Yet More Erotic Adventures of Allen Ruskin, Headmaster of Educational Aid
Allen Ruskin stood at his window, naked, staring out across the college green. His tumescent tubificid truncheon trailed from the tuckshop of his tumorous tuna-tinctured tundra like troublous Triton, tuckered and tromped, tired and twisted from truculent tug-o-war and timorous trousseau troughs. He had a strange feeling in his heart.
"Pip -- I have a strange feeling in my heart."
Pip looked up from the bucket of ice he was sitting in, naked, cooling his conk after another long evening orgy of connubial connection. "What do you mean? You sound strange."
"I know. Something's different this morning."
Baskerville and Cerebus looked up from the buckets of ice they were sitting in, clearly sensing something strange with their master. Cerebus let out a whilting whine of woeful worry.
"Perhaps you are getting tired of all this," said Miss Havisham from her bucket.
"I don't know what it is," replied Ruskin, his rapacious eyes rivetted on a pair of riotous rockets and their owner running by his window. The girl looked up and saw his shame. She smiled. He smiled and waved his fingers. The girl stood for a second, clearing waiting for some ravishment to happen (as no good lady would ever walk the path near Ruskin's window without mens rea and an alterior motive that needed no legal degree or translation from the Latin to understand). She glanced at the trees and bushes, tensing for a pounce. She was beautiful, and for a moment, the lecherous lout considered sending Bart out with his net. Just to make her feel good. Her flesh was like smooth butter cream ready to be spread on the sweet sponge cake of his loins. He waved her away and turned from the window.
"I am empty!" roared the repellant Ruskin as if challenging the very Kosmos.
"Wait -- don't be hasty," said Alice, tearing her lips away from Dottie, who was sharing her bucket. The two were feeling a little recovered and had gone ahead and poured champagne in along with the ice. Champagne and ice splashed to the floor.
"You'll ruin the floors," called Bart from the other room. "Professor de Broon has already complained twice about strange fluids leeching through her ceiling."
"I don't understand," said Pip, his eyes quivering as if he were about to burst into delicate tears.
Ruskin pulled on his beard. "I'm not sure we will be deserving of the helper monkeys -- what are we doing to create a new and better world?"
"It's not our problem -- at the moment, I can't even walk," said Miss Havisham tartly, pointedly readjusting some ice.
Ruskin, the dastardly deflowerer, paced nude around his desk. The others watched him quietly.
Finally, he stopped.
"That's it! No More! Bart! Get this filth out of my office!" He walked over to his bookcase and started launching pills and sticks and rods and ropes and cuffs and leather and sketchbooks and pictures and oils and ancient idols and stuffed animals and electrical devices out the window. Out of nowhere, students emerged to grab the toys as soon as they hit the grass.
"What are you doing?" asked Pip with fear.
Ruskin grabbed one of the bodies they'd stolen from the masoleum and tossed it to some medical students. "Be good to her! Now, Pip, you and I, yes, you and I Pip, are becoming men of God!"
*** Has the ribaldry become a reeking relic of rusty rememberance? -- stay tuned!