Occasionally a book is published that has an enormous impact on both scholarly and popular thought throughout this country and eventually the entire world. One such book was published by Random House in 1970. The title is The Greening of America and the author is Charles A. Reich, who teaches law at Yale University Law School. This book caused immediate and widespread excitement, and discussions of it are still going on. The excitement is understandable, for in his highly readable and eminently reasonable work Professor Reich predicts that there is a new revolution coming in America in the very near future.
Reich does not mean an old-fashioned revolution in which violence and bloodshed are the major elements, however. As Justice William O. Douglas has said, "This is a book about Revolution-not in the Marxist sense, but Revolution against many of the values which Technology has thrust upon us. The question is, can we develop a new Consciousness that places the Individual and Humanistic values above the machine?" And in Reich's own words, "This is the revolution of the new generation. Their protest and rebellion, their culture, clothes, music, drugs, ways of thought, and liberal life-style are not a passing fad or a form of dissent and refusal, nor are they in any sense irrational. The whole emerging pattern, from ideals to campus demonstrations to beads and bell bottoms to the Woodstock Festival, makes sense and is part of a consistent philosophy. It is both necessary and inevitable, and in time it will include not only youth, but all people in America."
As for the development of a new Consciousness, which Justice Douglas mentions, Reich believes that it is already here. He calls it Consciousness III and states flatly that it is the new generation. (Consciousness I is defined as the traditional outlook of the American farmer, small businessman and worker trying to get ahead, while Consciousness II represents the values of an organized society.) He further contends that the greatest question we face today is how we can live in and with a technological society and still preserve our humanity. The entire book is an argument with many examples designed to prove that we can. Today's young people are doing it, according to this argument, and the inevitable acceptance of their values by the rest of us will cause the quiet but dramatic revolution he predicts.
The use of drugs, while their benefits and dangers are still debatable, is obviously one of the important values of Professor Reich's Consciousness III. He devotes considerable space to it, quoting a poem named "Stoned" from R. Crumb's Head Comix and going on to say: "'Stoned' refers to the drug experience, but it also expresses an attitude toward life, a way of life, that has found the immense power inherent in changing one's own life, the power that comes from laughter, looseness, and the refusal to take seriously that which is rigid and nonhuman -the power to 'keep on truckin'.' To fight the machine is to experience powerlessness. To change one's life is to recapture the truth that only individuals and individual lives are real."
In the perspective of a larger revolution, the sexual revolution we have heard so much about becomes more real and more meaningful. If uninhibited individuals with youthful ideas are going to make up their own minds about morals and relationships, major changes will certainly follow. And if those changes help us retain our basic humanity, it is difficult to see any serious danger in them, as shocking and tradition-shattering they may be to some people.
Trap for a Tease is the story of a revolution that takes place within the confines of one American family. It is the story of Barbara Bennett, a young girl who studies and measures her own values, which are definitely those of the new generation instead of those of her elders. It is also the story of the struggle between her parents' ideas and her own, a struggle in which many consciences are dissected and examined. Barbara is not selfish, and wants her entire family to be happy, but her battle to help others meets with considerable resistance. Nor can all of her actions be praised, even when her motives are unquestionably meritorious. Her eventual victory may be predictable, but the precise details of it are not.
Drugs, for instance, play an important role in Barbara's struggle, and her use of them may be deemed questionable. We do not, as publishers or individuals, advocate the use of drugs, for we feel that too little is known about the results of such use and that further scientific study is needed. This is a true-to-life story, however, and realism demands the presence of the aphrodisiacs Barbara obtains and utilizes. If the reader wishes, the book can be taken as a warning against drug abuse-but it can just as easily be considered merely an entertaining story.
Certainly Barbara is a very genuine person, and as such she undergoes change and development throughout the course of the events depicted here. She emerges at the end as a better, more fully rounded individual who has acquired a good deal more wisdom because of her adventures. But she remains very typical of the new generation, the kind of human being who is playing such an important role in the revolution Professor Reich has described.
Trap for a Tease does not invite comparison to The Greening of America in any other way. It is fiction, not fact. It is a novel which has the power to charm readers as well as to shock them. But it portrays one important facet of the contemporary revolution which all of us must live through. As such, we believe it conveys a vital message for all Americans, young and old alike.
The Publishers
Chapter One
He laid her down on the office couch and bent over to kiss her packed tits. He took her right nipple between his teeth and nibbled on it, nibbling, sucking, licking at it. Then Vincent looked up at Barbara's face. Through the innocent young features came the expression that said she would perish with the sweet pleasure of it.
He slid his hand between her thighs and she spread wide open for him. Her eyes closed and she sighed with delight. Now her look told him she wanted him to get to it, and do his sucking lower. She reached down and seized his cock in her right hand. It quivered in her palm.
Woman-girl juice dribbled down, trickling between her white, supple thighs. His mouth moved down to lick the acrid love juice, swallowing the raunchy taste of it. He kissed her seeping cunt and Barbara quivered every bone in her young body. He mouthed it and licked it like a wolfhound, biting at her clit, digging his tongue against it. Again he swallowed the pearly white drops of her come.
She leaned over and brushed the head of his prick over her mouth, her tongue, her nostrils, her closed eyes, her little ears. Vincent's long, mouthy suckings at her pussy were sending delightful trickles radiating throughout her body. His hands came around her ass, fingers locking, pressing her body to his mouth.
She was still whimpering and moaning and revolving, her fingers laced at the back of his head now, working it up and down. Now his touch was gentle, raising his hands to her tight waist and pulling her body towards him. She could feel his hard cock throbbing against her cheek and she smiled, purposely not opening her mouth to it. Then his hands clutched at the upcurving breasts and her nipples were hard and erect and quivering, thrusting to meet the touch of his warm hands.
Ahhh, this is perfect, perfect! Barbara thought, still smiling. "I'm about... there, Vincent, suck, suck it good right there!" She gasped above his bobbing head, feeling that tongue of his do its slippery work, tortured with the about-to-burst feeling that was sweeping over her body. She moved her head away from his cock, reached over and took her cigarette from the ashtray.
"Mmmmm." Barbara stretched her back, closed her eyes, then drew deeply on her cigarette. "Mmmmmm," she said again, touching her lips with the tip of a pink tongue.
His head was buried between the bare, white flesh of her thighs. He could feel the sheen of sweat on her skin damp against his cheeks: a muscle quivered within the satiny flesh as she gripped his face more tightly.
"That's nice, Vincent," she purred. "Mmmmmmm."
She reached out lazily, took the glass off the high table beside the couch, sipped it. "Don't stop," she murmured, easing her body lower down, jamming the moistness of her vulva more firmly against his mouth. "Keep on suckin'," she ordered, finishing her drink.
