Marigold, Part 1

Marigold, Part 1

by Vulgar Argot

Thule didn't know how she did it, but Marigold somehow always managed to scowl at him when he entered a room, even without raising her head. When he came into the newspaper office today, she was turned directly away from him, typing on one of the antiquated Macintoshes the school had provided them with. He ignored her at first, knowing that she would have to speak if the silence stretched on too long. He sat down at the print server and began typing.

"What are you doing here this late?" she asked, the scowl on her face and in her voice.

His response was non-committal, "The same thing I always do here--fixing one of these machines after you guys break it."

She didn't respond, turning back instead to her own system. As editor of the newspaper, she had her own system and the big desk at the center of the back wall. Everyone else shared desks and computers as they could.

"Of course," he went on, "if people didn't load these systems up with all of their personal stuff, there wouldn't be nearly so many problems." As he said it, he pretended not to be looking at her, but was still clearly able to see the cruel smile cross her lips.

"I'm been meaning to talk to you about that, Bartholomew," she said. He could tell that she was relishing the moment even more than she relished using his given name, "I couldn't help but notice that an awful lot of the network's space is taken up by a folder called support and, inside of that, a folder called images. But, when I try to look in the folder to see what it is, it's encrypted. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Thule shrugged, "It's disc images. Unless you're support, you shouldn't mess with those."

"Disc images?" she asked, nodding, "That's interesting. Because you accidentally left a few dozen of these 'disc images' inside the support folder."

Thule stopped what he was doing and turned to face her, "Oh? I'll have to move those to a safe place."

"Don't bother," Marigold said, going for the jugular, "I've already seen them."

Thule looked worried, "And?"

"I'm sure the administration would like to know that one of its best students is storing porn on the newspaper's computers."

"What?" he asked, outraged, "you wouldn't tell them. That could ruin my whole record...everything I've worked for over the last four years."

Marigold actually laughed, "Yeah, it could. Couldn't it?" She was already reaching for the phone, "I believe I have Vice Principal Pearce's phone number at home, for emergencies."

Thule 's face was blank, "You'd actually do that? Ruin my academic career over something so petty?"

She pressed the first key, "And relish it. It's an embarrassment to the school that a dreg like you could ever be salutatorian."

"You bitch," he shouted, "you wouldn't."

She kept dialing.

"Come on," he pleaded.

"Rules are rules," she mocked.

"Don't do this."

She finished dialing. In one swift motion, he was up, holding down the hook on her phone. She glared up at him, "Do you really think that's going to stop me? I have a phone at home, you know."

"Marigold," he said, "be reasonable. It's a small infraction. It's not like I plagiarized my entrance exam to Harvard or something."

She looked up, alarmed, "No," she said, trying to cover it, "of course you didn't. But..."

Now, Thule smiled wickedly, "It's not like I took someone else's essay, containing life details I don't have and charity work that I didn't do and submitted it as my own."

She put the receiver down, "Okay. You win. I won't say anything about the porn."

"Oh, no," Thule sat on the edge of her desk, "I don't think these two are comparable. I might get a few days suspension for the porn, but...Harvard."

She looked up at him, hoping to see some sign of bluff in his eyes. There was none. She started to tremble, "Bartholomew," she whispered, "what are you going to do?"

"Call me Thule ."

"What?"

"Call me Thule ."

"Why?"

"It's what my friends call me. And, I have a feeling that we're about to be much better friends than we have in the past. You want to be my friend, don't you, Marigold?"

She nodded mutely. It was all she could do not to start crying.

"Good," said Thule , "now, what did you want to ask me?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing," he said, shrugging, "Friends don't turn on friends, do they, Marigold?"

She shook her head no, tears of relief rolling down her cheeks.

"Of course," Thule said, leaning in, "You haven't done much to demonstrate our friendship in the past, have you, Marigold?"

She didn't answer, didn't even move.

His fist slammed down on her desk, ringing out loudly. She jumped at the sound. His voice was still calm and cool, though, "Answer the question, Marigold."

"Please," she whispered, "I have money."

His smile was not kind, "That is a fact that you have made abundantly clear. You're not being much of a friend by rubbing it in. Of course, you haven't been much of a friend to me, have you, Marigold?"

She shook her head, mutely.

Thule turned until he was sitting Indian-style on her desk, "Do something for me, Marigold."

Her eyes questioned him, pleading. He seemed content to hold the tableau, so finally she whispered, "What?"

"Show me your tits."

She laughed, but it rang hollow, "You're crazy. I'm not just going to undress here because of some stupid essay!"

Thule didn't move, "With most girls, that would be true. But...Harvard," he shrugged.

Again, she looked for some mercy in his eyes, but he looked only predatory. She did a mental calculation.

"Please," she whispered, "not that."

"What other gesture of friendship do you propose?"

"I can give you money..."

"I don't..." Thule started to shout, but then got control of himself, "I don't want your money, Marigold. You can't buy your way out of this. You can't buy my friendship. If you don't want to show me your tits, you don't have to. I'm sure you'd do very well at Brown or Vassar."

"You bastard," she snarled. He didn't respond.

