The boy sprang after the girl, missed his hold, then ran after her. Laura Stockland giggled and ran wildly toward the ski shed. She slipped at the door, giggled louder, rose, achieved a hold on the door, then was abruptly turned around by the boy, who had grabbed her by the shoulders.
Laura's body stiffened. Her eyes lost their expression of laughter. She felt Ron Bolton's fingers pressuring at her shoulders as he faced her and she knew that the pursuit that had started as a game had ended. Now, desire and denial were parts of reality and not a game.
"Ah, come on, Ron, stop it," Laura said, irritation making her tone sound nervous. "You're hurting me. Besides, I told you when we came up here that I didn't feel like staying."
"Feel?" Ron questioned. "What didn't you feel?"
She hesitated, then looked into his eyes and said, "I didn't feel like doing it like making-out if you want me to be blunt."
"Lately you don't 'feel,' period," he replied. His tone was angry. His expression darkened.
"I feel plenty," Laura replied. "But I'm not in the mood now I've got things to do."
"Then why in hell did you come up here with me?" Ron asked.
"Because, because I don't like to hurt your feelings see you pout like a little boy. And because I believed you when you said you wanted to see how good the ski slopes looked."
Ron grinned. He was tall, very strong looking, and handsome in the rugged way that girls preferred. He pressed a little closer to Laura, brought one hand away from her shoulder, then ran it behind her and quickly opened the ski shed door. He pushed her inside and slammed the door behind them.
"All right, you've got me inside," she said. "What are you going to do now? Use force?"
He did not answer. He brought both hands behind her and gripped hard at her buttocks. He pinched hard, at the same time drawing her close, making her thighs cuddle to him.
Laura felt much less resistive with Ron that close to her. She marveled at how quickly it could happen. Then she wondered if she now desired to cooperate with Ron Bolton's sexual wishes because she had something to tell him something that would cause hurt and upset.
Suddenly, Ron jerked her very close. Laura could feel the press and throbbing of him clear through their tight black ski pants. She raised her arms and let them rest lazily around his neck. He took the action as a signal for love. He lowered to find her mouth.
"Ron, please . " She turned her head. "Yeah, please," he mumbled, his voice thick with passion. He tried again to capture her mouth.
Laura allowed it. Their bodies strained harder at the precise moment that Laura opened her mouth to receive the boy's shooting tongue. And if she had not wanted to give herself in love to Ron Bolton, it could not be detected by her kiss. It was hot and fervent. She drew madly upon it, making little cries of pleasure as she moved her head from side to side.
It was very easy for Laura Stockland to lose her resolve. There was the heat of Ron's mouth, the pressure of him against her thighs there was this and also Laura's own wish to please him before she hurt him, to make amends before, not after, she caused him upset.
They traded motions, Laura gave up her hold on Ron's tongue and plunged her own deep within the hollow he offered. Her sense of taste changed when Ron nibbled upon her offering. She liked it and wondered how it could happen. Then she noticed that it changed again as Ron released his grip on her buttocks and brought his hands under her sweater to find bare breasts. Laura did not draw back. She remained tight against him. It was not necessary that her buttocks be held for closeness. She created the tight contact between them of her own will. And she could not help but tremble slightly as Ron kneaded her flesh, pressured her nipples forward, bloating them to near-bursting, then relaxing his hold for an instant before pressuring them forward again. Laura felt the nipples grow hard. She knew from past experience that they were now hot and cracked, had become that way from her own yearning.
As Ron's kisses and moving hands became more intense, as Laura felt new strength pressure forward at her thighs, it occurred to her that sex should be reserved for a bit, that she should first talk to Ron, make him unhappy with her words, then give herself to him as a kind of bequest a gift. This, she suddenly reasoned, would be much better. Then he would become relaxed. Then his upset could be calmed. But if she gave this gift now...?
If she cooled his heat immediately, there would be the new heat of his anger later.
Laura brought her mouth away from his. It was a sticky withdrawal. She turned her face to the side, buried her lips into his neck for a moment, then pushed back, hesitated, and with considerable effort, finally brought herself completely free of his body.
"Ron I want to talk to you," she said quickly, turning and walking to the center of the small room.
The boy's hands went out from his sides in a motion of disbelief.
"I've got something to tell you," she said, hurrying the words.
"And I've got something!" the boy pleaded.
Laura could not keep her eyes from the projection of his tight ski pants. It seemed a sign of her powers and pleased her. But that, she thought, could be tended to a little later. Now, she had to tell Ron about her plans.
Ron's hands dropped helplessly to his sides. "All right, Laura, let's have it. I know that once you make your mind up to talk, there's no stopping you. So shoot. Maybe you'll explain why you've been acting so goddamn strange the last few weeks. Why you've been avoiding me why you seem to have your mind miles away all the time."
Laura lowered her eyes. When she raised them she looked directly at Ron, noticing how dark his hair was, how tall he was six feet, at least, and a good head taller than herself. It seemed right that she should view all these good qualities, for she did feel guilt for her behavior of the past several weeks.
"Come on give," Ron coaxed. .
"I'm I'm going away, Ron. I I need a rest."
"Going away," he exploded. "Need a rest? The hell you do. You're not going away from this college or me. As I see it you've had plenty of rest every day in math and English and all your courses. And you had better watch it, girl, 'cause a freshman can flunk out here as easy as anything."
"Maybe so," she said, lifting her chin a bit. "But I'm going away. When I come back I'll be rested ready for classes for anything."
Ron walked closer to her. "And just where in the hell do you propose to go?"
"I'm going south to Fort Bixdale for spring vacation." She said it fast, like a confession.
"The hell you are!" he stormed.
"But I am," she insisted. "Ever since high school I've planned on going to Fort Bixdale for spring vacation. So, I'm a college freshman now and I'm going."
"Listen," he said, low and tense. "No girl of mine is going down to that whore's nest not for spring vacation or anytime."
"Sorry. My plans are all made." Her voice carried a new tone of confidence.
"Like hell you're . "
"Ron," she interrupted, sounding a little like a school teacher stopping a naughty child. "There's simply no use arguing with me. I'm going. Besides, Fort Bixdale isn't as bad as the publicity about it claims. You just believe too much what you read in the papers."
"Don't tell me that place isn't like I know it is," he shouted. "Hell, it's jammed with thousands of guys looking for chicks everybody mills around without clothes on there's the damn beach parties, all that singing sex games! Oh, I know about that place, all right. Hell, even the Fort Bixdale police department can't keep that mob from surfing at night and raising all kinds of hell. And you I know you! You'd be in the middle of all of it!"
"Yeah," she breathed sweetly, forgetting for a moment that Ron was even there.
"See see what I mean? You're dreaming about all that jazz already."
"It's going to be a great experience, Ron," Laura said. "Just great."
She stopped and lowered her eyes to the floor again, suddenly conscious that she was letting her enthusiasm get the best of her. She reminded herself that she must play it cool.
Ron snorted like a bull, and Laura had the impression that it replaced words that he could not immediately find.
She saw an advantage. She plunged ahead. "Besides, I'm not going to be all alone in that great big horrid place."
"I know damn well you're not, and that's what bothers me.
"Silly," she reprimanded. "I mean my roommates are going with me."
His fists clinched and he raised them before him like a frustrated fighter. "Oh, Jeeez, not those bitches," he exclaimed. "Now I know damn well you're not going."
"Stop being rude," she said crossly. "You're talking about my roomies my very best friends the best darn girls on the campus."
"Yeah, best," Ron said. "Best and easiest lays." He moved to her. His expression softened. Then he said, "Please, Laura, don't go to that hell's nest. All sorts of things will happen to you there."
She was about to breathe another sound of happy agreement, but caught herself in time and instead said, "No, Ronnie, honest, I won't let anything happen to me. Really. I couldn't, 'cause you know how I feel about you."
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "You you still feel that way?"
"Of course I do."
"Honest?"
"Honest."
"Then why have you been acting funny with me."
" 'Cause I knew you'd be mad when I told you I was going to Fort Bixdale."
"I am, too," he said.
She raised her hand and pressured at his hard shoulder. "Don't be."
"Well-
"Please," she purred. "You'll be good?" he asked. "Very, very good, just for you," she said. "And you won't let Pixie or Margie or that goddamn, oddball Kay Faubus get you into anything?"
"They couldn't," she exclaimed.
"They could and would," he said, his voice rising a bit again.
"But they won't because I just won't let it happen."
Ron relaxed his hold on her shoulder. His forehead pinched tight lines together. Then he said, "Maybe I could arrange to go."
Laura felt a moment's fear; then she said quickly, "Ronnie, you can't, you know it. There's track practice and the Olympic tryouts coming up next year you couldn't I wouldn't let you, not even as much as I wish you could."
"I'd miss the big meet," he still pondered.
"And I won't let you miss it you can't the whole school's depending on you for that one."
"Yeah, I'm afraid so," he said slowly. "I'm I'm sorry, Laura."
"I am, too, darling. But I'll be back before you know it."
"It'll seem like years," he said sadly. She moved toward the door. The matter was settled. Now she was disinclined for sex, anxious only to leave. She turned and smiled at him and said, "Come on, I'll race you to the bottom. Come help me with my skis first."
"Hold it a minute" he said grinning.
She cocked her head to one side.
Ron went to the door. He raised one hand to the back of Laura's neck. She raised her green eyes to him. They looked inquiringly into his.
"We've still got time" he said.
"But I've got a make-up lab hour tonight," she said, hedging.
He brought his other hand up to her breast and gripped it, held it fully, but gently. "So, you've missed them before. Miss another. After all, baby, I can't send you down to those wolves in Fort Bixdale without without well, putting my final claim check on you."
She smiled, sighed, lifted her mouth, and immediately lost herself to his mouth, his tongue, his nibbling lips. And warmth swept over her and her decision to leave without first attending Ron faded. But she would attend him in a different way, she thought, would give enough to hold him, keep him peaceful without new eruptions about her plans for Fort Bixdale. Would give him enough without the immediate inconvenience of full sexual giving.
"Ohhh, Laura," Ron breathed into her mouth.
"Ron, Ron," she whispered, still kissing, plucking the words to him with her sharp tongue, popping them from herself to him.
Ron's body stammered madly. One hand lowered from Laura's neck to her back as the other left its hold upon her breast long enough to lower, raise up within the sweater until it gripped the bare flesh of her hot, moving and wild. He clasped her breast, then relaxed his hold to bring thumb and forefinger into play at her long, hard nipple.
"Ummmmmmm," she moaned.
Ron played harder with her breast end as his tongue continued to whirl and play with her tongue, at her under lip everywhere.
Laura moaned again. She heard it coming from herself and thought how similar the sound was to all the others she expressed with Ron, and then she wondered if the sound came from true feelings, emotion, and rising passion, or whether it was merely well-practiced, something expected of her with which she complied. And in spite of concentration upon Ron and his closeness, she could not help thinking again of warm Fort Bixdale and wondering what she might find there, if she perhaps would discover thrills she had still to experience.
Ron tore his mouth from Laura's. He released his grip on her bare breast, then staggered back a step.
"Laura Laura, I can't stand it. I've just got to, baby," he said, his voice shaking.
Laura breathed deeply and looked into his eyes. She saw the yearning there. Then she glanced at his tremendous physique, at his chest and waist and the muscles of his thighs and legs as they were greatly revealed by his tight ski pants. She felt a wave of compassion for the nineteen-year-old boy. But her mind shot to the practicalities of love-making, those involved with winter clothing and their ski shed setting on top of a hill back of the college campus. Her mind wondered to these practicalities but only for a second. Then she banished them. She could not do otherwise. Ron dropped to one knee in front of her, pushed her sweater high again and mouthed furiously at her right breast. Laura clutched her fingers into his hair, arched and strained, loving the feel of his wet tongue pecking at her nipple, the sensations that were caused by his pauses which accounted for quick little nips at her flesh by his teeth. She jammed his head closer, tried, it seemed, to lose him completely within the fullness of her breasts.
Ron brought his mouth away from her. Laura felt a sudden chill where his mouth had been. Then the boy grabbed her and pulled her next to where he quickly lengthened upon the floor.
Laura liked the feel of them embracing in a prone position. It allowed for a fuller closeness. Her breasts could jam hard at Ron's strong chest; even their bellies could grind together, and it was especially exciting at their thighs where their bodies, though clothed, stabbed in a hard undulation that was like being truly joined and moving together.
But such an action of their bodies could not endure. Their heat demanded the closeness of naked flesh. With a tragic sound of frustration, Ron pulled away and grabbed for the zipper tab of Laura's ski pants. It was then that she forgot, to some extent, the cold and cumbersome clothing. She forgot it less because of desire than for the converging of thoughts in her mind. Now, sex immediate sex with Ron meant something else to Laura Stockland. She thought of it now as both a gift to Ron, a good-bye gift, and as a prelude to the excitement that awaited her at sensually oriented Fort Bixdale. Yes, it was a prelude, she thought, a time for practice, a time to test her sexuality, judge it, see if it was properly tuned for the new thrills that would soon be hers.
Ron nearly ripped the zipper free from the garment that held it.
"Wait a minute," Laura exclaimed. "I can't ski back without a zipper to hold my pants up."
Ron grinned. Then, as she more cautiously finished the zipper's journey to the bottom, he rose and went to a corner of the room where various athletic equipment was stored. He wrestled a tumbling mat free and dragged it to Laura, who had just succeeded in pulling the ski pants from her body. She was bare and delightful from the waist down.
She looked up as Ron flopped the mat next to her. She smiled wantonly, then scurried onto the mat. Ron, made more anxious by the bare sight of Laura, hurried out of his ski trousers, then went bolder against the cold that whistled through the shed and banished the remainder of his clothing.
Laura looked at his naked body, feeling greater admiration for his masculine build, and at the same time considering that if she were different she would be satisfied with a boy such as Ron Bolton. But she was Laura Stockland. She was different. Her need was for variety and excitement, for crowding all that it was possible to crowd into her youth. And so, Fort Bixdale awaited. But now now there was Ron.
Laura held her arms out for the boy. He went to her. They crushed their bodies together. They kissed again. And this time nudity had its effect, compelled that their hands move to each other and play, play in that delightful pause that precedes ultimate union.
Laura touched Ron at the same moment that his hand pressed between her thighs. He made a slight penetration. And Laura, as if to answer his call as if to trade equally one erotic touch for another wound her fingers in a tight clutch, then moved all that she held from side to side. She felt Ron's heat, his pulsation, and she wondered if it beat in tune with the new thumping of her heart, if perhaps in some remarkable way both of them had adapted to a single rhythm one that had as its origin the pulsation that burned at her thighs.
Ron again lavished kisses upon her breasts, still bunching the sweater high around her neck. She almost smiled as she recognized Ron's intentions. She knew them well. Ron, from time to time, liked to express his skill as a lover. He was going to do it now, Laura knew. And she knew that it was because they would soon be parting. This session was to be his mark, his "claim check," as he had called it this was to be his expression of love and skill that was meant to leave her immune to the offerings of others to those others who awaited in the hot South, at lustful Fort Bixdale.
Ron kissed his way from Laura's breasts to the span of white that was her belly. Here he dallied. He swept his tongue back and forth across her flesh, each sweep lowering a bit, bending just a tiny fraction closer to the dark shadow of her that, Laura now admitted to herself, stammered and pinched in urgency and desire.
But Ron was not to immediately bequeath this exceptional gift, at least not until he was positioned for a similar attention. Slowly, as he kissed, teased, tongued fast, then slow, then fast again, Ron shifted his position, stretched harder on his side and lengthened himself in a direction that was opposite that of Laura. He did not signal his wishes. Laura knew them. She regrasped the hardness of him that she had given up while he changed positions. She moved him harder. As a gift for her fervor, he kissed lower on her body, at the same time lurching his hips forward, trembling them at her face, doing it, she knew, in the hopes of a new, more vital contact from her one that would be open-mouthed and hungry. Laura did not give it. Ron now sought to encourage her. He kissed into the depths of her, even brought one hand to play upon that portion where he kissed, to play and open, to spread and make smooth as a runway for his sweeping tongue. And he moved up and down that runway, creating a new stammer in Laura's body, bringing forth her hips in a hard lurch that seemed destined to bury him, to make him an eternal captive of her deviational need.
Soon, however, Laura knew that Ron was not to settle for single-sided orality. He moved one hand to her head, locked his fingers into her hair, then rocked her toward the arch he presented. But she would not go. She sought to substitute his wish by a faster movement from her hand. She bent and twirled and jerked him madly, but with himself buried to her in utter giving, jerks and twirls and hard, hard pulling were not the components of his immediate desire. He forced Laura harder. She still resisted. And then, accepting this pre-love rejection, he raised from her.
"I'm sorry, Ron," she whispered. "I just can't can't do that. I I can't now now."
He did not mind. "Shhhhh," he said. "Just let me love you."
Laura rolled to her back, braced her feet flat upon the mat and opened her arms for the muscle-quivering boy.
Now, Ron did not delay. He did not dally. He rushed to the cradle she presented, paused, adjusted, knee-walked a little closer, then rammed himself deep within the channel that swallowed him.
The pre-play had had its effects. Their bodies lashed hard from the very beginning. Laura rose in a high arch to meet his every plunge. She squeezed and held him until he drew back, then bounded to meet him again. And they moved faster and faster and speed alone seemed to ignite them. Laura strained and hated the sweater that was bunched at her throat. It inhibited her, kept her from complete freedom. She hated it, but would not could not delay to remove it. And then Ron moved with a new fury and struck that secret chord of her that sent her chest to pinching out strange, rasping sounds from her throat.
Ron paused. But only for an instant. He bent and gathered Laura's buttocks in both his hands, paused again, much as if readying for a sprint to the finish, then moved, moved, moved, moved endlessly and speedily, bouncing her to him as he descended and found new depths of her to conquer.
"Oh, Ron!" she suddenly cried. "Ron Ron Oh, Ron, it's I'm Oh, yes, I am. I am, I am, I am, I'm I'm going to...! "
Her head bounded forward and her teeth clamped hard on Ron's shoulders as the feeling within her gathered strength, was nurtured along by Ron's hard movements, then erupted with the fury of the mightiest sudden storm. She bit into his shoulder and hung on tight as her body stuttered in a hard strain of frantic sexual completion.
Their bodies went soft at the same time and they rolled apart. They rested as their breathing quieted. And as she rested on her back, Laura thought of the immensity of the experience just past. She thought of it, realized its great achievement, then wondered why she wished for more wished so hard for new sexual episodes that she had contrived a spring vacation trip to the South. She found no answers. She knew that she would have to wait and see.
Soon, Ron and Laura were dressed and at the door of the ski shed. He looked at her lovingly.
"I'll die before you get back from Fort Bixdale," he said. "And I'll die again if you come back changed."
"No, you won't," she laughed.
They exited the ski shed. They secured their skis once again, moved slowly to the edge of the hill, then, together, pushed off and zoomed down the steep slope which ended at the far north end of the college campus.
Ron led the way. Laura followed. And as she felt the flakes of snow rioting in a swirl around her, flecking at her face and body, she thought not at all of the trail she followed, of its end, or of anything that concerned Whitfield College. Instead, she thought of sand and beaches, of ocean waves, and of the hot caresses of strangers. She thought of Fort Bixdale, of her spring vacation, and of how the two, merged together, would bring her excitement and thrills beyond any of her greatest, most erotic dreams.
Ron and Laura separated at the circular compound that divided the women's dorms from the men's. Laura, after pecking a kiss at Ron's cheek and waving good-bye, decided against attending the make-up biology lab. She was much too excited to have interest for rats and mice and all the silly reactions compiled from generations of rabbits. She went immediately to her room in the girl's dorm.
As she threw open the door, a bare-skinned clutch of femininity greeted her. Margie Winters, very pretty, very large busted, and nude except for tiny, bikini panties, lounged crosswise on one of the four identical beds. Pixie Thomas was propped at the head of the same bed. She was very blonde, a dynamic contrast to Margie Winters, who had dark, auburn hair. And Pixie was comfortable. She wore lounging pajamas. They were transparent and showed all of her young, vital body. The blouse of the pj's showed considerably more. It was open down the front and displayed both of Pixie's small, hard, nipple-indented breasts.
"Wow, what a gruesome twosome," Laura said, entering the room and slamming the door shut behind her.
"Not for long, baby," Pixie said. "Fort Bixdale get ready here we come."
The three of them laughed gleefully as Laura moved to her own bed across the room, stood by it and began disrobing.
"Hey, honey-bun," said Margie to Laura. "We've got news."
Laura finished pulling her sweater over her head, dropped it on the bed, then, while her bare breasts jiggled a bit, she turned and said, "Good or bad?"
"Depends how you look at it," Margie answered. She tossed a glance to Pixie, then said, "We're going to have more company on the trip to Bixdale."
"Male or female?" Laura asked.
"Female. So very, very, damn it. Carla Torro wants in for the trip, the ride down, the motel the works."
"Carla!" Laura exclaimed. "Uh huh."
"I'm shocked. Does she really know what Fort Bixdale will be like during vacation?"
"She does. And she wants in. Okay with you?"
"Fine," Laura said, wishing she had hesitated a moment.
"We figured it would be. We told her to get ready," Margie said.
"And as efficient as Carla is," Pixie added, "she's probably got her luggage by the door."
Laura turned toward the bed, skimmed the ski pants from her body, then discharged her bra. She turned and looked around the room, giving the impression of one who had just remembered something important.
"Hey, where's Kay?" Laura asked. "Is she all set?"
"Not quite, I'm afraid," said Pixie. "At this moment she's probably fighting like hell to get permission to go."
"She still needs permission?" Laura inquired.
"And how, baby," Margie said. "Uncle money-bags is very fussy about where little Kay goes, and with whom she goes."
"Oh, oh," said Laura.
"Oh, oh, is right, my friend."
Laura stretched her arms high over her head. She felt her nude breasts bloat and discovered that they felt warmer than they had when Ron had caressed them less than an hour earlier. Then she smiled. She knew the cause. It was anticipation for vacation, for Fort Bixdale in the hot, hot South, for everything she would encounter there, for love and life and sex for everything and anything. She swung her arms downward, thinking that she was ready for it more ready for excitement than at any time during her eighteen years.
Laura turned, then ran naked in the direction of the shower.
CHAPTER TWO
Kay Faubus breathed deeply and paused at the entrance to her uncle's large, lavish study. She was nervous and uncertain. She felt as if she were about to make the most important step of her life, the success of which would either free her or doom her. And the fear that clutched her heart told her that she could not turn back.
She took another step closer to the partly opened door and paused. She breathed deeply again, feeling the crush of her young breasts against the thin white blouse she wore above a short, tight skirt. As she paused again, Kay was a picture of anxiety, but the kind that added to her unusual beauty. She was quite tall, possibly an inch or so above five and a half feet. She was somewhat heavily built, yet looked dainty and as agile as a ballet dancer, which she occasionally was for certain school performances. Kay's hair was coal black. She wore it long and loose and it carried to her waist. Her breasts bulged like melons, were large and firm and seemed in a constant state of tautness with the little nipples exactly in the middle and pressing outward like small cherries. Kay's buttocks jutted sassily from her tight skirt. Her hips molded in graceful lines to her legs, which were now bare. They were in perfect symmetry with the rest of her body and glided from thigh to knee to calf in dramatic descent. But it was her thighs which seemed most sexual. The way they moved and quivered gave them the appearance of urgency, as if they were anxious to form a comforting cradle beneath a churning man. But Kay's face put a lie to the sexuality of her body. It was innocent. Her eyes were big and round and very dark brown with an expression of wonder to them. Her nose was small and tilted slightly. Her mouth was unusually wide. The lipstick she wore seemed like a secret stain, one that her innocence still questioned.
"Is that you, Kay?" a heavy, male voice called from deep within the room.
Kay's heart beat faster, then she said, "Yes, it is, Uncle Jason. However in the world did you know?"
"I always know," he answered.
Kay stepped into the study and paused again. She looked across the room and saw her uncle sitting behind his mammoth oaken desk. He did not turn toward her, but remained bent over the heavy ledger book which was open before him. He hunched over it like a huge black monster, for he was a very big man in height, weight and bearing. He was very dark and swarthy of complexion. His hair, black and curly, made him appear to have a constant, ominous scowl.
"Well, come in, child," Jason Faubus said, still not raising his eyes from the ledger book.
Kay moved across the carpeted floor. She liked the feeling of her feet sinking into the thick, lush carpeting. It was one of her earliest memories and, though the memory was never recalled, it always nudged at her whenever she entered her uncle's study.
Jason Faubus turned when Kay was midway across the room. He smiled. Even this was an expression of darkness, for his teeth were small and his lips were as dark as all of his complexion. And his eyes those eyes that now roamed Kay's body as she approached were dark, too, and sunken, like small marbles that had been dropped in dark pudding.
"Are you busy, Uncle Jason?" Kay asked, stopping before him.
"I'm always busy," Jason answered. "But never too busy for my niece."
"Thank you," she said formally, her mind racing for approaches to all that she had to ask.
Jason swung around in his swivel chair and indicated a chair at the side of his desk. He nodded to it. Kay skirted the edge of the large desk, then seated herself next to her uncle. She sat very straight and primly with her knees close together, only an inch or two of their bareness revealed by the pull of her tight skirt.
"And what brings you from the dormitory before the weekend?" Jason Faubus asked quickly. "I wanted to talk to you," Kay answered. "Ummm, sounds serious," he said, raising his hand to his chin and rubbing it.
"Well it is, in a way," Kay started. She wondered if the growl of nervousness at her stomach would ever quiet, ever be less than it always was when she confronted her uncle.
"Go on," Jason Faubus encouraged. "You know that I'm always available to hear anything you have to say to help you in any way that I can. I'm sure you know that, Kay. You're all I have all I'll ever have, so naturally I'm interested in everything you have to tell me."
"I know, Uncle," she replied, thinking that she was really a very lucky girl, that few of her friends could look forward, as she could, to wealth and fame because of their uncle's fabulous success.
"Well, Uncle," Kay started again. "I want to take a trip with some friends of mine during the spring vacation."
Jason's eyebrows, bushy and black, shot upward like quick question marks. "A trip? With whom? To where? And why?"
He had shot the questions at her like a quick attorney, and Kay was taken aback for a moment. But she breathed deeply and said, "My roommates are planning a trip to the South. You know, everyone up here gets sick of snow and ice by this time of the year. So, they're going south. And and, I want to go with them, Uncle Jason."
