand.

“I’m not lying,” he said, as solemn-faced Daniel Negreanu at a $500k buy-in. “I volunteered, of my own free will, to take out the trash.”

“Suit yourself,” Scarlett said with a shrug. As she turned to go—God, her ass looked hot from the side—his raging lust for her caused an imprudent question to slip out.

“Scarlett, why are you here?”

Her stare became suspicious. Appraising. “Why do you want to know?” Her tone sharpened—became dangerous. “Are you trying to sell my story to someone?”

He cringed. I always fuck up wih girls. “No. Sorry. Just wondering.”

Her expression melted. “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you. The world will know soon enough.”

Scarlet kneeled, and beckoned him to kneel with her. A secret-sharing posture.

“Listen, I’m here because I’ve been cast in a movie. A William Inge psychodrama about Greek life.”

“A what?” Nate frowned.

“Nevermind,” Scarlett sighed. “I’m playing the girlfriend of a frat chair. The director wanted me to work with an acting coach. I had a better idea. What if I actually live at a frat for a while? Really work the method. The director is a Mu Sigma Phi alum, he pulled strings with the old boy network, and two shakes of a lamb’s tail later, mom’s the word.”

Then she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“So, that’s my secret. Now tell me yours.”

Nate broke eye contact.

“Why do you want to be in the frat?” she asked. “I know how things are. You…don’t have good relationships with most of these guys.”

They bully me. Nate thought. It was like an egg of pain had cracked inside him, releasing a harsh, stinging yolk.

“When I get bidded in,” he said defiantly, “that will change.”

Scarlett sighed. “‘I don’t want to be in any club that would have me for a member.’ Groucho Marx. And you shouldn’t want to be in any club that doesn’t want you as a member.”

“My dad got into Mu Sigma Phi.” Nate spat, drawing himself up defiantly. “And I will follow in his footsteps. Even if it kills me.”

Scarlett shook her head sorrowfully. “You ask me why I’m here….but I don’t think you know yourself.”

She kissed him on the cheek, and walked away.

His face flushed. The place her lips had hit felt ticklish and hot. Nate gulped. Hot and chilled rushes raced through his body as he watched her stride away.

Her thick, luscious legs, flexing with extravagant muscle, her huge ass exploding out her miniskirt, her tits bouncing under an overloaded cashmere sweater, the globes darting teasingly around the sides of her back with jolting whiplashing moves—jiggling flesh caught and reeled back by her sports bra’s elastic straps.

Scarlett didn’t have a body. She had a physics simulation.

His head filled with Scarlett. Her pretty upturned nose, her laugh, her Noo Yawk accent, the smell of her bodywash, her tits and ass…

Sweating, he hurried to dispose of the trash bag, so he could return to his dorm room and spend the rest of the morning masturbating.

* * *



Chapter 2: I’ll Do You A Solid

Scarlett Johansson did not respect the sock over the door.

Chad Grandstaff was fucking a girl in his dorm room when she came calling. The girl’s legs were spread, and he was deep-dicking her with rough, aggressive lunges. The pudgy raven-haired sorostitute he sawing his dick through was called Rebecca, except she spelled it a weird way, like Rebeckah or Raebeccah or somefuckingthing. So lame how girls expected you to remember their names. He struggled to remember his own half the time.

It had taken a half-hour of pleading before she agreed to let him feel her up, and another twenty minutes before the bra came. He’d finally cracked the last of the retarded chick riddles Whogivesafucka had thrown in his face—“if we do this, what will we be?”, “do you love me, or do you just LOVE me?”, “what if I was a worm?” et cetera, forever—and was finally getting some pussy, when four sharp knocks landed on the door.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

“Go away!” Chad yelled, gripping Becca’s wrists, spearing her twat. This girl liked black dudes, which probably explained why she felt like a goddamn train tunnel.

“Won’t!” a female voice singsonged, then the door burst open. Scarlett Johansson walked in, saw them on the bed, and put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my Gawd!”

The girl screamed, and tried to pull the bedsheet up over her chubby naked breasts.

Scarlett filled the dorm room in a swirl of skirt and blonde hair. He felt like a little kid. She towered over him, seemingly ten feet tall. Chad was too stunned to react. His cock did, though. It immediately went soft, pulling out of the co-ed’s pussy.

“Chad!” she said brightly, clasping her hands together. Her nails were painted to a shade like blood. “Having fun?”

“Scarlett….” he whimpered.

She grinned, exposing teeth. Her eyes were full of steel. “Yes, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out. When you took out lodging on campus, you signed a piece of paper, correct?”

“Uh…” Chad made eye contact with Becca.

"I don’t suppose you actually read the document you were signing? Probably not. That would be like asking for the moon on a fucking stick. If you had, you would have seen a condition: No girls allowed in dorm rooms."

Scarlett’s gaze flowed like cool, molten honey from Chad to Becca.

“…And this looks like a girl to me.”

“Damn. Sorry.” Chad said. He looked sheepishly at the sorostitute. “Yo, Becky, you gotta skedaddle…”

Scarlett leaned forward. Her tits poured against against the buttons of her blouse, threatening to spill out.

“No, Chad. That won’t work.”

“Won’t it?”

“Think about it. You’ve already broken dorm policy. Throwing this young woman out in the cold isn’t going to unbreak it. All it will mean is that you’ve got two pissed off women on your hands instead of one. So I’ll do you a favor.”

She stood over them both, hands folded against her hips. She loomed, her stare commanding over the awesome swell of her blouse-clad breasts.

“Fuck her, while I watch. If you make her orgasm, I won’t report this.”

Fuck her, while I watch. Chad couldn’t believe what she’d just said. “Why are you doing this?”

“I listened at the door. You were making way more noise than she was. Ergo, your dick game sucks. I’ll do you a solid, as frat boys said in my day, and correct your technique.”

“What are you? Some kind of voyeur?”

“A feminist.” She leaned forward and arched her fingers—an arch with her stare piercing through. “I had a lot of crappy sex in college, and I’m trying to spare other women the same fate.” Scarlett relaxed against the wall, crossing her arms, and nodded. “So, continue as you were.”

Chad just sat on the bed for several minutes. His cock lay on his bare thigh, totally soft. Scarlett began drumming her fingernails against the windowsill. It sounded like a drumroll to his execution. Soon, even Becky was eyeing him with impatience.

“Let her help you,” she whispered, holding his hands “You…could have been better.”

Chad whined miserably. “Oh, come the fuck on! Everyone’s a critic!”

“Baby, just do as she says. I don’t have much time. I have night classes, and my boyfriend is gonna start wondering where I am.”

Conscious of both women looking at him, Chad began awkwardly trying to stuff his flaccid dick back into her box. This wasn’t performance anxiety, it was a performance panic attack.

After three failed attempts to proverbially throw his proverbial hotdog down the whorority girl’s proverbial hallway, Scarlett yanked him off her.

“Do I have to do everything myself around here?”

She shoved him aside, and took his place on the bed.

“Watch, and learn.”

She kicked off her pumps, swung her curvy body onto the mattress, and climbed on top of Becky. Scarlett’s turbothick ass wriggled from side to side like a cat’s as she lunged up the girl’s body, almost climbing her like a stripper pole.