His tongue wavered and weaved around the small, wet spire that was her clitoris, it vibrated gently between his lips, he sucked it, drawing it deeper into his mouth and feeling its tip gyrate wildly, hungrily, angrily.
"In-" she mouthed, "push in-deep." And she bent her knees and drew them upward, making the wet slit of her flesh open wider, letting his tongue thrust farther into the slithery satinness. "Mmmmm, Vincent-mmmm," she said.
The sweat poured off his forehead and trickled into his eyes, his nose felt squashed in the musky maze of her forest of pubic hair, he fought for breath as his mouth filled with the vaginal fluid that started to flow.
He gasped, sucked urgently, feeling his mouth full, suffocatingly full. He swallowed, sucked again, then gripped the bobbing clit with his lips, held it.
"Bite," she hissed between her teeth, "bite it, Vincent."
He moved his lips, his teeth and his tongue, and she moaned.
"Good, ooooh, good, Vincent." And her nineteen-year-old body began to undulate with the early tremors of her pre-orgiastic frenzy.
The sun was sinking quickly behind the shadowed Golden Gate Bridge as Barbara made her way home. Most other office workers had already suffered the homeward climb of San Francisco's hills, and the trolley was almost empty. Barbara smiled. No matter. Her "overtime" work was so pleasant, so very, very relaxing!
Even the water of the Bay seemed calm... almost as calm as she was. She checked herself, looking down over her blouse and skirt. Yes, everything was in order. It would have to be, for the examining eyes of her mother and father, when she entered the house. She thought of them, pictured their faces, and again smiled to herself, savoring her own little bunch of secrets.
Barbara Bennett bounced through the front door at exactly seven thirty. "Hi, Mom." She gave her mother an affectionate hug and kiss, then touched her father's head with her lips lightly, as he sat at the kitchen table toying with his coffee. "Hi, Daddy," she murmured, smiling at him and rumpling his hair.
Neil Bennett looked at his daughter with pride and approval. The prettiest girl on the street, he thought, maybe in the whole of San Francisco! He smiled back at her then glanced at his watch. "You're late, Barbara-puss-why so late?"
Harriette Bennett winced at her husband's words. "Do you have to call her that, Neil? It sounds so-so-" She broke off, sighed.
Barbara flung her oversized purse onto a chair, then seated herself at the table. "I was working overtime, Daddy," she told her father. "Mr. Erickson wanted me to type up some reports."
Neil frowned. "D'you get extra for that? You don't let them take advantage of you?" He stared at Barbara, worriedly. "You're too good-natured."
Barbara laughed. "Don't worry, Daddy. I'm big enough to look out for myself."
"I don't know about that," Neil muttered. "You look like an innocent, young babe to me." His face relaxed as he added: "Baby Barbara-puss-" "Neil!"
Harriette spun around. "She's nineteen years old and too big to be treated like-like she was a child." She breathed jerkily. "And stop calling her Barbara-puss-it's crazy, ridiculous and -and very embarrassing!" She broke off, stared at her husband.
Barbara glanced up from her coffee, then rose to her feet. "I'll freshen up," she said quickly, before she hurried from the room, closing the kitchen door behind her.
Neil glared at his wife. "See!" he said, accusingly, "you've scared her away!"
Harriette sat down at the table.
"Listen, Neil," she said carefully, "you've got to stop acting the way you do with Barbara." She fiddled with a cup as she went on. "You're trying to make her stay a little girl forever! The way she dresses-" "That's nothing to do with me," muttered Neil. "She dresses the way she pleases."
"The way she pleases!" echoed Harriette. "Like a little schoolgirl. You saw what she was wearing now. I'll bet she's the only girl in her office who wears buttoned shoes!"
"She looks cute-damned sweet, if you ask me."
"Oh, sure-she looks like Daddy's little girl, all right." Harriette stared into space, then murmured. "The little white stockings, folded over below her knees, her black pleated skirt which flares to show her little-girl briefs, white and plain, and her white satin blouse, so demure, so crisp-so young!"
"Is that what's worrying you?" Neil had lowered his voice. "Are you bitter, Harriette, because Barbara's so young and you're not?"
Harriette leaned towards her husband, breathed into his ear. "That's not what worries me-but-but-" She paused as if she was trying to put some difficult thought into words. "It's as though she was pretending that she's still ten years old, not nineteen! She acts as if she's so sweet and pure and good. It's just not natural, Neil. It doesn't seem real!"
Neil jerked his head towards Harriette. "And what's wrong with that?"
"She doesn't act like the other girls," Harriette murmured, "the other girls her age."
"No!" Neil snapped out the word. "You can say that again-and I'm damned glad that she doesn't!" He looked at Harriette. "Did you know that Jo Anne Darin was pregnant? That she had an-" he emphasized the word, "accidental miscarriage?" He took a deep breath. "The daughter of your best friend!"
"I didn't know that!" Harriette sounded shocked, incredulous. "Helen never told me."
Neil answered almost smugly. "Don't suppose she did. George just let it slip out when we were talkin' together after he'd had a few too many drinks."
"I never knew," Harriette breathed.
"Well," Neil went on, "that's the way it was. And I'm glad that Barbara's so sweet and good and pure-even if you don't care.
"How'd you know she is so pure?" Harriette whispered the question.
Neil stared at Harriette as though he was shocked. "How can you ask?" Neil stared at Harriette angrily. "She's never late-stays home weekends-is always in the house by eleven!"
Harriette nodded slowly, then mumbled, as if to herself rather than Neil: "There's no law which says you can't get pregnant before eleven o'clock-" She stopped Neil when he tried to interrupt her, went on, speaking quickly, nervously: "That's what worries me. Is she putting on some kind of act and doin' God knows what behind our backs?"
She stared at Neil in silence for a moment, then asked: "Is she foolin' us and everybody?"
Neil lit a cigarette as though he wanted to calm himself before he answered.
"I happen to know that she isn't putting on an act." He paused, drew on his cigarette slowly. "I happen to know that she is sweet and good and-" he leaned close to his wife, whispered it: "Pure!"
Harriette leaned away from him and stared at his face with something like horror. "How can you know that?"
Neil smiled at her over his cigarette. "Doctor Ashton," he said, calmly. "Rod Ashton told me that."
"What d'you mean?"
"Barbara's still a virgin," said Neil with satisfaction.
Harriette's eyes opened wide; she looked at Neil with horror. "What! Doctor Ashton wouldn't tell you that! Doctors don't talk about that-not even to the girl's parents!"
"I asked him," said Neil smoothly. "Remember when Barbara slipped downstairs and strained her stomach last summer?" He looked thoughtful, added: "It was June, just before Jerry came here. Well, then, Rod examined her. And after, I asked him!"
"Asked him what?" Harriette's voice was harsh.
"If Barbara was a virgin-and she was!" He smiled at his wife.
"Just like that?" she asked, her voice dull, her eyes reflecting revulsion.
