The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (8 page)

She was mortified. "I'm pleased that you're
pleased."

"Time for you to drink out of the toilet," he
said as he shoved construction paper and elastic bands in her
direction. "Make a couple of cone shaped cups for your boobs, the
kind Madonna wears. Then hook these elastic bands together and
staple them to the cones so I can fit them over your tits like a
bra."

When she had finished the pointy
bust-enhancements, she handed them to Richard. He pulled the
elastic over her head and shoulders, and placed the cones over her
breasts, fondling her while he made his adjustments.

She felt nauseous, but what could she do? He
hefted her right breast and wrote, 'Brought To You' on the right
cone, and 'By Richard Whittle' on the other one. Then he taped a
sign to her back. It read: A Buck a Kiss—Two for a Slug Hug—Noon in
the Cafeteria—

"Wear your cone-bra advertisement this
morning, and report to me in the cafeteria at noon."

"I'm not sure these things conform to the
school dress code."

"Don't worry your pretty little head about
that. The teachers will think its all part of an April fools
thing."

Her last hope for salvation was gone. If the
teachers don't help me, I'm doomed....

A long line of guys had already formed to
neck with her when she reported to the cafeteria. All of them had
paid the extra dollar so they could French her. It was party time
with Richard Whittle's party favor.

One after another they pulled her against
them, and tongued her.

"Damn!" Richard said. "I could have charged
twice as much."

"Best thing that's happened to me all year,"
enthused one nerd, when his turn was over. "Don't go away, B-J, I'm
coming back for seconds."

When the line finally began to dwindle,
Richard placed a professional sized Frisbee on the lunchroom floor,
filled it with a tin of dog food, added water, and stirred. "Lunch
time," he said. "On your hands and knees."

He positioned her above the revolting
mixture. Her miniskirt was hiked up her legs to reveal her garter
belt and panties.

It's now that a knight in shining armor comes
riding to my rescue, she thought. It was a nice thought, but it
didn't happen. Richard held her hands behind her back and shoved
her face into the slop.

"Swallow," he said.

She swallowed, and gagged. "Please, Richard,
I'm going to be sick."

"Maybe you'll remember this the next time you
think you can better a guy at anything." He picked up a broom and
whacked her exposed bottom—then, he grabbed her under her breasts,
swung her around, and sat her in the dog-food-filled Frisbee.

"That's enough!" Ms Beasly, the Phys Ed
teacher, said.

"For now," Richard replied. Then he turned to
Betty-Jo. "Report here after school. Your penance has just begun.
And clean yourself up. You look and smell like you've pooped your
pants."

Gotta be tough, she thought, as she fought
back tears.

That afternoon she tried, without success, to
concentrate on her classes. Much too soon, it was time to report
back to Richard.

"We're off to my place for a private show and
tell," he said. "You'll show and I'll tell you what we're going to
do with what you're showing. Think of this as your lucky day,
'cause soon I'll be noshing on your pink. And Stud
Plaything..."

"...Yes?"

"I've always wondered what's on the other
side of a black hole. This afternoon—thanks to you—I'm going to
find out."

He's going to do me, wherever he wants,
Betty-Jo thought, and there's nothing I can do about it. But she
was wrong, because a knight had arrived, and he was moving his hand
over her bottom.

"Go t' the prom with me, an ah'll save yo'
pretty behind," Jim Bob O'Hara whispered.

"Save me, and I'm yours," Betty-Jo said.
Anything has to be better than being had by that despicable
Beetle.

"Time's up, Richard," Jim Bob said.

"What are you talking about. I won the Stud
Plaything for the day."

"Raght. For the school day."

Why didn't I think of that? Betty-Jo was
furious with herself. I'm out of Dungie's barbecue, but I'm onto
the Wart Hog's grill. I've been saved by a knight in tarnished
armor.

* * *

Poor unsuspecting Betty-Jo. The arm wrestle
had been anything but fair, because Venus had rigged it. Hercules
was on earth the day of the arm wrestle, sent by Zeus to save Los
Angeles from the big one. Venus had drawn Hercules into the fray on
the side of the Dung Beetle by promising him a night of depravity
that he would never forget. She knew, only too well, about Herc's
love of depravity, so the last thing she wanted was Herc up her
skirt. But the opportunity to humiliate Princess Betty-Jo had been
too tempting to ignore.