The sorostitute’s eyes fell open like window shutters, as the older woman’s face drew level with hers.

“Hi girlfriend…” Scarlett purred. Her breath coiled around Becky’s throat. A serpent, winding tight around her neck. “Are you comfortable with this?”

“I…I guess.”

Chad just stared, and not even at the big butt and curvy thighs jiggling in front of his face. Scarlett had such a natural grace to her movement. She didn’t clamber, she slid. Like a snake uncoiling. She seemed to pour forward with consummate feminine grace.

Scarlett straddled the girl, clasping the sides of her face with her hands.

“This is a little unusual, but do you mind me using your body as a classroom for a minute?” Scarlett planted moss-soft kiss on Becca’s cheek, which flushed red. “You’ll like it. Pinkie swear.”

“Sure.”

Scarlet repositioned her sinuous body, pulling her thick rump back onto her heels. Now, her head and hands were in line with Beccy’s crudely shaven pussy. It was razor-sharp with four day stubble. Chad had a thousand little cuts on his crotch.

“Foreplay goes a long way, Chad. Allow me to demonstrate.”

She reached underneath Becky’s ass, and dug her red fingernails into the girl’s tensed asscheeks. The girl trembled. Her feet and toes twitched as Scarlett stretched out the supple teenaged flesh, tugging handfuls of the girl left and then right,

Scarlett’s wet pink tongue flickered from her arched lips. The moist tongue drew wet, narrowing circles on Becky’s upper thighs and navel. Circles that resolved at her glistening slit.

“The clitoris has ten thousand nerve endings,” she said, painting a wet road of herself across a landscape of shuddering, tumultuous skin. “But you can hardly touch it with your dick.”

Her panting face lay at the fork of Becky’s legs.

Scarlett let her tongue loll luxuriously from her mouth, slapping the wet tube of flesh against the engorged clit. The girl shuddered. Then again, as the tongue didn’t leave, and began drilling at her.

schliiick-sluuurp

Becky gasped. The gasps merged and became one with her breathing. Pleasure and life, twining together around the red-haired head scything and sawing at her pussy.

schliiick-sluuuuurp!

As her cunt was splayed, spit, and devoured, Becca’s eyes were prophecy-wide. She was underdoing revelation. Epiphany. More, her half-broken stare said. Deeper. Take me to the end of this road, wherever it leads.

Chad felt a stab of jealousy. It had taken so much begging and bullshit before she’d even agreed to hold his hand. Scarlett had known this girl for all of three minutes, and now owned the deed to her soul.

“Ohhh….” a single sound glitched from Becky’s throat. Pure and childlike, it did not belong in her throat, and sounded wrong in the air of the dorm room. Obscene gushes and wet pops sparkled out, delirious bubbles of sound blown around Scarlett’s wickedly surgical tongue.

Gripping the girl’s thighs, Scarlett pulled her tongue from Becky’s shivering slit, and dragged it up her navel to her belly button.

“Use your fingers, hands, lips, and tongue. They have more articulation than your dick.”

She reached a hand between the girl’s legs. Becky flinched, then relaxed. Scarlet began rubbing her hand against the bud of flesh. Gently, insistently, weaving subtle spells of flesh and blood.

“…And gauge feedback. If she likes what you’re doing, you’ll hear something. Feel something.”

Then she attacked.

This wasn’t foreplay. This was the 1940 German blitzkrieg. She lunged back down, burying her face in the wet narthex of cunt, slobbering and sucking. Muscles in the 40 year old woman’s swanlike neck flexed as her tongue played coed’s clit like a savage violin maestro, dragging out terrifying ostinatos and pizzacatos of pleasure from Becky’s foaming, pleasure-wracked mouth. Scarlett Johansson was Sappho of Lesbos, fused with Paganini.

“Ooooh! Ooooh! OOOOOOH-SCARLETTT!”

Becky was whining now. Wailing. Screaming. So loud that Chad Grandstaff found threads of panic coiling in the back of his own mind. The girl was so loud. What if faculty was walking down the hall?

Scarlett seemed to have no fear of discovery. She singlemindedly cunnilinged Becky, as though the world was a vortex of the just two of them. Her pliant tongue slithered and spoke vowels of pleasure over Becky’s private flesh, exploring her hood, her clit, the trembling bands of fat and muscle looping her tight insides, while her hands relentlessly attacked and took apart the nerves of the girl’s body.

What was he supposed to learn from this? Chad just gazed, slumped over like a broken toy in his chair, as Scarlett slurped the girl’s pussy. His eyes widened as her pliant lip chased the rills and concavities of the slag’s pussy. A caveman seeing fire.

Bec’s face flushed with pleasure. Her lips began tensing with repressed sounds. Then, the firebreak failed, and she began whining. Loud. Wild. Desperate. Something was approaching…it was coming on fast…a sneeze that started at the hips…

“Oooh. Oh. Oooooh.”

A delirious note sang across the air as Scarlett’s tongue splayed her open, as those gripping hands wrestled palmfuls of sweaty, bucking assflesh. The girl began humping, blindly losing herself to Scarlett’s wet facefucking.

Cords of muscle stood out on the girl’s neck as she was shlicked and licked and stimulated. Closer. Closer. Right to the edge. The very edge.

…Then Scarlett swung her body off the bed. Her face was covered in saliva and vaginal fluid. A drop of liquid hung from her perfect arched nose.

Curiously, her face bore no marks from Becky’s pubic stubble.

“You may finish her off.” She wiped herself off, and then a compact makeup mirror appeared in her hand. “Use a steady rhythm. Go harder or softer, but never faster or slower. Remember, she doesn’t know what you’re doing. She needs a predictable rhythm if she’s going to cum.”

Then Scarlett left, shutting the door behind her. Distantly—as though from another star—they heard her re-fitting the sock over the door handle.

Immediately, Chad lunged for Becky. She eagerly spread her legs.

There was no foreplay. Whatever lesson Scarlett had intended to impart was blown from his mind by the winds of teenage lust.

Chad gripped her shoulders, punched his cock into her, and began slam-fucking harder than a pneumatic drill.

Vicious strokes punched through the girl’s quim, making her knees buckle and her legs curl back like a spider’s. Her sweaty flesh shook and vibrated with the impacts. Her body quaked and twisted under his possessive grasp, which slipped and squeaked across her moist shoulders.

It didn’t matter that he was a selfish lover.

Becky was so murderously aroused, she could have gotten off from Tiny Tim serenading her on his ukelelie,

Neither of the wildly-copulating teens were able to make eye contact with the other as they orgasmed. Eyes are windows to the soul. And they knew what those windows would show

Chad imagined he was fucking Scarlett. Becky imagined she was still being fucked by Scarlett.

They both knew it.

They both knew that they both knew it.

They both knew that they both knew that they both knew it.

With a moan, they pounded their engorged genitals together one final time. A simultaneous orgasm broke like chain lightning through their surging, slapping bodies.

Chad’s balls launched their payload of sperm. Becky’s pussy convulsed upon his shaft in languid, rubbery spasms. Chad pulsed out his load in several hard jerks. Becky whimpered and flopped. Then they separated, and lay beside each other on the filthy bed.