"Well," Neil admitted, "it wasn't just like that. Rod was kinda mad at me-said he'd no reason to answer questions like that to anybody. But seein' he knew me so well and that as Barbara was a virgin, he didn't mind telling me." Neil looked at Harriette, added with a trace of indignation: "He told me never to ask him anything like that again-that it was unethical, immoral and damn bad manners!" Neil frowned at the memory.
"Young Rod," he muttered. "I went to school with the guy."
"What a horrible thing to do!" breathed Harriette. She stared at her husband as though she hated him. "Pry into your own daughter's life!"
She stared away from Neil, then turned her eyes back on him: "How could you?" she asked. "How could you?"
Neil moved uneasily. "It wasn't such an awful thing to do," he muttered.
"It's like plain spying on her."
"Naw." Neil made a negative gesture. "Just looking out for her, that's all."
"And what makes it worse," said Harriette with unexpected vehemence, "is that Grant Tyson is Rod's nephew!"
Neil stared at Harriette in surprise, then: "Yeah! That's right, too. I never thought of that." He was thoughtful for a moment, then added: "Well then-if she hadn't been a virgin, Rod've thought that Grant was-" Harriette cut in, her voice vicious. "Shut up -you're makin' me sick!" She breathed deeply, angrily. "Grant's one of the cleanest, nicest boys that I know!"
"Yes." Neil-was thoughtful. "Grant's a decent young fellow." He stared into space, reminiscently, then a faint smile hovered near his mouth as he murmured: "Of course there's Jerry -" He laughed out loud. "We mustn't forget Jerry!"
Harriette glanced up. "You mean," her voice was incredulous, "Barbara bein' a virgin-and Jerry!" Her face was still, then she started laughing. "Shy Jerry," she said with affection. "I can't imagine Jerry-just can't imagine." Her voice broke off and she laughed again.
"Neither can I," said Neil. "He's gonna be a pretty good engineer," he added irrelevantly.
Jerry was the student who had stayed at the Bennet home for two weeks during the past summer.
"Is he?" said Harriette absently, still thinking of Grant. "They've been a twosome for-for how long is it now?"
Neil looked confused. "Who?" he asked irritably. "Who's been a twosome?"
"Barbara and Grant," said Harriette, staring into space. "Little boy an' little girl next door."
"They went all through school together," said Neil. He was quiet, thinking. "He used to hold her little hand when they went to grade school."
"Probably still holding it," muttered Harriette. Then the kitchen door opened and Barbara came back in.
Harriette got up, quickly and guiltily, as though she'd been doing something she shouldn't. "Your supper, dear," she said to her daughter. "Sit down. I'll get it for you."
"Okay, Mom." Barbara's short, pleated skirt whirled as she seated herself opposite Neil. She rolled her big blue eyes and tapped her feet in their patent-leather slippers in time to the music from the mini-radio that she held near her ear.
Her father watched her admiringly, thinking: Pretty as a picture-and pure as a lilly! Sometimes he just couldn't get over how lucky he was to have a daughter like Barbara!
Barbara closed her bedroom door behind her, locked it, then gave a small sigh of relief. As though she was walking off stage after giving a performance, she visibly relaxed her body. Her shoulders slid downward and her breasts seemed to soften, drop slightly from their tight, young, upthrust position. She stared at her face in the mirror. Her mouth changed its shape. The bright, half-moon crescent of a little-girl smile vanished and her lips seemed thicker, fuller, more sensuous. She parted them, wet them with slow movements of her tongue. Her eyes changed, too. Their depth became deeper and the blueness bluer. She dropped her lashes somberly as though they were heavy, then sank onto the hassock in front of the mirror.
She leaned forward, opened her eyes and propped her elbows on the low dressing table; she cupped her chin with the heels of her hands and stared at her reflection thoughtfully. She looked more like a woman than a girl. Suddenly, she made a small sound, then reached under her neat, pleated skirt and seized the elastic waistband of her panties and slid the white, chaste garment over her buttocks and thighs and dropped it on the floor.
She stretched her arms as though she was free from restraint and wriggled her bare buttocks on the soft, padded seat of the hassock. It had been good with Vincent! She squeezed her thighs together, remembering, and feeling her wet, vaginal lips compressing, slewing against each other as she increased the pressure. Her clitoris twitched, tensed, slid outward. She crossed one-thigh over the other with a quick, urgent movement. Oh, my God, she moaned to herself, did she still want more?
She screwed her eyes shut, clenched her lip with small, strong teeth, then jerked to her feet and whirled towards the bed. Her shoes slithered on the satin bedcover as she threw herself down without pausing to remove them. Then she unwrapped the demure skirt as though it was an unwanted sheath, tore off the pure satin blouse and bra and squirmed herself, nudely, on the bed. Her flesh felt hot. With hungry fingers, she groped between her thighs, parting her legs and bending her knees, screwing her bottom deep into the mattress. Then, thrusting her hand upward, she inserted a stiff finger in the wet orifice and seized the skidding tip of her clitoris with the convulsive grip of a finger and thumb.
Automatically her left hand moved to milk the aching desire from her tit, then it slid lightly over her hip and thighs. Her fingers danced teasingly around her thighs and stomach, stopping above the sensitive triangle of hair, where her other hand fingered the clit madly. Her mind went white-hot, waiting for the thrills of anticipation to catch up with her.
Then she slowly combed all ten fingers through the matted hair which responded to the touch like nerve endings that sent shocks of excitement to her brain.
When she finally cupped the damp cove again, it tried to grind the burning sensation into the palm of her hand. And chills ran up her back as her cool ass felt the warm fingertips that reached through her legs and touched the spot where the two fleshballs met. She toured the crevice, then let a single finger go in a little. She managed to get the finger in as far as the first knuckle, enjoying the feeling of its presence and squeezing it with the strong muscles of her rectum.
Fantasy built with fact built her up and coaxed the spark inside her to flame. A finger playing tag with the lips of her burning cunt, teasing it unmercifully, while the finger in her rectum slid in and out slowly-girl juices drooling throughout-fingers probing her into higher delights, and she was lost in the spell of concentration as she worked to achieve the release her body wanted so desperately.
Chapter Two
"Grant! Please!" Barbara's voice rose and she squirmed her leg away from Grant's hand as they sat in his car at the drive-in.
"You know I don't like that," she said as she straightened the prim, yellow dress over her legs.
"Aw, Barbara," the solid, six-foot tall and heavily built young man beside her mumbled, "why can't I?"
Barbara gave him a severe look in the semi-darkness. "I don't know if you go out with girls when you're not out with me," she said primly, "or what kind of girls they are. But if you do such things like that with them-well, Grant Tyson, I can tell you now, you're not going to get away with it with me!"