* * *

Hercules knew he should stonewall Venus, but
there was something unbelievably arousing about the gorgeous bitch.
He got off on the fate of the mortal who made the mistake of
calling her 'a notorious strumpet, as common as a barber's chair.'
That remark had given Zeus, and the other gods, a good laugh, but
Venus had failed to appreciate the humor. She'd set the young fool
up with a syphilitic wench, and watched gleefully as the
corkscrew-shaped, syphilis-causing bacterium went to work on him.
First came chancres, fever and headaches. Before long he was blind,
deaf, and paralyzed. Eventually he died—totally insane.

Hercules also loved Venus' perversions; he
loved to watch her play with herself without regard for who was
with her in the great hall. She was incredibly erotic, weird, and
decadent. It would have taken no less to make him cross Zeus—he
knew his father's fury only too well.

* * *

Venus lounged on her throne, ecstatic about
her victory over Betty-Jo. "I knew the Dung Beetle would some day
be good for something," she said.

While the other gods had parted with their
thrones centuries earlier, the goddess of love had made hers even
more grandiose. Her throne was laden with sapphires, rubies, and
diamonds, and it was draped in silk, the effort of millions of silk
worms toiling for less than minimum wage. A few mulberry leaves
were all they ever required.

She had monopolized the silk trade on Olympus
since earth's thirteenth century, when her Mongol buddy, Genghis
Kahn, had presented her with half of his silk worms. They were a
token of his appreciation for the help she had given him with
battlefield tactics, and for her suggestion that attractive female
captives be spared the slaughter that followed his victories.

"Spare the maidens," she had told him.
"There's nothing like maidens to enhance troop moral." And indeed,
the 'maidens for the warriors' program had been a huge success,
once the Mongol warriors had learned to share.

The goddess of love moved her hand under her
gown,and thought about the ravished maidens. Their fate was a
blessing compared to what's in store for America's maidens when
Emperor Kahn arrives.

Then her thoughts returned to Genghis. Now
there was a real man. It was fun tyrannizing two-thirds of the
world with him. Nobody taught that boy how to play nice when he was
a kid. Before he was five, he was ripping the wings off
hummingbirds.

"I'll never forget the day Genghis captured
that Russian, Prince Alexei. Hairball, you'd have loved it. First,
Genghis disemboweled him. Then, because nothing warmed Genghis'
heart like a foe in agony, he poured molten lead into his eyes and
ears. But don't feel too badly about missing out on Genghis in
action, because Lord Kahn will soon be arriving in Mongolia, and
compared to Lord Kahn, Genghis was a saint." She laughed
malevolently. "Mercury will soon be heading back to earth to
terminate Princess Betty-Jo. And enjoyable as her humiliation was,
her death will be so much more enjoyable. You'll love how she
dies—her death will be my finest hour."

"Merrow," said Old Hairball.

"My pawns are in place, and my foes have no
idea that they'll soon be engaged in an epic struggle for America's
survival—a struggle they cannot win."

The
Sixty Kilometers Per Hour Club

The drive to the after-party was becoming
embarrassing. What had started with Greg and Belinda necking in the
dimly lit limo, had degenerated into fondling and exploring, after
Belinda's dress was manipulated up her legs to reveal a beckoning
inner thigh.

"You know, guys and gals, it's impolite to
suck face in public," Brad informed the preoccupied couple. They
paid him no heed. They had their own agenda, which, for the moment,
was being thwarted by Belinda's pantyhose.

"Wait," Belinda whispered. She arched her
back, drew up her legs, and in seconds had the troublesome
pantyhose bunched around her ankles. Her moans became louder and
more frequent, and then they turned to gasps.

Brad pulled Sandy to him, and observed the
Sheik's tomfoolery in disbelief. The Sheik was on second base, and
apparently, contemplating stealing home. Guy isn't even bothering
with third, Brad thought. But, sloppy base running or not, I have
to come up with a way to halt their fun and games.

"Enough, Sheik! Keep that up, and the
luscious Belinda will be joining the sixty kilometers per hour
club."

Abruptly, Greg stopped fooling with
Belinda.

"Thank the Lord for small mercies," Brad
whispered to Sandy. But when the Sheik reached for the elastic top
of Belinda's panties, he realized that there would be no mercies,
small or otherwise. I don't believe it! That scoundrel's heading
for home right here in the limo.