…with Scarlett still pirouetting through their thoughts like a demented dominatrix ballerina.

“Damn!” Chad said. “I can’t believe I made a girl cum!”

That earned him some side-eye.

“Er,” Chad stammered, “I mean, I can’t believe I made another girl cum. I do it so often, you know…”

* * *

Nate sat in his dorm room, two weeks into his pledgeship.

He couldn’t do this.

He had to. But he couldn’t.

He closed his eyes, his mind echoing like hell’s zoo with the frat’s laughs; the frat’s taunts.

I hate them. And why shouldn’t I? It’s perfectly clear that they already hate me…

The bullying hadn’t stopped. It had become worse. He was trying to do a good job—he really was—but it was impossible not to fuck something up.

A week ago, he’d accidentally bought low-carb beer for a party. As punishment, they’d made him watch a replay of the WNBA finals while keeping a scorebook in his head. They quizzed him afterward, using Wikipedia as a reference. If his scores had one mistake, he had to start over. By the time he finally got it right, he’d seen the WNBA game four times.

Then, he’d failed to deliver invitations for a co-ed mixer to the sorority girls across the quad. The result? A party with forty guys and like ten girls, which soon became eight, and then five. Nobody likes a sausage party, especially not the buns. As punishment, the frat had made him “gargoyle”—perch on a stool, posing with his hands outstretched like claws—until past midnight. His legs were still cramping.

They saddled him with so many duties, and sometimes these duties made no sense or contradicted each other, plus he was only getting four hours of goddamn sleep a night, and somehow he felt that all of this was by design, and that making him fail was the entire point.

They were setting him up to bomb out of his pledgeship. He was almost certain of it.

And then had come yesterday’s disaster.

Nate had been in charge of organizing the frat’s tailgate party for a college football game. He’d forgotten to pay the deposit for a parking lot. Desperate and out of options, he’d parked the trailer in the street. It had been towed by the city, and the frat had been slugged with a four hundred dollar fine to get it off the impound lot. All his fault.

As punishment, they’d tried to put hot sauce on his dick.

Scarlett had seen this and stopped it. She’d cited anti-hazing laws, thrown around threats of expulsion left and right, and they’d apologized. More to the frat mom than to him.

We’ll get you next time, geed. Their eyes had glinted nastily as they’d slunk away. She won’t always be around to save you.

When they were alone, Scarlett had touched his shoulder—a maternal gesture that said so much and meant so little and changed absolutely nothing. With her fingers cupping his shoulders, he’d started crying, babbling pathetically. Like she was his mother.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m useless. I’m a failure. I fuck everything up.”

“You’re not a failure.” She’d hugged him. “But you don’t belong here, Nate. You’re not like them. Which is a good thing.”

“What can I do?” he wailed. “I’m already a pledge!”

“Quit. Stop showing up at their parties. Tell them to shove their duties up their collective asshole. What can they do to you? Nothing.”

“It’s not that simple…” he said, eyes swimming. “My dad was in this frat. In his freshman year. So was his dad, and his dad, and before then, there was no frat to join. If I don’t get in, I’ll be the only man in my family who couldn’t cut it…”

She nodded. “So you don’t even want this. It’s forced on you.”

Rage twisted through him, and he pulled away from her.

“I don’t want the frat. I want dad to know that I’m…worthy…”

Nate’s voice became harsh. Bitterly hateful.

“All the time at home, he makes these little jokes when I’m in the room. Calling me ‘Natalie.’ Telling me I’m the best daughter a man could ask for. I’m not his daughter. I’m his son. I’m just as much a man as he is. And I’m gonna prove it to him.”

Scarlett shook her head. She’d looked genuinely concerned, her green eyes piercing.

“Between the devil and the deep blue sea. I guess there are no answers sometimes, are there?”

And now he was back in his dorm room, alone and miserable, next to organic chemistry textbooks that were gathering dust because he had no time to study, and a social calendar that consisted of parties he wasn’t allowed to get drunk at and hangouts with “friends” who treated him like dirt, and fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK I’m deathspiraling into pain and misery again…

And once more, he did it.

Opened the drawer beside his bed.

Stared at what was inside.

The gun seemed to stare back. It was his father’s. Nate hoped dad didn’t check the gunsafe—and notice the missing sidearm—until the semester ended. It was a safe hope. Steven Copelander plinked at a range once or twice a year.

The Walther P22 shined like a death-adder’s eye. He picked it up, turned it over and over, watching rivers of light course over the polished metal. He held it close to his face, inhaling deep the banana-scent of oil. He closed his eyes, cradling it to his head, imagining all the parts of the gun—hammer, receiver, rollpins, breech block, springs, ejector—locking and weaving together in awful art, in artful awe, fluxing like steel macrame, imagining the spell unleashed through the trigger, the demon called through the circle, bang-bang, goodnight.

Inside the gun was a fire that chilled. A flash that turned off your lights forever. A second, louder Big Bang to consume the first one, to undo the primal sin of a man’s birth.

Touching the gun in his drawer had become a habit for Nate whenever he felt lonely and small. The gun felt like his friend. His only one, aside from Scarlett.

Maybe Scarlett.

Soon he felt better, and he put the gun away.

This will be over soon, Nate thought. I’ll be in the frat. I’ll be cool and popular and everyone will like me and I’ll have a girlfriend and dad will be proud of me.

Then I’ll return dad’s gun to the safe. He’ll never know it was ever gone.

* * *



Chapter 3: The Age of Moral Depravity

Scarlett “voluntold” a boy called Scott Mikkelson for the dishline one night.

At six, the frat descended like a Viking horde on the campus mess hall, ate a metric ton of sausages, bacon, mashed potatoes, ice-cream, and other crap, and then disappeared. If a fifty year old man ate like these boys, he’d be dead of coronary thrombosis in one week.

Scarlett hauled dirty plates from the kitchen bar to the sink, and scraped waste into the trash, sighing at various efforts at comedy.

Sausages with condoms stretched over them. A heap of mashed potato sculpted into the shape of boobs, with peas for nipples. Someone had helpfully written the letters SJ under the boob-sculpture in red ketchup.

I’m an optimist, Scarlett thought as she tipped the elaborate boob-sculpture into the trash, then flung the plate into the sink. Maybe his girlfriend’s name is Sarah Jessica.

In the emptiness of the hall, Scott and Scarlett worked as a team. She hauled plates. Scott washed and dried. They joked, they bantered, they flirted. His glances her way became increasingly common—and increasingly hopeful.

Scarlett was in a good mood. And you never knew where Scarlett-in-a-good-mood ended up.

She didn’t allow the boys to fuck her, but her body could be a veritable lootbox of sexual favors. Jim, Frank, and Cliff had gotten blowjobs. She’d let Chad dry-hump her as a reward for helping her clear away football equipment. She’d footjobbed Sam at a public park. He wondered what was in store for him.

“So…” Scarlett raised an eyebrow. "You’re one of the Mu Sigma Phi chairs, right? Any goss on who’s getting into the frat at the end of the semester?

“It’s a secret.” Scott shook a plate free of soapy water.

