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Angel Ass

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Sue never managed to shake that humiliating nickname--but she deserved it! Even a gangbang couldn't subdue her overflowing lust for sensual delights!


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Angel Ass

Alistair Galt

This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press.

chapter ONE

Long before Susan Hinton graduated from high school at the head of her class the population of Sedgewick, Vermont had agreed that she was the cream of the crop-beauty, brains, and a celestially chaste disposition. Apparently, anyway. And, very apparently, a heavenly body, especially from the rear. Which led to her unshakable nickname.

Now, there are a lot of things you can leave behind you if you put your mind to it: bald snow tires, rancid memories, slippers that never stayed on anyway, unpaid dentist's bills. But one thing you can't leave behind is a nickname. Somewhere, sometime, sooner or later, someone will walk up and slap you across the face with it. Sue Hinton found that out on her second day as a brand-new teacher back in her home town high school in Sedgewick. She'd been delayed for a few minutes in the hallway while Bert Traynor, the biology teacher, enlightened her on the way eels sometimes make mass migrations over wet grass at night, and the new knowledge had slowed her progress somewhat. Thinking about all those eels sliding over wet grass in the dark made it difficult to walk, for some reason, and she thought maybe she'd pass the information along to her classes for the benefit of some of the boys who seemed to be perpetually grass-stained at the elbows.

Anyway, she got to her class a couple of minutes late. She walked from the door to her desk at the back of the room, feeling good, forgetting about the eels, not unpleasantly conscious of the lifting yearning young male eyes, somehow aware of all the other male lifting that was going on in the room, but feeling good and knowing that she looked good in her light cardigan sweater and her short skirt that fitted so exquisitely over the hips, feeling good in the spring of her eye-catching, breath-stopping dancer's legs. Just feeling good. And then, as she turned at her desk to sit, with a tiny twirl of the back hem of her skirt, she heard the words, the name she had hoped she'd never hear again. Whispered only, but she heard it.

“Angel Ass,” she heard one of the boys breathe to another. “Jesus.”

 

It was not until she was seventeen, during her senior year in high school, that Sue was first called “Angel Ass”. Vermont is ski country, and even the natives (the younger and more daring ones) are tempted to try the garb of the visiting skiers.

Like stretch pants.

At seventeen, Sue Hinton was seen wearing her first pair of stretch pants; the involuntary long low whistles started, and from then on, far and wide, Sue was known reverently only as “Angel Ass”. By the male townspeople. By visiting skiers, addled though they were from falling down on the hardpacked snow. By gas station attendants, and forest rangers, and lost motorists, and state policemen. By students and faculty alike at the nearby university.

In the entire area Sue was known as “Angel Ass", the one and only “Angel Ass”. And it was an impossible name for her to shake because it was so supremely justified, so thoroughly deserved, so absolutely right.

Because, beyond doubt, Sue Hinton had the most indescribably lovely ass this side of the Great Divide. And individual, concentrated, distilled admiration for it led to the ultimate invasion of her own Great Divide, which was Greatly Divided among many. But we're getting ahead of the story.

The glory and the fame of Sue's ass made foothills of the Green Mountains, a puddle out of Lake Champlain. Vermont now had a boast beyond its wildest dreams.

“If Sue ever decides to leave the state,” the natives said to one another, “Vermont's number one export won't be maple syrup. Not any more.”

But the notoriety and the admiration made Sue self-conscious, and all through her four years at the university she fought the boys like a tiger, with a hand job here and there when it was necessary, and occasionally a little discreet use of her mouth; by graduation day she was known all over campus as The Last Virgin in Vermont.

But they were wrong, of course. Not very wrong, but wrong. There had been the few swift gasping horizontal episodes with Roy Waldemere when she was sixteen, until her mother had found her one day, open-thighed and squirming under him in the blueberry field. Her mother had frightened her very badly and her fucking days, practically before they started, were over for a long, long time after.

