The Frat Romance Novel, Part XII: A Stormy Love

Rob Fox11 years ago

Kuh-dunk. Kuh-dunk. Kuh-dunk.

The headboard slammed dully into the wall again and again. The source of its monotonous motion was a frail, bony-faced, thin-shafted fellow by the name of Hamilton Grundle, who was thrusting into his lover with the force and effect of a sparrow flying into the side of a glass building.

Though Hamilton’s attempts at pleasure had no effect upon Ashley, his buxom and dutiful yet wearied mate, who was now beneath him, possessing all the enthusiasm of an oblivious geriatric who was placed in front of a nursing home television playing the first quarter of a WNBA game, he did not take notice. Instead, he was too enamored with his own efforts.

“Hyuunnggg,” he squealed victoriously at the peak of a particularly mediocre thrust, his face reddening with both delight and intensity as his back arched upward and he stared toward the heavens, his bulging eyes and angry glare defying the gods to find a more accomplished lover.

Ashley rolled her eyes and sighed, which Hamilton mistook for a subtle moan.

“Yessss, my darling. Do you feel me?” he asked, his voice cracking randomly throughout.

“Oh, oh yes,” Ashley panted, feigning interest. “You’re, um, certainly making the most of your maneuverability.”

Hamilton became annoyed and momentarily ceased his motion, which came to a whining halt, like a model electric train that had the power pulled from it.

“I have told you time and again, woman, that the effectiveness of my lovemaking is not hindered by the thinness of my member, but rather enhanced by it, as my erratic angling and increased maneuverability keep all corners of the vagina alive with anticipation, wondering where pleasure will strike next,” Hamilton spat. “Do you not see?!”

Hamilton then jerked his pelvis wildly in as many different directions as he could, believing he was pleasuring Ashley with his movements the way a steel drummer uses his drumstick to manipulate the inside of the instrument to make beautiful music. In Ashley’s mind, and in truth, however, it was more as if an angry child was jabbing his straw at the bottom of an empty milkshake, hoping to find some sort of long-gone reward.

Hamilton finished his errant, ineffectual woodpeckering, smirked, and raised a triumphant eyebrow to his lover, believing he had proven his point, both literally and figuratively.

Ashley wanted to move past this well-worn conversation and the chore it was in the midst of interrupting, as quickly as possible, so she simply conceded.

“Yes, my dear. The poetry of love is indeed better written with a pencil than a large, thick, or even average-sized marker,” she assured him with resignation.

“Indeed it is. Though today’s salacious sonnet will have to continue at a later time, for I see that I am late for my duties.”

Hamilton dismounted Ashley, removed his condom and the twine at the base of his penis that kept it from sliding off, and quickly began to put on his clothes. First, he pulled on his cargo khakis, then slipped on the resident advisor polo, which cost the university two dollars to purchase, though each student was charged seven dollars in tuition to pay for the polo (and all other RA polos) netting the university a profit of $137,657.43 annually.

“Was it so long ago,” Ashley thought, “that Hamilton was the man I found most desirable in the world?”

Oh, how long ago it was, indeed. Once, as a young, impressionable freshman, Ashley saw her then resident advisor as campus champion. He bravely upheld rules and order, two things Ashley valued dearly as a 4.0 student who was eager to gain acceptance into the top medical school in all the land. She admired Hamilton’s vanquishing of underage drinkers in the dorm; he would bravely confront several drunks at a time and confiscate their fifths of vodka, despite their jeers and that one time a guy threw a shoe at him. And though that shoe hit Hamilton in the face, and though it made him cry, despite it all, Hamilton bravely called his boss and reported the offender.

That was, however, a different time. Unbeknownst to Hamilton, Ashley now longed to be a part of that world he so genuinely loathed. For weeks, she had hidden a secret from Hamilton. She had drunk from a wine cooler, and she had enjoyed it. That wine cooler was not simply a Blast of Mango Berry, but a blast of freedom. The wine cooler had made Ashley tingle in a way Hamilton never had. She yearned for more.

Hamilton began to ramble and Ashley slipped away into a daydream, where she swam joyously in whole rivers of wine coolers, letting the refreshing, fruity beverage wash over her soft, naked body. She floated down the current, tasting all the delightful alcohol flavors she believed adults enjoyed: Berry Blue, Strawberry Kiwi Margarita, Bubblegum Surprise.