She arched her eyebrows, and pouted. She put her hands on her hips, letting her large bust stretch out the water-splattered apron.

“Tell, and you get a treat.”

And lo, it was no longer a secret. “Darren. Steve. Maybe Chris. Depends if he stops no-showing at parties like a total pike. That’s about it.”

“How about Nate Copelander?” Scarlett asked.

Scott laughed. “Hell no. Zero percent chance.”

“Why make him a pledge if he has no chance?”

Scott shrugged. “Every semester, we rush a few no-hopers. Never hurts to have an extra pledge helping with chores and shit. But they never get bidded. Nate’s in that category. Nobody wants him in the frat.”

“You’re exploiting him for free work,” Scarlett said. “That’s cruel.”

“Cruel world.” Scott met her stare. “The only way Nate will get initiated is if he does something really cool. Next level shit.”

Scarlett leaned in closer, chewing a lip. “Define ‘next level shit’. What would he have to do?”

Scott smiled. “Whatever it is, he’s not capable of it. I’ll tell you that much.”

Then he looked around.

“Sure is quiet,” he said hopefully. “I don’t think we’ll be disturbed.”

Scarlett dried her hands. “Not so fast. First, I need to make sure all these plates are clean.”

She stepped over to the rack of drying plates, her boobs putting stretch lines into the fabric of her blouse, her big ass making the dishwashing apron explode out at the back. She ran a soap-wet finger along the plates, checking for caked-on crumbs. As she leaned down to look, she stuck out her ass, like a dinette as a 1950s gas station. Scott hungrily stared at her rubenesque lower body, her flaring diamond-shaped calves, the broad muscular hamstrings lacing up her thick thighs, the huge butt that visibly cut into the underwear beneath her skirt. He swore he could hear a truck reversing—beep, beep, beep—as her ass wriggled out further and further.

She nodded her approval. “Looks clean. Good work, Scott.” She touched her pinky into the corner of her mouth. A cartoonish chick-lost-in-thought pose. “Hmm…what shall your reward be?”

His mouth dried up. He felt his pulse echoing like the snare in a Duran Duran track.

“I just remembered something…” Her grin became a narrow, saucy pout, that scrunched up her pretty face adorably.

She leaned forward—face to face. Her sharp-pointed tongue flickered out, and touched his nose. Oh God. Scott’s heart tore almost disintegrated his ribcage with its pounding. The world bled of color as seemingly every blood molecule in his body rushed straight to his dick.

Still making eye contact, Scarlett’s hands roved langurously up her body, starting from her hips.

As they hit her chest, they got stuck by large obstacles. They scooped up enough breastflesh to overfill the palms of her hands.

“…I’m not wearing a bra under this getup.”

For the first time, he noticed that her nipples were jutting through the pink fabric. Her pendulous globes swelled forward, threatening to burst buttons. Their heart-stopping curvature was like an explosion choreographed in slow motion, two wobbling globes of meat that trembled with pressure, exerted from her hands and clothes.

Then Scarlett let her tits fall. Her hands slithered at his throbbing crotch like a card sharp trick, finding his belt, releasing the catch, then tugging down his pants and underwear.

Cold air from the mess hall washed over his bare penis and testicles. A bright, silvery shiver made a racetrack of his spine.

Then she was on her knees, and the cold air over his genitals was replaced by Scarlett’s hot breath.

“One. Button. Undone.” she incanted from her position at his crotch. “That’s how we do this tonight.”

Then the same hands that had just brushed his cock through his pants reached back to her overflowing blouse….and unhooked a single button from its loop, at the level of her nipples.

Pop!

The button yielded. The sheer mass of her bulging tit-tanks blasted open a diamond-shaped hole in her blouse.

An inviting cock-slot, a ribbed with polyester instead of flesh. The blouse gaped like a mouth, exposing dark, sweaty cleavage that pillowed against the hole, seeking to escape.

Scott stared dizzily at her bare tits inside the button-hole. Light pooled and puddled on aquieous surfaces. Her skin seemed like like precious porcelain behind lock and key, and he was staring through the keyhole.

Her hands clasped her jugs, and smooshed them forward. He snorted in lust as an awesome white surge of creamy titmeat blew forward, pouring out of the hole like bread dough rising out of a tray.

The sharp line of her cleavage was visible—and so was the thing the kneeling actress wanted him to do with it.

Pants around his ankles, he waddled forward, and lined up his cock with the unbuttoned hole in her blouse. The hole was just wide enough for his fatly-throbbing penis.

From her knees, Scarlett arched her back, throwing her chest forward wantonly.

“You’ve thought about fucking my tits before,” She bared her teeth up at him.

“N…no…” he stammered. Nothing like Scarlett to make you feel like a rizzless geed with no game at all.

“Right,” the kneeling sexpot said. You fantasized about it. Don’t deny it."

Quivering, feeling like a shaken-up soda can, he rested his fat red glans against high-pressure wall of breast.

Then he thrust his hips into it.

Scott’s dick tensed, then pushed into her cleavage, a torpedo ploughing through an ocean of breastflesh. Her tits seemed like living pools of jelly, sucking him deeper and deeper, pulling him into their softly smothering trench, until his cock head bumped her breastbone.

He gazed down. His penis was now fully buried inside the gorgeous actress’s blouse, fucking over six inches of her tits beneath the fabric!

Still on her knees, Scarlett clasped her boobs with the palms of both hands, and began pressing them together, jerking them from side to side.

Scott trembled as her huge tits clasped and swallowed and smooshed his cock, pulling it left and then right with their side-to-side sloshes. His cock felt like it was trapped between enormous pillowlike lips. He throbbed in the hot, sticky darkness of her sweltering breast-flesh, disgorging a trail of pre-cum.

“OOOOHHHH!” he sighed, as his cock gave a rubbery lurch.

He pulled it back out—shining with her sweat and his own prostatic fluid—then shunted his hips forward again, fucking his prick into the hole in her blouse.

He settled into a rhythm.

Scarlett watched with a commanding sneer as the the huge slab of teen boy fuckmeat curved and bent and wriggled through her cleavage like a snake. Her entire blouse was wobbling massively from his fucking. So was the rest of her body. Her ass trembled on her heels as she fought not to lose balance. Her nose crinkled in amused disgust as his smelly cock audibly squished and glubbed between her heavy fuck-tanks, making them wetter and wetter.

Pre-ejaculate pulsed in a river from his piss-slit, until the purple glans was skidding along on a lubed-up trail through her breasts.

She clasped both hands, trapping his throbbing pole in heavy spongelike masses. She squeezed so hard that more buttons threatened to burst from her blouse. He roared as walls seemed to implode around his dick.

“Fuck, that feels good!”

Scott wildly flung his hips into her cleavage-packed blouse, ramming his shaft through her hole with brutal force. A wet stain was spreading over her midriff, where pre-cum had streamed out of her chest. His dick-essence was smeared all over her marshmallow soft flesh, from his penis fucking and tasting and exploring everywhere in her dark, obscure cleft.

Scarlett massaged her rack, pumping her jugs outward at the same rate he pumped his cock inward. Her eyes were shadowed and amused as he fucked away, happy and brainless, gripping her shoulders, pummeling the wobbling canyon of her fun-bags.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

“Oh! Oh! OHMYGOD—I’m gonna cum soon!”