"Come on," she wheedled, "there must be something else I can do."

"Can you suck a golf ball through a garden hose?"

"What?"

"Never mind. What do you suggest you could do instead?"

"I...." she steeled herself, "I could give you a hand job."

"You could not," said Thule .

She looked indignant, "I could too. I've done it before."

"To who? That Ken Doll you're supposedly going out with?"

"Yes! And, Elliot's not a Ken Doll. Why would you call him that?"

"Because he refuses to get undressed in the locker room. And, he stares at the rest of us like he's never seen a penis before. We call him Magic Earring Ken."

"You're disgusting."

Thule shrugged, "Did he come?"

"What? No!"

He reached out and pet her hair. She flinched away a little, but realized it probably wouldn't help her position any and decided to bear it instead.

"Little flower," he said, chuckling, "it's not a hand job then."

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, "Why did you call me that?"

He looked genuinely surprised, "Your name's Marigold. It's a kind of..."

"I know it's a kind of flower. My father used to call me that."

"Do you like it?"

She pulled away, the tears flowing freely now, "Not from the man who's threatening to rape me."

"Rape you?" Thule laughed, "I'm not going to rape you."

"You're not?"

The shrug again, "You can leave any time you want...and live with the consequences. I'm not forcing you to do anything. But, if you're going to stay, you're going to do what I say."

She started crying unabashedly now.

"Hey," he said softly, "relax. I'm not going to try to fuck you on a cold metal desk in a little office that smells like mildew and printer's wax. You're a virgin, right?"

She nodded.

"Well, you have my word. You'll still be a virgin when you leave this office. You're a really awful human being and you've made so many people miserable over the last four years whose names you probably don't even know. You did it to my sister. You did it to me and to my friends. You helped make my girlfriend so miserable, she went to Catholic school. But, you still don't deserve for your first time to be a rape in a high school basement. Remember. We're going to be friends now. What kind of friend would do that to you?"

In spite of herself, she whispered, "Thank you."

He handed her a Kleenex, petting her hair again, "Now, clean yourself up. Go in the bathroom, splash some cold water on your face, then come out and show me your tits or I'm going to drag you across that desk and rip your clothes off again."

She looked shocked, "I thought you wanted to be my friend."

He chuckled, "Think of it as tough love. Go, now. If you can't find it in your heart to come back here, I understand. I hear that William and Mary has a wonderful pre-med program."

===

Marigold was relieved that there was no one else in the building at this hour. Even the janitors had gone home. As humiliating as this experience had been, it would have been worse if someone had seen her come out crying and looking wretched. Sometimes, image was everything.

She stared at the mirror. Her long straight hair, jet black in spite of her name, was a mess. So were her eyes, red-rimmed and streaked with what little make up she wore. It wasn't until after she combed and cleaned herself up that she realized it might not be in her best interest to look too good for whatever came next.

She never even considered not going back. She'd sacrificed too much in the pursuit of Harvard to let it slip away. This would be just one more sacrifice. Even if Thule hadn't promised not to rape her, she'd probably have to go back. Holding the delicate, golden cross she always wore in one hand, she said a wordless prayer that everything would turn out all right in the end. Then, steeling her shoulders, she went back to give Thule what he asked for.

===

She closed the office door and stood as far away from him as she could while still being in the office. He was sitting behind her desk now, watching her.

"All right," she said, "I'll show them to you, but no touching."

"Come here," he said. Having already agreed to so much, she felt too foolish not to comply.

"We're not negotiating," he said, "If I want to touch them, I'll touch them."

She nodded. She hadn't expected him to comply anyway.

He sat, watching her, waiting for her next move. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the varsity sweatshirt over her head. The blouse underneath was purple silk. She started to unbutton it quickly, focusing on what she was doing.

"Stop," Thule said. She looked up, her hands still on the fourth button.

"Look me in the eyes while you do it."

She complied, keeping eye contact, looking for some sign of remorse in his eyes. There was none. There was only something very dangerous there. He may not mean to rape her, but she was clearly his prey. By necessity, she slowed down and he smiled a little. With the last button undone, she slid the blouse from her shoulders, folded it neatly, and lay it on her desk.

"Why are you wearing a sports bra?" he asked.

She flushed all the way back to her ears. Even her chest was blushing, "Please," she whispered.

Now, there was a flicker of pity in his eyes, but it passed so quickly it could almost have been imagined, "Okay," he said, "don't tell me. Just take it off."

She nodded, breaking eye contact. With both hands, she pulled off her sports bra, her breasts popping free of their confinement. Without volition, she took a deep breath at the released constriction. For what seemed like an eternity, neither of them spoke.

"Well," he said, "they're certainly bigger than I expected them to be."

She kept her head lowered, "I know. I'm sorry."

His laughter was clear and unforced, "You're sorry? For what?"

Her eyes blazed, "Don't mock me," she almost shouted, "I know they're hideous. But, they're what you asked for. I can't..."

"No, no," he reached for her, but she skittered away.

He sat back, "Come here. Sit on my lap," There was iron under the compassion and she complied, "Marigold, they're magnificent. Who told you they were hideous."