Student Council President, Jim Bob O'Hara,
was also the captain and quarterback of the Grand Strand football
team. A myriad of honeys vied for his attention, and with
mega-honeys to keep him amused, he hadn't really bothered with
Betty-Jo—at least he hadn't bothered with her until he paid two
bucks for a slug hug from Dungie's party favor. Abruptly, he'd been
unable to get the party favor out of his head.

"If Dungie's raght," he told Betty-Jo, "an yo
squirrel really is nothin' but a big rat with a bushy tail, then
babe, 'follow me, cause [ah'm yo] Pied Piper.'"

* * *

This wart hog's acting as if I belong to him,
Betty-Jo thought. And I suspect that it's not an arm wrestle, but
the prospect of a squirrel hunt on the bucket seat of his Jimmy,
that has him all worked up. Oh well, at least my date problem for
the prom has been solved. And really, how can I complain? He's the
most sought after guy at Grand Strand High: handsome, athletic, a
shoo-in for prom king, and my savior from the Dung Beetle. If only
his attitude toward women didn't scream wart hog.

Betty-Jo bought a little, black, stretch-lace
dress with spaghetti straps for the prom. It was unpretentious—at
least it was unpretentious until she wore it. On her, it suddenly
became suggestive.

Jim Bob picked her up on prom night, and
helped her into his GMC pride and joy. He fumbled with the gardenia
wrist corsage he'd bought. Then he poured her a glass of sparkling
white wine. She was a novice drinker, so after she downed a couple
more glasses of the vinegary tasting plonk, at the pre-prom, she
was flying.

The prom dinner and dance were fun. The guys
milled around her, hoping for a dance. They knew that a dance with
Betty-Jo guaranteed a memorable evening. Jim Bob tried to keep her
to himself, but Deborah Sue Hodgesmith, Jim Bob's most recent
ex-girlfriend, was lusting after him—dry rutting him whenever she
could get him onto the dance floor.

I can understand why Deborah Sue's looking
and feeling quite all right to the Wart Hog, Betty-Jo thought. And
in fairness, Jim Bob was decent enough to explain his dilemma to
Betty-Jo. "B-J, ah have a problem," he said. "Deborah Sue wants to
give me a hand-job. From you ah'm lookin' at a handshake. If you
were me, who'd you leave with?"

She laughed uneasily. "You do love to frolic
in the gutter, don't you. How could anyone as pretty as you have
inherited such wart hog cravings?"

"Is it ma fault that ma momma got friendly
with a Y chromosome? Anyway, ah lahk Deborah Sue. All she eve' asks
fo' is a pat on the be-hind, and a warm weenie t' hold."

Such a low life. "If the prospect of a
hand-job from Deborah Sue gets you all excited, a dose of athlete's
foot must be to die for. I'd rather spend time with Quasimodo, and
a trough full of pigs, but then, I lack your wart hog
cravings."

Jim Bob grinned at her. "Ah'm a religious
wart hog. Ma attitude toward women is 'do unto [women], as you
would have [women] do unto you.'"

"We'll call it the Wart Hog's golden
rule."

Whether Jim Bob was a male piggy or merely a
religious wart hog was academic, because Betty-Jo felt threatened.
She moved against him, and ran her fingertips lightly across the
nape of his neck; the punishment for her indiscretion was an
expression of interest below Jim Bob's belt.

"My God, it's alive!" She twisted her hips
away.

The Wart Hog grinned. "Ah thank it lahkes
you."

"Why don't we have the last dance together?
My Captain," she whispered, before she licked his ear. "Then you
can decide which of us you want to leave with."

That slow dance with Betty-Jo and the Everly
Brothers made Jim Bob's decision a no-brainer—it made the Kama
Sutra seem boring. And she, bless her, upped the anti. "Lets you
and me take a run down to Murrels Inlet, and see if the submarines
are racing."

Jim Bob covered the fifteen miles down Route
17, then south on Waccamaw Drive to Oyster Cove, in record time.
But even with Jim Bob's record setting pace, Betty-Jo still had
plenty of time to be mad at herself. She had decided to let him bed
her for all the wrong reasons: she was nineteen, all the girls
wanted Jim Bob, and allowing that Deborah Sue Twinkie to leave the
prom with her date, would have been more humiliating than an
admission of trench mouth.