 

When the whispered words “Angel Ass” wafted to her across the desks and across the years, Sue had the presence to note where they came from—a long, lean, basketball type named Frederickson, Ralph. The name Frederickson nagged at her memory the rest of that day, but she couldn't be sure where it came from in her twenty-two years of Vermont living. Anyway, the words “Angel Ass” were uppermost in her mind. She had trouble all through the day keeping her mind on Edna St. Vincent Millay and her candle burning at both ends. She'd decided to get her classes hip deep in poetry, just for openers.

But that night, right in the fiercely pumping heart of Sedgewick, as she was coming out of Fuller's Drag Store at Main and Maple she spotted the key to her disturbance, slouched over the wheel of an old two-tone Chevrolet at the curb. She hesitated for only a second. It was time to nip this thing in the proverbial bud.

“May I?” she asked, through the open window on the passenger's side of the Chevrolet. She opened the door and sat down tentatively on the seat without waiting for an answer.

“Hell yes,” the tall boy said, straightening at the wheel and moving his cigarette hand awkwardly, in tardy concealment. The hand held a lumpy, badly-rolled joint, Sue noticed. She had a working knowledge of what a joint should look like. She'd smoked a little discreet grass during her undergraduate days at the university. Also hash. The other hand of Frederickson, Ralph, held a can of beer. She doubted that the townspeople would approve of even that.

“Do they call you Stretch, or Highpockets?” she asked, “or just plain Ralph?”

“Most people just call me Ralph.”

“Well, most people don't call me 'Angel Ass'. Not any more.”

“You weren't supposed to hear that,” he said, looking at her quickly, and made a monumentally awkward effort to change the subject. “I don't like that candle poem much. I like the one of hers called 'The Pear Tree'.”

He recited, his memory clear on pot:

 

In the squalid, dirty dooryard

Where the chickens scratch and run

White, incredible, the pear tree

Stands apart and takes the sun.

 

That was pretty good, Sue thought, except that he'd probably learned it in junior high school. That's where the kids were usually fed that one.

“That's a nice country poem,” Sue said. “Now let's get back to 'Angel Ass'.”

“I couldn't help that,” the tall boy said, and sipped on his beer. The joint had gone out, Sue noticed. “I just happened to remember.”

“Remember from where?”

“My older brother, Ted. He was in your class at high school.”

Ted Frederickson. Oh yes, now she remembered. Good God. He'd been Roy Waldemere's best friend.

“Oh, yes.” She could hardly talk, she was so shaken. “Well.”

“He said you had the nicest ass-I beg your pardon— the nicest rear end...”

“'Ass' is all right,” she said coldly.

“Nicest rear end in all New England,” the tall boy finished, almost shyly.

“They used to say the whole Eastern Seaboard,” she said, “or the whole Western Hemisphere, depending on the beer content of the conversation.”

“Ted's never been out of New England,” Ralph Frederickson said apologetically. “The whole world, I'd say.”

“Don't be gallant. It doesn't sit well on basketball players.”

“How'd you know I played basketball?”

“You have a hoop for a head,” she said, and caught herself. No sense making enemies in the student body. “I'm sorry, Ralph. It's just that that damn name haunts me.” She looked at him squarely for the first time. He was really a nice, earnest-looking boy. A half-baked, half-assed young Eastern Joel McCrea, out of one of the Late Show movies. “May I join you?”

“Sure,” he said, with a pathetic sort of gratitude. He held out the can of beer.

“Not that,” she said, and nodded at the lumpy joint in his other hand.

“Oh,” he said. “Sure. Let me light it for you.”

“Not here, for God's sake,” she said, suddenly panicked. “You're a small-town boy who'll never make good, lighting up a joint in front of Fuller's Drug Store.” She closed the door on her side of the car and sat back in the seat, crossing her legs. All of a sudden she felt like an undergraduate again.

“Drive somewhere,” she said. “Anywhere.”

“Can I take you home?”

“My car's parked down by the library. You can drop me there later. For now, just drive somewhere—and hope to heaven that nobody's seen us.”

“Nobody has,” he said, starting the engine. “I've been watching.”

“So have I,” she said, and realized for the first time that she had. It was a small-town instinct.

They parked out by Purdy's Pond. The road along the shore of the pond was Sedgewick's own bucolic Lovers' Lane. Hump Beach, it was called. Had been, since the Days of Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys.

