The Erotic Adventures of Allen Ruskin, Headmaster of Educational Aid
Allen Ruskin sat behind his very large mahogany desk admiring his new Dutch Indies clock on the far wall. Suddenly, there was a knock on his office door.
"Come in!" he yelled manfully.
"Hi. My name is Dottie Gale, and I'm a first year student here. I'm a little frightened of the bar."
Ruskin, the scandalously salacious solicitor, stared Dottie up and down. Women were new to the school, and Beacon Hill and the citizenry were enraged at the school's labial legal experiment. For his part, Ruskin was thrilled. A new century would be dawning soon, full of steamships and spacecraft and talking monkey helpers, and it was best to keep with the times. Ruskin thought of himself as both a liberal and a spiritualist, and all signs pointed to women's eventual entry into the legal profession, whether as secretary, helper-girl, or keeper of the talking helper-monkey. Plus, Ruskin was tired of looking at boys all the time.
Dottie was an exquisite creature -- with full pneumatic breasts and a neck so swan-like he expected her to sprout feathers. Her numinous blue eyes shimmered in the light from the oil lamp. Her skin was as white as morning snow before the dogs got into it. "Please. Sit down, Miss Gale. Now what scares you about the bar?" queried Ruskin, unctuously undressing her with his uncooth eyes as she unburdened herself.
"I've heard the bar is very hard," said Dottie.
"It is indeed. But a bar's hardness should not make you fear it," answered Ruskin, twirling the end of his waxed mustache.
"Well, I am very frightened all the same."
"Maybe you need some practice with a hard bar to help you relax." Ruskin stood up and sat on the front of his mahogony desk, pulling up his pants a little to show the splendid way his masculine ankles filled out the Chinese silk of his dress socks. He heard Dottie's breath catch in her throat like a fish on a reel. "Come here. Sit on the desk next to me." He patted the desk with his fine, Zeus-like flipper.
Dottie did as she was told. "I'm not sure about this, Headmaster Ruskin."
"I think first we need to get you out of this too-tight corset." Ruskin's deleterious digits unloosed the first button. Then his heinous hand moved down to the next.
"Oh my," swooned the darling Dottie, dribbling down into delirium. Ruskin's fingers touched the tip of her neck, and the darts of desire drove deep into Dottie's diaphanous dressing gown. "Oh my, Headmaster Ruskin."
"Call me Al."
Just then, there was a thunderous tattoo on the office door.
"Oh my!" exclaimed Dottie.
Ruskin sat up and glared at the door. "What in the Sam Hell is that?" bellowed the love-bloated blowhard.
"It's Biff, the scrivener repairman! I've come to sharpen your quills!" rang a strong, manly voice.
"I bet he has!" leered Ruskin, the lecherous lothario.
"Whatever shall we do?" asked delectable Dottie as she dangled her draping decolletage in front of her dastardly deflowerer.
There was a long moment of painful, delicious waiting, as the two sat on the mahogony desk, the throbbing of its African heritage thundering just below their loins. They could feel the ghosts of the Serengeti -- elephants tearing apart trees, lions tearing apart elephants, great herds of zebras thundering, thundering, dust kicking up in clouds behind their booming equine hooves, the sun low, the native women topless and dancing to the Amazonian drums of Gaia's desire. The room seemed filled with the fetid mists of fecundity -- of the time before time -- or possibly even a little before that. Dottie trembled. Ruskin leered.
"Come in!" they sang together.
*** What's next for the bawdy Boston barrister and bestial brephotrophi? Find out next week!