"The South?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why, that sounds wonderful, child. I'll have the Miami house opened and you can stay there. Some of the staff is already there and we can get the others easily enough. Of course you should get away from this miserable weather for awhile, and of course your friends are welcome at the Miami place at any place of course--. "
"Uncle Jason," Kay interrupted.
"Yes, child, what is it?"
"I don't want to go to the Miami house."
He pushed forward in his chair and stared at her. "You don't?"
"No, sir. You see, the girls are planning a trip to Fort Bixdale."
His dark face flushed. His eyes squinted and his body seemed to tense like a spring, hunched and ready to leap.
"Fort Bixdale," he said. The word came like a loathsome utterance. He said it slowly, but hatefully.
"Yes yes, Uncle Jason," Kay said softly. She wiggled a bit in the chair, then moved closer to its edge.
"Have you gone mad, Kay?" Jason asked, leaning forward and glaring at her as if he sought to determine her insanity.
"No, sir. I just want to go to Bixdale with the girls."
"Not there. Good heavens, Kay, not to that capital of obscenity. Not you. Not the niece of Jason Faubus. Good heavens, Kay, that place is a sin hole a cesspool that could destroy you."
"But I really want to go, Uncle Jason," Kay pleaded. "Please please let me go, Uncle Jason."
He turned from her as if her plea weren't worthy of discussion. Then, still not facing her but looking instead across the room, he said, "Is it that your old Uncle Jason is not enough for you any more, Kay? Is that the reason for this nonsense about Fort Bixdale? Is that it?"
"Of course not."
"You're only seventeen, Kay. Yet, I've made you worldly beyond your years. I've . " He paused and looked into her eyes, then said, "I've enhanced you with my love, Kay, my kind of love, the kind that holds no lot for the rabble-sex you'd find in Fort Bixdale. You know that; yet you want to go to that place. You want to leave your uncle your only relative your uncle who has taught you the ways of an enchanting world since you were a child the means that have made you different from other girls yet, now you want to trade that difference for the sameness of the others. You can't mean it, Kay. You're different. Not like the others."
"Yes, different," she said sadly, lowering her eyes to the floor, looking at the carpeting and feeling the sadness of her difference through all her body the difference that had become her own because of her guardian's difference.
Jason Faubus' eyes roamed his niece's body. They gleamed brightly, as if her young body brought up an abundance of memories which lightened all of him, made him more youthful than his fifty years, stronger than such years should riglidy allow him.
Kay raised her eyes and met her uncle's stare. She knew what he wanted, what only she was capable of bringing to him in a quality and quantity that would justify any purpose she might have for pleasing him.
"Kay, I can't let you go to Fort Bixdale I can't if I did I'd . "
"Lose me, that's what you're thinking, isn't it, Uncle?"
"Lose you? Lose my Kay?" he said, mouthing the questions as if they were meant for himself alone.
"That's what you're thinking," Kay said. "But it can't happen, Uncle Jason. You know it can't."
"And why can't it?" he asked.
She pushed up from her chair and moved to a position very close to him. She looked down at him a moment, then boosted herself to the edge of the desk. Her position was one that offered a most enticing view for Jason Faubus. As Kay rested in such a way as to make her breasts loom to the edges of her blouse, revealing the inward lines of them, Jason could not take his eyes from his niece, not from her teasing breasts nor from her bare thighs, which were grossly evident to him as her skirt hiked high above her knees. And Kay's expression changed as quickly as did her decision to present the lure of her body as a bargaining basis for that which she wanted above all things.
She smiled at her uncle, then said, "Do you know why you can't lose me?"
"No, why?" he asked, his eyes holding tightly to the sensual picture she made.
"You can't lose me, Uncle, because we're the same you and I you made me the kind of girl I am, and it can't be taken away from me or from you."
"But you want to go to Fort Bixdale?"
"Yes." She paused, her mind spinning with possibilities, with hope, now that she had taken the role of aggressor, now that she had changed from the frightened niece to the beautiful and sexual girl who held her uncle's passion at her will.
Kay leaned forward, exposing more of her breasts; then she said, "I have a very good reason for wanting to go to Fort Bixdale with my friends. A very good reason."
Jason Faubus, as if he had been put in a trance, straightened in his chair in order to view the hard, brown tips of Kay's breasts, now beyond any stage of teasing, now brazenly revealed to his view.
"Let me hear your reason, Kay," Jason said, not taking his eyes from the delights of her body.
"My friends lots of people at school are beginning to become suspicious of me."
Now he took his eyes from her body. He directed them to her face, and there was a quick change in his expression. It went from indifference, to blazing attention, and there was something else that showed there too. Fear.
"Suspicious?" he said.
"Yes. About me. About why I'm so attached to you. People know it they think it's odd."
"Odd."
"Yes."
He cocked his head to one side as if he didn't understand. Kay, observing the gesture, felt a moment's deep sympathy for her uncle; regretted her words, devised to arouse him to consent to what she wanted. But the feeling of sympathy passed. She could not turn back. She must use any means possible in order to taste the freedom for which she longed.
"Yes, Uncle Jason," Kay continued. "I don't date I seldom do anything with girl friends everyone knows you, that you're my guardian so, maybe it's natural that they think my relationship with you is odd."
Jason straightened and loomed up at her like a giant cloud. "Have they do they ask questions?"
"Not directly. But they infer a great deal."
His body tensed, then he said, "And it's because of this you want to go to Fort Bixdale for vacation? Only because of this?"
"Yes, Uncle Jason."
His body relaxed. He grew smaller in the chair. He raised one hand and again rubbed at his chin. Then he said, "I see you're really, in your own way, you want to protect me protect us don't you, child?"
"I want us to remain happy, Uncle," Kay said, bringing a note of sincerity to her voice, a note that did not tell her actions had become contrived.
Jason Faubus looked intently at Kay's body. Then he looked away from it and said, "Perhaps it will be best if you do join your friends for a vacation in the South."
Kay felt a flutter of happiness grow within her breast until she was sure it would burst. She felt her breasts swell with this great feeling. She felt, too, a feeling of gratitude for her uncle's permission, for all that he had always given her.
Slowly, and rather sensually, Kay pushed off of the desk's edge. She wanted to giggle her thanks like a little girl. But she did not. Her gratitude was best expressed in a womanly way, she knew. Kay turned, perched on her uncle's knee, then raised her finger tips to his cheek. She stroked him lightly, soothingly, as if she were washing away tiredness.
"When when will you be leaving, Kay?" Jason asked.
"Tomorrow after last class, I think," she said. "If not then, the day after."
"So soon," he mumbled.
"But not for long, Uncle," she replied. "Only for ten days, then then we'll be together again."
"But now nothing only loneliness for me," he said, turning a bit and looking into her eyes.
She smiled. She wiggled her buttocks a little deeper into his lap. "But now can be very, very good for us."
His eyes brightened. "Yes. Yes, it can be very, very good as it's always good for us."
Kay leaned a little closer and burrowed her breasts into his chest, attaining a pose of a little girl being comforted. But it was not a little girl's body which pressed so tightly and so sensually. Kay felt her uncle's instant response to her body. Actually, she sensed the response an instant before it became a reality: She was that well attuned to this man who was her uncle. She tried to remember how long it had been, how many years had passed since she and her Uncle Jason had first united as incestuous lovers. Had she been ten? Twelve? Was it earlier than ten? Kay could not remember. Nor did it matter at the moment.
Kay brought her cheek close to Jason's, snuggled it there a moment, then leaned closer and gently mouthed his ear lobe. Jason moaned happily. His body sagged, even as the point of his physique became harder and more erect. Kay dropped her hand atop that erectness, at the same time shooting her young, hot tongue into his ear, twirling it there, wetting him with the sign of her passion and, by doing so, increasing his.
Finally, Jason groaned heavily. He twisted and caught his niece's mouth with his, swamping his thick tongue upon her, shooting it within her mouth and twisting it much as if it was his body torturing in an act of sex. And Kay responded to it. She gripped his tongue with her teeth and lips, drew upon it, twisted it, then soothed the slight hurt by a lavishing of her own spanking tongue. And as she pleased him orally her hand worked in a manual manipulation that, even through clothing, worked its effect, heated and excited him, made him beyond the boundaries of recovery without having first tasted of the many gifts his niece had to offer.
When Kay's moving fingers threatened prematurity, Jason gently stopped her. Then he shifted his body and bared himself. Kay, still kissing him, felt all that was exposed. Her hand became excited. She moved to curl him again within her fingers. He allowed it for a moment, allowed it for several long pulls that sent him to new sounds of passion. But then he again detained her.
Kay knew the signals well. She drew back a bit. Then she arched and presented both of her breasts in a line with her Uncle Jason's face. He smiled as his hands worked inside her blouse. Then, suddenly, but by indication of contrivance more than spontaneity, Kay pushed back a little more, quickly unbuttoned the blouse and banished it from her body, presenting a quivering immensity of young flesh, studded brightly with nipples that had hardened and cracked and pushed out from their molds. These, she moved forward a bit to her uncle.
Jason gripped Kay's breasts gently. He seemed very careful to hold them far back, rather bloating them forward, and in a moment the purpose was known. He leaned forward, then, moving Kay's breasts, and brushed the nipples back and forth on a line across his lips.
It was a torturous action. It teased, self-teased, Jason, and made Kay anxious for more dynamic contact. Finally, she pushed forward as Jason's mouth opened to catch all of her left breast within the hot opening of his mouth. Kay's head arched backward and her neck cords strained as Jason mouthed her, gathering as much as possible of the flesh unto herself. Kay helped his adventure. She gripped his head and cuddled him tightly to her. And when he began a forward and backward motion of taking and withdrawing, she aided this too, did so by matching his rhythm in a way that allowed his mouth to draw far away, holding her by the mere breast tip alone, and thus further torturing them both.
Quickly, now, uncle and niece became very heated. The action speeded. The breathing from Jason became smothered in flesh, then freed, then smothered again in a constant motion of burying himself. And Kay breathed heavily too. The sound seemed light, yet strained, as it exited from her tight-neck, arched position.
Suddenly, Jason stopped the action. His hands replaced his mouth as he seemed to rest, rather nurturing his growing passion instead of rushing it. He kneaded with ten happy fingers, kneaded Kay's flesh like dough as the nipples protruded even further. But the restful orientation of love-play could not last long. Jason freed Kay's breasts. She moved back. A chill coursed across her breasts. She missed the heat and protection of her uncle's hands.
Jason smiled. He brought his hands to Kay's shoulders and gently urged her off his lap.
"Oh, Uncle," she said, "You are such such a good man."
"And you are such a dutiful and lovely niece," he replied.
She looked around in the direction of the door. "Are you going to carry me upstairs as you did when I was a little girl?"
His smile grew reminiscent, but he said, "No, my girl, who will always be a little girl. Upstairs seems quite too long a journey for this old uncle at the moment."
She laughed, then moved to replace herself more firmly on his lap and in a position that allowed her to face him.
His grip upon her shoulders tightened. "I thought that we perhaps we could have something ... different. We're to be separated for a while. It seems right that we should be different."
Kay knew the meaning of his words. Just as she had learned his wishes, his reflexes, she had also learned the implications of his words.
Moving with the urging of Jason's hands, Kay moved from his lap to the floor and rested on her knees in front of him. Then she raised, her naked breasts pointing to a place between his knees. She slightly raised, hunched forward, and for a few furious minutes brushed her breasts hard against the extension of him, heightening and hardening him as if she were a drug that gave him greater and immediate vitality.
But again Jason stopped her actions. Now he leaned back, lifted his hands from her shoulders to tangle in her hair.
For the barest moment, Kay looked into her uncle's eyes. The conditioning of unity, family superiority, the years of practice and coaching and the experiences of hundreds of episodes, all gathered together in that single look before Jason's hands urged her downward.
"You don't mind, do you, darling?" he wheezed. "You don't mind ... this way ... this time."
"I don't mind, Uncle," she responded. "I've never minded nor ever will mind. You ... taught me."
"Yes," he replied, slumping a little deeper into the chair in order to arch his hips a bit upward.
First, Kay gripped him at the base with her hand. She pointed him. And then, rather than enveloping him in a sudden, downward motion, she slithered her lips upon him, held him for a few seconds, then pressed downward as far as she could go.
Jason moaned erotically. And Kay was upon him again and again, each downward motion taking her deeper, causing a greater chatter of her teeth and lips, a moister consumption of her uncle. Jason helped her effort, bounded his hips from the edge of the chair and worked his fingers into a greater tangle in her hair. Kay brought uniqueness to her act. Her head twirled in a mad circle and she shook her head from side to side, worrying all that she held, heating and heightening her own emotions as much as those of her uncle. But soon she brought a pause to the action. It was a pause that called forth even greater eroticism.
Kay pulled completely away from Jason, releasing him. She was breathing very hard. She rested her arms on his knees and looked up at him. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and they were miniatures of the larger bubbles of moisture that were on and around her lips.
Jason rested, too. But his eyes remained alert, obviously anticipating his niece's next move. When she gave it, it represented a delightful change of pace, was soothing and meant for that effect before she would again raise him and finally release him in a blaze of incessant motion.
Slowly, Kay regripped her uncle with her right hand. Again, she pointed him, directing him from his deep base. Then she lowered, but not atop him. She brought her lips to where her hand held him. Then, she spanked him with her sharp tongue, moving up and down the length of him, around him, down again, up again, all the time working her tongue hard across him, gifting him with new sensations.
Kay worked up and down him scores of times and had successfully touched all of him before bringing the caresses of her tongue to a halt. The halt was only momentary. Then she plunged upon him again and moved up and down in a motion that suggested finality. She did not slow her downward-upward action, but she did add novelty to the action. She brought both her hands beneath the heaviness of him and held him gently as she tortured him to his end.
Kay did not turn away from the heavy surge that came to her. She made it her own and continued moving, seeking even more of her uncle's final giving. And she drew the very last from him while he panted heady sounds, while her own breathing found a pitch, then lessened and grew silent.
Kay remained cuddled to her uncle's lap for a long time. She wondered why the excitement of love with her uncle had dimmed, why its satisfaction seemed less because of her anticipation for the many things that awaited her during spring vacation at Fort Bixdale. Perhaps there, she thought, with new people, with the safety of geography between herself and Jason, she would learn something of the mysteries of herself. Perhaps even learn of love. Perhaps...?
CHAPTER THREE
When it began to grow very warm, Laura Stockland pulled her convertible to the side of the road and, amid much squirming from her friends, lowered the top so they could know the full blast of the southern sun. Each of the five girls in her own way was prepared for the hotter climate they sought. Each girl had seen to that early in the morning when they departed the motel where they had spent the night.
Laura, behind the steering wheel, wore very tight shorts and a peasant blouse that slung low off her shoulders. It was cut deeply enough in front to show the white molds of her breasts. Her legs were already beginning to tan. Her toes were exposed from a single strap of each of the straw sandals that she wore. The nails were painted a hot red.
Margie Winters, sitting next to Laura, had glints of the hot sun in her auburn hair, making her look more fiery than usual. She, too, wore shorts: tight, jamming at her thighs in a way that wrinkled the material as it curled it upward a bit. She wore a bikini bra top. It was sinfully low, dug deeply beneath her breasts and exposed her nipples from time to time when she moved in simple actions; leaned forward, turned quickly to one of the other girls, or did anything that changed her position. The breast ends were auburn tinted, obviously catching some of the gleam of her exceptional hair.
Pixie Thomas, Carla Torro, and Kay Faubus occupied the back seat of the convertible. They had prepared for the South very well. Pixie also wore shorts. They were yellow and seemed a long extension of her bright, blonde hair. Pixie did not wear the usual feminine attire to cover her breasts. Held together by a single button near her navel, a boy's white shirt flopped loosely, delightfully revealing the absence of any undergarment. Her nipples indented the material of the shirt. When they did not, they waved in and out of view around the shirt's edges. And Kay Faubus had apparently decided upon looseness and revelation, too. Sitting between Pixie and Carla, she wore a thin, nearly transparent blouse which, although it was buttoned high, revealed the roundness of her breasts and the hard ends. Only Carla, although in a summer frock, seemed less concerned upon the exposure of her very exquisite body. She wore a skirt, flower-patterned, loose, and usually resting quite high above her dark, brown knees and lower thighs. The dress formed a V at the bodice. It showed the puffs of her young breasts in a way that teased without truly giving any true view.
All of the girls showed signs of travel, road dust, and heat. Laura's pretty face was speckled with perspiration. Margie's auburn hair was wilted at the ends and plastered tightly to her neck. Pixie and Kay showed the first signs of freckles, and even Carla, efficient and nearly always in place, was splotched with damp spots where her breasts pressured against her dress.
The trip had produced laughter, serious conversation, and fabulous plans for the enjoyment of vacation at Fort Bixdale. And it had produced periods of quiet and introspection. It was right after such a period, during which Laura had thought of Ron Bolton, forgotten him, then thought of him again, that she speeded the car to overtake the one ahead and discovered that it was filled with boys. They seemed of college age, and, judging by the signs that had been painted on the car, the boys were obviously headed for Fort Bixdale.
"Hey, kids, look what's ahead," Laura exclaimed.
The girls in the back seat hunched forward and Margie, next to Laura, partially rose and leaned over the windshield.
"Come on, catch them," Pixie told Laura.
"If I do, what'll we do with them?" Laura asked.
"Just catch them, then I'll show you," Margie said, raising her hand and waving to a boy's head which suddenly stuck out from the rear window.
Laura laughed and pressed harder on the accelerator. In a moment, her car pulled even with the black hardtop. She risked a quick look to the side and saw that there were four boys in the car, all of them young and strong looking, and that one of them was unusual and unexpected in that he was very handsome, a Negro, and slouched in his seat with a somber expression on his face. Laura turned her eyes to the road again, then glanced to the side again. The sight of the quiet, serious looking colored boy excited her. She wondered why. Then she decided that it was because it offered something new, something previously unexperienced during her young life. She laughed and tried to pass the carload of boys. But their driver, a tall, thin, very blonde boy, shot the car ahead, preventing its overtaking.
"Come on, go, go, go, girl," Pixie called out.
"Yeah, make the pass," Margie said.
"But they're supposed to do that," Kay Faubus said.
"They will. If they don't, I'll oblige," Margie answered.
"Be careful," Carla Torro instructed from the rear.
"Of what?" Laura asked, giggling.
"Your driving," Carla shot back at her.
Again, Laura jammed the accelerator low and approached the other car. She nosed at its rear, crept even with the side, then stayed there as the blonde boy reduced his speed, content with the side-by-side movement of the two cars.
"Hey, bet we know where you're going," Margie called to the driver of the other car.
"Do you know what we're going to do when we get there?" the boy called back, lifting his voice so it could be heard above the roar of engines and the whistling wind.
"Yeah, same as us have fun," Margie yelled.
"But we don't mean to wait until we get there, baby," the dark-haired boy next to the driver shouted to Margie. He raised a bottle high in the air, then drank from it.
"Hey, give us some of that," Kay Faubus shouted from the rear, rising and holding her hand out to the open window across from her.
"Naw, you're just kids," the boy replied.
"Huh. And what are you?" Carla Torro said snippily.
"Men, chick, real men. Experienced, handsome, everything you want," the boy laughed back at her.
"And not a bit of conceit either," Margie chimed in.
"None whatsoever," the boy answered.
Laura shot another quick look at the colored boy; then she called to the blonde driver, "What's the matter with your friend back there?"
The boy cocked his head toward the colored boy, then said, "Ah, Reb's worried."
"About what?" Laura shouted.
"About the South the cotton-pickin' South. He's never been there. He figures before we leave he'll be facing an impartial jury of white gentlemen for something or other."
The girls laughed. They screamed. They giggled. And they made the most of every opportunity to expose their bodies to the boys' view to the driver, the dark, crew-cut boy next to him, to the long-haired boy who sat in the back with Reb, the Negro. And all the boys except Reb reacted with whistles, shouts, remarks, and a great deal of noise.
"Come on, share the booze," Margie shouted, reaching her hand out as Kay Faubus had done.
"Well, all right," the boy decided. "But save us a snort." He handed the bottle to Margie.
Laura put her hand out and said, "The chauffeur first, please."
Margie made a face but handed her friend the bottle. Laura steadied the car with one hand, keeping it alongside the other, then glanced at the colored boy in the back seat before she lifted the bottle and swallowed some of the amber liquid. When she brought the bottle down, she shuddered and again glanced to the back seat of the other car. Reb was looking at her, but not smiling, not indicating in any manner that he observed anything more than a girl driving a car.
Laura handed the bottle to Margie, who swigged from it, then passed it to the girls behind her. When Carla, Pixie, and Kay had each taken some of the liquor, Margie retrieved the bottle and reached it out to the boy who extended his hand from the other car.
"Hey, we're stopping for a swim; how about joining us?" the blonde driver said.
"A swim?" Margie inquired, arching her eyebrows and saying it in a way that indicated surprise and consideration.
"That's what the ocean's for, chick," the boy replied.
"I'm all for it," Laura said, shooting a new look at Reb.
The other boys shouted. The girls joined their calls, waving and hollering enthusiastically.
"Follow me," the driver of the boys' car called out.
He zoomed ahead and Laura brought her car directly behind, following at a safe and conservative distance now that arrangements had been made. And as she moved the car along the highway, she felt the stir of some new, unknown quality of herself, some gathering of excitement within her body as if it prepared for some frantic unleashing, something she had never before known, something that would act as a thrilling predecessor to the vacation that awaited her. She glanced at Margie Winters next to her and saw that she, too, seemed to glow with something new, something even more anticipatory than the mere informality of arranging a date with strangers. Then Laura glanced to the rear of the car and saw that Kay was smiling in a secretive way, that Pixie was adjusting her bodice to more fully reveal her breasts, and that Carla Torro was primping before a hand mirror, making her appearance efficient, bringing the customary order to herself that at times was her passion.
Laura screeched the tires as she turned off the pavement and down a side road, still following the car ahead of her. When the dust of the side road cleared from their fast entrance, the ocean loomed up at them like a series of giant tongues lapping at the shore. And they felt its spray and the breeze that swept over it and the heat of the golden beach.
The black hardtop filled with college boys jerked to a stop within the harbor of a group of tall palm trees. Laura braked her convertible behind it. She sighed and lessened her tight hold on the steering wheel. Then she sighed again, quite erotically, as the boys leaped out of the car.
The blonde driver of the car was the tallest. He looked like an. athlete. So did the others a lanky lad with dark hair and a perpetual grin, a shorter, stockier-built boy whose hair was also dark but was worn long, and the boy, Reb, a Negro with a scowl, one that entranced Laura.
"Let's not be coy, girls," Margie Winters said. She leaped over the door of the car and stepped forward to greet the four approaching boys.
"My, she's so bold," Pixie said, giggling. Then she, too, leaped out of the car and took her place next to Margie.
Laura, smiling, waited. In a moment, accompanied by Margie and Pixie, the boys approached the car.
Introductions were made. They were informal, but provided insight to each of the boys. There was Reb, shy and fearful-appearing, a football player with All-American capabilities, northern born, in the South only because of the persuasion of his friends. And there was Tom, the dark, short, stocky one, jovial, given to pleasures, it was very evident, and Bob, tall, blonde, owner of the car, a look in his eyes that suggested something different. There was also Larry tall, well built, athletically inclined and with a leer on his face that whispered of obscenities.
Laura and the other girls acknowledged all the introductions, trading their own names, backgrounds, college, and plans for Fort Bixdale. Laura glanced often at Reb, who continued to scowl. His dark looks and strong body intrigued her, caused her to know shivers and a quivering at her thighs. Quickly, she glanced at the other boys and found that she felt a reaction to them, but one that was less than that which she felt for the hard-looking Negro.
Margie, who seemed especially interested in the blonde boy, stood very close to him and finally said, "Well, now that we're old friends, how about more of the booze?"
The bottle was handed around again and again until finally it was empty. Blond Bob sailed it through the air to alight behind bushes.
Laura glanced at her friends. Margie's interest was obviously Bob. Pixie seemed to shine toward Tom. Her eyes kept sweeping his short, but solidly built body; and Kay Faubus kept darting her dark eyes toward Larry, looking at him, then looking away, swishing her waist-long hair from side to side as a means of drawing his attention to her. Only Carla seemed without direction toward the boys. She seemed indifferent to them all, as indifferent as Reb was to Laura. Laura, observing this, thought what a shame it was that the meeting of the two cars provided an uneven number of dates, that one girl was left over. She looked around, then decided that it would not be herself who was without a man. She moved close to Reb, raised her hand and tucked it beneath the muscles of his forearm.
"I thought we said something about a swim," she said.
"Yeah," Larry replied. "And right now, chick. Okay?"
"Okay," Laura answered as Margie and Pixie squealed their approval.
Tom stepped forward, then turned and faced all the others. He grinned as he stripped his sport shirt from his body. Then, when all eyes were upon him, he loosened his belt and paused.
"Ready, set, go," he said. "Here's a preview of Fort Bixdale good old Bixdale, Sexdale, yeah, yeah, yeah!" He kicked off his loafers and sweat sox, then dropped his trousers. Then he yanked his shorts from his body and stood before them, nude and immensely masculine.
"Wheeeeeeee," cried Pixie. "Are you ever uninhibited."
"Yeah, that's my middle name," he said.
"And so am I," Margie Winters said, stepping forward. She looked at all of them a moment, then quickly discharged all of her clothing until she, too, was nude.
The boys looked at her in wonder, taking great delight in her small waist, her small but firm breasts which thrust outward, and the tightness of her thighs.
Pixie was the next to hurry out of her brief clothes. When she was nude, she straightened as the others cheered, whistled and shouted wild remarks. Then the others bent to the joyous labor of getting out of their clothes.
Laura took her time, anxious for Reb to approve of her body when it was nude and presented to him. As soon as she removed her last garment, she straightened and looked at him. He was still fully clothed, but his hot eyes were upon her body, searching through her bareness for those parts which most delighted him. There were many large breasts, flaring hips, a small, flat belly, and thighs that looked anxious and wanton.
"To the beach, gang," shouted Bob.
The others dashed past Laura, leaving her alone with Reb. She watched, smiling, as the bare bodies bounded toward the ocean. And her smile grew wider when she saw that dark Carla Torro was also nude, and that even in nudity she looked smooth and efficient and all in place.
Laura walked over to Reb. "What's the matter, big boy, aren't you for swimming?"