"Aw, cut it out, Barbara." He pulled her to him, cut off her words with his mouth. She resisted his effort to press his tongue between her teeth and after a moment, pushed him away.
"What do you think I am?" she asked indignantly.
Grant Tyson breathed deeply. "What about me?" he muttered hoarsely. "How about me, eh? You never do nothin' with me. You think I'm some kind of a freak or somethin'?"
Barbara made her voice soft. "Of course not, Grant." She placed her hand on his with a sisterly gesture. "I understand," she murmured, then added: "In a way, I mean-I don't know why you want to."
"Jesus, Barbara," he blurted, "I've gone steady with you for-for how long, eh? How long?"
"A long time," she said with satisfaction.
"An' we're gonna get married, aren't we?"
Barbara was silent.
"Christ, Barbara-we're gonna get married when I graduate, aren't we?"
"In two years," she murmured.
"Yeah, I graduate in two years. Then we get married, huh?"
Barbara sighed deeply. "If you behave yourself."
"Christ!" It was a strangled yelp. "I've been behavin' for ten years! Jesus, Barbara!"
She patted his hand, maternally this time.
"You've been a good boy, a very good boy, Grant," she said, "even if sometimes you have tried to do things that-" "Aw, Barbara," he groaned. "How d'you think I feel? When're you gonna let me? When, Barbara?"
"After we're married," she said sharply. "You wouldn't want to marry a loose girl."
"Jesus, Barbara-there ain't any girl who's less loose than you."
She made her voice small. "I thought you'd be pleased to have a virgin for a wife!"
"Well, Jesus, yes, but-" His voice tapered off.
Barbara glanced at her watch.
"Grant!" Her voice became urgent. "It's late. We've got to go. You know I don't stay out late-" "Oh, Christ," he sighed. "I hadda wait for you at your house. You were sleepin' or somethin'. An' now we've only seen half a show, an' you gotta get back!" He stared at her in the gloom. "Do your folks still wait up for you?"
"What's wrong with that?" she snapped.
"Do they?" he asked. "Honest?"
She wriggled in her seat. "Well, Daddy does," she murmured, "usually." She didn't tell Grant that nobody would be waiting up for her that night because her parents had gone to visit friends on the far side of town and they wouldn't be back until late. "Let's go," she murmured.
And after a few weak words of argument, Grant drove Barbara to the empty house. But he didn't know it was empty. The lights were still on, as Barbara had told her father to leave them. He watched her trip lightly up the path, open the front door, wave sweetly to him. Then he morosely drove away.
Barbara heard Grant drive away, then she walked back into the big, empty living room and sank into her father's roomy, old but comfortable armchair. "Grant!" she said his name out loud, then murmured it again, this time soundlessly. What would it be like to be married to Grant? She frowned after she had asked herself the question that she had asked so many times before. Everybody expected her and Grant to get married. Their parents were friends. They'd been neighbors for so long that it was just taken for granted!
She got up from the armchair, unlocked her father's liquor cabinet with the key that he had hidden in the antique vase on his desk, poured herself a small glass of vodka, and swallowed it straight. It tasted like nothing. She didn't want to get married to Grant, she told herself -she didn't want to get married to anyone!
She stood in front of the living room mirror, stared at her reflection: her eyes were still bright, but they weren't feverish as they had been when she was in Vincent's office. She thought of Vincent for a moment, then switched her mind back onto Grant. Grant Tyson!
If she had to get married to someone, it might just as well be Grant. At least she could handle Grant, as she'd been handling him all these years. He wouldn't dare stop her from doing the things she wanted to do. She sank into the armchair again, thinking of the things that she liked to do-the secret things, the private things, the unspeakable things! It would be a long time before she got married. She'd make it a long time. A long, long time!
Barbara got up, poured herself another drink from her father's liquor cabinet. Daddy! Dear Daddy. She wondered if he knew that he was partly responsible for her being the way that she was! But he couldn't know! He couldn't know that, because he didn't know the way she was! But he really didn't know. Not the way she really was!
Daddy's little girl! The sweetest child on the block-the nicest girl in the neighborhood. Sweet, sweeter than honey. She'd always been told she was... "honey" when she was small. And that meant sweet-tasting as honey. Honey to be licked, sucked sweetly.
She was such a cute little thing, a good little girl, everybody said it-especially her father, he was always saying that! So she'd made herself into the kind of girl that her father, and everybody else for that matter, expected and wanted her to be. Sweet, pure and good. Nice, that's what she was, a nice girl!
"My little Barbara-puss," her father would say, stroking her light brown hair, caressing her cheeks, kissing her. "Little baby girl," he had crooned to her when she was eight years old, cuddling her and squeezing her. "Daddy's little angel," he'd say, tickling her, making her giggle and squirm and blush, when she was only ten.
And then, on that magic day when she was twelve years old the unexpected had happened, the delicious thing-the secret thing-the thing she could never forget.
"You know what you are," he had said as she sat on his knee, "you're perfect!" Then he'd laughed as though he'd said something very clever, and she'd known he was a little bit drunk. Not too much, but just a little because her mother was away, visiting her sister, and Neil didn't like drinking when Harriette was around. "Here," he'd said, picking up his empty glass and giving it to her, "pour me some whiskey-then come back." He'd smiled, a silly, drunken but affectionate smile. "Barbara-puss!" Calling her his pet name all the time, and smiling, looking happy, and acting happy.
She smiled back at him sweetly, then took his glass to the cabinet, splashed in some whiskey and perched herself back on his knee.
"You're lovely," he'd said, stroking the soft roll of baby fat on her inner thigh, "the sweetest little morsel." He squeezed the smooth flesh and she giggled, so he tickled her tummy, making her giggle more. Then he'd pulled his hand away, really quick, as though he was scared, and picked up his glass and drank, thirstily.
Barbara had squirmed her small body impatiently. She loved it when someone touched her soft skin, sending the sweet shivers cascading over her flesh. It made her feel so wet, so warm, so heavenly! As soon as he put his glass down and sighed, Barbara seized his hand, pressed it between her warm, satiny thighs and lisped, "Tickle-please tickle!"
He had breathed deeply, and she had kissed his cheek, wetly, sweetly, and expectantly. Then his hand moved and she giggled; not because he had tickled her yet, but because there was a small tear in her briefs at the crotch, and the back of his hand was against it. "Oooh!" she breathed into his ear.
His hand seemed to move as though he was trying to pull it away, but she squeezed her thighs together, trapped it there, then pressed herself down, wetly. Her father seemed to breathe more deeply, but said nothing. His hand didn't move.
Barbara pressed her lips against his ear, then bit the lobe gently with her small, strong teeth. She knew that her father could feel the wetness of her, the hair above the tiny lips that she strove to open on his hand. But he didn't give any indication, didn't say anything-not then or ever! She knew that he knew that she had hair there. And she was excited and proud because she was only twelve years old.