“Nice place you brought me to,” she said. She couldn't stop the sarcasm in her tone, student body or no student body.

“I didn't mean anything by it,” he said, looking at her seriously in the dusk. “It was the first place I thought of.”

“I know,” she said, relenting. “Don't pay any attention to me. Old maid schoolteachers get that way.”

He grinned at her suddenly, lit a match, and got the joint glowing. He handed it to her, keeping a lungful for himself.

“Plow deep,” he said with his lips, keeping his mouth mostly closed, using a minimum of breath.

She took a deep drag and held it. Her miserable old home town was beginning to look better already.

 

Young Ralph Frederickson was not without resources. He had most of a six-pack of beer, still cold, on the floor in the back of the car. He also had two more joints, crudely made but more than adequate, in an envelope in his jacket pocket. By the time they were halfway through the second of the reserves and had finished most of the beer, Sue was completely relaxed and filled with confidence. In herself. And in young Ralph, who was now her dear friend and ally in a world that was foreign and hostile because it was so close to home.

“Will you do me a favor, Ralph?” she asked, exhaling regretfully.

“Anything.” From the look on his face, he meant it.

“Don't spread that 'Angel Ass' name any further. It shakes me up something awful.”

“I'll never breathe it again, to anyone.”

“And you could take it one step further, if you wanted to.”

“How?”

“Put a stop to it, if you hear it catching on among the boys. You're big enough. And strong enough.” Flattery, she thought, will get you anywhere.

Ralph sat up a little straighter. His arm went around her protectively.

“You'll never hear it again,” he said.

“You're sweet,” she said and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

But something happened to her plan as she leaned-his cheek wasn't there, and his mouth was. Open. Have to keep on good terms with the student body, she thought inanely, and opened her own mouth in welcome. His tongue searched, and she rewarded the search. Reward, she thought, her mind clear and logical. She'd reward this nice boy for his loyalty. She wanted to reward him, very much.

She felt one large hand, under her sweater in back, unhook her bra in one deft movement. And he'd looked so awkward, she thought in pleased surprise. His other hand, just as deft, was unbuttoning her sweater down the front; then his mouth left hers, and formed a gentle suction over the tip of her left breast. She felt his tongue licking, and saw the dark puckered nipple on the white swell of her right breast rising stiffly in sympathy. He didn't neglect it.

Reward, she thought, her hips starting to move at the word. In movements as deft as his own, she slipped out of her loafers and peeled off her panty-hose. She felt one of the large hands exploring the softness of her inner thighs, a finger finding the intimate dampness above. Dampness? She was a swamp.

She felt him fumbling with his belt, pushing his pants floorward. He was much more awkward with his own clothing than with hers. But as he started to arch over her the angle was all wrong; his height was against him. She had a better idea. She remembered a sorority sister who'd had a boy friend with an old Studebaker, with a simple bench front seat like this car's, and she remembered the girl saying something about the Studebaker Straddle. No reason you couldn't do the Studebaker Straddle in a Chevrolet. She put an arm against his chest, and he looked at her questioningly. He was arched like a great big question mark.

“Not that way, Ralph,” she said. “Just sit back in the middle of the seat.”

He did as he was told. He'd make a good student.

As he leaned back, his white flagpole of an organ stood straight up, looking in the darkness as tall and slim as Ralph himself. Reward. She raised herself and straddled him, one knee on each side of his hips, then let herself down, slowly.

Without guidance, the tip of his organ found the wet warm entrance to her virgin-tender twat. She let herself down slowly, an inch at a time, surprised that she wasn't at all frightened or strained. His rigid cock slid up into her easily. The pleasure was almost more than she could bear, but she stopped her descent when she was only halfway impaled.

“Did you ever throw the javelin?” she asked. God, it felt long.

“What? No. I'm a basketball player.”

“Well,” she said, finding it hard to talk as she let herself the rest of the way down, “you've just made a basket.”

Oh God. Where had that been all her life? She started to slide up and down, slowly, and she felt his hips arch upwards as he met every descent with a thrust of his own.