"I'm for swimming," he said, looking into her eyes.
"Well?" She nodded to his clothed body.
"Maybe I'm just not ready for this yet," he said.
"But why not? Why would you go to Fort Bixdale if you weren't ready for well, for fun sex everything?"
"The guys talked me into it," Reb answered.
Laura took a step closer and took his arm again, making sure that the crush of her breast caressed it. "Come on, Reb. Don't be a prude."
"I'm not," he said.
"Well, come on then, give," she said, snuggling her breast tighter against his arm. She felt his body tense, felt her own quiver excitedly. Then she glanced downward and saw that she had produced the reaction in Reb that she wanted, the reaction that every woman wanted.
But Reb seemed to pull away from her nakedness as he said, "I'll walk you to the beach, Laura. That's all I'll do right now." He paused, looked at her, then said, "You see, little girl, you don't know about me. I've been off this kick for quite a while. I've got my reasons. And besides, the way I am well, once I started again, hell, then there just ain't no stopping for me."
"Sounds great," she said boldly.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
He took her arm and led her toward the beach, where the others were already bounding into the surf.
Laura and Reb paused at the edge of the ocean. Before them, naked bodies, male and female, splashed and frolicked in the water, jumping and diving into waves, submerging, then bobbing up above the surface again. There was a frantic tangle of bodies as the girls and boys came together often, as boys dived beneath the surface, swam between the bare legs of girls, then rose with the tittering girls on their shoulders. There were a few embraces of separate couples, too; Margie Winters had emerged from the water suddenly, found herself in front of Bob. They embraced, kissed passionately, brought exploring hands to each other's body, moved those hands above and beneath the water where they stood waist deep. And the stockily built Tom was receiving hot attentions from both Pixie and Kay while his friend, Larry, looked on, a cheated expression upon his face. Kay had her arms around Tom's neck. She was kissing him in a way that suggested great passion as she moved her head from side to side, giving, it seemed, the gift of her tongue as it wandered within the boy's mouth. Pixie, behind Tom, had her arms about his waist, but her hands had disappeared beneath the water. Her face was close, however, as she nibbled at his ear.
Laura looked at the girls, smiled at their lively activities, then wondered how Carla managed to remain remote as she merely swam at a distance, away from the others, even away from the boy Larry, who was without a partner.
"They're having fun," Reb said suddenly. "You better go ahead and get in the water."
"Won't you?" she asked Reb.
"Not now. Nothing for me now," he said.
Slowly, a burn swept Laura's body. She felt rejected. She felt undesirable and rebuked, felt all these things that she had never been made to feel before. And it seemed incredible that a boy especially such a boy as Reb should not hasten to accept her sexual invitation.
Laura's eyes narrowed as she looked into Reb's face. Then she quickly turned from the sight of him and rushed into the water, splashing wildly, making great leaps, and finally diving headlong into a roller as it crashed toward shore.
When Laura surfaced, she joined the others and entered into their wild play, entered into it and led it, for it seemed of the utmost importance that she excel, that she be more dynamic and desirable than her friends. But even as her bare body crashed against boys, as it burrowed and teased and promised of itself, she thought of the colored boy on the shore and felt again the resentment of rejection.
"Hey, what's with you anyway?" Bob asked, coming up behind Laura and winding his arms around her waist.
"Fun that's what's with me," she laughed. She clutched his hands, then moved them up and over her breasts.
"You go through the actions but don't look the part," Bob said. "What's the matter; did good old Reb jilt you?"
Laura did hot answer for a moment. She pressured Bob's hands tighter against her and adjusted her body so that she could feel the hard stab of his masculinity behind her. It reassured her, made her feel good.
Finally, she twisted her head so that her face was close to Bob's neck. Then she asked, "What is Reb's problem? It must be a big one."
Bob laughed, then said, "That's one way of putting it."
She lowered one hand beneath the water and grasped him. "Aw, he can't be any more than you are."
Bob reacted by thrusting himself harder against her hold and catching her ear in his mouth.
"Is Reb queer or something?" she asked. "Is that what bugs him?"
After nuzzling her ear for another few moments, Bob pulled back and said, "Hell, no. Guess you could say that Reb's problem is just the opposite. He can't keep off women. You see, the old boy went through a rape charge a little while ago."
"Rape!" Laura exclaimed, pulling away, turning and looking into Bob's face.
"Yeah. That and a little more, too. He well, guess he had his reasons, but Reb was pretty rough on the girl damaged her badly almost beyond repair."
"Really?" Laura felt a strange sensation sweep her, tickle at her thighs and pressure her nipples to greater tautness.
"Yeah. So, old Reb, after the judge put him on probation, went sour on chicks. He's off them, he says. Guess he figures he's like a dope addict once on the stuff he can't stop, so he's not taking a chance."
Laura turned and glanced to the shore. She saw that Reb was sitting on the beach, his back braced against a small sand dune. She wondered how difficult it really was for him. She wondered how good his self-discipline was. She thought about the varied naked girls' bodies Reb was viewing and wondered how he could stand it. She thought that if she were a boy she could not endure it. And as she looked at him, she felt the heat of desire gnaw at her thighs, and she knew that she had to have the tall colored boy, that she would have him, that it seemed predestined that it should be her own body that would end his abstinence.
Slowly, Laura walked through the water, away from the others and to the shore. She straightened, and with the water glistening on her naked body, she had a feeling of great boldness, the greatest she had ever known. She knew that it was because she wished to entice Reb, make him want her, brutalize her, even, but take her as he had savagely taken some unknown girl. She wondered why it did not frighten her, why it was that she felt attracted to this deviational thrill. Then she smiled as she considered that she really didn't care about the cause, that she was much more interested in the results that would be brought to bear upon her sexuality.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kay Faubus felt a little guilty for having slipped away from her friends so soon after their arrival at Fort Bixdale. But then she considered the reason and knew that it was right. She had to find out for herself what it was that seemed to prevent her from cohabiting with a boy, one who was attractive and of her own age. Kay had to make some discoveries about herself. She had to.
Fort Bixdale had proved to be all that the girls had anticipated. The streets and beaches and shops were packed with people, all young people, college students on vacation, adventuring forth to meet new people, enjoy new experiences, and, like Kay, discover things about themselves.
Kay considered that she might have a genuine problem that just the mere absence of her Uncle Jason did not solve. She thought of it first when she and the others had met the boys on the road to Fort Bixdale and stopped for a swim and the capers that developed. It was then that she knew something was wrong. Although she smiled and played with the others while naked, she later found that she was incapable of forming a sexual union with a boy. Two had tried that day. She had rejected both of them, had led each to the brink of desperation by her playing, and had then turned them down. So she had left the others and walked and sat alone on the beach, watching the others in all kinds of sex play and interludes. And while she had watched, Kay had felt deep regret that it was not herself churning with one
or all of the boys. But she had come close. For a while, it seemed that she could enter a sexual adventure with a stranger without the slightest hesitation. She had even bounded naked in the surf with the others, had even bestowed passionate kisses to each of the boys, had, to two of them, pleased them with the wanderings of her hands, the manipulations of her fingers thrashing beneath the surface of the water. But then it had gotten serious. Suddenly, upon Laura's command, Kay was called upon to make ready to wrestle to the sand with one of the boys. Then she stopped. Then she could go no further. Then she could only sit on the beach and watch. And wonder. About herself, about whether her incestuous life with her uncle had somehow invalidated her as a normal subject for a normal boy. And it was then that Kay decided that as soon as possible she would seek aloneness in Fort Bixdale, wander the streets, and finally determine for herself what it was that cheated her of love
of sex of the great, great pleasure of a thirsting boy. Kay left the motel where her friends were resting.
She had used the pretense of some shopping errands. But as soon as she was free of the motel, she had hailed a cab, entered it, then left it after being delivered to the beach section of the city, the place that was already jammed with youthful bodies.
Kay pushed with hundreds of others along the sidewalks. like the others, she was dressed in semi-nakedness. She wore a peasant blouse tight shorts and sandals. Her body showed sensually from the brief garments. And her long hair swished at her waist in a tempting call of adventure to every boy she passed. Many of the stranger-boys commented as they passed her. Some were bolder.
"Yeah there chickie," a tall boy dressed only in bermudas called out as he approached her.
Kay smiled.
The boy stopped directly in front of her, barring her from passing him even as the others hurried in various directions all around them.
"Man that's hair," the boy said.
Kay smiled wider.
The boy raised both his hands and wound his fingers into the thickness of her dark hair. He caressed some of the strands, then gripped it tightly as he forced her head back so that she had to look into his eyes.
"Baby, your hair's for dragging," he said.
"Dragging?" Kay asked.
"Yeah, like across the beach to my cave."
"Oh, you have a cave," she said, brightening, or pretending to, thereby entering the game she had determined to play, the game of easy accessibility of herself to any and all who wanted her.
"Yeahhhhhh," the boy whispered. "It's lined with leopard skins and all sorts of goodies."
"Goodies?"
"Sure sex goodies. Things to make you happy, friends to make you holler and laugh."
"Sounds ominous," Kay said, pretending to frown.
"Wantta see for yourself?" the boy asked.
Kay hesitated. She was a little tempted. But then she told herself that it was much too soon in her adventures alone to decide upon a subject who might be the one to bring her the answers she sought. This boy hardly seemed the type. She would wait and wander.
"Not just now," she said. "Maybe later. All right?"
"Naw, it's not all right, but I'm not the type to pressure. I'm a peace-lover, spelled either way, a flower-boy too, and I sure don't pressure. Besides, you'll probably come to my cave all on your own."
"Probably," she laughed.
"But before you go before we part, sweetie," the boy said. Then, even as Kay felt the crush of strangers passing them in the middle of the street, the boy brought his mouth upon hers, swooped his tongue in a blazing dart between her lips.
Kay matched his aggressiveness. She caught his tongue with her lips and sucked thirstily, remembering how this had always been a part of love-play between her uncle and herself. She clung passionately to the boy. She released her hold upon his tongue and pressured her own into his mouth, wiggling it there in a gay, light frolic that was a foreigner to her feelings. Finally, the boy took her offering. He thirsted upon it, moaning and thrusting his thighs tightly to Kay. She felt the crush of him and loved it. Somehow, it seemed more inspired by herself than when she noticed the same reaction in her Uncle Jason. And when the boy's right hand shot from her shoulder to her buttocks, where it pinched, she returned the touch, crumbling her hand between their bodies and making an erotic grasp.
The scene was in full view of thousands. It was not unlike similar scenes played to the public at scores of areas throughout Fort Bixdale. But it was a short scene, a casual scene, one to leave quickly behind.
"Ummmmmm, for Crissakes, what are you made of?" the boy exclaimed, pulling away.
Kay laughed, told him he would never know, then shouted a good-bye and hurried out of reach of the boy's outstretched hands.
Before Kay had walked another dozen paces, she was interrupted by a new boy older and more serious looking, but just as passionate in his approach.
"Girlie, I've been looking for the-likes of you all my life," he said.
He extended his arms out so Kay could not step off the curb and cross the street.
There were laughs all around her. Other girls were being detained by other boys. And there were many embraces among strangers. The Mardi Gras spirit of Fort Bixdale prevailed, encouraged even the most outrageous intimacies in plain view of hundreds of strange eyes.
"Come on, girlie," the boy said. "Don't go any farther. You've found your man your one and only your big, handsome brute who will deliver you of evil and replace it with thrill with . "
"Thanks loads," Kay laughed. "But all I really want to do is cross the street."
"You cannot pass," he said dramatically. "Not without a touch a caress some little thing to remember you by."
The boy opened his arms and Kay, with a little laugh, went within the wide fold and lifted her face for his kiss.
The kiss was bestowed. So were two hands made to contact her breasts. They kneaded as he kissed her, moved in a motion that was meant, Kay was sure, to create passion within her. And it did, too. But not enough for her to pause here and decide upon a sex subject with whom she could investigate her own sexuality, its normalcy or the abnormality of it.
Kay pulled her mouth away from the boy and stepped out of his embrace.
Kay continued to jostle through, and with, the crowds. She walked down the narrow streets of the small southern town which each year during spring vacation was taken over, tormented, and extra-economized by college students. And as she looked at all those boys and girls who were together, even those who met suddenly for the first time, then hurried off together, obviously bent upon exploring their new relationship, verbally first, then sexually, Kay thought how alike they all were, and how different she was, not by appearance, but by her history and the strange things that boiled within her.
Kay moved with a small crowd of young people which departed the streets and headed for the beach. In the distance there was another crowd, circled and intent upon three men who were on a platform in the center, obviously performing an act of some kind for the others. It was toward this entertainment that Kay moved.
When she stopped at the outer rim of the circle, Kay gave her attention to the entertainers. There were three of them: two boys of college age and an older man who wore the tattered clothes of a beachcomber. The older man pounded sensually on a bongo drum. The two college-age boys strummed guitars. From time to time, one of them would burst into a weird chant. The boys were both handsome. But it was the older man to whom Kay's attention was drawn her attention and her interest for upon the first sight of him she felt a growling rumble of sexuality come to her loins, ignite there, then flame to her breasts, her neck, even, she did not doubt, to her face. Kay knew that her rather casual search along the byways of Fort Bixdale had ended. She knew, just as sure as she knew that she was standing there, that it was this man who was somehow destined to become her guide toward normal sexual outlets.
The man's dark eyes pierced at her as he pounded the jungle drum. He was bearded, and because his bristles were spotted with gray, his dark brown eyes appeared darker and more piercing, hot, and constantly anxious. But his eyes did not dart over her body as Kay expected they would. Instead, they held steadily to her own eyes, straying only to implore at her long, waist-low hair. And the way he looked at her hair and into her eyes made Kay wonder if her large, beautifully proportioned body was in some way lacking. But she knew that it was not; she knew that it conveyed sexuality, gross and hot and adventuresome.
The trio thumped their way to the end of a number. The middle-aged man who squatted around the jungle drum beat upon it madly and lifted his head in a chanting, screaming torment of some strange song that Kay knew was not of this land, perhaps not of any land that was known.
The song ended with a machine-gun tattoo upon the drum. Silence came when the man slumped his head far forward, resting, his shoulders exerting from his heavy breathing and the exertion he had expended upon the drum.
Screams and yells and applause broke out, grew, went crazy, and finally subsided.
Kay stared at the figure of the man, at his soiled and rumpled clothing, his bare chest that showed all his ribs as it was exposed from the open white shirt he wore. She looked at his dirty, bare feet, at his long, never-cut, matted hair. She thought of the contrast he made to the others, really, to all of them, yet it was a contrast that did not deny him youth, for there was something about him that, to Kay at least, seemed eternally youthful. And virile and curious and knowledgeable.
The man raised his head. His eyes still bore into Kay's.
The crowd cheered and called for more entertainment. The two college boys obliged. Then began an enchanting tone, caressing the strings of their guitars as women were meant to be caressed. But the older man did not join them. He stood up, then walked to the edge of the platform, which was on a direct line with where Kay stood. He smiled thinly, then leaped off the platform and began pushing his way through the crowd in Kay's direction.
Kay felt like running, both away from this strange man, and toward him. She did neither. She remained standing where she was, watching him as he threaded his way through dozens of young bodies in order to reach her.
At last he was before her. His smile widened. Kay looked into his eyes.
"You're looking for me, aren't you?" the man asked. His voice was deep, as if it had been nurtured in the bottom of the sea.
"Yes," Kay answered, astonished that this word had come from her when she had intended another.
A long, eerie howl of laughter issued from the man's lips. When he quieted, he said, "I thought so. I can always tell."
"Tell what?" she asked. "That you were looking for me. Tell me, who referred you to me."
"No one."
"Really?"
"No, I just came to hear your songs the music and . "
"Well, I'll be damned," he said, obviously pleased. "A case of pure rapport, I guess."
"Perhaps," she answered. Although her body trembled, her voice was calm.
He smiled slightly, then started to push past her, saying, very simply, very confidently, "Follow me."
Kay followed him, through a new crowd that had gathered behind them, over the smooth sand of the beach, along the ocean, and finally up from the beach and through a tangle of brush and bushes that at places was as thick as a jungle. And Kay, feeling inferior, feeling as if she were a commoner betrothed to a prince, followed the strange, dirty man at a respectful few paces.
Soon, the man paused and waited for Kay to come even with him. When she did, he parted a great tangle of vines that wound together in the center of a mass of trees which were bunched together. The man nodded, indicating that Kay should step through the clearing he had made.
She did. Then she paused and looked ahead at the small beach cottage that snuggled in the center of several high sand dunes. It looked as if it belonged to a South Sea Island setting. It looked hidden and protected from all the world.
The man let the vines snap back into place. Then he moved to Kay's side.
"Come," he said, his voice suddenly gentle. "This is my studio. You'll like it, I'm sure."
He touched lightly at her forearm. The touch was not sensual, not even intimate. It was offered merely as a guide.
Kay and the man walked to the beach cottage. At the front door, which was set back from a long, broken porch, the man stood aside and waited for Kay to enter. She stepped through the open doorway.
It was very dark inside, and Kay wondered how it could be this way. Outside, the sun blazed. Then she knew that her eyes needed a moment in order to adjust to the interior, which was shielded from outside light by buckled shutters.
"Here, I'll give us some light," the man said, as if he anticipated how she felt.
He walked across the floor, then threw open a wide pair of shutters. A broken stream of sun rays entered the room.
Kay looked around. Immediately, she was both enthralled and fearsome of the interior of the odd beach cottage. Odd-sized paintings were jammed into the room, mixing the oily substance of the paint with the new light, casting a multicolored array of shades before her eyes. Some of the paintings she could not understand. Others were all too evident of that which they were meant to depict. These factual paintings were those of men and women, girls and boys even some of same-sex lovers all involved in the most detailed sexual encounters imaginable. And the splashes of color that the artist had used to express the sexual attitudes that had been attained, pinpointed the grossness of the sex acts that were expressed.
"Do you like them?" the man asked, nodding from Kay to the paintings.
"Did you paint them?" she asked. "Of course," he answered. "Then you're an artist."
"No, a beachcomber."
"You're not," she said. "You couldn't possibly be that."
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because of this and because of the way you played the bongo drums all that well, it's not representative of the life of a ass."
"Beachcombers aren't bums," he corrected. "But never mind; it's not important. For your purposes, you can consider me a sexologist, which I also am."
"Sexologist?"
"Yes. I make most of my living this way, that is, when I accept fees. That's why I asked who referred you to me. Most of my patients only come by referral."
"Patients?"
"Yes, child," he said softly. "Patients like you."
"But I'm not . "
"You are. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here wouldn't have sought me out as you did, then followed me here."
"Oh."
He laughed, then said, "Oh that seems always to be the expression young people use when confronted with something they don't fully understand."
"Oh," she said again before she could catch herself.
The man laughed harder, and in a moment, Kay joined him, laughed hard, harder than called for because it gave her pleasure to join with this odd man in some united expression of feeling.
When they both quieted, the man said, "Well, let us get on with our business. What is your particular problem?"
Kay started to say that she had none, that she didn't know what he was talking about, that he was presuming in an area where presumptuousness was especially rude. But she caught herself before she uttered a word. The man's voice had been so soft, so calm and unselfconscious, that she felt confident and hopeful, much as if she were indeed before a doctor awaiting his diagnosis.
"Well?" the man questioned.
Kay looked around, then said, "May I sit down."
"Of course. Any place will do."
Kay could see no chair, so she settled on the floor upon a straw mat that was bunched together as if it were intended as a cushion. She was very aware of her body as she seated herself. She knew that her breasts pressured against the thin material of her blouse and that her nipples pointed outward, demanding attention to them. And she knew that her bare legs, cuddled beneath her hips, caused her buttocks to be sharply evident as they pushed against her tight shorts, making her look wanton and tempting. But most of all, Kay realized the asset of her long black hair, for it was this that she remembered the man had stared at, had actually fondled with his eyes. She could not help but make the most of it. A quick turn of her head provided the effect she wanted. Her hair floated over one shoulder and trailed across one breast and into her lap. Her body looked split diagonally with black.
The man looked at her, smiled as his eyes seemed to investigate each strand of her hair. Then he said, "Now that you're comfortable, tell me about your problem."
"I don't think I really have one," Kay answered quickly.
"Of course you do," he said. "If you didn't, you wouldn't have been directed to me."
"But I wasn't . "
"You were," he interrupted. "You were motivated to me by your innermost feelings and impulses. Many of my patients come to me this way by instinct, or perception, or whatever you may wish to call it. But, about you, you're seventeen, I judge, beautiful, I know, and I imagine you've come to Fort Bixdale for a sexual fling either one that is meant to free you from inhibitions, or a fling that will free you from something else perhaps the habit of a sex life you cannot kick."
Kay nearly gasped. The man's words seemed so much the very ones she wished to express that she was sure he was psychic, could read her mind and compound her problems.
The man nodded, much as if she had concurred with his dialogue. Then he said, "You are also a very wealthy girl extremely wealthy, not in your own right but through the fortune of your parents or guardians."
"I live with my uncle," Kay said, much as if it would explain many things.
"Ah, yes, a most attentive uncle, I presume."
"How did you know?"
"I just know," he laughed. "I know most things, but about one as lovely as you I know more than is ordinarily my right."
Kay picked up the end strands of her hair and began fingering them nervously, rolling them together in a tight knot, then unbraiding the strands, then braiding them together again.
"Who are you anyway?" Kay asked.
"My name is Adam, and I am all things, artist, doctor, sexologist but most importantly I am a beachcomber. A happy one, one whose avocation is resolving the problems of beauties such as you."
"But I , " Kay started again.
"Don't tell me, lovely one," the man interrupted. "Just be still and listen. And watch. And feel."
He walked across the room and disappeared behind a bar arrangement which separated the one room from what appeared to be the kitchen. Kay heard the jingle of glass upon glass and guessed that her host was making a drink, one which, she was sure, was meant to reduce any resistance she might feel toward his advances. She thought about resistance and realized that she never truly had it, that she instead always reached a certain point of unity with a boy, then stopped, not necessarily rejecting him, just taking herself out of the sexual picture. And within her, Kay knew that the reason was her uncle, his early introduction of strange and deviate sex to her life. And it was for this that she had contrived to vacation at Fort Bixdale. It was even this and her desire to test herself with others that placed her in the dirty quarters of a most unusual man.
Adam returned to Kay. He did not carry the glasses she expected. But he did carry a vegetable of some kind that looked very much like a stalk of celery, except that it was bright orange and the leaves were brown, not green.
"Here," Adam said, extending the stalk toward Kay. "Take some of this native fruit. It'll help you better express yourself."
Kay took the fruit from Adam as he moved near her, then settled cross-legged directly opposite her.
"Go ahead, eat take it, don't be shy," he encouraged.
"Aren't you having any?" Kay asked. "No. I've had my daily quota."
Kay took a small bite from the end of the stalk. It was bitter, but quite pleasant, she decided. It was not chewy like celery; instead it nearly dissolved in her mouth. She took another bite and swallowed the substance. Then she placed the stalk next to her on the dirty floor, unaware that she had done so, not mindful of dirt or of anything except the strange feeling that crept throughout her body, one of shouting desire, hot and anxious yearning for sex with the man, Adam, with him, with anyone or everyone.
"There, feel better now?" Adam asked.
"I feel giddy," she confided with a little laugh.
He leaned forward and peered into her eyes as if he were a hypnotist and she was his subject.
"Now listen to me carefully, lovely one," the man said. "You are young, and I know that you've already suffered many sexual experiences some good, perhaps, but many, many of them bad. Regardless, I'm here to help you with your problem."
"I want your help," she said. Her voice droned. Her eyes had glazed. She appeared trance-like, yet felt deeply cognizant of everything that occurred.
Adam extended his hand and lifted the ends of her long hair. He, as she had done earlier, twirled them between his thumb and forefinger.
"Why are you doing that?" Kay asked.
"Because I want to. Anything that's sexual should be done merely because one wants to do it, do you understand?"
"You sound like my psychology professor," she said, giggling a bit.
"I'm that, too," he answered soberly. "But for the moment, let's just say that I'm your new lover."
"My new lover," Kay repeated. "Yes. That sounds very good."
"It is very good," he said, leaning still closer, so close that his face was only inches from the peak her blouse made at the bodice.
Kay expected Adam to kiss her. Then, when he did not, she expected him to grasp her breasts, perhaps even sneak his hands inside her blouse to feel of her flesh, to caress it, to, she thought hopefully, play with her nipples the same way that he caressed at the ends of her flowing black hair.
Adam made no such move. He even gave up his grasp upon her hair. But his eyes remained intent upon her as if he were exerting some hypnotic power.
"Undress, lovely one," he soon said in a soft voice. "Discard those foul garments that keep the delight of your body from me."
Kay obeyed, still wondering if she had been hypnotized, or if not, perhaps brought to some feeling of enchantment by the strange fruit she had taken. But she did not care. She was conscious of undressing, but was happy to consider herself under a spell. It seemed to help her hurried journey to nudity.
Completely nude, Kay faced Adam. She felt lazy and happy and also very anxious that her bare body should meet with Adam's approval. It did.
"You are divine," he said. "Utterly divine, and of such a nature, I can well tell, that your loveliness can be cause for upset and unhappiness, the demon that will one day crown you, or destroy you."
The words made little sense to Kay. They were a part of Adam's purring speech, his sound of authority, and, strangely, the confidence in him that so quickly became a part of her.
"Come here, my dear," Adam said, still looking into Kay's eyes., She moved toward him. Her body undulated, the breasts swaying a bit, the hips in perfect rhythm with the rest of her.
When she stopped in front of Adam, he reached out, by-passed her body and again touched at her hair, touched it lovingly. Then he brought both hands around her and lifted all of her hair over her shoulders to hang down either side of her neck. He stepped back and looked at her. Then he placed the hair ends in odd designs around and over parts of her breasts. Again, he stepped back and viewed the effect he had created, and he was like an artist viewing the painting of a new subject.
Soon, he seemed satisfied with the designs he had created with Kay's hair upon her nude body. Then he gently led her to one of the mats and urged her to settle there. Again she complied with his wish.
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked when Adam seated himself cross-legged next to her.
"Not with you, sweet child," Adam replied. "For you what am I going to do for you is the way you should pose the question."
"All right," she answered dreamily. "What are you going to do for me?"
"Teach you the first requirement of sexual enjoyment."
She cocked her head slightly on the side.