"You're sweet, Barbara-puss," he said at last, hoarsely, and he started to withdraw his hand.
She squeezed her thighs together more tightly, trying to hold his hand in its place. But the vaginal lips had become wet, the small slit had oozed open and the back of her father's hand slid, then slipped, outward and upward as it escaped from its slithery trap.
Barbara felt the pressure press and pass over the tiny tip of her clitoris as her father said: "You're so sweet... You're as sweet as a pot of honey."
And with the word... it happened! The wondrous thing: goose pimples rose all over her body, waves of sweetness washed her pure flesh with deep rolls of thrilling intensity. And as the hand made its final exodus, an errant finger touched, teased a vibrating clitoral tip-and Barbara orgasmed, once, then again, wetly and completely onto the back of her father's hand.
Barbara sighed, remembering. Her first real orgasm! She pressed herself back into the deep armchair. At twelve years old! Was that very young to start to have an orgasm, she wondered.
Her father never tickled her any more after that. They never talked of it-not with words, but sometimes they'd exchange an unexpected glance, a naked look that was so revealing in its wordlessness; then her father's eyes would flicker away, quickly and guiltily, as though he'd done something wrong, when he'd only looked, just looked.
But he still hugged her, kissed her sometimes and called her his Barbara-puss, his little baby girl, because she was his daughter, and he loved her as a father. If she teased him, flaunting her curvy body in front of him, or bending over so close to him, so temptingly that he slapped a soft, inviting bottom, well, then, it was a game they played-a harmless game. And they were careful, as though they had an unspoken agreement, not to play when Harriette was there. Because it was the kind of thing that Harriette wouldn't have understood. They both knew that -though they never said it! But in the sea of secret silence that surrounded yet did not separate them, one word remained alive.
Honey -It would pierce Barbara's flesh like an unexpected beam of sensuality, triggering unwanted flickers of orgiastic thrills when least anticipated....
Her mother had made her a new swimsuit and Barbara was modeling it, letting Harriette make last-minute adjustments to its waist, when her father came into the room.
"Now lean forward, Barbara," said Harriette, not noticing Neil, "Let me see how it stretches."
And the rounded buttocks had tightened and strained within the thin material. Neil had glided forward, slapped Barbara's bottom lightly, affectionately, then- "Honey...." he'd murmured. And Barbara had felt the orgiastic tremors begin.
She had tried to stay still; tried to curb the quivers that made her knees shake-and the telltale moistness had slid down her thighs.
"Neil!" Harriette turned a white, furious face to her husband. "Are you out of your mind?"
And he'd stammered apologies for something he'd never intended, then stumbled out of the room and the house. But he'd told Barbara- when they were alone in the house-to be careful. Careful of men and boys. Boys who acted like men.
"You're so sweet," he told her, "that any man would want to-to get to you-" And he'd stopped talking, wordless, afraid and strangely shy.
Barbara had helped him. "I understand," she'd said. "I know what you mean," And she'd looked up at him, smiled, whitely but sincerely, saying: "I won't let them get in. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
He nodded, his throat choked up, then he croaked: "You're my Barbara-puss-" as though that explained how he felt.
She nodded. "Of course I am." Then she'd smiled to reassure him.
And she wouldn't! she told herself. She'd never allow it. Not to go in, right in, with that long, ugly shaft! She shivered at the thought. She'd never do that until after she was married -and only then if she had to!
"My little baby girl," he'd said, and Barbara said: "Yes, lam!"
And she hadn't let anyone-not Vincent, not Grant, not anyone! Except... when she was raped! And she couldn't help that! She was supposed to be unconscious! It was too, too horrible to even think of! But there were nice things, too-like the thing she had with Vincent. That was good: that was satisfying, so intensely satisfying!
There were other things, too. She thought back, remembering her first job when she started work at Erickson's. How long ago was that? Barbara screwed up her eyes, trying to pinpoint the time. The moment when it happened. She'd been at her job for less than a week, so that meant it was a year ago. Just one year since Vincent Erickson asked her to stay late for the first time. The very first time-she was eighteen years old...
"I hope you didn't mind staying after the others," said Vincent Erickson, smiling at her from behind his big desk when she brought in the reports that he had asked her to type out.
"Of course not," she'd said, blushing and feeling awkward at her new job, "I didn't mind at all." She'd stared down at him. He reminded her of her father. The same color eyes and the same build.
He glanced up, caught her eye, smiled. "I have two daughters," he said surprisingly. "One's about your age." He looked at her intently, then: "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," she said, and Vincent had said: "Yes, that's right, eighteen."
She had felt uncomfortable, standing there while Vincent stared for a long moment, not saying anything, just looking at her. She felt uncomfortable and strange and, in a crazy way, scared but excited.
"It's a wonderful age," he said, then he got up and walked to the window, stared into the street as though he'd forgotten all about her.
She had wondered whether she was supposed to go, if this was his way of dismissing her, when he turned and asked: "What do you do now?"
She looked at him blankly, not understanding.
"I mean," he explained, "when you finish work, do you go straight home?"
"Yes," she said, "usually."
He seemed to hesitate, then: "It's a beautiful evening," he said.
She glanced towards the window. It was spring. Spring in San Francisco-and the Bay was so near...
"I like to drive near the water," Vincent said.
"Do you?" Barbara started. That was what she liked to do in the summer and in the spring.
He seemed to look at her for a long time without speaking, then the words sounded strange. "Care to come?"
Her answer surprised herself. "Very much."
"Okay," he said, turning a small key in his desk. Then she was back in the outer office, phoning home, telling her mother, "Have to work late. Don't expect me for a while." And when she turned, Vincent was standing right behind her, smiling at her and probably wondering why she had to say she was working when actually she was going for a drive with her boss.
With her boss! It was if he read her mind. "I hope you're not coming just because I asked you -and because I'm your boss," he'd said.
"No, no, oh no," she'd told him quickly.
"You don't have to. It's quite all right," he said.
She smiled, not feeling shy anymore, not feeling as though this man was her boss, not now.
Not at this moment. "I want to," she said sincerely. "I want to very much, Mr. Erickson."
"Call me Vincent," he said, moving to the outer door and locking it behind them.
He took her on a route that was quite unfamiliar, then he turned off the highway onto a road that was more of a trail that led to a low bluff with a wonderful view of the Bay. "We can get out," he said, stopping the car and pushing open the door. "Sit on the grass if you want."
She slid herself out, her microskirt riding to her waist-and she was aware of Vincent's eyes on her flesh.
"Real grass," he said, dropping down, then lying on his back with his face turned to the evening sun, basking in the warmth.
"I didn't know there was any," she giggled, sitting down beside him. "Real grass, I mean."
He offered her a cigarette, and she took it, examined it curiously.
"Different," she said. It was gold-tipped, with a coarse, dark tobacco.