She lost track of time, but all at once she wasn't going up and down slowly any more. She heard herself gasping, and she was pumping and squirming and grinding down on him all at the same time. He was deep inside her, spurting, as she reached her climax in a series of pounding waves.

She lay against him for a long time before she stirred.

“No more 'Angel Ass'?” she said into his ear.

“No more 'Angel Ass',” he said wanly.

 

Her car was parked under a street light by the library, and he let her out of his car in the darkness half a block away.

She had the sensation that she was staggering a little as she walked toward her car. But she didn't care. She had confidence now, and faith.

A lot of faith. In a student named Frederickson, Ralph.

chapter TWO

She awoke the next morning with a strange new feeling of aliveness, awareness. The birds sang truer, the air smelled fresher, the grass looked greener. But with her new sense of aliveness was a restlessness, equally strange. Everything made her think of sex. Rustling leaves. Birds in flight. Passing Volkswagens. And Robert Frost's “Swinging Birches", as sexless a poem as she'd ever read. Especially “Swinging Birches”. The poem made her think of tall straight young saplings full of the juice of life, and of hardwoods like hickory and ash and oak, and of other hard things. She was glad when the last class was over.

But she didn't feel like going right home to listen to her mother, widowed two years now, talking steadily as she rattled around the big old farmhouse. Her mother was all right, but she just didn't feel like listening to her this afternoon.

With that new aliveness pulsing in her, that strange restlessness pushing her, she wandered down the long grassy slope behind the main school building toward the stadium, where football practice was under way. She took a seat high in the stands, away from the busy buzzing little knots of girls scattered through the tiers.

Deliberately, she sat very still, trying to compose herself as she watched the varsity running pass patterns around the token resistance of the jayvees. But the sight did anything but calm her. All that loose-running, bursting young muscle pounding around on the field below her increased her restlessness unbearably. She uncrossed her legs and squeezed her knees together. All her turmoil seemed to center down there somewhere.

“Hello,” a voice said from above her somewhere. She looked up to see the looming length of Ralph Frederickson folding to sit beside her.

“You shouldn't be seen sitting next to me,” she said nervously.

“I can't help myself,” he said, not looking at her, gazing vacantly at the determined, bruising activity below. “You don't know what it did to me, looking at you in class today.”

“Yes I do,” she said. “It was bad for me too.” Not just with Ralph Frederickson. With every male in every one of her classes.

He glanced at her hopefully, encouraged by her words.

“Will you see me tonight?”

She hesitated for less than a second.

“Yes,” she said.

“In front of the library?”

“No.” She was surprised at how fast her mind moved, twice as surprised at her own boldness. “Come to the house at eight o'clock.” Her mother left for choir rehearsal at quarter to eight tonight, never got home before ten-thirty. “Now go, please, Ralph, before somebody notices us together.”

He stood up and left her, silently, like a slave. A very long, tall slave.

 

After the evening meal, which is “supper” in Vermont, Sue told her mother she had a headache and went up to her room. Meticulously, she took the spread off her old four-poster bed and folded it and placed it on a chair. Then she peeled off her panty-hose and lay down on her back on the bed, the hem of her short skirt at her hips. It seemed cooling, somehow, to lie there that way, waiting for her mother to leave and for Ralph to arrive, but she was very excited. She was careful to keep her hands folded, no lower than her waist.

At exactly quarter to eight by her bedside clock she heard her mother's old Dodge grumbling out the long driveway to the country road, and less than ten minutes later she heard Ralph Frederickson's car come to a gravelly stop alongside the house. Feeling the breeze on her bare legs, she ran down the stairs and opened the front door, took Ralph's hand to welcome him through it, and closed it behind him. And suddenly she was overcome with embarrassment and stage fright. She tugged downward at the front of her skirt, which barely came down over the confluence of her upper thighs. Ralph's eyes followed her tugging hand.

“Would you like a cup of coffee or something?” she asked desperately.

“If you would,” he said, looking puzzled and awkward. But then he always looked puzzled and awkward, to some degree.

She led him to the kitchen and put a kettle of water on the stove, being careful not to bend down even slightly. But when she turned from the stove Ralph was there, and she was in the serpentine circle of his arms. She turned her cheek to his open-mouthed kiss and spun wraith-like from the eager questing embrace.