"The first principle of a love act is that it should be enjoyed. I'm going to make love to you a different kind of love and I want you to enjoy it. Should you, part of your battle for responsiveness will be over."
These words, too, seemed strange and remote to Kay, but she knew that she could never do anything except what this unique beachcomber wanted.
"Come, stretch close to me," Adam instructed.
Kay moved to enter his arms, but he directed her to a lying position next to him. First, he looked at the long, well-built length of her. Then, like a musician an organist, perhaps he stretched his hands out over her and ran all ten fingers up and down her body.
Kay closed her eyes. She concentrated on the feeling. She liked it, for it made her wish for more. Soon, Adam obliged that feeling.
Slowly, and moving carefully, he hunched over her body. He kissed her throat, each ear, and her throat again as Kay wondered why he did not crush upon her mouth. But then she ceased to wonder at this, for he lowered the point of his caresses and kissed each of her breasts, dotting each of them exactly in the middle of her nipples and pushing them inward. Now, she was oblivious and without mental instructions for her lover. Now she concentrated upon enjoyment as Adam had advised. And she felt great sensations as Adam began a side-to-side sweep of her body with his tongue.
He worked delicately and expertly. And he moved constantly downward.
When Adam reached Kay's belly, she moaned and raised her thighs in a quick, lurching motion. Adam, still kissing at her belly, hooked his hand beneath her risen thighs and held them upright until Kay planted her feet in a propped position. At last he dived deeper and buried his mouth between her thighs.
"OH!" Kay cried, then moaned the same word in a longer, softer key.
Adam crept a hand forward to aid his oral quest. He touched her, found the line of her, made a separation, then spread her in order to know a greater smoothness of her body. Here, he ran up and down the length of her, giving of his tongue in hot slaps, in loving titillation, until soon he rose high and found his high-humped goal. And it was here that he gave his most ardent attention. He kissed and chattered and spanked her hard with his tongue, whisking it back and forth, up and down, in a tiny circle that did not, even for an instant, lose its delicate contact.
Kay felt a sweep of passion that blinded her mind to all things except the moving, working, very intense Adam. And soon the sensations grew even more intense. His tongue became more incessant his fingers upon her more spreading and the hump of her was made to rise even more. And its rise seemed to envelop her, seemed to become a giant balloon that contained all of her past and all of her future. Her body strained mightily. Her hands grasped Adam's head and pressured him closer. She gasped and sighed and emitted sounds of delight and shock at the sensations that coursed over her body. And at last it ballooned higher and higher until nothing was left but her own unleashing, bursting, the splitting through the balloon that enveloped her to give her freedom.
A scream issued from her throat. It was both terrifying and peaceful. It was of such impact that her thighs wound around Adam's neck and squeezed tight as the lurching motion of her body continued.
Kay rested for a long time. Then she left Adam's dwelling as she had come to it. And though the stranger was not a peer, although he was even one reminiscent of her uncle, Kay knew that she had undergone a change, that part of her quest had been achieved.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Hey, come back here, damn it," a tall, strongly built boy called after Carla Torro.
"I will in a few minutes," she called over her shoulder as she dashed out of the ocean and onto the beach.
Carla turned and waved to the boy who had frolicked with her in the ocean frolicked and expected stimulation's sexual rewards.
The boy waved back to Carla. So did the others; many strange people, both girls and boys, she had met only that same morning.
Carla waited until the boy she had been with turned, centered his attention upon a golden brown, nearly nude, blonde girl, and finally leaped over a roller and caught the girl to him as a new wave swept over them.
Then Carla turned and hurried away from the ocean. She was indifferent to her direction just so long as she found a place to be alone. Aloneness was necessary for what she intended.
As she ran, then slowed and finally walked in a quick, long pace over the smooth sand, Carla became even more conscious of the titillating feeling of her body. Clad in a wild, dipping bikini, she was more audaciously exposed than if she had been completely nude. Her bra top was sopping wet and hung low, covering only half of her breasts, leaving much flesh and her hard pointed nipples to wave in and out of view as she moved. And the bottom of the bikini looked as if it might depart her body at any time. It dipped sinfully low beneath her navel. Tied only at the sides by little bows, only a mere thread of material rested at her hips, hinting that a pluck of fingers would separate it from her body. And all of her body swayed and moved, wiggled a bit, shouting sensuality with every step she took.
When Carla had walked far enough on the beach that the figures of her companions were indistinguishable were merely bobbing heads and moving bodies in the water she moved up the beach to where a wooded section began. She paused and looked around, wondering for a moment about Pixie and Margie, about Laura and Kay, curious about what they were doing, with whom they cavorted. Then she turned again and moved within the concealment of the beach foliage.
Her feet dug deeply into the sand. She leaned forward and exerted harder, then headed up a small hill. At the top she paused and looked around again. There was complete solitude except for a rather run-down looking beach house at the bottom of the hill. It looked deserted. It bothered Carla Torro not at all. She descended the sand dune half way, then stopped, content that she had found a place where she could be alone alone with her thoughts, her desires, and the execution of those desires into realization.
Carla patted at her hair. It, like the rest of her, was sopping wet. She patted it into place, straightened her bikini bra a bit and adjusted the sides of the suit. Her motions were practiced and those of an efficient being, one who liked to be in place at all times.
Carla breathed deeply, then sat down. She braced her back against the sand wall of a dune. Then she let her body relax.
She closed her eyes, but when the hot sun insisted upon turning the black of nothingness into red spots, she opened them. She had not closed them for the purpose of sleep anyway, she told herself. Then she asked herself why she continued the fraud of pretending, asked herself, too, why she could not or would not admit that she had come to be alone, not for rest, but for a singular sexual experience. Then she remembered that it had always been this way for her. Since she was a little girl she had pretended that she was really not doing those things to herself that she did. Why not admit it? Carla thought. Why not? After all, she was not the only girl who satisfied her cravings by means of herself, she told herself. Yes. Admit it. That was much healthier than pretending.
For a few minutes Carla thought of her friends, the boys they had already met and their preoccupation with those boys. Then she thought of the boys she had met. There were many. They were all attractive. And all of them were enraptured with her and intent upon their pursuit to know her sexually. Yet, she had not allowed such a taking from any of them. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. And as she thought about it, she felt a certain regret. She wished sometimes that she was like the others. Then she remembered that Kay Faubus had once mentioned that she was different from the others. Kay different? Carla questioned. She smiled, thinking, if Kay only knew who it was that was different. If only Kay knew? She'd be shocked, Carla was sure, shocked to find that her friend, Carla, was different, so different that she allowed boys to pursue her up to a point, then rejected them. Yes, Kay, and Pixie and Laura all of them would be shocked to learn that Carla Torro, already nearly eighteen, had not yet sexually known a boy. They would be shocked to learn that her sexual satisfaction needed no partner none at all only herself.
Carla leaned her head back against the sand wall. Again she closed her eyes. She created an image of the boy with whom she had played in the ocean. She remembered his hot lips burying into her neck as one hand grasped at her breast. He had pinched that breast lovingly, she recalled. And she remembered how it had felt how she had grown a little dizzy when the boy had come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her body and thrust his hips forward. She remembered how the jab of him had felt, how it had seemed so hot and strong and so very, very ready ready for her, for love, for experience. And Carla remembered how she had been daring and bold, how she had reached behind her to grasp him, squeeze him hard, conveying, she was sure, that she shared his mood, that she awaited only the right time and place and would then provide him with the full gift of her body. But then it had happened, Carla recalled. The boy grew more serious. His hands became more intimate. And his touches and kisses had set her aflame, made her ripple with desire. But she had run out of the water and away from the boy, intent upon the satisfaction of her desire, but determined that it would be accomplished without the fuss and bother and mess of a partner.
Carla sighed and opened her eyes. She remained very quiet, as if this alone would subdue the feelings that raged within her. But it did not. It could not.
Carla, very slowly, raised one hand to her breasts. The fingers pretended to adjust at her bra, but they strayed inside and touched at her flesh. Carla's body alerted from the touch alerted as much as if it had been a man who had caressed her. She sat straighter. She did not bring her hand down from her breasts. Then, after a moment, after breathing deeply again, she sneaked the fingers of her hand fully inside her bra top and gripped the full roundness of her flesh. She sighed delightedly and trembled a bit. She closed her hand hard upon herself, then trembled more violently. This was the way it always started, she thought. Always. Ever since she had been a little girl with hardly any breasts at all, ever since her hand had held the mere hint of fullness, had held her cherry sized breasts yet had thrilled at that touch, that slight touch that was to develop into practiced manipulations just as she developed from child to girl to woman.
The sun felt hotter to Carla than at any time she had ever known it. She felt beads of perspiration come to life on her body. And she felt the sudden thrust of her nipple between two fingers as it came to life and responded to the hold she made upon her breast. She sighed again, then pressured those two fingers around her nipple, pinching it lovingly, then gripping it hard and extending it out from her bra top, far out to hold it there a moment before allowing it to draw back to the shelter of her creamy mold. Then she extended her nipple again, further this time, more hurtfully away from her breast. This time she let it snap back. But she allowed it to rest for only a moment before she once more pulled it far out from her body. Now she paused in this position and began a light circling of her nipple, all the time pulling it further and further away from her body, so far away that she could see the picture she made a girl alone, caressing at her own body.
A long breath expelled from Carla, and she allowed the nipple to return once more. Then she became impatient with clothing, even the brief nothingness of her bikini. She dragged the bra top down and let it settle below both her breasts. Now she raised both hands, clutched each of her breasts, kneaded them both for a long time, then gave up that action and began again to spin her nipples, to move them around in a circle that increased in span as she stretched herself harder and harder, ever more elastically away from her body. And then, with a choked cry of passion issuing from her throat to the stillness around her, Carla gave up this action. She leaned back and breathed deeply. Then breathed harder and in shorter jerks that brought an undulation to her stomach. She looked down at the bareness of her stomach and watched the inward-outward movement of her muscles, the way they seemed to pant, much the same as they would, she guessed, if she were actually involved in a sex act with a man. The spasm her body made fascinated her, enthralled her, made her very hot feeling and very excited over this action that was such an individual thing such a singular pleasure.
And her excitement demanded more. Much more.
Carefully, as she watched her stomach move in and out, as she watched her breasts heave high, then fall, then rise again, Carla ran one hand down her body, over both breasts, to her ribs, then to her flat stomach, where it paused. Then it moved again. It traveled lower, then paused again when it reached the beginning of her bikini bottom. For a few moments, she let her hand lie there and rise and fall with her breathing. But this was only teasing, only preparation just a hint of feeling that could become immense, that could break her and sear her and split her beyond belief, beyond, perhaps, even the capacity for feeling for life, for anything except the next moment, the next movement of her fingers that would bring even greater thrill.
Carla tucked the fingers of one hand inside the bottom of her swimsuit. They caught some of the heat of her body and ached to move, but Carla restrained them another moment. Then she let them creep forward, downward, and finally inward and upward again.
She sighed passionately, then sighed again, heavier and more ecstatically as she brought movement to her fingers and to the place where they had rested. And then she moved faster and faster in a small circle that seemed to pinpoint all the sensations that raced through her body; brought them to a raised head of passion that gulped for greater attention. Carla gave it. She moved faster. And then faster still. And then she slowed and paused, allowed her passion to quiet for a moment a brief moment that would increase the new feeling she would bring to herself. Then she moved again. She nearly cried out, for her passions galloped, hurried toward an end she wished to still delay. And then she could no longer control the movements of her body, of her whirling hand, of her hips which thrust and receded, then thrust again, or of the high, tight arch she brought to her body with every thrust of her hips. Her emotions leaped. Her hand blurred. Her breasts trembled and hardened and jumped madly. Her thighs tensed. Heat swamped her. Her eyes narrowed, then began to bulge and ache as the strain of her action and the rising bubble within her neared its end its escape its great and everlasting burst that would bring her peace. She groaned and murmured secret enchantments, some vile, some wild, some beautiful, and all of them uttered as if they came from another world, one without sense, with feelings alone.
Carla made one more attempt to slow her action. She closed her eyes and tried to restrain her spinning hand. But she could not not of her own will hot until she opened her eyes, ready to give herself to the impending explosion of her emotions and saw the figure of the boy standing to one side and looking down upon her.
Fear, shock, shame, all gripped her at the same time. Her hand sprang out of her swimsuit bottom and away from her body. Her other hand leaped to the lowered bra and jammed it upward and over her breasts. And Carla fought to bring calm to her tortured breathing, to the beginning spasm of her body that had bolted ahead and now had to wait. She pushed higher against the sand dune like one condemned and awaiting the ax. And then, as she raised her eyes and saw the figure more clearly, saw it grow from unfamiliarity to one of recognition, Carla did calm a bit.
She started to speak, then could not because of the clogging knot that stuck in her throat. Then she knew a pause, did not have to utter words, for the tall, well-built colored boy took a step forward, and she knew that her eyes had not deceived her that her intruder was the boy, Reb, of an earlier encounter.
"Don't be frightened, Carla," he said. He paused at her feet and looked down.
Carla looked into his eyes first, then at his strong, nearly nude body. Her eyes investigated the spread of his legs and the way his bikini trunks clung to his body, the way they pressured outward, that sign made, she was sure, by the sight of herself in an act of self-love.
"How how long have you , " Carla started to say.
"Long enough, Carla," Reb said quietly. "But don't worry, little girl, I'm well, I'm hardly a prude."
Carla felt a flush creep over all of her body and finally reach her face and inflame it. But she felt calmer; her breathing evened, the tremble left her body. Yet, there was a vacuum, too, within her, one that was made up of denial that denial that had been imposed by Reb's sudden appearance.
Reb smiled and moved to Carla's side. He squatted on his haunches and looked at her. Then he lowered to the sand and sat cross-legged opposite her, very close to her, so close that Carla could feel his breathing and catch a tiny bit of his scent the man-scent that told of violence and love and great, great movement.
Carla tugged at her bra once more, bringing it another inch higher-over her breasts. Then she said, "Have you seen Laura, Reb?"
"No. Not since I've been in Fort Bixdale. Why?"
"She's been looking for you looking everywhere."
"Oh."
"She's been wild to find you, Reb. Really wild. Why don't you call her?"
"Maybe I will eventually," he said. "But well, this cat can't take that kind of girl right now. Maybe never never again."
Carla marveled at the wide expanse of his shoulders, and she imagined him on a football field, running, dashing, leaping, fighting through a mass of opponents and finally achieving a goal and victory for his school.
"Do you come up here often?" Reb asked.
"No. And I don't don't." She let it die.
"Don't explain," he said. "It doesn't matter whether you do this often or not."
He twisted to face her a bit more directly, and Carla, glancing again over his body, saw the bulge at his trunks and felt that beginning rustle of excitement take hold of her again.
Reb's eyes looked over all of Carla's body, touching at all of her. She felt a quiver of desire tear through her, and it was different from the desire she had known for other boys. She knew that it was made up of many things: her own disinclination to take a partner for sex, the interruption of her act of self-love, and the strange attraction she felt for the big Negro boy.
"Did you follow me up here?" Carla asked.
"No. How could I?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe you saw me on the beach and followed me up here to to watch me."
Reb chuckled softly, then said, "That's kind of silly, Carla."
"Yes, I guess it is," she said, starting to smile.
"You know," Reb said. "Guilt does all sorts of things to people. Believe me, I know. So you see, I can kind of understand how you feel my coming upon you at the time that I did and everything."
"I hope you can understand," she said. "I hardly understand it myself."
Reb looked away for a few moments. When his eyes returned to Carla they looked thoughtful and concentrated, and he said, "How is Laura making out in Bixdale? Having a ball, I suppose."
"Quite a ball," Carla exclaimed. She glanced away a moment and without looking at him said, "But we all know that she's got an awful thing for you, Reb."
"That's too bad."
"Why? It could be very good."
"Come on now, Carla. I don't want to get into any talk about that girl. I I can't stand talk about a girl like her, so let's stop it. Okay?"
"Okay," she said.
Carla leaned her head back against the sand wall. The movement caused her to breathe deeply again, making her bra dip low once more and expose a very noticeable portion of her breasts, even show a tiny peek of her nipple. Then she curled her legs beneath her hips, and it had the effect of thrusting her forward toward Reb in a kind of presentation of herself.
Reb's eyes glowed hot. His breathing quickened. He leaned forward a bit and said, "You're a very lovely girl, Carla, but I guess you know that."
"Not really," she said.
"But you shouldn't pose the way you're doing," he said.
She shifted slightly, then asked,, "Why."
"Because it drives me crazy, Carla."
"Crazy?"
"Yeah, crazy for wanting you wanting you right now this very second." His body tensed and he placed his hands to his side into the sand like a sprinter readying for the starter's gun.
"Don't talk like that, Reb." Her words cautioned, but her tone was sensual and beckoning.
"But don't worry," he said quickly. "I'm not going to make love to you. I can't take the chance."
She did not answer. But suddenly she felt deep pains of disappointment. And the woman of her made her shift her body a tiny bit, just enough to present a more fetching pose of her body, a more audacious presentation of shoulders and breasts and limbs and thighs.
"Oh, my God," Reb exclaimed, his voice trembling, expressing control released, gone wild.
Carla turned toward him just as he lurched forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. She felt the jar her body made against his, loved the way her large breasts first crushed, then burrowed, into his hard black chest. And then she thrilled at the softness of his lips. She had expected them to be hard and angry. And for some reason she had expected his lips and tongue to be bitter tasting as if they were touched by the jungle. But they were not. They tasted sweet and loving and very hot.
His tongue scalded as it ripped between her lips. She took it and clung to it, then nibbled wildly. And Reb's arms held her tightly against him until he brought one arm down, then tore it between them to jerk her bra down, free her breasts so that he could know them fully.
Carla's head spun. She had been embraced, kissed, even touched before, but never had she experienced such a reaction. She guessed that it was because she had reached such a high peak by her own touches only to have them stop at that very moment when she should have known utter relief. She guessed this, but did not really care, did not even think of anything except the closeness of the big black male, his strength and power and his mouth working crazily upon hers.
Reb kneaded her breast. Then he grew impatient and ripped the bra from her body and threw it far to the side. Then his long fingers caught both her breasts and jammed them together in a terrifying squeeze.
"Ohhhhhh, don't," Carla moaned into his mouth.
"Why not, why not, why not?" he whispered back at her, plucking the words to her mouth from his while their lips remained glued together.
She answered him with a touch, first at his chest, then lower at his waist and finally at his lap upon the largeness of him that sprouted upward from his brief shorts.
"Oh, Crissakes Jeeeeeeez, I can't stand it," he moaned, panted, and hissed.
Carla gripped him tighter, then, as his own grip upon her breast pinched harder, she raised her hand and sneaked it inside his trunks. Then they blubbered sounds of passion together as she gripped him again.
Reb's entire body grew rigid, made Carla's rigid, too, as he held her to him. But then with a mad cry he tore his mouth from hers and forced her flat on the sand. His big black hand darted to the top of her swimsuit bottom, then he jerked and pulled it from her, making her arch this new nudity up at him. And then he tore at his own trunks and freed them from his body. Then he pressured her close again as they stretched long and tight together upon the sand.
When their new kiss blazed hotter than the one before it, Carla brought her mouth away and whispered, "I can't I can't, Reb as much as I want to, I can't."
"I know," he mumbled. "And I can't either not yet if I did if I started if I started to really know you then maybe I could never stop."
As if these words were enough to light a path toward substitute love, both of their hands moved and touched at the other, Reb's at her thighs, Carla's upon the immense, steaming strength of him. And then in a rhythm attuned to each other's crying needs, their hands moved, slowly and curiously at first, then faster and faster, then very deftly in a way that brought pauses and starts, speed and slowness, and speed again, in a way that made their bodies tense, then relax, then tense again, in a way that also made them cry out, mumble endearments, not for each other, but for the sensations that romped through their bodies.
Suddenly, when both of their nude bodies were tight and arched in a bend that offered more of themselves, their pace and movement changed. And their strokes upon each other changed, too. Carla's elongated upon Reb, stretching and wringing and twisting; and his upon her turned more delicate, went higher and circled in a small area that sent her to crying and stammering words of encouragement for his touch. And she felt the bloat within herself as if she were zooming to the sky to achieve her bursting there. And as she felt it she knew that Reb felt it too, for he growled and gurgled and fought the full length of himself against her giving.
"Oh, make it happen, make it happen, Reb," Carla chanted.
He circled faster and harder.
"Ahhhh, yes," she pleaded. "Yes, yes, yes. YES!"
He raised his point of action as she whipped and whirled her hand frantically.
"MMmmmmmm, I'm there, Reb, I'm there there there I'M THERE!" she choked.
And suddenly she was.
Carla wheezed a cry of joy at the very same moment that Reb shouted the call of his own ending. Their mixed cries were fierce and searing, split through the area like hot pellets.
Their hands ceased their manipulations. They rolled away from each other. Both breathed heavily, but it was Reb who turned and faced the sand and thumped his fists into it, tensing and crying the sad sounds of his frustration.
And Carla, watching him, sensed his posture as that of one who was doomed, one who in the near future would know the tormenting horror of a lust that he could not much longer hold in check.
CHAPTER SIX
Laura Stockland leaped upon the platform and raised her arms high over her head as she faced the crowd around her. The blaze of the bonfire behind her glinted her with streaks of red, making her seem like one of hell's creatures. And the faces of the young men and women before her appeared as those of a similar creation, for the bonfire ignited them, too, blazing them and making them seem hot and very anxious.
"Come on, Laura, give it to us, baby," a boy called from the crowd.
"Yeah show us how to do it, honey," yelled another lad.
"Yeah, Laura, give, give, give go, go, go all the way," Margie Winters hollered.
Laura looked down at her friend and smiled. Margie always the first with a new fad wore a topless swimsuit. Her auburn hair caught the sparks of the bonfire and made her seem inflamed, as indeed she was, for her breasts were puffed outward and their nipples had come from concealment and shown hard and brown-red. And the dip of her swimsuit bottom, which swooped beneath her navel like a wide-sized U, seemed on fire, too. Its color was orange.
"Show us the way, Laura," Pixie Thomas cried.
Laura looked at Pixie and saw that she, too, seemed more excited, more sensual and anxious than usual. And the boy who stood next to the small blonde girl seemed especially excited. His hand was around Pixie's waist. It was working its way up to one small, hard breast. And Pixie's hand upon his seemed to encourage it.
Laura turned around and picked up a small bongo drum. The crowd around her cheered. Laura held the drum in the crook of one arm at her side and rested it on her hip so that all could have an unconcealed view of her body as she beat a rhythm upon the drum. And the view they had was very fetching black hair shining, sun-tanned body rippling with perspiration and hot-looking, her bikini so brief that it seemed she was only a breath away from nudity, and her feet spread quite far apart, planted firmly on the floor like those of a thumping native dancer.
As soon as it was completely quiet, Laura thumped once upon the drum. It seemed like a prelude to sin. Then she thumped it again, harder, more sinfully sexual, then still again. And then she paused and looked around as if the drum was meant to issue a call. In a moment, she began a steady beat upon the drum, swaying her body as she thumped upon it, twisting her hips, rolling her breasts, quivering her thighs, beating her feet flat upon the platform in a stiff, hard beat. And then she increased the beat, went so fast that the drum was a constant, rolling call that soared through the black of the night. And her head raised to the star-studded night, went far back and strained until her neck cords popped outward as she continued to beat rapidly upon the bongo drum.
Soon, the audience became participants. Following Laura's lead they clamped their hands in a rhythm of accompaniment. And their bodies began to move, too, started to turn and roll and twist as girls faced boys and executed their bodily movements in a direct call to their passion, turning very sexual, very desirable, very, very urgent looking.
Laura shifted the position of the jungle drum. She brought it before her and clamped it tightly between her thighs. Then she used both hands upon it, thumping a sexual chant in a mad frenzy of movement, letting her head droop forward, making all of her body chum and twist as she struck the drum. Her breasts bounced in and out of her thin bra, dancing a mad dance of their own, twisting and turning and shimmering with the light of the bonfire upon them. And her thighs, tightly holding the drum much as if it were a man she held rolled with perspiration and glistened and quivered and tensed.
At last Laura issued a final tattoo upon the drum. Then she ended it suddenly.
The clapping of the others ended, too. For a moment, it was very quiet. Then there were wild shouts and calls and cheers.
Laura raised and extended her arms above her head again, stretching on her toes and reaching high. Then she brought them down with a swoop and called out, "And now who's ready for follow-the-leader?"
Affirmative shouts split through the night.
"All right, babies," she called back. "I'm the leader."
There were new shouts from the beach gang. Laura smiled and let her eyes roam over all of them, looking as if she sought a particular one, someone special with whom she could frolic. But now, just as it had been since arriving at Fort Bixdale, she felt disappointed. And because she felt it, the beads of desire and competition bubbled more fully within her, and she determined to subdue disappointment through the outlet of her body. She would let it run wild; she would let it churn and burn and give, give, give. And then perhaps, she would know a lessening of the desire that plagued her that desire for a strange colored boy named Reb he whom she had met only to feel the sting of his rejection. As she thought of him, a new burning came to her loins.
"Okay, here we go," she yelled. "Everybody follow-the-leader."
Laura brought one hand to her back, undid the knot of her bra top, paused, then suddenly jerked it from her body and flung it far to the side of the platform. Her breasts heaved and jiggled.
There was a great deal of mad yelling from the crowd. Then there was the confusion of motion. And then there were newly bared upper bodies from the girls, from those who were not already toplessly attired. Laura looked at them all and felt satisfaction at her ability as a leader, felt happiness that she a newcomer to Bixdale was able to invoke her will upon all the others. All, she thought, except the one she wanted most to influence big, strong, black Reb.
"Hey, what about us?" a boy called out. "We ain't got any of those things to take off."
"But you're going to have, honey," Laura laughed at him.
She brought one hand to the tie of her swimsuit bottom. She let it rest there for a moment. Then she looked around dramatically. And then she called out, asking, "Any of the fuzz around?"
"Naw," a girl exclaimed. "They've gone in hiding."
"Good," Laura hollered back. "So men girls follow-the-leader."
Laura whipped her swimsuit bottom from her body and stood before the others in a blaze of sensual nudity.
Again there were shouts, confusion, and soon a baring of all the bodies that faced her men, boys, women, girls; males boldly showing their passion and strength; girls looking wild and free and uninhibited, their breasts and thighs reflecting the light of the bonfire as if they were a part of it.