"Imported," he told her. "I have them sent. See-" He held it close to her face and she saw the initials V.E. on it.
"They stamp your initials on all of them?" she asked curiously.
He nodded. "When I was in South America, a friend had some blended and I liked 'em. So-" He shrugged.
"You mean, they make them up specially for you?"
"Sort of," he said nonchalantly.
She puffed thoughtfully, drew in smoke, blew it out then: "I like it," she said as though she didn't expect to.
He laughed. "See how it makes you feel."
She turned her face quickly anxiously. "It's not some kind of dope-" She held the cigarette far away from her face, her eyes angry.
"No, oh, no," he reassured her. "It's just-" he laughed again. "Some of the natives call it a 'fertility smoke!'" "A wha-at?"
"Fertility," he said. "It's supposed to make you feel passionate." He laughed again.
Barbara took a deep breath, held her knees together primly, then: "If-if that's what you brought me here for, Mr. Erickson..." She began to get up.
"No, no!" He reached out towards her, sitting up and looking worried. "Don't misunderstand."
Barbara stared down at him. It was just too nice out here. The water, the sun, the grass.... "I'd better get home," she murmured.
"Please," he said, "please, Miss Bennett."
Barbara paused. Maybe it was the use of her name that reassured her, reminded her that he was her boss! He didn't have to bring her out here if he wanted to seduce her. It would be easier to do that in his office.
"Don't get all outraged," he said, smiling, "Miss Bennett."
Suddenly her momentary anger evaporated. "My name's Barbara," she said, giving him a small smile in return.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I know that, Barbara-" And he laughed as though he was pleased with himself.
She looked at her cigarette doubtfully.
"Maybe I should put this out."
"No. It won't do you any harm, I promise."
"Really?" she asked.
He smiled. "Really."
She took a puff, slowly, carefully.
"I like the taste of it," she said.
Vincent slithered his body slightly so that he was more in front of her, could see more easily up and under the little-girl skirt.
"I suppose you do," he said softly. "Girls usually do."
Barbara knew where he was looking, what he was seeing. Sometimes when they had guests at home, men guests, she would tease them. The way Vincent was acting now reminded her of their behavior.
She would drag up the low stool that she kept in the living room and place it in a strategic place-strategic for her purpose, that is- usually in front of the guest. He'd glance up, watch her squat down, then his eyes would flicker when she drew up her knees, parted her feet-and let the guest see her new panties, her old panties or her no-panties. She'd see his eyes become still, iris inward, focus on the white vee that led to her tunnel, and a small thrill would shimmer through her body.
If she were alone with him, or Harriette or Neil were preoccupied with other guests, she might giggle, then wiggle her buttocks, opening and closing her thighs or loosening then stretching the tiny briefs at the crotch... if she was wearing briefs.
And she'd see it get big on the guest! The thing, the horrible, big thing! But it wasn't so horrible as long as it didn't go in her. It didn't matter how big it got-and she liked to make it get big, to do things and see it get big-as long as no one tried to push it into her! Maybe-just maybe, it would be all right to do the same thing with Vincent!
She saw his eyes flicker, and knew. Her cotton briefs were thin and small-she always wore a size too small-and her warm thatch of hair was thicker now. Thicker and bigger; a few strands always showed at her pantyleg-she'd noticed that in her mirror.
"You're beautiful," said Vincent, his voice all tight and choked. He was looking up her legs, not at her face.
Barbara drew in her breath, squirmed her buttocks slightly. Was it her imagination, or did this cigarette really make her feel more sexy, more excited? "What're you lookin' at, Vincent?" she said, calling him Vincent for the first time.
"You," he said. "You're beautiful." His eyes riveted on her legs, her thighs, and in between.
"You mean my legs?" she asked, not hiding them.
"Yeah," he muttered, "and-you." He swallowed as though his throat was blocked.
"You're sweet," he said. "Like a honey-pot."
Barbara tensed. The flicker ran through her flesh, as always.
"I'd like to kiss you," Vincent said. He stopped speaking too suddenly, too abruptly, then moistened his lips with a jerky tongue.
Barbara stared at him, then turned her head and tried not to see him, be aware of him, tried to stop the tremor of her lips that the word "Honey..." had started.
"Not on your mouth," Vincent whispered.
"Not on your mouth!"
She held herself rigid, pressing her thighs so tightly together-and remembered Pepe! Pepe, and the thing he had done, so long ago.
She had been fourteen. He came to work on their garden once a week. He had been coming to their house for as long as Barbara could remember. An old man, or he seemed like an old man to Barbara-probably ten years or so older than her father. If it hadn't been for her father, she'd never have started with Pepe, she thought. That "teasing game!" That was the first, then after that, Pepe!
"So sorry, Missy," he had said when the handle of the rake fell onto her foot after she had entered the small tool shed so unexpectedly.
"It hurts," she had muttered, hopping on one foot and holding the other.
He had gone down in front of her, made her sit on a box, then he'd taken off her slipper, so carefully, so reverently, as though she were a small goddess.
"Still hurt, Missy?" he asked anxiously, rubbing her foot gently.
"Not so much," she'd murmured, then she saw his eyes flicker up, and she remembered that she wasn't wearing any briefs. She felt a small flush suffuse her face. Then she wondered curiously if he liked it, like her daddy liked it-and whether he would get all big on his horrible thing.... Her eyes went onto his body-and he did!
"So sorry," he said again, then she felt shocked when he bent his head, kissed her foot lightly. He glanced at her face, then under her skirt, and smiled. "Kiss it better," he said, as though she were five years old. But he was looking at her legs as he said it.
"If you want to," she murmured, her face feeling hot.
He kissed her foot, then her ankle, then the bottom of her calf. "Sweet," he said, smiling up at her. "You're very sweet."
He touched the side of her knees with the tip of his tongue, then his mouth slid higher, slithered onto her thigh. He kissed it, gently but wetly, and when he looked up there was a trace of saliva at the corner of his mouth.
"Honey..." he said. "Little Missy tastes sweet as honey." And his head went down again as the thrills ran through her body at the softly spoken word.
Honey! The waves ran through her flesh until they reached her belly and eddied in teasing circles, then plunged down. The breath panted from Barbara's lips as the wet mouth moved higher. Then she stretched open her thighs with a jerky, convulsive movement as his tongue touched the apex, paused, trembling- then thrust onto the lips. "Ooooh, Pepe," she moaned, then higher: "Oh Pepe!"
His tongue slid smoothly into her, and Pepe began to suck...
"Not your mouth," Vincent had said, and the memory had flashed, and with it the beginning thrill. "Mmmm... like honey," said Vincent again, sending the new waves to melange with the old waves. He buried his face between her thighs. "I want to kiss," he said, his voice muffled by her flesh.