Ashley’s gloriously symmetrical nipples, covered in Pomegranate Riesling droplets, glistened in the sun as she meandered happily down the lazy wine cooler river. She felt freer than ever before, even more so than the time she first climaxed.

Ashley was a mere sixteen years old when she had her first orgasm, and it happened whilst she was mounted atop her childhood pony, Maestro, which was galloping swiftly through a magnificent, blooming countryside meadow after being spooked by a wasp and kicking Ashley’s horse trainer, Brandtley, square in the face, caving in the front of his skull and causing the reins to slip from his grasp. Oh, how her moans filled the air on that warm afternoon, drowning out the singing birds and even Brandtley’s muffled, excruciating cries for help. Her insides tingled and exploded as she bounced up and down upon the saddle. The ride was both dangerous and exhilarating: two things Ashley had not felt since.

Suddenly, Ashley’s tranquil float was interrupted when a bulging, masculine arm reached out to her and pulled her from the wine cooler river. The hand that grabbed her was strong and, unlike Hamilton’s small, white, clammy hands, it was capable of grasping one of her heaving bosoms all on its own, without the help of the other hand, or a chin, or whatever Hamilton usually did. Ashley was entranced by the man, and she reached for him.

“Who are you?” Ashley asked the powerful man standing above her, only able to see his impressive silhouette in the shining sunlight.

“Who am I?” a high-pitched voice asked impetuously, tearing Ashley from her fantasy.

And then Ashley was back in that dreary room with Hamilton, gone far away from her wondrous daydream. She was dropped back into her sad reality, in which Hamilton was her lover, and in which after her ride, her father had gone out into that field with a shotgun and put down Brandtley.

“Well,” Hamilton laughed, “I am simply the man the local police department is bestowing the honor of ‘Bravest Boy’ upon this evening. Can you believe it? All my hard work to stop the drinking of freshman, rewarded? And by the department’s top liquor patrol enforcer? Oh, this will be a day I shall never forget. And to have you there with me tonight! What a joy! I shall see you in the dormitory commons at 8 p.m.!”

“Yes, a joy indeed,” Ashley muttered sadly.

After Hamilton left, Ashley resolved to take a stroll through the campus and put good thought to her feelings. Some time had passed when she found herself in the university’s Greek Town neighborhood, which was filled with stately fraternity and sorority houses. The lawns were filled with festive students, all merrily celebrating. What they were celebrating, Ashley did not know; perhaps just life. It was something Ashley, too, wished to celebrate, like she once did, gliding through the air, cumming like a champion atop her murderous pony.

Unfortunately, all the celebrating caused Ashley even more sadness. She began to turn away from the houses, but before she could, a beam of light struck her eyes. The setting sun began to shine between the massive columns of a nearby house. As the sun lowered, it illuminated the fraternity’s front lawn, and there, just as in her daydream, Ashley spied a large, brawny, silhouetted man, who appeared to be whipping ice cubes at a group of smaller, frightened men–pledges, no doubt–as they rehearsed a dance to the latest Taylor Swift hit.

Just as she once did, long ago, while her loins jostled atop her pony like a waterbed in an earthquake, Ashley again felt as if she was gliding as she moved toward the fraternity front lawn. Before she even knew where she was, she was standing next to the man. He was tall, strong, and lean, and he drank from his beer with the gusto of a drunken king while he berated his terrified subjects.

“You fully-grown piles of jizz couldn’t look more retarded if you tied hammers to your cocks and started slapping each other in the face with them!”

He was magnificent.

The man turned and saw Ashley. His chiseled jaw moved slightly and he spit into an empty can before no-look throwing it at the pledges, hitting the saddest looking one square in the face.

“What’s going on?” he asked Ashley.

She was frozen, unable to respond. Like in her daydream, all she could do was stare–and once again, she was moist. Finally, she spoke:

“I am Ashley, good sir. I came here to consort with you and admire your servants’ performance,” she said politely, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady.

“Admire? These fucks? The only thing I’d admire involving them is a burning building they were trapped inside,” he said. “You hear that? I WILL BURN YOU ALIVE IF YOU FUCK UP THIS SERENADE.”

The man’s dominion over his lessers was a sight to behold for Ashley. The way he so dominated all that was around him, whether it be the pledges he berated to the point of tears simply for existing, the full trash can he kicked over for no reason, or the Mormons who came to the house, who he chastised for having such terrible tie knots before graciously teaching them how to tie a proper knot, and finally reversing the mood completely and telling the religious solicitors to “get the fuck off my lawn before I marry all your sisters and rain loads on them from across the bedroom with the accuracy of Jimmer Fredette with a spunk rifle.”