"Somebody hit a drum," Laura announced. "The leader wants to dance so follow-the-leader."
A drum began its beat from some place behind the group. Laura walked to the edge of the raised platform and looked down. Beneath her a very tall reddish-haired boy smiled up at her and opened his arms. Laura's eyes appraised his body, saw its great strength, saw the full nakedness of him pinpointed and directed toward her.
Laura posed for a moment at the edge of the platform. Then she leaped from it, sailed through the air and downward until she felt the grasp of the red-haired boy's arms as he caught her and held her only inches above the ground.
"There ya go, honey," the boy said. "Thanks," she replied. "Come on dance follow-the-leader."
"That's what I'm here for, little chickie," the boy said.
He did not release her to stand upon the ground. He held her body tightly jammed to his. Their nakedness mixed. Laura felt his strong hands at her back, felt her large breasts crushed against his hard chest, and she felt the occasional thrust of his strength at her thighs as he began to move around in a slow-moving dance step.
Laura looked to one side and saw that the others were following her example, that all of them, nude and close together, had found dance partners and were moving about the beach in slow, sensual steps. She cuddled her mouth into the boy's neck, then felt his quick, jolting reaction, felt his hands lower and grip at her bare buttocks and pinch hard. And she felt the greater whisk of his strength slap at her thighs. It was a signal for Laura to assert herself more boldly. She raised back a bit, then deliberately rubbed her breast ends against his chest, from side to side, a bit up and down, then from side to side again. They boy's fingers dug deeper into her flesh. And Laura brought her hands around his neck and tenderly caressed him there with the tips of her fingers. In a moment, she felt a new jolt of response from him.
Laura allowed another few moments of the erotic dance; then she raised her head and was just about to call a halt and progress to the next stage of the game when at the rear of the crowd, half hidden by the naked, moving bodies, looking shy and hesitant, she saw the towering figure of Reb. Her heart fluttered. Her chest felt suddenly jammed with emotion. She both thrilled and deplored the sight of Reb, he whom she had waited for, had not found, now suddenly confronted for the first time since they had met on the road leading to Fort Bixdale.
For a moment, Laura did not know what to do. She sensed that if she went to him, he would again reject her. She remembered the story that was told of Reb, how he had raped and mutilated, yet escaped the law and the shame by means of college and his ability as a football star of national stature. As she thought of it, her loins ached for him, to hold and cradle him to know him thoroughly. But as she thought of this, she also felt pains of hurt and rejection, and from these signs of what he had caused her, she determined to tease and tempt him, make him sorry that he had not grasped his first opportunity to have her as his own.
"Dance me toward the back, baby," Laura whispered into her partner's ear. She pressured her lips to his ear, then mouthed it fully for a second as her tongue darted within.
"Man I'll dance you any place," the boy wheezed.
"I'm not too heavy?" she inquired shyly.
"Heavy? Hell, your feet ain't touching the ground now, and, baby, they don't have to. I can hold you easy even without hands if you give me the chance."
Laura laughed. The boy's hands tightened on her buttocks and he boosted her a bit higher upon his body, causing her to drag upward against him in a way of reminding her of his strength and power. She permitted her body to remain tight to his, to remain raised above the ground as he danced her in the direction of where
Reb stood, glaring at the moving, dancing display of nude bodies.
Laura, when they were only a few feet from Reb, raised her head and stared directly at him. He stared back. His eyes were as hot as she remembered them, his body as strong, as virile, as hard and ready as she dreamed. Deliberately, she gave no sign of recognition, of welcome or pleasure, of anything but her interest in the dance, her tall, naked partner, and her position upon his body.
They danced in a circle before Reb's eyes. Laura looked at him steadily, conveying, she hoped, a memory of her body as a reminder of the bitterness of his denial of her taking. Again, she brought her mouth to her partner's ear and tightened her grip upon his neck. Again she mouthed and tongue-caressed the boy's ear, making him jolt again, grip her harder and raise her a bit higher upon his body.
Laura glanced at Reb again when she removed her mouth from her partner's ear. And this time she reacted with great, bitter hostility reacted with real anger, for as she looked at Reb, she saw Carla Torro hurrying through the crowd until she arrived at the side of the big Negro. Reb turned to Carla and seemed genuinely happy to see her. Reb was in swim trunks and Laura could see a quick bulge come to them as he investigated Carla's nude body.
Laura felt compelled toward the dramatic, toward anything that would shift Reb's attention from Carla back to herself. And then she decided what to do.
"All right, gang," she called out. "Watch the leader and follow-the-leader."
Laura leaned back from her partner, gripped her thighs at his hips, then boosted her body upward and paused.
"All right, baby," she said. "Carry me carry me and do it without hands if you can."
The boy groaned a sigh of pleasure. One big hand helped boost Laura higher upon his body while his other hand made an adjustment, aided the thrust he made with his hips.
Gently, Laura lowered upon him.
"Ummmmmmmm, nice," she declared softly.
"Ohhhh, Jeeeeeez," the boy whispered passionately.
"Dance," Laura instructed. "Dance me around like this. And and jiggle me a bit, baby."
The boy complied. Difficult as it was, he danced her in a small circle only a few feet from Reb and Carla. And from time to time, interjecting the action with the dance steps, the boy lifted and lowered Laura in a quick series of jolts upon himself, wheezing and uttering sounds of passion as he did so.
Laura helped the action. She tightened her thighs to the boy's hips and pressured up and down, each stroke harder than the one before it, but less hard than the next downward swoop she committed to his body. And she panted sounds of pleasure, some contrived, some beginning to gather the strength of genuine feeling.
Laura looked again at Reb and saw that he stared at her again, that his attention had turned from Carla to her and that his expression had changed to one of wild, hot lust, searing fire darting from his eyes to the place where she and her dancing partner were joined. Reb's expression excited Laura. It sent shivers down her spine. It made her feel hotter and more anxious for union with him. It even forced her to express it through the unique unity she had made with the tall, nude, red-haired boy.
"Dance faster, baby," she whispered. "Faster and faster and faster, baby."
The boy moved quicker. He jolted her harder against him. She clung more desperately, raised and lowered more frequently, higher and lower, more grindingly, more achingly sexual. And all the time, through eyes which were now half-closed, she stared at Reb, conveying passion and desire, that which she was feeling in the hope that it would tempt him to the breaking point of his abstinence.
But the effect of her body tightly united with a boy as they used a dance as an excuse for erotic encounter, had the opposite effect on Reb, made him direct his passion toward another. His arm shot out. He gripped Carla Torro about the waist and jerked her to his side. Although he still stared at Laura, his hand moved to Carla's bare breast as he pressured her closer to him.
Laura's emotions flared. She felt foiled and cheated and shamed.
She lifted higher on her partner's body. But this time she did not descend upon him. Instead, she turned her head away from Reb and Carla and shouted to the others, "All right, time to change. The leader wants to play to play leapfrog so, follow-the-leader."
Moans and squeals of disappointment sounded from all the dancing couples. Laura pushed against her partner's chest, starting to free herself of the cling of their bodies. He protested, attempted to detain her, but could not as she pushed again, then leaped clear of him and close to the bonfire.
"Leapfrog, I said," she shouted to a few of the couples who were continuing to dance with their bare bodies locked together. Reluctantly, the couples parted.
Laura moved a bit away from the fire, then said, "All right girls, we're the frogs boys, you do the leaping."
"Pole vaulting, you mean," a boy shouted as the others roared.
"Ready set come on, let's go," Laura said impatiently.
She squatted on her hands and knees, then looked around as the other girls attained the same position in front of her, forming a circle around the fire. Their bodies looked alive and anxious. Watching them fall into position all around her enhanced Laura's emotions, made them wilder, more wrought by anger for Reb for everything and everyone.
"Okay, leap," Laura commanded.
The first boy in the line behind her touched lightly at Laura's back and leaped over her. Then he went to the next girl and did the same. And to the next, and on and on around the fire. The next half dozen boys did exactly the same as the one who had preceded them.
But then there came a pause which was ended by a n pair of hands upon Laura's body. These made a different placement. They did not touch lightly at her back, then leave. They gripped firmly at her buttocks. Then they jerked her backward so that she could feel the piercing desire that pulsated there.
Laura felt a new thrill dart through her body. She wondered if the boy was Reb, if he finally could stand it no longer and used this game as a means of coming to her. She turned, then looked away again. The boy was not Reb. It was her dancing partner of a few minutes earlier, the tall, strong, reddish-haired boy who had already known the close contact of her body.
"Come on, jump," Laura instructed.
"That's just about what I'm agoing to do, little girl," the boy said.
But he still did not become the leaper over the frog. One hand strayed from her buttocks and touched at her thighs. Then, even before Laura could protest, he jammed close to her, paused an instant, and finally thrusted fully forward and a bit downward. Then he gripped both of her hips and gyrated her against him as he pounded heavily to this prize.
Laura started to howl a declaration of foul, but again she thought of Reb, wondered if and hoped his eyes were still upon her. Then she spun her hips madly, meeting and departing, then meeting again the lurching attack of the boy who drove to her like a maniac. A tremble of thrill tickled her loins. It grew. But still it was not such that she could not deny it.
"All right, next," she shouted.
Several pairs of eyes turned toward her; then a boy shouted, "Hey, that's a real twist, Laura a real gimmick, baby we're going to leapfrog your way."
With that, the boy withdrew his hold upon Laura and proceeded to the next girl. He immediately took her as he had Laura. And Laura felt a new entrance of her own body. She did not know who it was, nor did she care. It wasn't necessary. She reacted passionately to the new partner, immediately lurching and twisting and churning her body in a rhythm that matched his assault. And then, after a few minutes during which her passion intensified, leaped ahead and paced rapidly toward an end, she steeled herself and shouted out a command for a new halt and a new switching of partners.
After the boy's lazy, reluctant withdrawal from her, she felt a new taking of her body. Again her senses flowed and she churned as she had with the others, giving and taking great gusts of energy to the act which was growing more intense, more terrifyingly near its pleasure-terror end.
There were three more partners who pounded the fury of their desire to Laura, three whom she knew as strangers, yet knew in the most intimate of acts. And with each of them she reacted as if he were a one and only lover for whom she thirsted.
And at last there came to her the lurch of a fourth unknown lover. He gripped her firmly. He seared to her as if he were bent upon destruction. And this time, there was no stopping for Laura. She could not. She had gone too far with too many and now wanted an end for all that had built within her.
From the moment she raised and pressured, then relaxed before pressuring again, she knew that regardless of the partner, the game regardless of anything, this would be her evening's last sexual partner. She churned madly. And hastily. And when the build of emotion within her reached its dam, pressured there, then rolled over it, she yelled out a passionate call and turned her head as she fought her body harder to the boy behind her. It was then that she saw Reb. He was standing near her again. He was staring at her. He looked as if he were about to enter the game, as if he had intended to approach Laura and replace every man who had that night known her for a little while.
Laura wished that she could stop the bursting of her body. But she could not. The boy pounded. She answered. And all the time she looked at Reb and wished that it was he who was driving his desire home to her twisting body.
She cried out, then cried again as her partner reached a maximum speed, surpassed it, then slowed, paused, and finally left her.
Laura whimpered and collapsed in a heap upon the sand. She looked to where Reb stood. He had been alone. Now he was not. He had turned and apparently retrieved Carla. He stared hard and bitingly at Laura once more, then grasped Carla by the hand, turned and headed toward a high sand dune. Laura knew that she had stirred Reb toward her violation, that she had succeeded in this which she had set out to do, only to have lost this chance at the very end. But she knew, too, that there would be a new opportunity to tempt the big Negro. She shivered, and she did not know if the reaction had come from anticipation, or from fear for what this brute-man's taking of her might cause.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vacation at Fort Bixdale had hit a momentary lull for Pixie Thomas. Everyone, including the hundreds of boys who usually roamed the streets, appeared to be resting, readying themselves, it seemed, for a final fling of activities that would provide warm memories for all the cold months ahead after they left the South. Pixie didn't like the lull. Not a bit. She meant to do something about it.
First, Pixie Thomas attempted to coax her motel roommates to the beach, where they might encounter boys who were also inclined to break the boredom of a dull day. She had little success, despite ambitious efforts.
Laura was sleeping and had no intention of being roused for many hours. And Carla Torro and Kay Faubus had decided to use the day for the knots and rollers and paper bows of home permanents they would not be seen out of the motel until the next morning. Margie Winters remained Pixie's last hope for companionship, but she was missing, had left the motel for a stroll. But then, suddenly, Margie was no longer missing. The motel door opened and she entered.
"Hey, am I ever glad to see you," Pixie said. "These dull heads are out of operation today. How about you?"
"I'm game for anything, but, baby, the beach is deserted. I just looked," Margie said.
"Well, come on, let's look again you and me maybe we'll stir up a nest of something or other."
Margie agreed. Pixie was delighted.
Although the mid-morning had turned cool, Pixie would not give up her usual attire, a bikini and sandals. Margie wore the same, but she added a tight pull-over sweater that did not inhibit the bounce of her breasts the least bit.
The girls left the motel and walked toward the beach. Their chatter was of boys. Their eyes were alert. Their hearts and loins and young bodies were anxious for an encounter with friends or strangers, anyone that could break the lull that had come to Fort Bixdale.
When the girls arrived at the large expanse of beach, they paused and looked in all directions. The beach was not deserted. It was spotted with a few occupants, but most of them were in couples and already involved. The boys who were not represented the bottom of the bowl, the crumbs that remained after the cookies had been devoured.
"See, I told you," Margie said to Pixie. "Not a decent stud in sight."
"Let's walk the beach anyway," Pixie said. "Who knows, maybe one will pop up from behind a rock or something."
"If he does you can bet your life he'll be a worm or a bug or maybe a snake."
Pixie laughed, then they descended the slope to the beach and walked eastward. They passed several couples who, even at this hour and on public display, did not suppress their desires for each other. Pixie could not keep her eyes off them. And every time she witnessed an embrace, saw bare bodies crushed together, wet mouths joined for tongues which she knew swished back and forth in heated giving, Pixie felt a rumble of desire course through her body as if it were a whirlwind. Sometimes, the feeling seemed unbearable. She could not remember having ever felt so intense, so anxious and sexual, so impatient to meet a boy who would satisfy her sexual craving.
When the girls had walked so far that nothing but the vacant beach stretched ahead, they paused, looked around, and were ready to retrace their steps when a figure emerged from behind a high sand dune. It was a woman, about thirty. She was very beautiful, truly one of the most beautiful women either Pixie or Margie had ever seen. Her hair was dark and her complexion was milk-white, slashed by a wide, red mouth and black-coal eyes. The woman wore a tight sweater and very short shorts. Her body looked very active beneath them, especially as she labored against a chain with a huge Great Dane at the end of it.
Again, Margie and Pixie started to turn, ready to return down the beach. But, strangely, and quite pleasantly, the woman detained them.
"Good morning," she called to them as she headed directly toward them.
"Hi," Pixie replied, as Margie lifted her hand in a friendly salutation.
The woman stopped before them and shortened her hold on the dog chain as the Dane strained against it, his big head tense and high, reaching nearly to the girls' necks.
"Isn't it a horrid day?" the woman exclaimed. "It's that all right," Pixie said. "Say it again," Margie concurred.
"You girls must be with the college vacationers," the woman said. "What college do you attend."
"Whitfield," Margie answered.
"Oh, yes, it's a lovely school," the woman said. "I once taught summer courses there on a fellowship."
"You're a teacher?" Pixie asked, her eyes going round with wonder.
"I'll confess it if you girls won't hold it against me," the woman explained.
"Gosh," Margie said. "A teacher. It It seems unbelievable."
The woman laughed again, then said, "Not so unbelievable, I'm afraid. I teach in the East graduate courses in psychology."
"Gosh," Margie said again.
"Gee," Pixie exclaimed.
At that moment, the Great Dane made a sudden lurch forward, straining to come closer to the girls. But the teacher restrained him, pulled him hard on the chain, then ordered him to sit. The dog obeyed, but not without strain, not without a frantic quivering of his body as he sat on his haunches facing Pixie and Margie.
"Let me introduce myself," the woman said. "I'm Mar-va Billet. And this is Tarn. I have a home down the beach a little distance. Now tell me, who are you delightful girls?"
Pixie did the introductions of herself and Margie.
"Look," Marva said. "It's truly a bitter day bitter for Fort Bixdale, at least. Why don't you come up to the house for a drink tea anything you like? It might be fun to visit for a bit."
"It's a bitter day all right," Pixie said.
"You don't know how bitter," Margie chimed in.
"Good, it's settled. Come along with Tarn and me," Marva Billet said.
The girls walked with Marva around the dune from which she had appeared. As they walked, Pixie tried to equate the woman's great beauty and her profession. It didn't seem right. Beauty and teaching did not seem compatible. And as they moved toward the rambling beach house they could now see in the distance, Pixie's attention also focused upon the huge Great Dane. Tarn was a giant dog, immense in size, strongly muscled, and almost constantly panting, quivering, and slobbering at the mouth. Several times he lurched on the chain and attempted to come close to Pixie, but Marva always restrained him with a quick jerk on the line and a sharp command. Each time Tarn attempted to come near, Pixie felt a bolt of fright, yet she knew that it did not come from genuine fear, that it had its origin in something else. But she did not know what. She was interested in the huge animal. And she was impressed with him. His size alone caused this, and it was exciting the way he lunged and pulled and strained upon the chain. It made Pixie feel that his unleashing would cause some horror that she could not combat.
"Here we are," Marva said, turning to a natural stone walk that headed up the hill and to the front entrance of the house.
The three of them and Tarn paused at the entrance. Then Marva pushed open the door and motioned for them to enter. They did.
The living room was enchanting. The furnishings were expensive and exotic. There were many antiques. And a long, distressed pine bar lined one wall that separated the kitchen and other rooms from the living room.
When the girls were seated on the couch, Marva bent and released the chain from Tarn's collar. At the same time she commanded him to sit, and he obeyed, going to his stomach on a round rug several yards in front of the couch.
"He's beautiful," Pixie offered. "I've never see such a large dog."
"Yes, Tarn is a very beautiful animal," Marva agreed. "I suppose you have him for protection," Margie said. "Protection? Yes, that and for pleasure. Tam and I are very, very good friends."
"Man's best friend," Pixie said. "Yes. And woman's too," Marva laughed. "Now, can I fix you girls a highball or will you have tea?"
Pixie straightened, trying for greater poise, trying to attain added years by a straighter posture. "A drink will be just fine with me. It's it's a bitter day."
"Yes, bitter," Margie agreed, also trying to strike a pose of one who was more than seventeen. "Fine. Highballs it is, then," Marva said. She walked to the long bar, then skirted it. For a few minutes she worked with ice cubes and glasses and several tall bottles. Pixie watched her, fascinated by the quick movements of her body and appreciative of the teacher's large breasts, which pushed against her sweater in the nipple-pointed sign that announced an absence of undergarments. Again, Pixie thought of Marva's beauty, of the sway her body made when she moved, much as if it belonged to an undergraduate rather than a teacher a professor, at that! And strangely, Pixie discovered that when she thought of Marva considered her she could not help but also consider the Great Dane, Tarn. Pixie wondered why.
Marva served their drinks, then pulled up a cushion and sat on it on the floor next to the Great Dane and facing the girls.
"Well, to your happiness always," Marva said, lifting her glass in a jogging toast.
"We'll drink to that any time," Pixie said. She sipped some of the liquor from the tall glass. It burned as soon as it struck her stomach. But it was a pleasant sensation, one that made Pixie feel very lovely, very desirable, and very intent upon the sexual desires that had nudged at her all during the day.
"Umm, that's good," Margie said. "But it makes me warm do you mind if I take off my sweater, Marva?"
"Not in the least," she replied.
Tarn raised his mammoth head and looked at Margie. Then, when she had pulled the sweater over her head and deposited it on the couch, the dog barked a short gruff sound and whined.
"Oh, oh he's mad," Margie said.
"No, Tarn's not mad at all," Marva explained. "He's just showing appreciation for your body. You're beautifully built, my dear."
"Really?" Margie said.
"Of course you are," Marva replied.
"No. I don't mean that. I mean is Tam or does a dog really notice things like a woman's body?"
"Tam does," Marva said. "He's very acute to beauty to the natural beauty of female bodies."
"My gosh," Margie said. "That makes me feel funny."
Pixie did not speak for a moment. She, like her friend, felt "funny." But she decided that that was not the correct word for it. She thought of many words then selected "curious" as the proper definition for her feelings. She felt very curious about Marva, about the huge dog, and, about herself.
Marva shifted her attention to Pixie, then said, "You know, in early civilizations, dogs particularly Danes such as Tam were the constant companions of the finest ladies. They actually courted the women, much as men do."
"Really?" Pixie exclaimed.
"Gosh," Margie whispered.
"Oh, yes, it was very common," Marva explained. "And for some women, the relationship was ever so much more satisfying than any she could establish with a man."
Pixie leaned forward. She looked at Tam, then at Marva, then said, "Do you mean that that the dogs were sometimes used as well, like lovers?"
"Yes," Marva said simply, smiling, her eyes brightening.
"Gosh," from Margie again.
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Marva. "There have been many interesting situations between animals and women. It's quite a study. As you girls advance in college you'll probably read of some such cases yourselves."
"Not at Whitfield!" Margie said. "And that's for sure," added Pixie.
"Oh, that's too bad. I do recall, however, that Whitfield is quite a conservative school. Such a shame. But come on now, drink up and I'll make us a new drink."
Pixie and Margie downed their highballs. Pixie, looking at her friend, could tell the drink had an effect upon her. Margie's eyes were brighter than usual, and her smile seemed loose and careless. And then she felt the burn within her own stomach, and Pixie realized that the drink had affected her, too, that she felt very warm and quivery, much as if she were with a boy and anxious for him to make an advance.
Marva made new drinks. The girls finished them quicker than those which had preceded. And then Marva brought in a tray with an ice bucket and a new, full bottle of liquor. Then the girls made their own new drinks, quite a few of them, for they began to drink as fast as Marva, who, it seemed, could finish one off right after the other.
Without warning, Margie became quite giddy. She directed her attention to the dog who rested next to Marva.
Margie leaned far over on the couch and said, "You're an old lover eh, Tam? Good old fellow. You really are quite a boy, I bet, not nearly the dog some of the boys I know are."
Marva burst into laughter. Pixie joined her. And Margie laughed, too, so hard that when she leaned further forward from the couch, her laughter and the alcohol she had consumed served to topple her to the carpeted floor where she sprawled before Marva and the Great Dane. All of them laughed very hard at the position Margie had attained, a position that crumpled her breasts to the floor as her knees braced and her buttocks shot up into the air.
Tam jerked upright and tensed. Then he lowered his gigantic head and sniffed with his nose at Margie's face.
"Hey, look," Margie said. "Old lover boy here wants to kiss me."
"Of course he does," Marva said, acting a little excited.
"How about that," Margie said, shaking her head, but making no move to rise from her position on the floor. "Old Tam boy here really wants to kiss me."
"Why don't you let him, dear?" Marva said.
"You must be kidding!"
"I don't mean a conventional kiss, silly. That would never do."
"What do you mean?" Pixie asked, sitting forward on the couch.
"I mean, what would it hurt to let this lovely animal kiss your body," Marva said in a way that showed that she, too, felt her drinks. "Who could possibly get hurt by such a thing. Really and to think that I thought you girls were real sophisticates well, I'm surprised that you wouldn't do this little thing for Tam."
"I didn't say I wouldn't," Margie protested. "I only wondered how to do it."
"Hey, how about you," Pixie suddenly said to Marva. "You're Tarn's mistress hey, mistress get it? so, why don't you oblige that beast?"
"I'm afraid I'm kind of old-hat for Tam," Marva said. "Besides, I'm generous I don't mind sharing Tam with friends."
"You mean you well, you really do do with Tam?" Pixie asked.
"But of course, darling. How could I possibly resist this magnificent brute? Just look at him. How could any girl in her right mind resist him?"
Pixie looked at Tam. She considered his strong neck and decided that the line of it was very hard and beautiful. And, as if Marva's candid words released all the taboos within her, Pixie decided that Tam, as a subject for sex, was not as unthinkable as she had at first considered.
Margie shifted from her hands-and-feet position and curled her bare legs beneath her hips. As she did so, Tam jerked a step forward and sniffed violently at her breasts, which were now partially revealed from her skimpy bikini bra.
Marva smiled but said nothing. And Margie's eyes narrowed as if thoughts stirred her. But then Pixie saw that it was not thoughts alone to which her friend reacted but that she appeared to receive genuine delight from the sniffing dog. Margie looked at Marva, then at Pixie, then back at the dog. And then her expression changed and she lowered her bra and thrust her breasts forward to Tarn's snout.
The dog whined and pushed forward. Margie fell to her back and Tam straddled her, pinned her to the floor while he brought great lapping caresses to her breasts. Margie's small, hard breasts bloated and the nipples grew long and hard as Tam nuzzled and burrowed at her flesh.
Fascinated, and through a drunken haze, Pixie watched the action. She felt excitement stir at her own breasts, at her loins, too, where she felt a pulsation and heat and urgency. And then she looked closer at Tam and felt greater excitement when she caught a view of the strength that had come to the dog, the way he quivered and strained and grew and grew. Within her, Pixie felt distinct and strong yearnings.
"Hey, you're getting rough," Margie said, directing her words to Tarn's bent head. "You're a rough one but but, I like it."
Margie cupped her breasts and raised them so that Tam could know more of their roundness. And all the time, Marva watched with an excited, but amused expression on her face, one that told of her own love for the great dog and her pleasure that she had found others to provide him with variation.
Tam nuzzled lower, then lower still when Margie made an adjustment of her position in order to allow him the full bareness of her stomach. But it was not enough, not for Tam, nor for Margie. The dog panted but rooted at her incessantly, moving lower all the time until as last his nose burrowed within her swimsuit bottom and shook furiously.
"Ohhhhh, hey," Margie said. She clasped the dog's big head with her arms and held it tight and down upon her. And still his anxious head moved, burrowed, shook a bit and became partly concealed within her swimsuit.
Pixie moved to the edge of the couch. She felt great craving for Tam, for anyone and anything. She looked at Marva, then felt relief and comfortableness for her own feelings when she realized that a woman of such beauty also gave herself to a dog. It was a good feeling for Pixie, one that destroyed her last bit of reserve.