"No one," she cried out, "but they're so big and....bovine. I hate them."

She felt him chuckle against her back, "Even if they were bovine, there are plenty of men who find that attractive. But, they're not. They're firm and round and beautiful." He reached around her ribs and grasped one in each hand. She was too startled to try to stop him, "Did Elliot tell you they were..."

"Elliot's never seen them," she whispered. His hands were stroking her breasts in wide circles now, the way she did each night after a full day of keeping them squashed inside of a sports bra. It wasn't arousing, but it felt good, nonetheless, like an intense massage, "No one's ever seen them."

He chuckled, "I'm honored."

She realized she was leaning back against him and scowled, but didn't pull away, "You're a pig."

He nodded, "Probably. But, I'm still honored."

"Please stop touching them."

"Not yet," he said matter-of-factly, "Don't you like that? They couldn't have been very comfortable all bound up like that. Would you rather I do something else?"

Before she could answer, a contented sigh escaped her lips. She tensed and tried to pull away, but he was deceptively strong and it still felt so good. She'd once let Elliot touch her breasts through her shirt, but he'd focused in on the nipples and treated them like they were light switches and he was trying to create a strobe effect. Thule 's hands were strong, but gentle, fondling her without becoming too intense. It wasn't nearly as awful as she'd been steeled for. She found herself relaxing in spite of everything.

After a minute or two, Thule asked again, "I said, would you rather I do something else?"

"No," she said mellowly, "this is nice."

A part of her mind was horrified at her. She shouldn't be enjoying this, even a little. And she certainly shouldn't be admitting it. She leaned her head back on his shoulder and closed her eyes, trying to pretend that he was Elliot, her future husband. But, for some reason, she couldn't imagine it, so she just cleared her mind and thought of nothing at all.

When his fingertips did finally brush across her nipples, they were so gentle and tentative that she barely realized he was doing it at all. With each pass, he increased the contact a little until her whole body was shuddering with the intensity of it. Somewhere, far away, someone was moaning embarrassingly loudly. It seemed to go on forever. With horror, she realized the sounds were coming from her own throat. She gave a cry of despair and jumped off of his lap. He let her go. She whirled around on him in a rage. He sat there, facing her, his own face flushed, his breathing shallow, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Are we done here?" she asked, as calmly as she could.

He stood up, "No. Not quite." Reaching down, he unzipped his fly. His cock popped out with great force, "This is your responsibility. You're going to have to do something about it."

Her eyes widened. She didn't know how big a penis was supposed to be, but this one was certainly bigger than Elliot's had felt. She crossed her arms across her chest, "What do you expect me to do with that?"

"Have you ever given a blow job?"

"No," she said, pleased to see that she could still be shocked by such a suggestion.

"Well," he said, "it won't take much skill at this point. Get down on your knees and I'll explain."

"But,"

"Or," he said, "you could just walk out that door. It's your choice."

"But,"

"Choose quickly," he said.

Again, she looked at his face for mercy. After what had just passed between them, he must have some fondness for her. But, if he did, it wasn't showing. Reluctantly, she approached him and went down on her knees.

"Kiss it," he said. She looked up at him questioningly, "Do it."

She kissed his cock, gently at first. His hand rested on the back of her head, "Kiss it like you like it," he groaned. She kissed it more vigorously, "Now, lick it a little bit. Oh, that's nice." His hand pushed a little, "Now, take it into your mouth and keep licking it."

Marigold complied. She'd come this far and wasn't about to give up. The cock was enormous in her mouth and she choked on it a couple of times. Each time, the pressure on the back of her head let up.

"Now," he growled, "Suck it, gently. And, lick it. Move your head back and forth." She did as she was told and soon found a rhythm. It didn't last very long before he let out a strangled, animalian sound, filling her mouth and throat with hot, bitter seed.

She choked and gagged, pulling back. His cock came out of her mouth, still spurting hot gobs of seed. It hit her face, her hair, her chin, dribbled down her face. Then, as suddenly as it had started, he was done. He fell backwards in the chair with a groan. She looked up at him, wondering what to do next.

"Come here," he said gently, pulling more Kleenex from the box on her desk. He wiped away as much of the rapidly cooling liquid as he could, "Go clean yourself up," he said, gently, "if it dries in your hair, you'll never get it out."

She did as she was told, throwing her sweatshirt back on with nothing underneath it. In the bathroom, she washed away the traces of what had just happened with hot water, then reapplied her makeup before coming back to the office. He was still there, his pants back up, sitting at the print server, finishing whatever he had come in to start. He turned to face her when she came in.

"I'm almost done here," he said, "Could you use a ride home?"

Her parents had instructed her to call a cab to come and get her if she stayed at the school after dark. But, it could take as much as a half an hour for a taxi to get there. She nodded, "Thank you."

"Get dressed," he said, "I'm just going to shut things down."

She picked up her clothes. He watched her.

"Turn around," she said.

"What?"

"I have to change," she said, "Turn around."

He looked like he would refuse, but then, with a chuckle, he turned back to the computer. She dressed quickly. When she finished, she realized that he was staring at a blank computer screen, waiting.

"Okay," she said, "I'm ready."