“My name’s Darren. You want something to drink?”

“What do you have?” Ashley replied.

“Uh, let’s see. Some Keystone, but you probably don’t want that. It tastes like a bear pissed into the mouth of a donkey, and then that donkey pissed into a rusty bucket through a filter that used to be an old sheet that two hobos butt fucked on. So, let’s see–it looks like the only other stuff I got are these wine coolers I was gonna make the pledges drink and then call them gay for drinking them. You want one?”

Ashley felt weak in the knees. Had she never woken up from her earlier daydream? Or, perhaps, was everything until now a nightmare? It was no matter. She quickly grabbed a wine cooler from Darren and drank voraciously. They sat together on the lawn and laughed, enjoying each other’s company as pledge after pledge collapsed from exhaustion.

Feeling bold, likely from the Bold Banana Strawberry wine coolers she had consumed, Ashley leaned in close to Darren.

“You are what I’ve been wishing for,” Ashley whispered seductively.

In a whirlwind, Darren whisked Ashley upstairs, and for the next twenty minutes, the pair made passionate, thunderous love. Darren’s powerful thrusts caused the walls of the old house to shake, and Ashley’s moans echoed through them. It was as if a spectral freight train was roaring through the fraternity house that evening. Ashley’s legs reached to the sky as Darren grabbed one of her supple breasts and made a face that said, “nice,” while he pleasured her with his girthy member.

The door to the room began to open. Ashley wondered if the gods themselves were intruding to spy their majestic intercourse.

“Goddammit dude, I keep telling you to fuck toward the door!” Darren’s roommate shouted upon entering the room. “Fuckin’ three times a week I come in here and see your sweaty ass and flopping balls. Face toward the door, bro! Face toward the door!”

Darren looked back, flipped his roommate the bird, stuck out his tongue, widened his eyes, and screamed like a madman. His roommate simply shook his head, slammed the door and left, and the pair continued their vigorous congress.

After alternating between several different positions, Ashley finally dismounted Darren and the pair lay there, exhausted: Ashley in a state of bliss, and Darren reading Rivals on his phone while he caught his breath.

“What is the time?” Ashley finally asked.

“Fuck, I don’t know. like, eight?” Darren said.

Ashley gasped, leapt out of bed, and began to dress.

“Sarah, what’s wrong?” Darren asked Ashley.

“I have a prior engagement! Right now! At Hudson dormitory!”

“Relax, it’s like five ‘til, actually. I’ll take you over there. One of our pledges didn’t show up to practice today and he lives there, so I gotta go up to his room and throw a bunch of his shit in the shower anyway,” Darren reassured her.

The two dressed and made haste to Darren’s Tahoe. They entered the dormitory commons together, where Hamilton’s ceremony had already begun. Hamilton saw Ashley enter with another man and his eyes filled with a fiery rage. Darren noticed Hamilton’s glare, laughed, made a jerk off motion, and turned to Ashley.

“Alright, I gotta go fuck with this pledge. Have fun at whatever the fuck this is,” Darren said before leaving.

On the stage, which stood in front of a depressingly sparse crowd, all of whom were forced to be there, a large police officer with a booming voice, a crazed look in his ever-twitching eyes, and what appeared to be no less than ten throwing knives strapped to his leg spoke to the audience.

“Justice, like an elderly woman you take as your lover because you know the hands of an old court stenographer can play a man’s body like Stevie Wonder can play the piano–which is an apt simile because she’s also blind–is timeless and needs tenderness, passion, and care. Justice. It’s swift and merciless, like a demon cheetah. Those who defend justice are my brothers. We are guardians of the night. Protectors of the peace. Saviors of the innocent. We are the angels of America. And so I’d like to present this ‘Bravest Boy’ medal to Hamilton Grundle for shattering the record for alcohol citations handed out in a semester and upholding justice in the truest sense of the word.”

Hamilton proudly made his way to the podium to accept the medal from the officer.

“Thank you, Officer Storm,” Hamilton began. “You are truly an inspiration to us all.”

As Hamilton began to speak, Darren came back to Ashley with a pledge in one hand and a bottle of Fireball whiskey in the other.

“I found this in this little fuck’s room. I was gonna drink it and then, I don’t know, we could bang or I’ll just go out. Your call,” Darren said flatly before taking a pull.