His shaft popped free. It bobbed before her eyes, vomiting out copious amounts of clear fluid. Desperate to cum, he stuffed it back into her blouse, and began rolling his hips back and forth in her trench of sweaty flesh.

Scott frantically lunged his cock into her gelatinous and gooey void of breastmeat. After several minutes of titfucking the actress, he lost rhythm, tossing his hips in crazed, stabbing jerks. A boy losing control he’d never really had.

“Uhhh…uhhh…UHHH! UHHHH! GONNA CUM! GONNA CUUUM!”

He jackhammering the kneeling woman’s jugs. A massive load was welling in his balls, ready to glaze her breasts.

“GONNA CUUUUM!”

Her foxlike teeth bared, she began slapping the sides of her bazooms, a fierce left-right-left-right tattoo. Her big jugs jiggled and crashed in waves around his plunging cock.

“I’M GONNA….UGH!…SHOOT IT ALL OUT BETWEEN YOUR BREASTS!” he whined as his penis was pulverised to raw lunchmeat inside her the storm-tossed sea of her white breasts. “I’M CUMMING! I’M CUMMMING! CUUUUUUUUMMMIIIIINNNNNGGG!!!!”

One last time, Scott humped himself balls-deep into her blouse, thrusting so hard Scarlett was nearly thrown off her heels. His entire body arched forward into her chest, rutting with his hips, his mouth opened in rapture.

His buttocks began twitching and contracting.

Her cock-filled blouse also began twitching and contracting.

splurcch! splooorch! spluuurk! spliiiirk!

His pulsating prick blew out sperm in a rush. A gushing, splattering sound was audible as his load pumped and chugged out inside her boob-packed blouse. She felt warm, thick, goop squirting between her cleavage—her buttoned collar shielded her face and neck from the explosion of cum that was typical her teenaged charges’ ejaculations, but she still felt cum splattering everywhere it could within the warm valley of her chest. She felt stray shots of warm gloop flying into her collarbones, squirting into her armpits. She felt a slithering sensation between her cleavage. The boy’s disgustingly large cumshot poured between her breasts like thick clam chowder.

Scott’s face twisted as he creampied her cleavage. His orgasm lasted nearly thirty seconds. Ropes became spurts. Spurts became dribbles. Dribbles became dry spasms. Then his balls were empty.

With a satisfied humph, he tore his softening cock out of Scarlett’s ruined blouse. SCHLOP! It popped free of her cum-packed cleavage, steaming in the kitchen air, still linked to Scarlett’s fresh-fucked breasts by a glistening strand of sperm.

Scarlett cut the strand with a slashing fingertip.

It was as though Scott was a human mannequin, and the cum-rope was all that was holding him to her. Once it was gone, Scott fell away from her, knees wobbling, mouth trembling,

Still on her knees, she pulled up Scott’s pants, gave the soft cock a gentle kiss, then tucked the sensitive organ back into his pants.

“Good boy.”

Then she examined her own situation. Her ass was sore from sitting on her heels for so long. Her back ached. Her overflowing blouse was squishing and squelching with its payload of smelly white boysperm. It had soaked through from her neck to her waist, clinging to her bare skin.

She huffed, and flapped her hands in indignation. “Young guys are such a handful,” she reached for a handful of napkins.

If he thinks this isn’t coming out of his personal laundry deposit, he’s got it twisted.

* * *

One week until the semester’s end.

Nate grinned more and more as the day raced closer.

It was the grin of a skull. Broad. Toothy. Not exactly alive, though—kind of the opposite, really.

He laughed sometimes, too. The laughter would become crying with no clear line in between. Just a grinding, whining noise escaping his chest, neither happy nor sad, just broken. The sound a wrecked shopping cart makes when it’s pushed too fast, too hard.

He hated everything. The world in general, the frat in particular, himself most of all. His pledgeship continued. So did the hazing. And he wasn’t even being hazed by the social chair or someone important. He was getting hassled by college freshmen. Guys one or two shaves away from being literal goddamn children. Boys who were younger than him, smaller than him, stupider than him, meaner than him…these boys suddenly seemed to have power of life and death over him. Why? Because they’d made Mu Sigma Phi freshman year, and he was just a pledge.

It’s not fair! he thought, fingernails driving half-moons of rage into his sweating palms. None of this is fair!

He’d just “spoken” to his father over the phone.

Kind of.

Nate couldn’t remember the last actual conversation he’d had with his father. Dad didn’t talk to you. He talked at you. When Steven Copelander opened his mouth, it disgorged a torrent of macho bravado, cornball cliches, and nostalgic reminiscence, delivered too fast and loud to get a word in edgeways. Dad didn’t expect you to reply. He expected you to nod your head at key points—maybe interject the occasional yeah and sure,—but never interrupt his precious thoughts with one of your own.

“I can’t wait until you’re in, kiddo. Got a spot on the mantlepiece for your admission plate to sit, right next to mine. You took your time, I gotta say. When you weren’t selected as pledge in your freshman year, I started to wonder if somethign was wrong. I made Mu Sigma Phi as a freshman. Did I ever tell you that? And college was actually college back in my day! Pledging was actually hard!”

“I’m not sure I’m getting bidded, dad,” Nate’s voice was so soft that dad just steamrolled right over it.

"There was no woke liberal bullshit at college back then. No cell phones recording what went down at the frat house, either. You think you got it tough, kiddo? I could tell you stories about my pledging that would singe your hair! One time they made me…wait, what did you just say?"

“Maybe I don’t get in,” he whispered.

“What makes you think that?”

“The boys…they don’t respect me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course they respect you! And if they don’t, make ’em respect you! You gotta learn to become the BMOC, Nate, like I was. Man, we really fucked your generation up with this self-esteem horseshit. Everyone wants a participation trophy these days. It was different back when I was your age, kiddo. Back then, you had to work for what you had…”

And holy fuck, it just went on and on and on…

After the call ended, Nate crawled into bed, hugging his knees to his chest in a fetal position. The shadows in his room seemed to lunge forward at him, like demonic clowns.

He sighed, cried a bit, and played with his dad’s gun some more. Sometimes, he heard the Walther P22 speaking back.

Nate? the gun whispered. I know a way to make them respect you. Want to hear it?

“No.” He shuddered, skin tense, scalp sweaty, blood seeming to crawl through his veins with the itching slowness of maggots.

In fact, they’ll do more than respect you. They’ll fear you.

“Leave me alone,” he started crying again. Sobbing. Out the window, he watched a car pull up. It had the ΜΣΦ letters on it.

It was a person from nationals, doing an inspection of the frat.

Whoopie, he thought.

He watched Scarlett’s tight ass walking down the path, jiggling hypnotically beneath a tightly restraining pencil skirt. Apparently, she was helping oversee the inspection.

He was so miserable he’d even stopped jerking off to her. He held the gun to his ear like a conch, and heard it speak again.

I can get you what you need from Scarlett, too. The gun whispered eagerly. Savagely. **She won’t have a choice. She’ll do whatever you want with a smile on her face, because if she doesn’t, she dies. And if anyone tries to save her, they’ll die.*

The thought thrilled him and shamed him in equal measure.

