Unknown - Blackmailing the Queen

Ann Macafee was one of those girls you dream about but never get.

She hung around with the "in" crowd, which was a mixture of atheletes, college-preps, and the stars of the drama club. You could see them at every lunch hour, all clustered around the big live-oak in the central quad, an invisible barrier of distain for all non-members seperating them from the general rabble. We all hated them. We all wanted to be them. They were the elite that just naturally floats to the top of every high school.

Ann Macafee was their Queen. She was the female lead of nearly every play the school put on. She dated the star of the football team (I know, that sounds corny, but it was true) and hung around with the kids-who-are-rich-and-will-be-richer. Her family lived in the foothills in a house that was just this side of an estate. She had it all, and she was beautiful.

Her beauty had that casual, effortless look. Her short brown hair, fine and fresh, framed a face that was almost a perfect match to that girl whose father owns the hotel in Twin Peaks (I say that now, though of course back then there was no Twin Peaks). Her body, always clothed in expensive wools and tweeds, was perfectly proportioned. Her firm high breasts looked like the models by which all other breasts are designed. Her round, tight ass gave only slightly when she perched on a chair. She had straight, dainty posture, and perfectly manicured hands. She was, in every sense, a perfect little doll. And she knew it.

Some people can put you down without saying a word – by the way they look at you, or avoid looking at you; or simply by the way they carry themselves. Ann was a perfect example. She was better than us, she seemed to say. She would glide through the halls, aloof and apart, her face a mask of calm seperateness, until she would spy another of the elite circle and her expression would break into a smile of pure warmth.

For most of my junior year I had suffered a devastating and quite secret crush on Ann. I was not a part of her life, of course. I was no nerd, but my friends were as I was, a part of the masses. I was a fairly good-looking young man, well built and handsome, or so I was told by the girls I dated, but I did not posess that magic glamour that permitted access to the higher circle. Ann never looked at me, never met my eyes. We were lab partners in chemistry, and somehow she still managed to avoid any kind of interaction. The few times I tried to make a joke or start a conversation, she withered me with total disinterest. It was horrible.

By my senior year I was pretty much over it, though. I had enjoyed a pretty successfull summer, sexually speaking, and this had boosted my confidence to the point that I no longer needed an Ann Macafee. Oh, I still appreciated her lovely long legs on those days she wore a skirt, and I still let my eyes roam her breasts when the weather was warm and she wore thin silk blouses. But my obsession was over.

I thought that she would never enter my world. But everything changed when I discovered that Ann led a secret life.

It was early in my senior year. I had driven up to the top of Mt.

Ervin, which is a popular make-out spot for the highschoolers. I was working on a project for my photography class, and had gone up to Ervin Park to take some long-exposure shots, showing the stars streaking across the sky over time; a very common thing for amature photographers to do. I did not want to be seen near the parking lot with a camera, since that was where the kids parked, and no one would be too happy if they saw me bopping around with my Nikon. I had taken a few girls there myself, and I know I would have been pissed.

So I had hiked down the hillside and was approaching a small clearing I knew of, where I planned to set up the tripod and start the timed exposures. The spot was quite sheltered from the parking lot and the road, which was important to me since a passing headlight would ruin my shot. As I got within earshot of the clearing, I heard voices talking low.

"Shit" I whispered to myself. Someone was using my spot – I didn't know anyone else knew about it. I had taken Linda Short there to fuck her, and had not been worried since I was sure it was a private spot. Now I knew differently. I crept up quietly and peered from behind a bushy tree.

It was Ann Macafee, there with Bill Arnold. I was totally shocked; Bill was known as sort of the school hoodlum. He wore heavy metal T-shirts, engineer boots, and torn levis pretty much all the time. He was just the sort the Ann would avoid like disease, yet here she was with him, at night, and in a very intimate spot.

They were kneeling over something and talking in hushed tones. I could not tell what they were doing at first, then Bill lit a small candle. I saw the mirror on the grass, and the razor blade glinting on its surface. Aha, I thought: Cocaine. Now everything made sense; Ann liked coke (okey, that was suprising, but not insane) and Bill was certainly the most likely source for drugs on campus.

I could not make out what they were saying, but Bill's face was full of mischief. Ann looked very anxious as she stared at the coke he was forming into a line on the mirror. He did the line, then sat back, his vial of coke in his hand, and stared at her. Finally, probably out of frustration, her voice rose to where I could hear it.

"Come on Bob. Lay out a line for me. You said you would." She still held her usual expression of superiority, but there was a quivver of desperation in her voice that told me coke was not a casual thing for her.

"Maybe I will. Wha'cha gonna do for me, Annie?" Bill said, leering at her.

"Fuck you!" Ann said and looked away.

Bill chuckled. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I had in mind. Pussy for coke. Not a bad deal, when you consider how much this shit costs. I'll bet you've got a tight cunt…"

She whirled on him, but her anger caused her to drop her voice into a hiss and I could not hear what she said. They spoke in low tones for a while, and it seemed to me that some sort of negotiation was going on.

They came to an agreement, and Ann said "God, you're a shit. Alright, fine, let's get it over with."

Bill sat back on his elbows and smiled again. "But you have to take it out." When it looked like she was about to protest, he added "or no deal, Annie."

"Stop calling me that," she said, trying to remain the Queen. But she reached out, lowered his zipper, and took out his cock, which was stiff as a pole.

I could not believe this, even though it was pretty obvious that he wanted some kind of sex from her. His cock was average in length, but fat, with a slight bend near the had. It had the vaguely bruised look that comes from frequent use. She gripped it lightly with her right hand and began to jerk him off.

Bill moaned, then began to sprinkle some coke on the mirror with one hand while propping himself with the other. When she leaned forward to take the mirror, he stopped her.

"This is the worst handjob I've even had, Annie. Either you'd better get into it, babe, or no snow."

She looked pained and embarrased, but she leaned into her work on his dick and began stroking with both hands. Bill was obviously enjoying her attentions, but I could tell by the look on his face that he was not going to settle for this.

I was incredibly turned on, watching this pristine queen jacking off the school hood. There she was, expensive knit skirt and cardigan sweater, on her knees with a bent dick in her hand, stroking it. She'd obviously given hand before, which did not suprise me – that's probably all girls like her did.

I smiled to myself when I rememberd my Nikon was hanging around my neck. Thanking my lucky stars for putting me here with a camera, and without my noisy autowinder, I began to slowly click off pictures, pacing myself so as not to run out of film. The candlelight was more than adequate, since I had brought fast film.