Barbara could hear the cars passing on the highway, but out of sight. There was a mound in the ground between the bluff and the road that hid them, shielded them.
"May I, Barbara?" asked Vincent.
She giggled breathlessly. It sounded crazy when he said it like that. Her boss! She didn't answer, but she didn't stop him when his hands slid round her waist, drew down the chaste briefs and slipped them off her legs. She parted her thighs when his head slid between them, then slithered up, his mouth tracing a wet path on her skin. She felt her lips curling open when he touched them with the tip of his tongue. Then she raised her buttocks, pressed her pelvis forward when his mouth flattened against her vulva. Her eyes irised down to his head and he glanced up, lifting his mouth off her with a soft, sucking sound.
"You're delicious, Barbara," he said, savoring the word and taste of her as though he was a connoisseur experiencing something exquisite.
"Suck," she mouthed, feeling the throb in her body when he spoke. "Suck, Vincent." And she pushed at his head, pressing it through the maze of hairs on her belly until she felt the sweet softness of his lips enveloping the opening vagina.
"Lick it-an' suck it-an' make me come," she spewed, inserting the cigarette between her lips, drawing on it and wondering between the spasms of ecstasy whether it was the combination of the smoke and the word and the air and the sun which made her feel so voluptuously, deliriously aroused and excited and vicious and hungry.
She took a cluster of Vincent's hair in her fingers, inhaled the smoke and twisted the strands fiercely. Vincent made a small sound of pain, and that gave her pleasure, too. "Make me come," she muttered, swallowing smoke and opening her mouth for air. "Suck," she spewed, lifting her buttocks.
Vincent moaned, moved his mouth, and sucked deeply. She gripped with her thighs, squeezing his cheeks with an intolerable tightness, then her clitoris tensed, twitched and her whole vulva jerked. "Oh, Vincent," she moaned, "make me, Vincent-make me come-come- come!"
Her voice keyed high. "Suck the honey," she squealed, then her body wracked itself against his lips as she orgasmed, violently and obscenely, not like a nice little girl at all.
Barbara sighed and smiled as she remembered. She leaned back in her father's armchair, glanced at the empty glass beside her and wondered how long she had been sitting here dreaming. Her dreams had been so delicious! She squeezed her legs together, closed her eyes again. She felt so sleepy. So many thoughts, emotions, dreams. The first time with Vincent -it had been so good! But there were other times, too-so many others.
She rested her head in a comfortable corner of the armchair, closed her eyes more tightly, and went to sleep.
Chapter Three
Barbara was still sound asleep in the depths of the armchair when her parents came home. But they didn't see her right away.
"I'm going straight up to bed," said Harriette, stifling a small moan, "my head..."
She moved unsteadily up the stairs and Neil watched with a small line of annoyance creasing his forehead. Why did Harriette have to drink so much tonight? He'd had his share of drinks, too, but liquor made him feel happy, not sad, sick or bitter like it did Harriette. Or, he amended his thought, he would have felt happy if he hadn't had to look after Harriette all the time. Neil gave a deep sigh of resignation. He wished that Harriette was more like Barbara.
He walked into the living room, feeling his drinks but still steady, and decided to have a nightcap. He swung open his liquor cabinet- then froze in small shock. Why was it unlocked? Neil turned them and saw Barbara, curled up like a cat. "Barbara-puss!" he murmured out loud. Then he was hurrying to her side. "Baby," he whispered, leaning down, stroking her cheek. "Are you all right, Barbara baby?"
She stirred, half awakened. "Daddy," she mumbled, "What-where?"
"You fell asleep," he said smiling. Then he straightened up. "What were you doing up so late?" He glanced at her face, feeling anxious, but trying not to show it.
She yawned a wide smile. "Ooh, I don't know," she dimpled her cheeks like a ten-year-old. "Just waitin' 'til you came home." Her lips curved into a little-girl smile. Neil's eyes flickered to the empty glass at her side. "You had a drink, too, Barbara-puss." He sounded almost coy, chiding yet coy. "Why did you take a drink?"
She giggled. "Just felt like it, Daddy." She blinked her big eyes. "You don't mind, do you? I mean it's all right?"
He shook his head, ponderously now, half drunkenly. "You shouldn't've, Barbara-puss, you're only a little girl."
"Nineteen," she said very softly.
"Too young-still too young!"
She smiled at him, then lowered her eyes as though she was ashamed of herself. "Sorry, Daddy-forgive me. D'you forgive me?" Barbara looked up, blinking her eyes and pouting her lips appealingly.
Neil sighed. "Of course I forgive you, little girl." He moved to the liquor cabinet, poured a drink for himself.
"You're a sweet daddy," Barbara sighed, drowsily, then she became more awake when she said: "Where's Mommy?"
Neil grunted. "In bed."
"And you just got home?" Barbara was trying to wake up, appraise herself of the time.
"Yeah," said Neil. He drained his glass. "She went straight up to bed. She's feelin' sick." He frowned, added: "Drunk, more like."
"Oooh!" Barbara's lips pursed in disapproval. "How awful!"
"Yeah," said Neil, "how awful is right. And I don't want you to get like that. So don't drink, eh?" Then the severe expression faded from his face. "Just stay a sweet little girl." His voice softened. "Barbara baby-don't drink or do anythin' you shouldn't. Anything with a man-a guy-anything not nice. You know what I mean, what I'm tryin' to say."
Barbara nodded her head very seriously. "You know that I wouldn't, Daddy!" Her voice was small but sincere.
"Sure," he said, his voice hoarse with the drink or the emotion. He glanced down at her; she was sprawled in the big chair like a limp, baby doll. He smiled: "I know you wouldn't. His hand dropped down onto a naked thigh, he stroked it gently for a brief second, then he dragged his body upright. "I know you wouldn't do nothin' not nice!" he said.
"Anything not nice!" Barbara corrected him sweetly.
Neil stood very still with the glass in his hand and a vacant look in his eye. "What?" he asked, as though he'd been thinking of something else.
"You know that I wouldn't do anything not nice," Barbara repeated.
"Yeah," he said, staring at her, through her, beyond her. "Like I said-I know that!" He went to the cabinet and refilled his glass.
Barbara was stretching herself when he turned. Neil admired her lissome movements for a fragile second. She looked like a kitten! A soft, cuddly kitten! Then he spoke: "Jerry will be back in San Francisco next week."
Barbara blinked, frowned. "Jerry?"
Neil paced up and down as he spoke. He seemed nervous, too tense, anxious. "You remember Jerry Daniels! He stayed with us for a couple of weeks last year."
Of course," Barbara said, her face clearing. "Shy Jerry," she said, smiling. "Blushing Jer!"
Neil gave her a grin. "Maybe he isn't so shy now-he'll be nearly a year older."
Barbara shook her head. "I can't imagine him any different!" she remarked.