What’s wrong with me? Oh my God, I’m such a sick person.

Two days left until the bids were revealed.

I’m getting in, he thought, his mind a chalice overflowing with absolute rage, misery and horror.

I can’t suffer this much and not get in. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair.

In three days, he would be a Mu Sigma Phi man, and this whole nightmare would end.

It had to.

* * *

The inspector for the Mu Sigma Phi nationals was a gray-haired woman who looked she hadn’t been in college since Animal House had been in theaters.

She interviewed five actives, with Scarlett Johansson standing close by. She was used to being shocked by the antics of frat boys. But these five had found an all-new way to shock her.

“…And you’re all active in off campus socials?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” one boy said politely, hands folded into his neatly-pressed dress pants. “We do Bible readings with senior citizens on Fridays.”

“And we do charity fundraisers and bake-offs.” An overweight frattie sat. “Last semester, we raised five thousand dollars for an animal shelter in Darfur or somewhere.”

A tall kid piped up. “And next semester, we’re launching an community initiative to stop the misgendering of housepets. It’s not okay to say ‘good boy’ to a female dog. Our words have power to harm.”

The inspector turned to Scarlett, beaming.

“Scarlett, you’re a miracle worker! These boys are wonderful!”

Ever since Scarlett had been the Mu Sigma Phi house mom, the frat had been transformed.

There had been no arrests among the fraternity actives. One or two minor cases of misconduct. No cases of alcohol poisoning. No incidents of rape or harassment reported by female students. Not so much as a noise complaint from the off-campus neighbors.

In the time Scarlett had presided over the frat mansion, the on-campus Mu Sigma Phi chapter had gone from being among the nation’s worst fraternities to one of the best. The chess club got up to more trouble than these boys.

“I must admit, when I heard about this whole famous-actress-becomes-house-mom thing, I wasn’t sure you had what it took,” the woman said. “But you’ve been a sterling success! What are your methods for controlling these boys?”

Scarlett giggled bashfully. “I’m just aware of their unique learning styles.”

One of the frat brothers tittered, and was elbowed into silence.

“Learning styles?” the inspector said. “What do you mean?”

“We’re all different,” Scarlett said. “College is a pretty female-coded space these days, and risks leaving young boys behind. We just have to be aware that men have a different style. One that we need to positively motivate instead of punish.”

The old dame looked curious. “How do you motivate them?”

“Oh, I was raised around boys. I know how they think.”

“Well, there’s nothing more for me to do here. You’re already on top of everything! Is there anything I can do for you? Need any help or support.”

“No. I’m only here for another week, and then I leave. Hopefully I’ve made a difference.”

But then Scarlett thought of Nate Copelander.

“Actually…What services do nationals make available, from a counselling and mental health perspective? Not for myself. For one of the boys.”

The woman produced a card from her purse. “We can comp some therapy, I’m sure. What’s going on? Anything serious?”

Her gaze sharpened.

“Any hazing?”

Scarlett chose her words with care. She didn’t want to say Nate’s name with the frat boys listening.

“No hazing. Just exam stress. The usual.” Scarlett took the card, and smiled sunnily, clasping together her hands around her skirt.

When the old woman returned to her truck, she thought of what she’d seen.

The clean dorm rooms. The organized meal rosters. Boys all engaged in community service and outreach and church. This was a model frat.

We’re in an age of moral depravity, the old woman thought, touching the cross on her neck. But there are still good boys out there.

She sent up a prayer for the young men of the community, who had not strayed from the path of moral righteousness.

* * *

schluuuuuuurrrrrppp

Lewd, raunchy sucks echoed through the air of the frat mansion, as disgustingly loud and moist as a plunger yanking out a blocked toilet.

The obese frat boy relaxed on a Lay-Z-Boy recliner, his pants around his ankles. Scarlett kneeled between his hairy legs, blowing him in front of his friends.

The other four boys lay draped across furniture, half-stunned, their pants likewise torn down. Huge wet explosions of Scarlett’s saliva and their own cumshots were plastered over their crotches. As soon as the Mu Sigma Phi inspector had driven away, she’d closed the door and blown them all with brutal expediency and economy. Scarlett’s tongue could pull chrome off a trailer hitch.

Dazed from their orgasms, they watched her fellate their friend. On her knees, her super-thick body bent and curved like a lab retort stand, her ass propped up on her slingbacks, twisting, writhing, shifting with a sexy feline sway as she feasted on his crotch. Her arms gripped his knees for support. Her tits swayed in her shirt—moving like hypnotic flesh pendulums with each suctioning pull of her throat.

“Thanks for accomodating my unique learning style, ma’am,” the fat boy said to the acid-blonde head bobbing between his legs.

The others laughed.

One boy eyed her panty line, and the way it cut into her hot flesh and ass crack, causing ribbons of soft feminine fat to spill out around the taut elastic.

“You know,” he piped up. “I think my learning style includes ass-to-mouth anal.”

Scarlett rocked back, spat out the kid’s cock, and put her hands on her hips. “Yes, Jason, I’m sure it does. Unhappily, our deal was one blowjob each.”

“Aw, you’re no fun at all.”

It didn’t look like the kid she was blowing agreed. A shudder raked his body as the beautiful actress’s head returned to his shaft, lashing her searing-hot tongue around it.

“You’re trying to get Nate Copelander into therapy, aren’t you?” one asked.

Scarlett screwed up her face, but didn’t reply.

She hoped this wouldn’t make its way back to Nate, but assumed it would.

“That kid is nuts,” the tall guy said. “Fucking full-delulu schizoid bugman type shit. He just sits in his room all day. I hear he’s got a gun in there. Good thing he’s a total pussy, or I’d think he was about to snap and Adam Lanza our asses.”

They giggled cruelly.

Nate, the perennial punching bag.

Scarlett pressed her face into the fat boy’s musky, unwashed crotch, slurping and feasting on his big cock like a hog at a trough. Her cheek bulged out as his foul-tasting prick jabbed inside her mouth. Soon, he O-faced, his feet kicking out as he spooged.

“Oh. Oh. Oh.”

SPLOOOORRRT. SPLUUURRRRP. SPLLRRRRCH. He pumped out a massive load, the chunky ropes of sperm blowing out her cheeks. His cock leaped and bounced inside her throat, shooting out thick, disgusting boycum with each thrashing jerk.

Scarlett swallowed industriously, throat bobbing as his cum flushed into her stomach, joining the loads of the four others.

* * *

Scarlett took Nate on a walk around the mansion. Trying to get a sense of the darkness festering in him.

She had to be careful. Nate already had a reputation as a momma’s boy, as the frat mom’s pet. To be seen with her would not inprove his status in the least bit.

They crossed into the shadow of some emerald-lustre viburnums Nate busted his ass trimming.

“…but that will all change when I’m in the frat,” he said.

She sighed heavily.

“Nate, I’ll spoil the ending. You aren’t getting in.”

“Oh.” Nate said softly. “How do you know?”

“I spoke to this kid on the chair. They’re just using you for free work.”