Then, in the midst of the chug, the bottle shattered, shooting glass and alcohol everywhere, but mostly in the pledge’s eyes and face.

The pledge fell to the ground while Darren and Ashley’s heads turned quickly to look behind them, where a throwing knife was now sticking out of the wall. They turned again toward the stage, where Officer Storm was now leaping off the side.

“ILLEGAL ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION–FREEZE, COCKSUCKER!” Storm shouted, shoving several women out of his way.

“Was that a fucking throwing knife?!” Darren yelled.

“Get down or I’ll put you down, motherfuckers! You do NOT want to fuck with me. It’s been three days since I made an arrest and I’m horny as shit!” Storm bellowed.

Darren, thinking quickly, threw the pledge at Officer Storm, grabbed Ashley’s arm, and dashed out of the dorm commons and into the street where his Tahoe was waiting, flashers on, parked obnoxiously close to the bike racks.

A crash of glass could be heard behind them. Storm had run through the glass doors in lieu of opening them, not wanting to waste time figuring out if they were push or pull. Two more throwing knives flew past Darren and Ashley and stuck into the side of the Tahoe.

“My steel seeks you!” Storm roared in pursuit.

Ashley and Darren got into the Tahoe and sped off. Without thinking twice, Storm ripped a bicycle from its lock. Hamilton followed close behind.

“Sir, do you need backup?” Hamilton asked.

“Not today, son. Sometimes you gotta fist that white whale’s blowhole on your own. Ya know what I mean?” Storm said, putting his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder.

“But, he stole my woman. My love. I believe he means to have his way with her!” Hamilton cried.

“He’s tryin’ to butt fuck my lady, too. Lady Justice! Get on these handlebars!”

Hamilton hopped on the confiscated bicycle’s handlebars and Storm began to pedal furiously after the Tahoe.

“Sorry, kid, usually I’m a lot faster on a bike, but once I start throwin’ my knives I get harder than bringing charges against a cop,” Storm laughed as his legs spun ferociously.

Meanwhile, thinking they had escaped, Darren had coaxed Ashley into some hot road HJ action, just like he had seen in that movie “Hyde Park on Hudson” the one time he didn’t fall asleep in film class. Darren leaned back and relaxed while Ashley looked deep into his eyes, wanting only to please her new, brave, manly lover.

Darren’s trance was broken by a thump on the passenger side of the car. Then there was another on the roof.

“The fuck?” Darren wondered, looking up.

Before he could figure out what was on the roof, the mystery revealed itself, as Hamilton leapt onto the windshield. Ashley and Hamilton locked eyes, and for a moment, they were connected. Connected by heartbreak, by sorrow, even regret. For the times were not all bad, and in a way, Ashley regretted the means in which she left Hamilton, though she knew her decision to be the one truest to her heart. Still, she felt sorry for her former lover.

“Holy shit, who’s this skinny fuck?” Darren screamed, slamming on the brakes of his Tahoe.

Hamilton flew from the hood of the car, reaching out one last time to his love, before crashing to the pavement and breaking both of his legs, several ribs, and his jaw. He looked up to see the Tahoe speeding off. Through the window, Ashley gave him one last regretful look, while Darren frantically called his lawyer. Then a street sweeper came by, sucked up Hamilton into its machinery, and spit him out on the other side.

Officer Storm pedaled up to Hamilton’s mangled body. Hamilton was gasping for his last breaths. Storm dismounted and solemnly bowed his head.

“You died in service to your community, in the pursuit of someone who took a sip of booze that was not in accordance with our sacred laws. And, like I told the mother of that underage drinker I caught in a municipal park and threw into a Parks Department wood chipper after he tried to run away, at least it was a piece of government equipment that took your life.”

Then Storm leaned down, shushed Hamilton, shed a single tear, and snapped his neck, putting the would-be alcohol enforcer out of his misery.

“I will avenge you,” Storm vowed.

Back at Darren’s fraternity house, he and Ashley stood on the front porch and embraced each other.

“Oh Darren, what will become of us?” Ashley asked.

“I’m hitting Tuesday night dollar bottles with the guys, but we could bang again before I go.”

And they did, and it was the last time Darren ever saw Ashley–and far from the last time Darren’s roommate, who walked in on them once again to remind Darren about dollar bottles, saw Darren’s ass and balls.

“You’re doing this on purpose, you son of a bitch.”.

Read Parts 1 – 11 of The Frat Romance Novel HERE