When Margie moaned again, softly and passionately, Pixie pushed up from the couch. In a flash she undid the knot of her bra top and let it fall to the floor. Then she loosened the rest of the brief bikini and stepped out of it. She raised her hands and cupped her breasts in a kind of presentation of them as she turned toward Marva, letting her see, it seemed, all that she would give to her pet. Marva smiled.
Pixie walked to where Margie was still receiving the frantic attentions of the giant dog. Pixie paused. With a growl, Tam brought his head away from Margie's body. He looked at Pixie and tensed more sternly, yet he held his position, did not leap upon her. And Pixie, as she awaited him, felt the rumble of great sexuality, frantic yearning, and deep, deep curiosity.
The dog trembled violently, and as Pixie looked at him and saw the great anxiety that had come to him, she felt a moment's fear, a momentary resistance to the encounter that might ravage her body.
Margie raised and looked at her friend. She did not speak. But her eyes were wide with wonder. Marva looked at Pixie too. She smiled and a slight tremor came to her body much as if she, too, anticipated the next few moments as much as Tam.
The dog looked at his mistress and whined. Marva glanced once more at Pixie, then said to Tam, "Go, boy it's all right."
Tam bounded at Pixie. While he was still several feet away, he raised on his hind legs and lunged forward. His front paws came down upon Pixie's shoulders, crushing her to the floor. Tam came down atop her naked body. Now, having known for a moment the full flesh of Pixie, he was not content with nuzzling and lapping and the overtures to sex. He thrust for the mark that would bring an end to his animal drive. And Pixie provided it.
Fighting herself free of his imprisoning front paws, Pixie twisted and turned to her stomach. She paused a moment, feeling the rub of the tufted carpeting against her breasts, then against her stomach and the flat front of her thighs. It was a good feeling, comforting, one that provided the pause she needed before raising. It lasted only an instant. Tam pressured close, raised and tried to capture Pixie's bare body. It was impossible. But only for a second. Pixie hunched her knees beneath her body, then pushed upward. And then she leaned forward and braced herself on her forearms.
Tarn's attack was instant. And massive. Without the subtleties of humans, without concern for his female subject, he raised high, caught his front paws at her sides, then thrust forward in a great and desperate drive.
Pixie arched, then crushed forward as Tam jammed tightly to her body, as he drove with all the fury of his instincts and pressured hard and far.
"EEE Eeeeeeeee," Pixie screamed. "My God! JEEEEZZZZZZ!"
Although she yearned to pressure upward, to move and spin and churn her body, she did not. She could not, for Tarn's attack was fierce and constant and very, very rapid. Pixie could only brace herself and receive the machine-gun rapid attack as her body was scratched and dug by the animal's thrashing feet. But Pixie did not care, could not care, for a bubble of response within her hastened to grow. And it did, fast and frantically as Tam choked and groveled and whined and growled.
It was finished quickly. Tam ended as he had started, fast and dynamic, straining and shaking until at last he left her body, hanging his head low as if in shame, then, nearly crawling on his belly out of the room.
Pixie crumbled on the floor. When she rolled over, both Marva and Margie were looking at her. Their eyes were bright and interested. And there was a spark of envy there, too. But Pixie knew that this would pass, that Tam would revive and that both her friend and the strange, beautiful woman-professor would be awaiting him.
She rolled to her side again and buried her head in her arms. She thought about the day, how, except for the absence of boys upon the beach of Fort Bixdale, this never would have happened to her. But tomorrow there would be boys again, she thought, and all of this would be behind her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kay Faubus took another pillow and braced it behind her as she boosted herself higher on the cot. She looked at Carla Torro, who sat on the foot of the bed. Both of the girls were dressed in shortie nighties. Both looked contemplative and lovely. They were alone, their roommates having left early for the beach.
"I'm glad we've had this talk," said Kay. "It's funny, I guess most girls have problems, but until we share them, we think we're the only ones."
"That's the way I've always felt," Carla said. She flushed slightly and turned to the side. Then, without looking at Kay, she said, "I I hope you don't think I'm terrible for telling you so many personal things about myself."
"I don't," Kay said. "And it's best that you've been able to talk about it."
Carla uncurled her legs from beneath her hips and boosted to the edge of the bed. She clasped her hands together and looked quite tense. She looked at Kay, but did not speak.-
"Bet you're trying to make a decision," Kay said.
"I am."
"Well?"
"Do you think it would be good for me to see him to well, to tell this man this Adam about my problem?"
"I truly don't know," Kay said. "As I told you, he seems very wise maybe he can help you." She paused and flushed a bit herself; then she said, "He didn't help me, but that doesn't mean he won't be able to help you."
"Will you come with me?" Carla asked.
"Of course," Kay replied.
Carla stood up and turned toward Kay. "All right, I'll do it. It's worth the try."
"I think so, too," Kay said. "But you have to understand what I told you about Adam that he'll well, he's very bold."
"Everybody at Fort Bixdale is bold," Carla said. "You warned me that's enough."
Kay pushed off the bed.
The girls dressed slowly, taking as much time with shorts and blouse as if it were evening attire they were donning.
The sun was past its high-noon peak when they finally left the motel. They went directly to the beach and from it, through Kay's lead, found the beachcomber's ramshackle beach house. They paused at the clearing which revealed the house.
"I'm a little frightened," Carla admitted.
"So am I," Kay confessed. "And I've been here before."
More slowly now, they proceeded to the front entrance of the house. They paused; then Kay lifted her fist and tapped lightly on the door. It shook on its hinges. When there was no response, she tapped again.
"Your host is approaching," a voice sounded from inside the place.
Carla looked at Kay and raised her eyebrows.
"That's him," Kay said. "I'd know that voice anywhere."
The door pulled open from the inside and Adam smiled out at them. Kay, seeing him for the first time since she had submitted to the odd sexual experiences he had invoked, felt a quiver of excitement at her stomach and loins.
"Welcome welcome to my humble dwelling," Adam said, looking first at Kay, then at Carla.
"Hello, Adam," Kay responded. Then she introduced Carla. Adam was charming. His eyes were boldly committed to a surveillance of Carla's body. He bowed deeply, took her hand, kissed it, then rose and released it while his eyes touched at all of her once again.
Carla seemed pleased with Adam's manner, but troubled by his appearance. He wore the dirty beachcomber pants that Kay remembered, but they had been cut off above the knees and were now dirty, ragged, makeshift bermudas. His chest was bare. So were his legs and feet.
"Well, come in, I've been expecting you," Adam said. He stood aside while the girls entered the house.
The room was as Kay remembered it: cluttered, dirty, without adequate furnishings, with paintings most of them obscene in every corner of the room a mad genius's work spilling into the world, it seemed.
Kay looked around, glanced at Carla as if she were waiting for her to make an explanation. Then, when she did not, Kay said, "I've brought my friend here, Adam to see you and well, perhaps you can help her."
"I can," he said. "I've been anticipating this visit from Carla."
"You have?" Kay said.
"Oh, really now," Carla said.
"Don't make lightly of my ability to forecast problems," he said sternly.
"I didn't mean to offend you," Carla said quickly.
"No matter. You're here for help I'm here to provide it," Adam told her, again glancing over the contours of her body, which were delightfully revealed through her skimpy attire.
"Be seated," Adam advised. "We'll have a drink or perhaps some native fruit, then we'll proceed with the difficulties that plague your life, Carla Torro."
Kay looked around, then selected a cushion. She lowered to it. Carla moved close to her and lowered herself to the straw floor, moving to sit as close as possible to her friend.
When they were settled, they both looked up at Adam. Then they looked away from him as they heard movement coming from one of the adjoining rooms in the area around the bar and through the kitchen.
Kay gasped slightly when the boy entered the room. She had not anticipated another. And she very definitely had not expected to see a boy of her own age in the chambers of the beachcomber, Adam. It made her feel suddenly shamed and shy.
"Do not be alarmed," Adam said, looking first at Kay, then at Carla. "This is York. He is my assistant actually, my apprentice, so, what can be revealed to me can also be revealed to him."
The boy looked very serious. He bowed politely, but did not change his expression.
He was quite the most handsome boy Kay had ever seen. He was very tall and thin, yet looked strong as steel. He, like Adam, wore the tattered garments of a beachcomber. But, unlike Adam, he was closely shaved and looked clean and showered. He wore bermudas, old and torn, but faded-clean. His upper torso was bare and looked very hard and athletic. He was as brown as a native. It brightened his light blonde hair and made his blue eyes appear like the color of the sky.
Kay gazed at him, then glanced away. The boy seemed out of place with Adam. If it were not for his presence in the place, Kay would have thought of him as just another college boy vacationing in Fort Bixdale. The looks of the boy stirred her. But his designation as an "apprentice" by Adam, frightened her.
"York, will you be good enough to serve us a herb-drink?" Adam asked.
"Of course," the boy replied. His voice was deep and steady.
The boy disappeared from the room. His step was quick and sure. In a moment he returned with three coconut shells the halves of them which served as cups. Each was half filled with a white, brownish-streaked liquid. York passed the shells to the girls, then gave the last one to Adam.
"Oh, you're not joining us in a drink today," Adam said.
"No. Not today," York answered.
Kay thought the words had hidden meaning, that they were somehow of the utmost importance, much as if they answered some turning point in the boy's life. And strangely, for some reason she did not understand, Kay was happy to hear the boy's refusal of a drink. She didn't know why, only that it pleased her very much.
"To happy sexuality," Adam said, lifting his cup.
The girls lifted theirs, too, then waited as Adam downed his drink. Together, they raised the coconut shells and swallowed all of the liquor.
When Kay put her cup down, she noticed that York was staring intently at her. Then she felt a burn at her stomach that threatened to invade all of her body, especially her thighs and breasts. She wondered if the sensation had come from the drink, or from the boy's eyes upon her.
"Now the problem awaits its solving," Adam said. He looked sternly at Carla, then continued with, "You are a slave of self-love, are you not? Isn't that why you have this day sought me out?"
Carla gasped. She straightened, her body alerting in a way that made her breasts bulge outward from the neckline of her blouse. She did not answer Adam.
"Do not be aghast, child," Adam said. "First, you must learn that I know all things and that I cure all problems. Even yours which, to you, seems so unbreakable."
"I I well, I hope you can," Carla finally replied.
"Of course I can," he exclaimed, his voice rising. "York, my boy, my foster-son, my apprentice and heir, get the necessary implements for our Phase 3 Endeavors."
The boy turned toward him quickly, then, amazed, said, "Phase 3?"
"Yes of course. That's what's indicated in this situation."
"But, Adam " the boy started, then stopped. "Don't you think that maybe today you shouldn't well, after all, considering the the age of your your patient and everything, well, maybe we shouldn't . "
"Are you questioning my choice of therapeutic measures?" Adam asked indignantly.
"No, but . "
"Just get the implements," Adam said sternly. "Get them, then return to your position as an apprentice not as the master himself."
The boy nodded, then left the room.
Kay watched his quick step as he departed from the room. Again, a frantic stir of emotions crushed at her breasts and at her thighs. And again, she wondered if the drink had caused it or if it came from reaction to the handsome boy, York. She did not know. But one thing she did understand was the thrill she received from York's brief, but definite, resistance to Adam's commands. It was very exciting. And it made her think again that the boy had reached some turning point some intersection of life's paths from which he would choose one, and not the others, upon which he would proceed toward one of several different kinds of futures.
"Now, you, my child, stand," Adam instructed Carla.
She looked up at him a moment, then, very slowly, rose to her feet and took a position directly in front of Adam.
"Ah, that's very good," he said, his eyes touching at all of her. "Now, why one so beautiful as you should resist the advances of a male prefer your own advances to those of an opposite member is quite bewildering, but not entirely without foundation within the history of sexuality. And the problem, reduced to its simplest terms, becomes quite basic. You the subject must be appealed to gradually and with a variety of inducements some of touch and feel, even those which might seem quite remote to the art of love-making itself."
Carla straightened her body, much as if she were a soldier receiving a citation. Kay straightened, too, but did so out of curiosity for Adam's words, for what she expected him to do. Kay's body burned, seemed ignited. And her heart fluttered for the return of York, for another sight of him, for the sound of his voice, for his presence and the confidence she felt in it. And it all seemed so strange that she should feel this for a boy she did not know. But then she corrected herself she had given, and taken, liberties with others she did not know, had given much. But always, she had forbidden the joined unity of a sexual act. Fleetingly, she thought of her uncle, remembered her life with him, that he had been her only sexual partner. Then she felt heartsick when she realized how close she was to returning to that life how soon her vacation at Fort Bixdale would be ended.
"Allow me," Adam said.
He stepped close to Carla, then reached out both hands and deftly undid the buttons of her blouse. Carla flushed vividly, but did not move nor resist Adam's fingers working upon her clothing. Soon, Adam removed the blouse from her body, slipping it over her shoulders as gently as a seamstress. Carla's breasts quivered when the blouse was removed. They were white-pink, but free of a bra. They were very firm and the nipples pointed like fingers. Adam sighed appreciatively, then brought his fingers to both breasts, touching at them lightly and carefully as if he were a doctor probing for responses. And there was response the tightening of her stomach muscles, the lengthening of her already long breast tips. "Ah, yes, indeed," Adam said.
Kay looked at him very carefully, trying to decide if Adam was truly objective a real practitioner or if he felt response himself for the caress he brought to Carla. He did. Kay observed the gradual bulging of his dirty bermudas in the area of his thighs.
Adam now bent a bit and carefully slid down the zipper of Carla's shorts. Then he unhooked the top latch of them. And then he lowered them, bending before her like an impersonal servant. Then, when he had discharged the shorts after she stepped out of them, he slowly rose, looking at all of her bareness as his eyes traveled upward, passing calves and knees arid thighs and stomach and breasts and at last shoulders.
Kay could see that Carla quivered. She could see, too, the quick tightening of her stomach muscles and that her nipples appeared to be hardening and cracking. Kay knew that the drinks they had consumed had offered inhibition, made Carla, and perhaps herself, too, insensitive to the display of their bodies.
"Oh, my, you are indeed a beauty," Adam exclaimed.
He stepped back and appraised her, then stepped forward again, his hands before him, cupped and ready. First, he lifted her breasts in his hands. Then he released them. Then he trailed his fingers over her breasts and downward to her navel. Here, he paused. Then he flattened his hands ancT spread them over all of her stomach. Carla's body stammered; then her stomach withdrew from his touch, went inward and rippling. Adam brought his hands away from her body. He stepped back. Then he moved forward again, bent, and kissed at Carla's breasts. He started gently, then moved fast, reached a rapid pace of gulping and consumption and mouthing and tonguing, then moved slowly again. And then he left her breasts and from his cramped, bent position moved lower upon her body, visibly showing his tongue now as it raked over her body, went from lower breasts to ribs to navel and then just a bit below it. And all the time Carla remained erect. But not without movement. Her body quivered, her breathing increased, her breasts heaved and great trembling waves washed over her.
Kay watched the scene and felt her own responses to Adam's kisses, to his tongue, his hands, to all of him that gave so tenderly to her friend. Kay's breasts bulged. She felt the nipples harden. Her own stomach muscles tightened. And as she watched the naked body of Carla caressed, it seemed that her friend was an extension of herself, that she, Kay, was the recipient of Adam's love-touches as much as was Carla.
Kay looked around, expecting to see York return. But he did not. Then she felt a sudden terror as she wondered if he had perhaps left the beach house through another door, if the decision that seemed to peck at him had been made and had taken him away from her. The thought made her very sad.
"Recline, my dear," Adam said, raising straight again. "Recline on these mats while we intensify the therapy, while we further break down your reservations about the male animal and your own lovely body."
Carla obeyed as if she were hypnotized. She kicked off her sandals, then pushed with one bare foot until two long mats came together at her feet. Then she lowered to them. She stretched on her back.
Adam went to her quickly. He kissed her hard on the mouth and it was very evident that Carla responded, that she grasped his tongue and nibbled upon it while his hands moved downward and touched at all of her body once more. Soon, Adam broke their fierce kiss. Then he kissed at all of her again, not pausing until he reached her thighs. Then he paused. But only for a moment. Only until he breathed deeply, then buried himself to the pleasure of her softness, her womanliness, her great, gifting, bodily delight.
Kay felt a gasp rise in her throat, then subside. She looked, fascinated, at the laboring Adam, and remembered how this love had felt. And she thought it was enchanting the way Carla's body twisted, kind of arched, then lowered, then arched again and again as Adam buried himself deeper, became almost lost from view as even his legs trembled as they supported him in his squatting, lapping position.
Kay envisioned herself in Carla's place, just as she had once been with Adam, and for a few moments felt the same response her friend was feeling. But then she stopped the visions. And Adam stopped his oral overtures of adoration.
York came hurrying back into the room.
Kay uttered a little cry. She hadn't meant for it to escape her lips, but it did. And it was for nothing more than the reappearance of York. She looked quickly at his bare chest and shoulders and felt her heartbeat quicken. Even his legs, which were bare beneath his bermudas, sent a ripple of thrill through her body.
"Well, my young friend, you've returned," Adam said, pushing up from his hunched position over Carla. "But, York, you're empty handed you did not do my bidding."
"Adam I've been thinking," York said. "You know, this is awful well what I mean is, with these kids do you think . "
"I think all the time," Adam interrupted. His voice was very severe. "Now, do as I say get the implements that are indicated."
York glanced at Kay, then looked to the floor for a moment before raising them to Adam again. "I think you better reconsider what you're doing, Adam really, I do, and it's not because I owe you so much it's just good sense. So . "
"Silence!" Adam commanded. "Not another word. And I'll get the things myself."
Adam hurried from the room. York remained standing where he was. But he turned and looked at Carla as she pushed her naked body up to a sitting position. The boy's face flushed pink, but he did not immediately glance away from the girl's body. He looked at her breasts, their nipples, and at the way her bare legs locked together beneath her hips, pursing her upward and outward. But then he glanced away. He looked at Kay. Now, there was a different light in his eyes, an expression that carried more than the erotic, one that seemed to convey warmth and understanding and some deep sadness for their plight for his, and for that of the girls.
Adam bustled back into the room carrying a huge suitcase. He placed it on the floor, then looked at York.
"You're hardly in form to participate in this therapy," Adam said. "So remain quiet and watchful and unhappy for having doubted me."
York glanced to the floor and looked very much like a small boy who had been caught in a cookie-jar misdemeanor. Kay, intent upon York's reaction to Adam, felt very sorry for the boy, felt that he must be some type of prisoner of Adam's, that he had been, and was still, forced to do the older man's bidding because of some strange power Adam held over him.
Adam bent to the suitcase and unsnapped the locks. Then he raised the lid and extracted from within a crinkly, tight appearing, leather suit of some strange sort. He lifted it. His fingers touched it lovingly, rubbing against the material as he moved. Then he turned to Carla.
"You are a neat, very fastidious person," Adam declared. "And as such there is a certain reality to your disinclination to cohabit with boys with men with anyone or anything that might upset the demeanor of your person. Therefore, it is wise that you taste of other types of sexual stimulation, as an example, the stimulation this divine costume can bring to you."
He let the leather garment flip open and drop full length from his hands, which he held high in front of him.
At first, the sight of the odd garment startled Kay. She edged forward on her cushion and peered to see it more clearly. It was long and crinkly, meant to cover a body from neck to ankles. And the substance of the material seemed something special. Although it looked soft and crinkly, it appeared that it would cover one tightly, clamp itself to skin like a second layer. Looking at it, seeing the way Adam held it caressingly with his fingers, made Kay wonder how she herself might react to concealment by the garment. Then she looked at Carla to ascertain this girl's reaction.
Carla seemed unmoved. Her bare body was pink, but Kay knew that it appeared not as a blush but as a result of Adam's great kissing and mouthing of her skin. Kay looked closely into Carla's eyes. They were vacant of any sign of resistance to the garment that Adam held. They seemed to have formed a vacuum from which nothing could clearly be discerned. And as Kay looked at Carla, she realized that her friend had steeled herself for an experiment in sex for any kind of experiment that might free her of the bondage of self-love. Kay realized, too, that undoubtedly the drink that Carla had consumed had been more potent than her own, had, because Carla was the subject of the day, been made especially strong with the aphrodisiac ingredients of Adam's kitchen.
"Come, my dear," Adam said to Carla. "Arise and don this sensual covering."
Carla stood up and moved close to Adam. He smiled. A slight tremor rippled his body as he handed the leather garment to Carla. And at his loins there was the very noticeable new growth that had come to him, stretching outward toward Carla, toward her and toward the garment as if the two were one, as if the sexuality of nakedness and leather had merged to excite him wildly.
Carla took the garment. She lifted it and looked at it. Then she lowered it to the floor and raised one bare foot. She gathered the material in waves as she brought the opening over her foot, then bunched it higher. Then she lowered her foot, stood straight, and pulled on the top of the garment, making it creep up her leg, slowly and stickily as it sought to cling to every inch of her leg. At last she had pulled it all the way up to her thigh. She paused and rested. She breathed deeply. Her breasts jiggled madly now, showing the excitement she felt for this caress of leather that she had never before known. Then she bent and placed her other foot within the leather garment's opening.
Kay, enthralled, watched. As she saw her friend pull hard on the leather, bringing it over the other foot as high as her ankle, it was as if Kay, too, experienced the caress of the moving leather as it crept shudderingly over nudity. She felt, as Carla must feel, she was sure, the catch and ripple of the leather against her skin as it moved from ankles to calf to knee then stopped then resumed over the knee, and finally over the thigh and high, where it pinched in hard lines at the joining of the soft thighs.
Carla expelled a long sigh. She did not move to raise the leather higher. She rested. But then, after looking at Adam and seeing his stern eyes upon her, she did move. She pulled the leather over her hips. It moved slowly, sticking to her like tape as it gradually slithered higher. When Carla rested again, a new pinch of leather was very noticeable at the top of her thighs. Here, the leather was wrinkled. And it pulsated, was moved by the new steam that had come to Carla's body. It looked like a tent pinched tight at the top to form taut lines and crevices. In a moment, Carla tightened her grasp upon the leather and brought it over her arms and shoulders. Now, the only flesh that showed was through the gaping opening of the suit down Carla's front. It revealed her breasts, then swooped downward in a giant V until it gathered close together at the top of her thighs. And then Carla reached and began to close that V from the bottom to the top. At the bottom of her breasts, she paused again. Then she raised her other hand and pushed against her breasts, making them hide within the leather. When they were secure secure but bulging outwardly against the leather in a way that showed the full lines of them, that showed, too, the hard nipple points pressuring against leather Carla enclosed them in leather as she edged the zipper higher and higher and higher, until at last it stopped at the throat. Then she locked it. Then she was encased in leather except for head and hands and feet.
"Ahhhh, divine," Adam said in a low, loving tone.
Carla stood like a statue for a moment; then she moved, forward and a bit bent. The movement caused the leather to ripple over her like the tiny surface waves of a pond. And her face showed the effect the leather had upon her. Her eyes narrowed, looked sensual and very willing. Her lips parted slightly, showed red and hungry. And a flush that was different from the other flush of her body came into view at her face. It was one of heat, response, a wave of passion that had undisputedly captured her body.
Kay felt her own body tremble. She felt her nipples push against her blouse. She curved her long, bare legs beneath her buttocks and the action made her feel as if she, too, were experiencing a caress. She grew very warm there, and the heat seemed to center, then surge upward to cover her waist and ribs and breasts, and even her shoulders and arms and face.
"Move, child that's it, move move and thrill," Adam said, his voice rising excitedly.
Carla obeyed. She moved in a circle, she bent, she raised her arms high above her head, then she walked in a circle, then she leaped and bent and raised again. And all the time the leather worked in new exciting experiments upon her body. It stuck to her like tape. But it moved with her movements, pinched at her loins, rippled against her breasts, stammered stickily down her belly and pinched again at her thighs and legs, even at her ankles. And her face showed mounting passion, giant strides toward greater thrill that she now anticipated.
Adam watched her; then he gave the command for greater thrill.
"All right, lovely girl, quiet now. Be quiet and express all the sensations you feel upon another give the gift of excitement to him who is responsible for your awakening."
Carla remained impassive. But the words confused Kay, confused her, that is, until she saw that Adam was hurrying out of his clothes.
When he was nude, Adam approached Carla. He stood in front of her, his eyes drifting over her leather-clad body. Then he raised his hands and, touching lightly, ran them over all of the leather that concealed her.
He touched at her shoulders and arms, at her collarbone, at her breasts, slowly here, working his fingers around all the full roundness of her breasts, then stabbing lightly at the dart-like nipples which pushed against leather. Carla swayed her body to his touch. She undulated as he touched her, moved from side to side, obviously feeling the combined thrill of leather and fingers touching leather to press it ever harder against her body.
And then Adam stopped. He raised his hands and brought them around Carla's neck. Then he pressured downward and said, "Come to me, little darling, come and bequeath thrill to your master."
Adam lowered to the floor. Guiding Carla by his hands around her neck, he urged her to kneel in front of him as he attained a sitting position. And if at first, Kay, watching, doubted that Adam intended to participate in love-making with Carla, she changed her mind when she saw the stretch of his thirsting manhood rising between them.
When Carla was on her knees and perched at Adam's feet, he urged her head forward, then out of sight as he arched slightly, at the same time raising and bracing his knees at each side of her dark head. Then he expelled a long, passionate sigh and forced her head lower. And then he released it and it moved on its own, up and down, out of sight and into view, then down and up again, and always faster and faster as Adam churned and arched and stammered words of encouragement. And then he bent forward and ran his hands over the length of leather that covered Carla's back. He fingered it, pinched it, tried, and failed, to gather it in a knot and away from her body. And all the time the pace grew more frantic, faster and faster, deeper and more delaying, then up and free for a moment before descending upon him again.
And then Adam called a pause to Carla's action upon his body. He looked at Kay, then said, "Come here, my dear, come here and you, too, shall know the rapture of love you can be the beneficiary of this great experiment. It can be you who will know the final fury of the gifts I have to give you."
Kay's heart thudded. But much as if she, too, had become weak before the will of Adam, she rose and walked a few paces to Adam's side. First, she looked at Carla, who had raised her head and waited anxiously to resume her experiment; then she looked into Adam's eyes.
"Undress, child quickly now, disband those earthly garments those elements of sin."
Kay, staring straight into Adam's eyes, unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled it from her body. Her large breasts loomed forth like anxious moons. Then she unzipped the side of her shorts and stepped out of them, at the same time kicking her sandals from her feet.