Nate recoiled, as if she’d slapped him. In his eyes, she saw a war take place. A war between truth and hope.

A war that truth, as always, lost.

“No, Scar, you don’t understand.” Nate drew back, gaze stormy and turbulent. “I’ve done so much for them. They promised me at the start that I’d get in if I prerformed my duties, which I have. They owe it to me.”

They owe it to me.

Scarlett kicked the sidewalk morosely.

She knew Nate’s type. We are assured from the dawn of sapiency that the world is fair: virtue is rewarded and vice punished and life will go smoothly if you just follow the rules. Say your prayers every night, take your Hulk Hogan multivitamins, look both ways before crossing the street, and you’ll be fine.

You grow up believing this. But soon, you get tall, and your eyes get wise.

You see a friend cheat on an exam and is not caught. Your uncle drives drunk and God does not smite him with a lightning bolt. You see glimpses of a different world, a different reality, where the rules don’t actually exist. Where you’re a sucker for believing them.

Nate would be miserable at ΜΣΦ. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together could see that.

But getting into the frat was a rule.

His father obviously didn’t care that he was throwing his son to the wolves. Frat equals successful son. Successful son equals successful father. So what if his son was violently unhappy?

Faced with this observable and irreconcilable difference between the world that should be and the world that is, some kids grow up, and some kids don’t. Nate was one of the latter. No. The truth can’t be the truth. Everyone can’t have lied to me. It wouldn’t be fair.

Scarlett chewed a lip, gears turning in her head.

She had the ability to get Nate into the frat.

She wondered if she had the cruelty.

* * *



Chapter Four: Next-Level Shit

The end of semester party went off like a grenade. Bright, loud, and accompanied by numerous casualties.

For sixteen hours, unbridled alcohol-fueled chaos reigned at the frat mansion. It bulged at the sides from nearly thirty brothers and uncountable pledges, GDIs, and—most importantly—girls, all of whom were determined to make the most noise, raise the most hell. Helpless GDIs were put in straitjackets and thrown screaming from the upper balcony into the swimming pool. Inside the house, people played Edward Fortyhands with malt liquor and swordfought with wizard staffs made out of Miller Light cans. A roid-pumped gymbro hjiacked the aux cord, and blasted “Barbie Girl” at ear-splitting volume on loop over the stereo, threatening to kick the ass of anyone who tried to stop him.

The entire mansion was redecorated in festive colors. Someone had flung a banner out the window with Mu Sigma Phi emblazoned on it…Except someone had crossed out Sigma with spraypaint, and written Scarlett on top of it.

This was a special party—a bittersweet one—because it marked the last weekend the Scarlett Johansson would be with them. The cat was more or less out of the bag by now. Everyone knew about the movie. With preproduction well underway, Scarlett’s time with them was at an end.

This was their way of saying goodbye to the frat mom. In her short stay, she had become genuinely beloved.

Besides, none of us got to fuck her, all semester. A look of defeat was on all their faces. Man, we suck. What are we even doing?

* * *

Scarlett strapped a swimsuit around her overflowing body. Her fat asscheeks ate up the strap. Her boobs were forced upward in a high-pressure geyser of cleavage that threatened to engulf her face—or, if you were lucky, yours.

A gaggle of teenaged boys watched her change. She didn’t seem to mind. As soon as she finished, they rushed to their dorm rooms to jerk off, sharing guilty glances.

As soon as she stepped off the upstairs balcony, everyone cheered.

She spread out her arms, and dived into the pool with the flow of an Olympic synchronized diver, crashing beneath the surface three stories below. Her sleek body curved like a fish through the water, knifing up out of the water again. She pulled herself up onto the poolside, wet muscles flexing, flanks heaving.

“We’ll miss you, ma’am,” Chad said.

She squeezed his hand. He blushed. Mischievous, making sure they weren’t being watched, she reached between the legs, and squeezed the heavy sausage of college boy beef loaf fattening between his legs.

“Don’t cry because it’s over,” she said. “Smile because it happened.”

* * *

Nate stepped outside, trying to relax and enjoy the party.

He crossed from the entryway to the hedges he’d slaved for weeks to trim. The pool he’d thanklessly scooped clean of leaves, and—in one memorable case—a dead rat.

The bids were today.

Had Scarlett lied? Was he getting in, or not? Soon, he’d know.

His eardrums rang with the party. Partying frats and srats ringed him, seeming like howling, hooting apes. Alienating. Scary. A large blow-up inflatable animal was drifting in the cerulean surface of the pool, bouncing wildly whenever a human body cannonballed into it.

I’m getting in.

I absolutely am getting in.

A girl cut in front of him, giggling and drunk and flirty. “Hiiiiii!” she brushed her hair compulsively with her hand. “I’m Jessica! What’s your name?”

He never got a chance to reply. A hulking frat boy got in front of him first. “That goober’s just a pledge. You don’t wanna talk to him.”

“Oh.” Jessica looked at him. “Okay. What’s your name?”

Then she walked away, laughing and flirting with the active.

Nate was bummed out. Then he remembered that in a matter of hours he’d be an active too. That cheered him up.

Then Scarlett appeared behind him. “Nate! How ya doing…”

He gaped shamelessly at her luscious thick body. She must have needed butter and a shoehorn to get into that outfit. Audacious female flesh gushed and exploded from every hole and opening, glistening from the pool.

She was just…excessive. Awooga, va-va-voom, heart-explodes-out-of-your-chest, tongue-rolls-out-across-the-floor-like-a-carpet Tex Avery cartoon type shit. He felt dirty just looking at her.

“Let’s go swimming together,” she said.

“I dunno…”

“I insist!” She bounced up and down like a cheerleader. Heavy boobs slopped up and down. “Come on!”

Scarlett steered him outside to the pool, then pushed him in. The cold water was a bracing shock. Soon, she hit the water next to him.

“This party…” she said, shaking droplets from her eyes. “…It’s alright…but you know what it needs?”

Her fingers gripped his shoulders.

“…It needs some next-level shit.”

* * *

Following her lead, he climbed onto the floating raft. Some frat boys noticed, and made kissie sounds. Aw, look at wittle Nate. The momma’s boy.

Nate just sighed, too depressed to even snap back. Why am I here? I should just leave. Go back and hold the gun some more.

Then Scarlett pounced on him, and kissed him.

Hard, and on the lips.

Shock erupted through him, like fracture lines racing through glass. He shuddered beneath the seismic impact of those soft, soft lips pillowing across his face. He tasted her saliva. His mind went slightly insane.

“Scarlett…” he whimpered.

“I want to fuck you.” She said bluntly, tracing fingers along his scalp.

“But you can’t…” Nate said. “You’re the frat mom! It would be a violation of, er…”

What would it be a violation of? He couldn’t think. Couldn’t complete that thought. The kiss had sucked most of the air out of his lungs.

A smile curved Scarlett’s pouty lips like a pirate’s wicked scimitar.

“I’m not your frat mom anymore. That part of my life has ended. Now I’m just Scarlett Johansson.” She hooked two fingers into the neckline of her tank top and pulled it down. “But before I go…there’s something I can do for you.”Her ample cleavage deepened another dozen inches.

