Some New Disaster

Chapter 9
Man in Black

Chapter Description: The conclusion of the Humiliation Trilogy-- Part 1 of 3.

“Well, class,” Miss Berdette announced as she stood at her desk and packed her accordion portfolio with lesson plans and workpackets, “it’s been an excellent semester. Thank you for granting me the pleasure of teaching you.”

Instead of thanking her in return, the A-students of the class clapped and cheered. The other nine pupils were too busy marinating in their own humiliation to do anything other than let the sound of vindictive applause crash over them as if it were a wave that sought to drown them.

“For those among you whose performance was less than adequate throughout the term, I would like to thank you specifically for helping to demonstrate at the visual level some of the more abstract concepts to the rest of the class. It was an enormous boon to their education. All of you will be receiving As.”

Derek grunted again and shot another load onto the floor in front of him. Kevin had wet his training pants. Ben sat on his potty chair, having been ordered there by his ex-girlfriend, who had already adopted a rather rigid time schedule for his training. Nick had returned, full-time, to the incorrigible pleasures of thumbsucking. Jody burped up a little more of Tricia’s milk. And Robert’s only evident concern was squealing “Me make poopies! Me make poopies!!” as he held his knees to his chest and shit his pants.

Somehow, the A-grades seemed a weak consolation prize.

When Miss Berdette finished turning the Fs in her gradebook to As, she slid the spiral-bound tome into her bag and headed for the door. “Have a great summer, kids.” She left, the students filed out after her, and the door fell shut.

But nine students were still in the room.

“Whasth the fuck are we thtill doing here?” slurred Nick from around his thumb.

Derek gasped and shuddered and had another orgasm.

Nick turned around to face the dark-clothed man with the pencil and the reams of used notebook paper. “And who the fuck are you, weally?”

The supposed Department of Education employee didn’t reply, nor even look up. He just kept writing.

Tara turned to her future prom date. “Kevin, go up to Miss Berdette’s desk and see if you can find out why we can’t seem to drag ourselves out of here-- and who the hell the guy in the back is.”

The 18-year-old with the soggy blue motorcycle Pull-Ups squished out of his desk and waddled to the front of the room. He rifled through various papers, finding nothing of interest or value, until he came across a five-by-seven-inch sheet headed by the word “MEMO.”

“Last day of school,” Kevin announced, reading aloud from the memorandum. “Claim he’s DoE. ...Trip Warzlyn.”

The man in black finally looked up, though his pencil never left the paper.

“Call me LT,” he said. “Everybody else does.”

Tricia left her seat and moved towards Trip’s desk. The pureed carrots had begun to dry on her halter top. In one deft motion, the teenage girl wrenched the stack of papers out from beneath the one upon which the man was writing and started to read.

She blinked. Then she started to read aloud.

“‘There were nine F-students in a class of thirty,’” Tricia announced, then flipped through more pages. “‘Pre-cum had begun to pool on the plastic between his outspread thighs. He wanted to ejaculate, and badly.’ ‘His dreams of being prom king, of capitalizing on all the popularity he’d amassed over the course of four years, were dissolving in a pool of hot urine.’ ‘The delinquent squirmed and crinkled and moaned and squealed around his thumb as his balls unloaded themselves into the front panel of his diaper.’”

Nick leapt up from his desk. “Thith fucking pervert!” With all his might, the diapered teenager jerked his thumb out of his mouth. “He’s writing all this down to share with his sick friends!”

Trip grinned. “Close...”

Nick touched his nose with the tip of his finger.

“Hey--”

Nick clucked like a chicken, flapping his elbows up and down as he walked around in a circle, repeatedly shoving his head forward.

“What the--”

Nick realized he’d been gay his entire life.

His diaper crinkling, he turned to face Tricia, his expression one of total horror. “Whatever he writes-- happens.” And then Nick’s thumb is back in his mouth. All he can think about is how poor a substitute it is for a warm, throbbing cock.

“ME! MADE! POOPIES!!” Robert screamed again, beginning to tear up at the lack of attention his accomplishment was receiving.

Tricia took Trip’s papers in both fists and raised her arms to chest level, aiming to make confetti out of them.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the writer. “If I lose the story, I forget the story. If I forget the story, I can never change the story. The story will be the story forever.”

Derek sprayed another load of cum onto the thigh of his jeans and weakly extricated himself from his desk. He, too, approached Trip. Derek’s dick was practically purple from overuse, and his hand never left it... but when he was within striking range, the teenager balled up his free fist, raised it up, his eyes aflame with fury--

--and there it stayed, hanging in midair, while the boy resumed masturbating.

“So,” said Trip, continually writing, “now that everything’s out in the open--” --he glanced down at the tortured appendage Derek was pleasuring through his fly-- “--and, obviously, it is -- let’s fuck some shit up, shall we?”