Without instructions, of her own accord as if she were joined to Adam's wishes by some secret rapport, Kay seated herself next to him at his side, very close to his bare body, close, too, to the joining that he and Carla made.
Adam placed one hand around Carla's neck again. Then he urged her forward. And at the same time he twisted a bit, faced Kay, and urged her to a prone position at his side.
Carla resumed her fevered attentions. And Adam joined them, not with her but with Kay. He pressed his mouth tightly to her lips, then pierced them with his tongue as he groaned into her mouth the sound of his excitement his excitement for the duality of Carla at his waist, and himself actively embraced with Kay.
Kay tasted his tongue and tried to remember it. But she could not. Something occurring within an instant had happened to her, something that made her wish to join her friend and Adam, wished to become a part of love not to be left out, cold, forlorn, without attention.
Kay nibbled hard, then drew upon the piercing tongue of Adam. And as she took it and made it hers, she felt the jolt of his body which indicated his response to Carla's attentions, a response that Kay wondered about, wondered how in the world he could focus attention upon her while receiving the most erotic stimulation from another source.
But he did. Tremendously so. He lurched and arched and thrust his body without for a moment losing the unity of his mouth which remained glued to Kay's.
But then, suddenly, he broke his embrace with Kay. He twisted, even as his body now pumped up and down to meet Carla's rhythm, and brought his mouth from Kay's, lower to her breasts, then lower to her breasts and belly. Kay was enraptured. She remembered her previous experience with Adam and wished fervently that he would not disappoint her, would instead provide all that he had previously provided. Adam paused and then buried more deeply to her, moving his head from side to side just as Carla was moving her head upon him. Kay breathed deeply and arched a bit. It was cause for a more erotic lapping by Adam. And he varied the action, moved from the sensitive high point of her body to rest and pause by kissing at her under-thighs in a teasing, promising manner. When he returned to a new brisk whipping of her, Kay cried out signs of her excitement, begging for even closer attention, for a greater and even more dynamic caress of her body. Adam gave it. He buried himself deeper, and then interspersed his quick spanking of her smoothness with periodic and very long runs of all of her body that was exposed to him.
Soon, a flutter, both familiar and strange, coursed through her body. Then it grew and Kay knew that it would soon be irresistible, that she would soon not be able to stop, even if she desired to. And her passion spiraled upward, hot and heady. She moved more frantically, lashing her body in a way that nearly buried Adam at her thighs. Her arms smothered him as they lashed to his head and hugged him tight.
Suddenly, Adam blubbered a sound of great, although muffled, sensation. Kay turned and could see that Carla was nearing the end of her course, that she would soon be finished with her quest upon Adam's extended body. She turned back, pressured harder upon Adam's head as she arched her thighs even more strainingly to him.
Adam strained too, did so mightily, and it was the sign of his completion, his release, one that he wished not to inflict upon Kay. As Carla raised and pushed away from his body, Adam rolled, twisted, then hunched so that he was able to grasp Kay's buttocks, raise them and thus form a deeper cradle for his moving mouth. So intense was his grip that it seemed he sought to bury himself completely within the girl. His movements became frantic, his head a blur as it twisted and shook in unity with his body, which also shook madly. Tremors of thrill rocked both of them, then rocked them again and again. And from her toes the climactic thrill started for Kay, began to climb upward on her body, inflaming her, skyrocketing her up and up and up toward the explosive end of sexual happiness.
But it did not come. It was not destined that Kay should know this climb of her body, not the climb and not the end that was meant to be reached.
"Stop it for Crissakes, stop it!" the boy, York, suddenly shouted.
Kay turned at the same time that York leaped at them. He gripped Adam by the shoulders, then flung him away from Kay's body. Then he reached, gripped her by her long black hair and by one shoulder and lifted her to her feet.
"Get dressed get dressed and get out of this filth," he shouted. "You both of you right now. Get. Hurry. Hurry before you're ruined forever."
Adam sat up and looked at the boy with a strange, uncommon look of fear. He looked at the girls, then back to the boy. He did not speak.
Kay felt blood rush to her face. It was as if she had been slapped. And she felt confused and left wanting, for she had been near her end, so near that for a moment it seemed that she might still erupt. But she did not. Instead, she did as the boy ordered. She reached for her clothes, picked them up and, still nude, walked to the door.
Carla got to her feet. Wordlessly, she followed Kay's example. She unzipped the leather garment, this time without any feeling for the material that touched and caressed at her body. Then she stepped out of it and picked up her blouse and shorts and sandals. She moved to the door next to Kay.
"Go on, leave, get out," York shouted.
At last, Kay found her voice and said, "But what about you? Are you staying here?"
York looked from her to Adam, then back again. Then he said, "No, I'm leaving, too." He turned to Adam, then added, "Find yourself another boy. I'm sorry. I just can't take any more of this. I was down and out you gave me a place and and food and maybe a little hope too. But well, thanks but that's all I'm I'm through good-bye."
York hurried to the door, then flung it open. He pushed against Kay's shoulder, forced her outside as if she were in a room that carried the plague.
When the door closed behind them and they had walked a dozen paces away from Adam's beach house, Kay paused. She looked at York. Then she felt the pains of great embarrassment. She brought her clothes to her front, covering her body as much as possible. Carla, as if coming out of a trance, did the same.
"It's all right," York said. "Dress dress, then I'll walk you back a ways."
The girls went behind a beach bush. They dressed. Then they reappeared.
York nodded in a direction that led back to the main part of the Fort Bixdale beach. They walked that way, silently, with no words between them. But Kay felt a blaze of heat, and she knew now that it was not caused by the interruption of her bursting passion. She knew that it came from genuine thrill for the bold boy, for the dashing York who had taken it upon himself to interrupt intimacies because he cared about her. Kay knew that it was true that York suddenly and without history of acquaintance with her had stopped Adam from bringing her to an end because he cared for her enough to make her leave the house of a man who had been for a while his master.
York halted. So did the girls.
"You'll be all right now," he said. "Don't go back there. Not ever. The whole thing's a gimmick to give Adam what he-likes. There are some people around here who have become enslaved by him. I was one of them. For a little while, at least. But you two leave don't go back. Never."
"But what about you?" Kay finally asked. "What will you do? Where will you be? How can I find you again?"
"You probably won't," he said. "I well, I have to make a lot more decisions about my life."
"But I have to see you again," Kay pleaded, unashamed of her candid enthusiasm for him.
"Maybe," York said. "But I doubt it."
He turned and walked away. Kay looked after him, feeling the most horrid unhappiness she had ever known.
CHAPTER NINE
For several days Laura brooded over Reb and her inability to attract him to a sexual taking of herself. She did not know why she thirsted so madly for the big Negro boy. It was enough that she wanted him: Laura always got what she wanted. It was enough that he had not been forced into an involvement with her. This was enough to make her try all the harder. She brooded, then decided to do something definite about it.
After a day's activities upon the beach during which she was the most sought-after girl of the group, Laura returned to her motel and rested. She was alone, but still she could not force herself to sleep. Her mind flitted with images of Reb; her body churned with desire for him. Then she decided to pursue him.
It was dark outside when she left the motel and entered her car. She had dressed carefully, deciding upon a bare midriff summer playsuit, one that was conservative, yet revealing, one that both offered her body but cautioned against it.
Laura drove immediately to the motel where she knew Reb and his friends were staying. She parked at the back of the parking lot. She waited a moment, then alighted from the car and walked directly to Reb's unit. She knocked briskly. There was no answer. She knocked again, then still again. And then the door opened.
Tall, blonde Bob smiled out at her.
"Well, hey there," he laughed. "What a hell of a nice surprise. And I'm dressed for the occasion, too."
Laura looked at him and Saw that he was naked except for a towel that was wrapped around his waist. His bare body was speckled with water bubbles.
"Oh, no," said Kay. "I just want to see Reb."
"Ah, come on, Reb's a creep try me, baby," Bob said.
"Is Reb here?" she asked firmly. "No."
"Well, tell me where I can find him."
He reached a hand out and playfully pulled at her hair. Laura jumped back a bit.
"Oh, well," sighed Bob. "Some studs get all the breaks. Reb's not here. He left a few minutes ago."
"Did he go to the beach?" Laura asked.
"No, the riding stables," Bob replied.
"The riding stables?"
"That's what I said. It's just down the road and across the little bridge."
"Goodness, I didn't know that Reb liked riding."
"Huh silly girl," he said leeringly.
"Stop it," she snapped. "I didn't mean that. I meant well, it's dark out and everything so well, it seems odd to ride at night."
"Not to Reb. He rides any time. Sometimes I think he prefers horses to people."
Laura smiled, then could not resist a quick sweep of Bob's body with her eyes. She saw that the towel that contained him, bulged. She was glad. It gave her a good feeling, enhanced her confidence for her meeting with Reb.
Laura thanked Bob, said good-bye, then turned from him and walked away from the motel. She did not stop at her car. She continued to the road, then turned upon it and headed toward the bridge that arched over a small stream.
When she was midway across the bridge, she paused and looked ahead. She saw the outline of a high barn. The way the moon played upon it made it look mysterious and a little forbidding. She breathed deeply and continued across the bridge.
The riding stable barn was set back from the road several hundred yards. Laura veered off the road and walked across the fields toward it. High bushes and wheat-like stalks slapped against her body as she moved, giving her a feeling of being gently spanked. She found it quite pleasant, did not move to avoid the tangle that greeted her every step.
Laura paused again as she came to the front entrance of the barn. It was very quiet. There was not a sign of activity except for the occasional snort of a horse and its hoof pawing at the earth. She proceeded cautiously, a little fearful, beginning to doubt the wisdom of her search for Reb. But her step did not hesitate. She continued to the large doors that fronted the barn. They were ajar. She pushed them apart, one inward, the other a bit outward. They creaked. Laura stepped inside. It was pitch black, but gradually, as she stood very still and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the horse stalls and the big, silent animals. Then moonlight streaked through the far window and she could see the hay, the watering pails, the troughs, high heaps of hay in a far corner stall that was without a horse, and the other objects that were significant to the riding stable.
A horse snorted and Laura jumped back a step. Then she breathed deeply and moved deeper into the barn. She halted and looked around. There was no sign of Reb. She looked at the empty stall and wondered if a horse was missing from it because it carried Reb through the night, riding wildly, perhaps even thinking of her. But then she changed her fantasy. It could not be true. The hay in the stall was piled too high, nearly filled the entire stall. No horse resided there. She turned and quickly glanced at the other stalls and saw that they were all filled. Every horse, as far as she knew, was accounted for. Reb could not be riding. Bob had to be wrong about his friend's destination.
Laura sighed. She felt very disappointed. And because there was no sign of Reb, no chance for her to entice him and lure him to her body, she felt a renewal of passion for the big colored boy. It was like a child being offered candy, then denied it, she thought.
Another horse snorted, and one whinnied; then several of them began pawing the earth, making a scuffing sound with their hoofs. The sudden noise and activity made Laura retreat another step. Then she turned completely and headed for the barn doors.
Laura took several steps, then paused, certain that she heard a sound near her. She looked around and saw nothing that she had not already viewed through the moon-lit barn. She continued forward, walking quickly now, quite anxious to leave this place of inactivity, strange noises, and the feeling of peril. The open barn door beckoned and she hurried toward it, achieved it, then was snapped from its freedom by a pair of strong, black hands.
Reb spun Laura around, then pressured tightly on her shoulders.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed. "Why don't you just leave me alone. You go struttin' around like you're giving all that stuff away free throwing it at me knowing that it's going to get to me, kill me, maybe why do you do that, girl?"
Laura could not reply. Her throat clogged with fear, not for Reb, but for having been grabbed so suddenly in the secluded barn. And her heart beat so fast that her breasts heaved to its tune, pushing out, then inward, fast as her heart beat, fast as she breathed.
"Why don't you leave me alone?" Reb shouted. He shook her furiously, made her head snap forward and backward like a rag doll's.
"Because because I want you," she cried suddenly.
"Want me good Christ, girl, you don't know what you're saying what you're asking. You're asking to be killed that's what."
"No I'm not," Laura said, regaining her composure.
"You are, you are, you are," he said, shaking her wildly.
Laura, when she stopped shaking from Reb's jerking of her body, put both her hands on his chest, then said, "Listen, Reb, stop being so damn intense about me about everything. Let's sit down and talk for a few minutes. Okay?"
His grip upon her shoulders slackened, then dropped. "All right, over here in the hay that's where I was till I heard you coming in."
"And then you hid," she said.
"Yes," he admitted.
"And all the time I thought you were out riding some place," she said, trying for lightness.
"I usually am. Tonight, I just sat in the hay and did some thinking."
Laura moved toward the stall of hay. Reb fell in step beside her. Then, as they walked together, she asked, "What were you thinking about tonight, Reb?"
"You," he said simply.
"Me? Really? How nice."
"Not very," he said softly.
"Well, that's not nice to admit," she said. "Now why in the world isn't it nice to think about me?"
They had reached the stall where the hay was piled high. Reb stood waiting as Laura turned, then flopped into the hay. Then he lowered to a sitting position at her side.
Laura glanced at his dark face, made lighter by the moonlight which insisted upon streaming through the window now. She saw nothing that she did not already know: dark eyes, hot and wild looking, a crushed nose, evidence of athletic abilities, a body that was lean and hard and, for Laura, very, very desirable.
She turned toward him, then asked, "Why isn't it good for you to think about me, Reb?"
"Because you don't know anything about me," he said. "You don't know what your teasing and fussing can cause."
"I know," she said. "It can cause you to make love to me; that's what it can do. And, Reb, I don't think there's anything so terribly wrong with that."
"But you don't know how I am," he insisted, looking away from her face and into the nothingness of the dark barn.
"I know. The boys have told me about the trouble you were in."
"Even they don't know how bad it was."
"But it's over," she said. "You should forget it and try to live a normal life."
He turned to her. His eyes blazed and his fists clinched in a motion of tight frustration. "Normal life. Girl, you're crazy. There're things about me that can't ever be normal never in a hundred years."
"Oh, bosh," she said lightly. "You make such a big deal about everything. You don't give yourself a chance."
"A chance," he repeated.
"Yes. A chance to see how you are if you've changed."
He looked away from her. Laura took a deep breath, held it, then expelled it slowly. She needed time. Reb, she was sure, was on the very edge of his endurance. Soon, he would be compelled to unleash all of his pent-up fury. She wanted to be the vessel of that unleashing. And she would be, she determined.
She turned toward Reb. Her breasts reached out toward him, moved only an inch away from his forearm, then moved closer as she deliberately thrust at him. He started to recoil, then did not. Laura burrowed the hard tips of her breasts into his arm, at the same time grasping it and holding it against her breasts.
"There," she whispered. "Is that so bad? Is that so very difficult for you to take?"
He did not answer. But Laura felt his body tense and it served to encourage her.
"You're such a gruff boy," she said. "You act as if you don't want to know how much a girl can like you."
"You like me all right," he said suddenly, the tone coming as if it were far away. "You like me because I'm different. You've probably never had a colored boy, and that's why you're interested in me."
"Ohh, Reb, I'm interested in you all right," she breathed sensually.
She remained with her breasts tight against his arm for a few seconds. Then she pulled back and reached and took his big, strong hand in hers. Then she lifted it and placed it against her breast as she again pressured forward.
"There," she said. "Isn't that nice?"
Again, he did not answer. And Laura noticed that his hand did not move, it did not clutch or knead or seek to bunch her flesh together. It was as if he forced it to remain remote. She pressed it harder against her. She felt the hardening rise of her nipples and knew that Reb must also feel this new giving of herself. But still he did not react.
Laura raised his hand. She let it rest at the throat of her dress, providing him with the feel of flesh that could dip into that greater fleshiness of her breasts. But Reb did not make that dive to softness.
Laura dropped his hand. It landed on her thigh, stayed there a second, then bolted away. That pause further encouraged Laura. She knew that it represented the fight Reb was having with himself, that for that instant he was undecided as to whether he would take her or not.
She turned and faced Reb directly. She saw his black face and his burrowing eyes trained upon her face. Then she smiled and raised one hand to the throat of her dress.
She undid the top button. Then she undid the next several and forced her dress to part at her breasts, exposing most of them, showing the round outline of them and the hard, bullet tips.
"Look at me, Reb," she whispered. "Look at me and think that all of this is for you waiting for you that you can have it this very second."
He looked away. Laura crushed her body forward, pressing her bared breasts against Reb's chest. She raised her hands and clutched at his shoulders and burrowed deeper into his body. She felt his heat. It was torrid. Hotter, even, than her own.
"Oh, Reb, don't be so terrible with me," she said.
She moved back a bit, then reached and took his hands and raised them to her naked breasts. She pressed them against her.
He gripped her flesh and looked deeply into her eyes. "You don't know what you're asking, Laura. For Crissakes, you don't know. I'm not like other boys."
"Yes, I know," she answered quickly, catching hope and intending to make the most of it. "You're not like other boys. You're divine."
Reb groaned. It was a mournful sound, like the lament of a slave after a whipping. His fingers clutched her, then released her, then stiffened and flew away from her body.
Laura was not discouraged. She felt again, felt strongly, that Reb was at a turning point, one that would either take him away from her, or to her.
She waited a second; then, gathering all of her sensuality around her like a cloak, she leaned forward, burrowed her bare breasts to him again and reached with her hand to his thigh, then over it until she felt that erect sign of his response. She grabbed him and squeezed him hard.
It was the action that caused Reb's breaking point.
He choked a cry, then spun around and gripped her by the shoulders. Again he shook her hard. And this time, it was different. It was vengeful and hateful and made not of a will that sought understanding. Instead, it was made up of parts of frustration and hate and deep, deep longing.
"All right, you bitch," he hissed. "All right, girl. You're going to get it. You've been wanting it so goddamn bad, all right, you'll get it. And you'll be sorry, bitch, white bitch, real sorry, 'cause you don't know how I give it the only way that I can give it."
With that he released his hold upon her shoulders, drew one big fist back, then thrashed it forward and struck Laura hard upon the cheek bone.
She reeled backward and landed on her back upon the hay. She felt the instant swelling that came to her face. And she felt shock, deep, severe shock for the blow that she had received. But she had no time to consider it. Reb's hands dug into her hair and he stood above her. Then she felt herself being raised to her feet, felt a pause, then felt a hard blow at her right eye. Even before she crushed to the floor of the stall she felt the popping bulge of skin it had caused. And she felt dizzy and confused, could not understand this strange preamble to sex, had not bargained for it, did not wish it, yet knew that she must be a part of it because she had forced it. And then she felt a sharp kick at her groin and as she groaned and clutched herself there she understood all of Reb's words, all of his resistance to sex with her or any girl. She understood it well. This beatings and mutilations were a necessary element to sex for Reb.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," he cried. "Oh, you, bitch, what you've caused what you're making me do to you."
He grabbed her hair again and jerked her head upward. But this time he did not raise her to her feet. He held her extended, her head arched backward. Then, while he held her with the one hand, he slapped her hard across the face with the other hand, back and forth, forward and backhanded, again and again until Laura thought that she would lose consciousness. But she did not. In a moment, Reb released her and she fell forward on the hay.
There was a pause. It was only momentary. During it, Laura heard movement and shuffling. She did not know, or care, what caused it. But when she slowly raised her head and turned, she knew why she had been released and knew, too, the origin of the noises. Reb had undressed. She looked at him, and as the moonlight bathed him, she felt very real, truly genuine fear. His body was strong and well-muscled. His sexuality was immense, so terribly strong and weird and virile and treacherous, that Laura had a fleeting thought that made her think how right it was that Reb should be in a stable with horses, nude, exposed, erect and ready. She knew that he compared well with any stud horse.
She uttered a little cry, then rolled and attempted to scamper to her feet. Reb took several quick strides toward her, then once more gripped her by the hair and jerked her head and turned it to face him.
"Look at me, bitch," he shouted. "Look, you goddamn teasing bitch; look and see how I'm going to hurt you."
He jerked Laura to her feet. He released his grip on her hair. Then he struck one hand downward, caught the bodice of her dress and ripped it downward and away from her body. The force of the ripping cloth made her stumble, tearing both shoes from her feet. Then she stood straight again and faced Reb, knowing that he would not be satisfied until she was completely nude. He stepped forward, paused, then hooked his fingers into the top of her half-slip, paused, then seared it from her body. Now she was nude except for the tiny white panties she wore. They were a mere fluff of departure as Reb pulled them from her body. And now she was naked before his hot eyes, before his angry fists, before his great and steaming masculinity.
She tried to breath deeply, but could not. The pain at her groin was too much to allow breathing. But then she forgot it as she knew a new contact, a giant blow to her right breast which indented it, flattened it, then carried across to her other breast, striking it hard and outward until Laura was sure that it had left her body.
Laura fell to her knees before Reb. He was in front of her in a flash. And again he gripped her hair and jerked her head upright. And then he applied a new whipping to her body. One that was invoked by the very symbol of man, the symbol that was meant for love, not hate.
Slowly, Reb moved closer to her. Her breasts, hurt and painful, raised up to him. He looked down for a moment; then, with a mighty twist of his hips he lashed himself against both breasts, striking first one, then the other. Then he lashed from the other side, hitting both of her breasts again with his great strength. And he did not stop. He lashed and lashed and lashed; again and again and again he twisted those agile hips, spun himself like a top and lashed his black strength against the white softness of Laura. And he chanted as he struck her, chanted some strange jungle call that seemed generations away from that moment, from any moment of civilized times.
Laura felt the constant, crashing whipping of his manhood. It was as hard against her, as terrifying and hurtful as his fists could ever be. And for a moment she wondered how she had ever wished for this demon thing to be invoked upon her. And then her attitude, her feelings changed. As Reb whipped himself against her, she realized that she was feeling stimulation. She had not expected it. It seemed too impossible. Yet, it was true a glow came to her, heightened her feelings, made her quiver and yearn and feel a deep stir within her loins as Reb twisted madly and struck her again and again, across the breasts, then to the shoulders to beat there, then higher until he invoked a new fury, twisted harder, hissed heavy breath, chanted madly and struck her again and again across the face, from cheek to cheek, back and forth, harder and harder, as his hips whirred before her face like a million voltage machine.
And then he stopped.
Laura fell forward. Then she was jerked upright again and once more she knew the crash of the big Negro's fist; against her breasts, both of them again, then at her collar bone with such crushing power that she felt broken and beyond repair, and then once more at her jaw, right and left in a quick tattoo that made her head jerk from side to side like a puppet jerked by strings.
When Reb stopped this beating, Laura collapsed upon the hay and rolled to her back. She looked up and saw Reb, panting hard, standing above her. And as she looked at him, she knew that she did not care. With the first fright of a beating over, she did not care, cared for nothing but that which she had so relentlessly sought a sexual joining with the big colored boy.
Reb fell to his knees at her feet. Then his hands gripped hard beneath her knees and jerked them upward. She braced them herself and the action seemed to puzzle Reb, as if he could not understand that she wanted him, that she could possibly understand his madness and want him still.
"Come to me," Laura cried. "Come to me, Reb, baby, darling come to me now. I'll take you I'll make you well."
There was a long pause. It was broken by a tearful cry from Reb as he lunged forward, achieved her, then surpassed that achievement and made a descent like none Laura had ever known ever expected to know could ever possibly know again.
"UGHHHHHHHHH," she groaned. It was not from the pain of her beating. It was from the new pain of Reb's kind of love.
He pounded to her. For a moment, she could not move. But then, very gradually, she took strength, took new passion, too, and raised to meet the assault he committed to her body. And she met it lustily, with a high arch of her hips, a hold, a choked cry from her throat, then a withdrawal, a bounce upon the hay and a new rising, a new choked cry, a new latching of herself to him as they paused, before breaking again, then meeting again, then breaking and meeting and rising and falling and rising like a constant, crazy wave of hot, hot ocean.
Suddenly, Laura could go no farther, no higher, could go no place except to her finale.
"Ohhhhhh," she cried. "Oh. Oh. OHHHH. Oh! OH!"
And then it was Reb's finale, too. He lashed and struck and entered and left and lashed again. And all the time he panted and chanted and blubbered the mixed invocations of hate and love and torment and release. "LAURA!" he yelped.
He thrust a final time. Then found the strength for still one more mighty, animal lunge of his body. And then they screamed together and pounded down the course of final ecstasy.
While Laura moaned her sexual happiness and fought to make her breathing even again, Reb cried like a baby. He blubbered and cried his sorrow.
"I'm sorry sorry, sorry, sorry, Laura, so sorry, I want to die, to die, I'm sorry."
She raised, then caught his head in her arms and gently pressured it to the comfort of her breasts. But still Reb cried, blubbering his tears into the softness of her crushed and hurt breasts.
"There, there, now," she said tenderly. "It'll be all right; it will, Reb, I promise you."
And she knew that it would indeed be all right with Reb once again. She knew that when he quieted, after they had rested, that they would come together again. And she knew that no beating would precede the love they would share. She knew that that part of the big Negro's life was over.
CHAPTER TEN
The final beach party of the spring vacation at Fort Bixdale was filled with songs and sadness, songs that provoked memories of good times, sadness for those good times because they were over.
And the blazing bonfire, the songs, the sadness, the nearness of bare bodies, and the beach and ocean, moved everyone to their very special vacation conclusions.
Carla Torro, standing close to a boy, a near-stranger, felt a new awareness for his body and for her own close to his. She had reviewed in her mind the horror-scenes she had made with Adam. And, although memory was hazy, it had effected a change within her. She knew that she was capable of giving and receiving love with another, that her habit of self-love was as much of the past as was her childhood.
Carla tested the newness of herself.
During a song she sneaked her arm around the boy's waist. He responded in like manner, but after a moment his hand raised and he cupped Carla's breast, held it gently and lovingly.
Soon, they wandered away from the bonfire and the others who were gathered around it. Carla and the boy found a quiet place on the beach. They embraced, standing, pressuring their bodies against each other so that the boy could feel the push of Carla's thighs and breasts and she could feel the hard stretch of his manhood reaching out to her as if he beckoned. And indeed he did.
When they lowered to the sand, they embraced more desperately. Their mouths opened as their tongues darted and adjusted, played, rolled together, then parted to pat a rat-a-tat-tat with their tips, back and forth to each other. And their hands explored. Carla trailed her fingers from the boy's neck, to his shoulders and chest and finally to his waist, where she paused a moment. But only a moment. Then she sneaked her hand inside the waistband of the boy's swimming trunks.