Shock channeled into delight as Scarlett hooked the bottom hem of her swimsuit, and yanked it up over her head. Her enormous tits exploded into the air, pink nipples jiggling as they dropped down her chest. He wanted to step forward, but found he didn’t need to. Scarlett had already climbed on to him, making the pool toy rock beneath her bucking body.

“Darling, dearest Nathaniel…why don’t we just fuck, right here and right now, and let the devil take the hindmost?”

Then her leg swung out. And onto him. Her weight slid onto his crotch, hot loins seeking, hungering…

And then…holy fuck…his cock was inside her pussy!

This is an interesting dream. He thought as his penis slid along the mucus-lined tunnel of her quim, parting the corrugated folds of her vaginal rugae. Too bad it’s not real.

He was fully inside her moist, sweltering cunt. She’d swallowed him to the balls.

She grunted throatily, and collapsed on top of him. The pool raft bounced again under her weight as she landed on his face.

Her fat, doughy breasts smashed flat against his face, drowning him in milk-white skin. She felt warm and heavy, covering him like a blanket. He panted as a giant pair of knockers heaved and squeezed against his face, grinding salty chlorinated poolwater into his eyes. He squeezed them shut. He was plunged into a world of shadows, of water, of pressure, of moans, of hot and willing female meat.

Scarlett squeezed his cock with her strong hips.

“You going okay there, sport?” Scarlett’s lips spat soft, dulcet words into the side of his face. With his eyes closed.

“Yeah…” he was. “Is my dick inside you right now? Sorry if it is.”

Shut up. Shut up.

He didn’t know what part was more absurd. The apology, the question, or the fact that he’d said he was okay.

Nate was not okay. Shivering, panic-struck, pussy-fucked, feeling like he was running a high fever, he was in the hot sun in a cold pool and inside a hot pussy and inside cold fears and he was experiencing feelings he’d never had in his life and he was at the antipode of okay.

“It’s inside me,” her words lilted, twisted, curved like the pistes of poisonous tulips. She shifted her shoulders sexily, grinding her tits against his bare chest. For the first time, he felt how diamond-drill hard her nipples were. They augured against his chest like knives.

“That’s the idea here. Or part of it.”

“What’s the next part?” he asked, hating how he had to be led by the nose by this dominant, impossibly hot older woman.

“That you fuck me, over and over, all night long.”

The words exploded like depth charges in his mind.

This was happening.

Nate clenched his teeth, and opened his eyes. The white skin of her neck and her collar and her shoulders and her cleavage poured and flowed out onto him, like obscenely rich white chocolate. He gripped those shoulders. To stop his fingers slipping, he dug into Scarlett’s warm skin with his nails. That provoked a tension inside her. A short, sharp moan.

And something seemed to squirt and flow from her cunt, leaking over his balls.

This was a go signal to him.

As he was mounted and ridden by the bucking body of the hottest woman in all of Hollywood, he began throwing his hips upward. Shafting his horny, eager cock up into her guts. Over and over he stroked into her, making her pussy gush and ooze.

He was vaguely aware of the other frat boys, watching them messily fuck on the rocking pool float.

Nobody was laughing at him now.

“Oooh…” she said. “Not so fast. Just a bit…slower. If you go slower, you can go harder.”

He fucked upward with all the skill he could muster, throwing his hips against hers with rhythmic claps and plaps. She felt her pussy convulsing as it absorbed his strokes.

It was revelatory. The truth shattered like dark lightning. Siddhauta Gotama had not been left as enlightened and changed as he was by her vagina clasping around him, sucking him to the balls.

He lay back, hips shooting forward, motorboating the massive pair of tits jammed into his face.

They fucked like that for over an hour on the pool.

She faked her first orgasm.

To her surprise, her second and third were quite natural.

* * *

Rumors hit the mansion.

“Guys,” Scott yelled. “Someone’s fucking Scarlett in the pool!”

“Who?” they all stared at him. The chairs remembered the promise they’d made in secret at the semester’s start.

That if a pledge successfully had sex with Scarlett—in circumstances not involving chloroform and a pillow over her face—they would be instantly bidded in. The person who made it with Scarlett would be a god among men. The party god of all party gods.

So who is it?

They all raced outside, texting their brothers, texting their girlfriends, texting their parents, texting their parole officers in some cases. This is fucking incredible. One of us is getting laid with ScarJo!. The goddamn world had to know!

Then they stood around the edge of the pool, and watched dumbfounded as Nate Copelander and Scarlett screwed on top of the floating raft.

Scarlett was in control.

The actives glanced at each other. Aw, shit, no.

“Do we have to do this?” Brad whined.

“There’s no other way, dude.”

They stared at Nate.

And so it was that the party ended the way nobody ever thought it would have: with Nate Copelander being initiated into Mu Sigma Phi, to a soundtrack of “Barbie Girl”.

* * *

That night, he lay in Scarlett’s arms, a new Mu Sigma Phi active. His face was blank. A wall.

His brown eyes normally radiated everything he was feeling. He had soulful eyes. This was that had made him a target for bullying, she guessed.

“How do you feel?” she stroked fingers through his hair.

He shrugged. “Like nothing.”

“Happy? Sad?”

He rolled away, so she couldn’t see his eyes anymore. “Just empty.”

“That’s not how you should feel, when you achieve a dream.”

No answer from the boy lying against her breasts.

“This was never your dream,” she said, playing with her hair—a friendly gesture this time.

“No, it was,” he stubbornly said. The voice of a man not speaking to convince another, but to himself.

“Well, the worst thing that can happen to a dream is to fulfill it. Becaue then it’s not a dream anymore. It’s just cold, gray, boring reality. You know a saying I heard about showbiz when I was your age? It’s like climbing a huge stinking dung heap to pluck a rose at the top…only to find at the summit that you’ve lost your sense of smell.” That was about movies, but a lot of life is like that. Don’t you think?

Nate laughed humorlessly. He’d won. What did it matter if he simply didn’t feel anything? If the emptiness in his heart had only cracked open wider? What did it matter if he was still Nate Copelander, a total geed loser, and his admission into Mu Sigma Phi didn’t make him cooler but instead made the frat worse?

He nuzzled into her armpit.

He whispered words into the musky-smelling dark of her skin.

“Brad offered me a handshake. Welcoming me as a brother.”

“Did he…?” Scarlett whispered.

“But when I stuck out my hand, he pulled it back and laughed.”

The old bitterness was back in his voice. Or the new bitterness. It had never left, had never had a chance to become old.

“So what lesson do you take from that?”

“It’s not going to stop, is it?” he hissed silkily in the dark. “They still don’t respect me. And they never will.”

And to this, Scarlett could say nothing.

He shrugged, unable to escape the truth.

Being initiated. Being bidded in. Having champagne sprayed into his eyes.

It hadn’t made him feel half as good as when he cradled the gun he’d stolen from his dad.

Like climbing a huge stinking dung heap to pluck a rose at the top…only to find at the summit that you’ve lost your sense of smell.

Troubled mind, troubled future, flying blind and radarless through emotional turbulence, Mu Sigma Phi’s newest minted member fell asleep in the frat mom’s arms.

THE END

(part two coming)