But for some reason, in her almost wooden embarrassment, there seemed no place to go in that whole big house. On some insane impulse she jumped up and sat on the high wide counter next to the kitchen sink, on the side away from the drainboard.

She saw Ralph look down, and her eyes followed the direction of his glance. The smooth swell of her thighs, still tanned from summer, were understandably a magnet for the tall boy's eyes. Her skirt barely covered the hint of hair at the goal of Ralph's glance. She made no attempt to pull it down. Her embarrassment was dissipating.

“I like to lecture on poetry,” she said, “from this vantage point.”

Ralph sat down on a kitchen chair in front of her, his long legs straddling the back of it.

“I like to listen,” he said, “from this vantage point.”

He had gotten noticeably sharper, she thought, in the last twenty-four hours.

“Which poet shall we go into today?”

“You,” he said.

“I'm no poet.”

He left that unanswered. Sharper or not sharper, she thought, he was still young. Or maybe too bright to say the obvious thing. She liked that idea.

“Edna St. Vincent Millay,” he said finally, grinning ” 'The Pear Tree'.”

“That was yesterday.”

“More Robert Frost?”

“'Swinging Birches',” she said, and she was right back where she'd been that afternoon. Restlessness, she'd called it then. “Horny” was the word, she knew now. Her knees came apart, only slightly, but Bill's eyes didn't miss a thing.

“Speaking of swinging birches,” he said, standing up and stepping easily over the back of the chair. She noticed the bulge in the front of his pants. She also noticed that the bulge was exactly at counter height.

He stood directly in front of her, the bulging front of his pants between her knees, and leaned over and down from his backboard-height and kissed her. She opened her mouth the way she'd been wanting to open it all day and let her tongue shake hands with his, as her knees came together in a friendly squeeze of the hard throbbing there.

Faculty-student relations, she thought, as her open mouth coupled with his. The warm wet suction welded her to him, searing away years of rigid self-control. Her tongue seemed to have the frantic energy of a freshly-boated eel. Her arms, around his long hard young back, pulled him into the opening embrace of her thighs.

He broke the kiss and stepped back from her and unbuckled his belt, not awkward now, and pushed his pants and underpants with hooked thumbs down to his ankles. It was a long trip down, she noticed, but he straightened up quickly and stepped out of the encumberments, stumbling slightly.

Sue stared, in happy fascination. She hadn't seen that part of him in the light before. Its bone-hard length poked upwards at her, the tiny vertical eye in the center of the head squinting in the bright glory of her sunkissed open thighs and of the warm, pink, wet welcome they framed. It seemed to grow out from the black thicket of hair like the strong round trunk of a young white birch tree, branchless and unflawed white out to the swollen triangular dusky-pink head. Sweet swinging birches, Sue thought.

She reached out, shy as a camp fire girl, and touched it. Only tentatively, at first. For a young lady of twenty-two, she was really quite an underachiever in this field. Then she let her hand go around it, feeling the velvet softness of the skin of its sheath, the rock-hardness of the muscle-rod inside. Iron rod, she thought, in a velvet glove.

She held it by the neck, just below the glistening swollen head, held it lovingly, tenderly, between her thumb and forefinger, as Ralph leaned forward and kissed her again, deeply, his tongue urgent.

Her own tongue licked the underside of his, and then she wanted what she'd been wanting all day, wanted it right now, immediately if not sooner.

Ralph didn't have to be told. Guided by the love in her fingers, the pink tip of the white birch found its way into the soft, moist hello of her impatient love-entrance.

Sue's legs were around his hips, her heels urging him, her inner thighs, sensitive as an insect's antennae, feeling his whole body quivering as his hips hung in eager balance. He held himself that way for a long minute, arched over her like a bridge in a high winter wind. His vibrations increased, his body like a hickory bow stretched to the limit, or beyond.

“Go ahead, Ralph,” she whispered. She found it hard to squeeze out words. “Put it in all the way, deep.”

Then, suddenly, the bow was sprung. Ralph's hips drove forward, and she felt the plunging shaft drive deep between her slippery-glad inner walls. Her...

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