His body stiffened. And so did Carla's when he reached inside her bra top and clutched the full roundness of her bare flesh, then released it to play with thumb and forefinger upon her nipples. They grew very large, very hot. And then the boy's hand left that delight and lowered, then duplicated her own action and moved inside the bottom of her bikini. For a while they wandered and played and continued their kisses. But then the encumbrance of clothing became too much. They separated long enough to disband their swimsuits. Then there was the new thrill of their bodies bare and wrapped together in the rolling togetherness of honeymoon-cake.
The boy grew bold. He raised from Carla's mouth, hunched to his knees, then devoured her with kisses at her cheeks, and ears, eyes, nose, mouth again, then lower to her neck and shoulders and to her breasts, where he mouthed her hard and furiously, where he played his lips upon her nipples, lolled them and loved them, then released them as he kissed onward and downward to her stomach. He engulfed her bareness here, devoured it with an assault by lips and tongue, by all of him that could give him to her.
And soon, Carla had to return the gift of his kisses. She rolled the boy to his back and kissed him hard and over all of his body, going from neck to waist in a hot, anxious giving that found her tongue thrashing like a whip, moving down, down, ever downward until at last the boy could stand no more and grabbed her, raised her mouth again to his as he rolled her to her back, braced himself within the cradle she made, then took her took her gently, lovingly, painstakingly endowed with love.
Carla, at his very first thrust, knew that she was cured of the childhood habit which had plagued her young adult life. She knew it by the thrill she received, by the thrill that she knew that she gave. And she knew it because she had not a thought for the muss and fuss and confusion of person that she knew love made. She welcomed it.
And at the very last she screamed her delight, yelped it as the boy pounded his hips back and forth in frantic lust, in final giving, in the quest for that great, great, spellbinding release.
They achieved it. Mightily, for him, thrice for Carla, and as she rolled to her side and gathered the boy's body to hers again for resting, she knew that she had found peace, that she would never again be tormented by guilt, that she would know only happiness, that this boy, and Fort Bixdale, had prepared her for an exciting, very eventful life. o o o
Margie and Pixie used the wind-up beach party as an excuse for further and deeper sexual experimentation. They had tried everything. They were adept at sex-uality's greatest offerings. But their curiosity and inventiveness prevailed, and they lusted for even more. And they found it in the person of three strangers they met at this final Fort Bixdale gathering.
Margie suggested a strange tableau: "You know," she told Pixie, "just to see how it is."
They deemed indeed to see how it was.
At first, it was complicated, but then they found their rhythm, the freedom they needed, and they thrashed mightily and erotically. Margie was upon her hands and knees, her buttocks jutting upward, grasped by a boy's hands as he lurched and descended and withdrew and lurched again to her bounding hips. But Margie was not content to only receive. She had to give. And did, to another. She bobbed her head to the naked and stretched body of one of the stranger-boys, bobbed to him even as her hips continued to shake and bound high and low to the giving of the boy behind her. And, as if the course of sexuality's gift needed to be carried on in a steady line from one to the other, the boy to whom Margie bobbed, twisted his upper body so that he in turn could bob and nuzzle and consume at the thrusting, arching lower-body of Pixie. Pixie worked hard against him, receiving great thrill. And giving it, too. Giving to the third boy who was on his knees before her, touching and playing at her breasts as she moved her head upon him, as it bobbed, giving excitement even as she received it from another boy in another quarter, the end of the line of herself, the boys, and her friend, Margie, giving and receiving in like enthusiasm.
The five of them ground together, giving, receiving, and giving some more until at last there could be no more giving, not even any more receiving.
They strained, erupted, then collapsed in a pile upon the beach. For a moment, they all panted hard. But then Margie and Pixie started to laugh and the boys joined it. They laughed and laughed and laughed.
Laura, wearing dark glasses and a man's sweatshirt with tight, attractive slacks, was content at this last gathering of the Fort Bixdale college clan to stand by the fire, next to Reb, singing, thinking of the experiences she had had, of the fun, and to think also of home and the things of everyday life that awaited her there.
"You sing well," Reb said between songs.
"So do you."
He grinned. "You do something else mighty well, too."
"Flatterer," she said, pursing her mouth at him in a funny-face pose.
"Laura," Reb said seriously, then paused. "What, Reb?"
"I'll probably never see you again, will I?"
"Probably not," she said. "It would be nice to think otherwise, but it's not very realistic. We're going to be thousands of miles apart."
"Yes, thousands of miles," he repeated, saying it slowly.
"But I'll never forget you, Reb. Never, never, never."
"No kidding?" he asked, brightening.
"No kidding," she said. "You taught me a lot. I know how I should be that, well, teasing isn't always the way to . "
"Shhhh," he cautioned, interrupting. "I'm the one who has learned. About everything. If it wasn't for you, Laura, for the way you were when I attacked you if it wasn't that you still took me and accepted me and kind of loved me, well, hell I'd have gone right on thinking that the only way I could enjoy sex was through brutality through force and using all my hate for so many things against the girl I happened to be going for."
"You shhhhhh, too," she laughed. "There's no need to think about it now. No need at all."
"No, there isn't," he agreed.
A new song started. Reb and Laura joined it, raising their voices high, happily, strong and full. And as the song continued, as they joined with the others singing the songs that would be their farewell to vacation and Fort Bixdale, they both felt older, more mature, and very, very happy, much as if these few days they had known in a strange southern town had provided them with insight for the future, a future that they knew they could make good and happy and very, very productive.
The song ended. A new one started. Reb and Laura joined hands and raised their voices high once again, smiling from time to time at each other, conveying all that they felt, for each other, for everyone and everything.
* * *
The songs of parting that issued from the group around the bonfire offered Kay Faubus nothing but sadness, deep, never-ending sadness. She could not join in the songs with the others. She could not even stand near them. She was too much apart from them all, she decided. So she stood by a tree at the rear of the crowd and watched the others while she thought of, and missed, and felt sad for, the boy, York, whom she had found, then lost, and had been unable to find again.
While the others sang their farewell to Fort Bixdale, Kay's mind flitted. She thought of her plight, that which she had come to Bixdale to achieve, that which she had not yet found. She was still without a true sexual experience with a boy of her own age. She was without normal sex, had known only the deviate and strange sex of which she was already all too familiar. Then she thought of her uncle. She would be returning to him. She would, she knew, have to resume her incestuous life with him. She had nothing else, no one else, not even the precedent of a relationship with a boy that which she so longed for, and had, when she met York, felt hope for. But he was gone and hope had gone with him.
When a new song started, Kay thought of York, how he had looked, his few words, his expression of concern and worry for her. And she thought of his boldness, of the way he had rescued her, taken her from Adam. She thought how much it was like the young rescuing the young from the old. Then she drew a mental parallel with that and how she needed to be saved from her uncle. And she knew that only York, an experience with him, could effect that for her.
One song ended; another began. She listened to it and felt a deeper sadness invade her body, her being, every part of her. And then a new song started and it was gayer, but Kay felt none of its happiness. She was plagued by unhappiness. She was doomed. She was lost.
As this new, happy song ended, Kay turned from it and from those happy ones about the bonfire. She could stand no more of the sadness of others' happiness. She would flee the others to be completely alone, to get used to that aloneness as the only quality she would ever in her life know.
Kay gave her head a slight shake, swinging her long, black hair from where it had rested at her waist to around her shoulder and trailing down her back to her hips. At one time, she would have known what a fetching sight she made, her long hair flowing, her body, large and well molded, revealed vividly in a sparse swimsuit that was even more daring than the bikinis she had once worn. She knew how she might look to others. But she did not care. There was only one for whom she wished to strike any pose. Or, to give any of herself.
She waited a moment; then when the song ended and the pause was sprinkled with light laughter, she turned abruptly around and started to walk away from the happy scene.
Kay had taken less than a dozen paces when the dark form appeared from behind a tree and stood erect and directly in her path.
She froze in her tracks. Her body trembled with fright, then trembled more violently as the figure took a step toward her, then another and still another. And then the figure paused.
Kay's heart leaped over the moon. She felt a rage of joy course through her body as if she were on a roller-coaster. She wanted to shout and laugh and cry, all at once. But she did none of these mundane things. Instead, she leaped forward, hurried to the dark form who was really York.
She stopped in front of him. She could hardly restrain her arms from leaping up and circling his neck.
But she held them tight to her side. Very tight. So tight that she could hardly breathe. "Kay," was all York said.
"Yes, York," she answered. Her voice was low and throaty.
"Kay, I just had to see you I had to but I didn't want to. So I've been standing here watching hoping well . "
She wanted to shout words of love at him. But she did not. She could not. His words had so quickly given her happiness that she could not speak.
"But I guess you can't hold much lot with the-likes of me," York said sadly. "I'm kind of a ass or at least I have been for the last year. But I think maybe I'm going to change stop this beachcombing bit and go back to college. I would if if well, if I could if . "
"If what, York?" Kay finally said, finding her voice at the very time when she most needed it.
"If well, if I could maybe see you sometimes you know, well, what I was thinking, well, I've been asking around about you and and I thought I might go to Whitfield this next term. I can I don't have any family I can go anywhere, so I might as well go to Whitfield, that is, if I could if . "
Kay screeched with happiness, then leaped forward and caught her arms around York's neck. For a moment he was startled, but only for a moment. Then he wound his arms around her and brought his mouth down hard upon hers, pressuring gently at first, then more firmly until she parted her lips and took his plunging tongue. She drew upon him as if he were the nutrient of life itself. And York clutched her tightly to him. Kay felt the rise and thrust of his passion at her thighs. She welcomed it, adored it. She cuddled to it. And she nibbled furiously upon his tongue until he withdrew it in order to take her own. She gave it. He received it with a groan of pleasure as he clamped her even tighter against him. Then, one hand left Kay's back; it came down, then upward and between them until York grasped one large breast. He kneaded it. Fondled it. Loved it. Pinched at the nipple, twirled it, pinched at the fullness again, then crumpled all of it in his strong fingers.
"Oh, York, York," Kay whispered, pulling her mouth from his and placing it at his ear. "I've waited so long so, so long for you."
"And I've waited for a girl like you all of my life I've waited," he mumbled.
They kissed again. It lasted a long time. A very long time. It lasted until both of their bodies trembled with a desire that they could not very much longer contain.
York broke their embrace. Then he stooped and quickly lifted Kay off her feet, catching her under her knees and at her back as she put her arms around his neck and her long, black hair trailed behind.
York carried her down the path toward the beach. And when he reached it, he turned toward the moon and strode strongly forward until he reached a secluded spot surrounded by medium-sized sand dunes.
He lowered her in the middle of the small clearing. They embraced again. And again, after their tongues and lips had latched and twirled, York brought his mouth away from Kay's. It was a happy parting because it caused the pause that would offer greater closeness.
At the same instant, York raised his hands to Kay's bra top as she began to tug at the waistband of his shorts. They laughed at the togetherness of their thoughts and actions. Then they brought their hands to their own attire and disbanded it. And then, nude and steaming for each other, they embraced again. Within a few seconds, they lowered to the sand. Then they stretched long as they continued their embraces, lengthened it so that their feet could meet and mix, then so their thighs would slap together and their breast and chest would meet in a squashing contact, one that was pressured even tighter as their arms fought about each other's back.
Soon, they rolled apart for a second, a bare second, a glorious second that offered time for York to raise, to move to Kay's feet as she braced them, to come between the part she made of her thighs, then to pause and look lovingly into her moonlit face.
"It's crazy," he said. "I know it is real crazy but I well, I love you, Kay."
"And I love you, York," she replied in a loving whisper. "Love you, love you, love you with all my heart, and it is crazy crazy and wonderful and and maybe even forever. I have to change too, but I can!"
"Forever," he repeated. "Yes, we can have a 'forever,' can't we?"
"We can. We will. We will, York."
Then they stopped talking. Gently, York shifted his body forward, came over her so he could look into her face at the same moment that he brought his hips carefully forward, then move dynamically forward and with a twist that make Kay cry a short call of heavenly pleasure. And then they were joined. They paused, as if they meant to give this first moment of contact its fullest so that they might always remember it, recall it up to memory from time to time as they wanted it during the years ahead. And then they moved again, slowly apart, then together, then apart, then together in a faster speed. And their passion mounted with their speed. They fought their bodies to each other, smacked together, held, then parted, then came together with a new, more thrilling contact because of the slight parting they had known, the parting, like all the others, that enhanced their love, brought it steaming to a head, in a gallop, a leap, a scream and a cry as they set their course and dashed upon it toward the finale that would tie their love, make it lasting and forever thrilling.
"York!" Kay suddenly exclaimed. "York. I LOVE YOU. You, you, youuuuuuuuuu. EEEEEEEE. Ohhhh, York, darlinggggggg."
"Yes, Kay. Kay, Kay, Kayyyyyyy," he chanted.
Their words died as they could go no farther, as they could make no farther reach into the sky to grasp the stars, the planets, while they orbited, then thudded heavily to earth, to the reality of each other's body, tired, soft, wet with perspiration, but together in the final haven they made for each other with their comforting arms.
When her breathing quieted, when her heart had returned to a pace of normalcy, disturbed only by the fullness she felt within it, Kay raised her head a bit and cuddled it deeper into York's bare chest.
In the distance she could hear the final song of the beach party, the one that marked the end of vacation at Fort Bixdale. It was a sad song, a happy-sad song that told of farewells and parting, of relationships made and now ended. And as the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" drifted to her, Kay cuddled closer to York and thought not of farewells and sadness, but of the tomorrows that she would have, the tomorrows that she knew would bring her away from the incest-insanity of her uncle, a tomorrow that would provide her with York and love and happiness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Laura Stockland wanted to be the first to leap from the still open convertible when she halted it in front of the girls' dormitory at Whitfield College, but she was unsuccessful in this accomplishment. Margie and Pixie, Kay and Carla, and the tall, handsome boy, York, who had driven north with them, bounded over the sides of the car even before she brought it to a full halt.
For a moment, Laura was disappointed. She liked to be first in all things. But her disappointment faded as fast as regret for the passing of a mean mother-in-law when she turned to the side and saw Ron Bolton running with all his Olympic might toward the car. He ran like he was besieged, as indeed, Laura guessed, he was. But, in very un-trackman-like fashion, he was grinning broadly as he ran.
"Watch out, I'm coming," he shouted. "Give me room, baby. Move over."
Laura laughed and scooted out of the driver's place behind the steering wheel. It was good that she did, for Ron Bolton did not slow and halt before the car. He leaped over the side and settled behind the wheel. Then he jerked the car into motion and away from the curb.
"Hey, what is this?" Laura protested, smiling happily. "An abduction?"
"That's it, baby," Ron said excitedly. "I'm abducting you forever."
"Humph! A fine thing, and not even a welcome home kiss."
"No time, baby," Ron said. "I've got to be on the field in an hour."
"There you go," Laura said. "Always thinking of training."
"And you. Mostly you," he said, not taking his eyes off the road as he zoomed the car up a steep, snow-covered hill.
"Oh, then you have missed me," she said.
"I've missed you," he answered. "Still do, but I'm going to take care of that in a few minutes."
"Oh, are you?" she said, kidding, hoping that he meant it. She moved over in the seat so that she could press close to his side, touch his leg with her thigh, then move her hand and rest it on his knee in a slight touch of anticipation, for him, and for herself.
Ron remained silent. But he smiled. So did Laura when she saw that Ron's destination was the cabin at the top of the ski hill, the cabin that had so often been the place for their love-making, the place where she had bid him good-bye. It seemed very right that they should say their first real hello there.
The car nosed forward, then jerked back when Ron braked it in front of the cabin at the top of the hill.
Now he did not leap from the car. Instead, he turned toward Laura and opened his arms to her.
She entered his arms and lifted her face.
"Hello," he said. "Hello, my girl."
"Hello," she answered.
Ron reached up and removed her sunglasses. "Hey, you look different. All kind of puffy and everything."
"I am," she said. "I had a fall from a surfboard."
"Aw, poor baby," he said. He touched lightly at her eyes. Then he said, "Jeeez, but I've missed you. Missed you like everything."
"I've missed you, too," she said.
Ron brought his arms all the way around her back and pulled her closer. Laura lifted her face and parted her lips and made a round welcome for Ron's darting tongue. They kissed a long time. They crushed their bodies as close together as they could, then parted, then crushed together again.
Laura felt loved and wanted. And she felt excited, too. She had really not thought that she would feel excitement with Ron Bolton, not ever, because he was usually serious and severe, intent upon many things, intent upon her, too, but not in the way that she demanded. But he did excite her. Greatly. And it was more than a part of homecoming, it was a kind of comfort that she realized she really needed. And Ron Bolton offered it.
Slowly, he brought his mouth away from hers. "Come on, let's get out of this damn car."
He jumped over the side, then skirted around the front of it to open the door next to Laura. He held it for her as she crawled out.
"Oooh, it's cold," she said, clasping her arms around her body.
"Cold, nothing," he replied. "The thaw's already started up here."
"No kidding, has it, Ron?"
"All right, don't be funny," he said, smiling. "I've thawed out just by thoughts of you."
"Have you, Ron?" she asked quickly. "Sure."
"Really?"
"Hey, what's with you anyway? You act like you don't believe I still go for you or something."
"I just want to be sure, I guess," she said.
Ron pushed open the door of the ski shed. It creaked, having grown rusty from non-use since the thaw had stopped all skiing. Laura entered the shed, moved to the center, then whirled around, looking at all of it like a long absent friend. And everything seemed the same since she had last been there. Skis and sleds and boots and other odds and ends of the winter were scattered about the room. For a moment, she remembered Fort Bixdale and all she had known there. Then she thought how quickly she had been returned to her natural surroundings, those of snow and ice and winter, those of college and friends and dances and classes and teachers and and Ron Bolton.
"Oh, Ron,' it's heavenly," she said, whirling again, extending her arms to take in all of her surroundings.
"You are nothing else but you could possibly be heavenly or hellish or anything," he said seriously.
His voice sounded different, Laura decided. Very exciting and confident and very, very masculine.
"Come here," Ron commanded.
Laura walked over to him. He looked at her a long moment, then did not kiss her but turned quickly and moved to the far wall. He snatched up a mat that leaned against the wall there. Then, with a strong throw, he tossed it to the center of the room.
Laura looked down at it, then up at Ron. Then her eyes narrowed, making the green of them seem darker, as dark, almost, as the sweater she wore, just as the slacks that covered her were as black as her hair.
"Oh, gymnastics, eh?" she said, trying for lightness.
"Don't be cute," Ron said, coming close to her again. "This is no time for cuteness."
"What's it time for, Ron?" she asked, raising her face to him again.
"It's a time for hello. A time for you and me, Laura. A time for love."
She was quiet a moment. She thought of the seriousness of his words, the way they sounded very comfortable to her. And then she said, "Yes, Ron, I guess it is a time for this for us and love."
He grabbed her to him. They kissed again, more furiously this time, each trying to give to the other some semblance of all they felt, all the love that had nurtured between them during their separation.
Ron finally pushed her away from him, even as she cooed and tried to make their embrace last. Then he smiled and reached to the bottom of her sweater. He gripped it, then paused.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," she replied.
He pulled the sweater upward and over her head. Then he reached behind her and undid the clasp of her bra. He let it join the sweater upon the floor. Then he stepped back and looked at the glory of her breasts.
Laura actually blushed as Ron's eyes held tight to her breasts, as they moved over all the roundness of them, then centered upon her well-centered, and firm, nipples. And then she could stand his eyes upon her no longer. She had to break the spell he cast upon them. And she" meant to break it by greater love, closeness, and by the clash of their bodies.
"Hurry, Ron, please, hurry," she said.
Laura unbuckled the clasp of her slacks, then stepped out of them. Then she kicked off her loafers. And then she was nude and waiting as Ron whipped off his sweater, dropped his slacks and shorts and finally stepped toward her, naked, and very, very anxious.
Their bodies smacked together. Their hands roamed as their mouths glued to each other and as their tongues twisted and darted and played and frolicked with the abandon of children.
And then they urged each other to lower upon the mat. They reached it at the same time without breaking their embrace. But then Ron did break it. He pushed up and looked at all the long, lovely length of Laura as she stretched her arms over her head and raised slightly, puffing her breasts outward, making the nipples wave at him, causing her stomach to go flat and hard and inward in a way that emphasized the flare of her hips, their perfect roundness and the slope of them into her perfect legs that were strong and meant for clasping about the waist of a slim, young man.
"Oh, come to me, Ron, please," Laura pleaded.
"I will," he said huskily. "But not until until . "
He bent and kissed the nipple of each breast. Then he gently mouthed them. Then he grew more dynamically moved and lowered his mouth to all of her flesh. He consumed each breast in turn, taking all of it, loving it, letting Laura feel the heat of his mouth, the lash of his tongue and even the small, nibbling bites of his white, strong teeth.
And then he released her and raised and looked at all of her body again.
"Oh, Ron Ron, Ron, Ron it's so good to be home again," she said.
Laura reached out and dug her fingers in a tight grip within his short, curly hair. Then she leaned back again, pulling him to her, forcing his face to her body again.
He went to it willingly and happily. He went to her ribs, to the far sides of them even, causing Laura to turn first on one side, then on the other, as he explored her flesh with his kisses and his tongue, as he mouthed her until she turned pink and rosy and hot, hot, hot. And then he mouthed down the smooth path of her flesh until he reached her navel. He paused lovingly, caressingly, passionately endowed for this never-never land of feminine glory. He kissed her perfectly. He kissed her with the fight pressure of pursed lips. He kissed her with the very tip of his tongue, which he had made sharp and anxious for that endeavor. And then he flicked his tongue over her body, from side to side, and back again, then lower, and finally lower still until Laura gasped, screamed out a delirious call of passion, then wound her thighs tightly to him even as she bent to a position that offered her Ron's body, his for loving, for kissing and tonguing and great, great intimacies.
They wound together like opposite numbers upside-down. They cried out, then quieted only to blubber new adorations of the great gift of each other's body. They worked like beavers they steamed like engines and they thrashed about the mat, over it and off it, around and around as if they were one, first one atop, then the other, then both on their sides while they continued to give of all the orality that drove them to the other.
And then Ron pulled away, evaded Laura's reaching hands and raised to his knees. She rose and half-fell toward him. He caught her by the arms, but refused her lips and the new front-embrace she offered. He twisted her around, adjusted her to her knees, made her go high in buttocks and low in front, where she turned her head to rest her cheek upon her crossed arms.
In a moment, Laura felt Ron's hands upon her hips. Then she was jerked toward him as he pounded forward. He twisted as he moved and she twisted in the opposite direction and they created between them the grind and howl and great, great sensation of opposite giving that was really close, so close that neither seemed capable of further movement. But they did move. And, miraculously, they were able to persevere and still conserve themselves, their energy, their love, their erotic giving.
Ron thrust harder. Laura cried out, but not in anger, not in shame for this remote and opposite way of love. She cried out in pleasure, for the pleasure that bubbled inside her, that grew and grew and grew, then threatened explosion and was saved from it as Ron, shouting out a tragic cry of wanting, tore himself away from her body.
Laura rolled to her back, braced herself, and opened her arms for her strong man-lover.
Ron did not go immediately to her. He fell to a sitting position facing her, and beside her, as he panted to regain his breath, to bring it from the stammering rupture of his body that it was causing. And while he labored for breath, while he waited, he reached and fondled once again her large and cherry-topped breasts. Then he trailed his hands down her body until he reached her thighs. Then he touched her there.
She arched and cried, "Ohhh, Ron, I can't stand it. Don't don't do anything more to me I can't can't can't . "
But his fingers rolled and he caressed her while he stared into her eyes, saw her eyes roll in rapture, show white, then look at him again in an expression of faraway pleasure, the far, far, far kind of pleasure that at first seemed a mere hope, then bloomed and blossomed into reality the reality of eruption, climax, churning and burning and thrashing end.
And Laura arched violently against his touch, arched so deeply that she was supported by her heels and head alone. And still she thrust to go higher and harder against the touch that he deliberately kept light and loving, very teasing and encouraging. And then he stopped his caresses.
Laura flopped to her back. Then stiffened and braced again and opened herself like a clam shell for the assault Ron was meant to bring.
He brought it, tortuously slow at first, moving from side to side, burrowing, cuddling, holding tight, then withdrawing in the same slow, loving manner. And Laura went to him in like manner slowly, upward, tight against him, clasping and pulsating, then holding until it was his will to move again. And slowness set their course for speed.
Suddenly, neither could endure any more. They thrashed together like explosive powder, rubbed and ignited that powder, then moved faster and faster and faster still, then still faster as Laura cried and blubbered sounds of love, of passion, of her great, great happiness. And Ron cried out, too. Loud, then hissingly low and savage as the genes of passion gathered for their unleashing. He bent far over her. Their mouths locked as their bodies thrashed harder. Then they pulled their mouths apart and each clasped their teeth to the other's shoulder. They bit hard. Then drew blood as their bodies churned and bounced and seemed independent of the tight clamp they committed to each other's flesh, to the savage hold their teeth invoked.
And then they reached End of the trail, that high, high trail of rapture that ended beyond the stars, beyond endurance, that ending that set the clamp of their teeth harder, so hard that they drew blood at their mouths even as their bodies knew the healing of splashing release.
So intense was their love-making that reality returned slowly. But with it was the realization of the love they shared. And for Laura, it was the answer to many things: to comfort and security, to restlessness ended, to the adventure that beckoned from the future that would include her with Ron, always with Ron.
When they had dressed, when they stood at the door of the ski shed, they embraced once more. Softly and sweetly, they embraced and told each other of their love. Then Ron extended her at arms' length.
"Hey," he said. "I forgot to ask you. Were you a good girl while you were away from me?"
"Pretty good," she said, smiling vividly.
"Pretty good," he repeated. "I'm not so sure I like that. Now, what about it, no more vacationing at Fort Bixdale, eh?"
She cuddled into his chest and put her arms around his waist. She smiled, but kept her face hidden as she said, "Oh, I don't know. Bixdale was great. But so are you, Ron. I'm off vacations for a while, but maybe well, you can never tell. Maybe I will go to good old Sexdale again some day just to make me appreciate you all the more."
First, Ron stiffened. Then he relaxed. Then he laughed hard. So did Laura. But she kept her face hidden in the comfort of her lover's arms.