Neil let his face become serious. "He's going to be a damned good engineer. I wouldn't mind having him work with me when he's finished his training."
Barbara moved herself; crossing her legs, squeezing one satiny tight-muscled thigh over the other. "Is he going to stay with us this time?" she asked, her voice very low.
"Sure," said Neil. He sipped at his drink, then looked at Barbara sharply and asked: "No reason why he shouldn't, is there? Is there, Barbara-puss?" His voice became anxious. "He never bothered you, did he, baby?"
"No, oh no!" She smiled. "Shy Jerry!" Her eyes flickered up to her father's face, and she laughed: "You worry about me too much, Daddy. You don't need to. I'm a big girl now!" Her face laughed up at him.
"No, baby girl," he shook his head. "No. There's too many men-guys-who'd take advantage of a sweet, young morsel like you!"
Barbara blinked her eyes. "Well, you don't have to worry about Jerry!" She stood up, moved to her father, placed her arms round his neck lightly. "Bed," she murmured. "I must go to bed." She kissed him on the cheek, softly, affectionately, then turned-and he was watching her clean, young limbs flash as she shimmered up the stairs.
Neil poured himself another drink, sank down heavily into the armchair that Barbara had vacated. He was conscious of the warmth of her flesh as he sensed the tiny trace of body heat that caressed his neck when he leaned his head back.
Barbara! He thought about her-and he thought about Harriette, too. His wife and his daughter, Harriette and Barbara: how could two people be so different? If he hadn't known it, he wouldn't've believed that Harriette was Barbara's mother!
Harriette! She used to be kind and affectionate-still was, at times, rare times. So very rare! But she was hard, too, with a mean streak showing itself when she was drunk, or angry at him for some small, inconsequential thing, like being too nice with Barbara, or calling her an affectionate name-when it didn't mean anything at all! He was soft with her, she'd tell him, still treated her like a baby! What was so wrong with that? She didn't know how lucky she was to have a daughter like Barbara. Harriette didn't appreciate her, but he did. He knew what a sweet prize they had, and was grateful!
He wrinkled his brow. Why did Harriette hate it so much when he showed his affection for Barbara? Was she jealous of Barbara? Not jealous because of him; he didn't think Harriette cared about him anymore, not much, anyway; but jealous because Barbara was young and fresh while she was getting old and tired. Neil stopped right there. Harriette wasn't old! She was still under forty, two years younger than he was. Even though, sometimes, she seemed too old for him, or acted too old for him.
It was crazy, but there were times when he felt closer to Barbara than Harriette. Closer in a mental way, in their thoughts, emotions, and closer in their ideas, their reactions. He drained his glass, seeming to see Barbara as she had looked when she was shimmering up the stairs to bed, then he got up, tiredly, and locked his liquor cabinet. A wry smile crossed his face as he dropped the key in its hiding place in the vase. Some hiding place! His clever little Barbara must know where it was, but he left the key there, just the same, then turned out the lights and went upstairs.
The light was still on in Barbara's room and the door was ajar. Sometimes she closed and locked her door when she went to bed, and other times, like she used to when she was small, she left it ajar with the light on, as though she was still a little girl, afraid of the dark. Neil smiled, tenderly. Sweet little baby. He closed the door, leaving on the light in case she awoke and was scared, then he went to his bedroom- and his wife.
He hoped that Harriette was asleep. He didn't want to see her, so he left off the light. He didn't want to talk to her, so he was quiet, hoping she wouldn't waken. Seeing Barbara lying asleep, so peaceful, beautiful, and so pure, made the idea of Harriette, and her carnality, seem repellent, revolting.
He climbed into bed with stealthy care. Harriette was lying still, asleep, he thought-but before he could close his eyes, she turned her body, lifted a leg, and rubbed a thigh on his, then mumbled: "Neil-I feel like..." She made a sound that could have been a sleepy giggle or a gasp.
Neil lay very still, hoping she'd think he was already asleep. But she persisted. "Come on, Neil!!!" Her voice became drunkenly passionate. "Screw me-why don't you screw?"
He made a strangled sound. "I'm tired-I-" She moved her thigh on him and he could feel the wet lips below the hairy bulge opening.
"Come on," she mouthed. "Screw!"
He wriggled himself, pushed her leg off him with his hand. "I can't, Harriette." He took a draught of air. "Let me go to sleep."
She twisted her body away from him, then half raised herself on an elbow. "Can't or won't?" Her voice was vicious. "What is it, Neil? You haven't made love to me for-how long, eh? How long? It's so goddamned long that I've forgotten!"
He lay there silent, his heart thudding, and he tried not to think of Barbara. Tried not to hate Harriette. "I-I don't know. I can't help it." His voice trailed off.
Harriette placed her lips close to his face and he could smell the liquor on her breath when she spoke: "You don't screw anymore, Neil? Don'cha, eh? What d'you want? Someone sweet an' young and pure?" She spewed out the last word as though it were something obscene.
He lay very still, very quiet, hoping she'd turn away, go to sleep, and let him sleep. She didn't know what she was saying! Someone young, sweet and pure-Barbara! No! he screamed soundlessly within his body. That wasn't true! He felt the muscles tensing in the back of his neck. It wasn't that way at all. He'd never thought of it like that. Never. Not ever!
He heard his wife drawing in her breath. "Sweet, young and pure!" She was so close to him that he was aware of the melange of woman-smell, gin-smell and sex-smell. He groaned. "Someone like," venom was in her voice, "just like Barbara!" She heaved her breasts, jerkily, unevenly, as though it was a painful thing to do, then she said it again, with hate: "Barbara!"
He tried to say No, but his lips seemed frozen with fear that filled his veins. He wanted to breathe out a denial of the monstrous accusation, but the motion of his lungs seemed suspended, and the air seemed to choke in his throat.
"Barbara," she said once more, then she fell back on her pillow, as though her own emotion had exhausted her. And Neil found enough faint strength to turn his back to her, press his cheek against the pillow and let the sweat slide down his forehead onto his eyelids, blow down his cheeks and wash away the sour bitterness of his wife's words.
With an act of will, he pushed his wife and her words out of his mind. Barbara, he softly and sensuously whispered as the mists of sleep caressed his body. His limbs relaxed, his breathing slowed but before his consciousness ebbed, he slurred it again like a prayer: Barbara!
In his dream Neil sat down on the edge of his daughter's bed, his hands pinning her white shoulders to the blanket. With gentle fingers on her soft throat, he let his other hand run lustfully over the curves of her ripe tits, pinching the neonlike nipples, then palming the firm flatness of her ivory belly.
His fingers slowly ran down the supple thighs, running towards her knees and then tauntingly, slowly, yet demandingly up the inside of her legs, squeezing the soft plumpness just below her virginal hole. Then his dream's eye looked down at his big cock sticking stiffly out from underneath his pajamas and he could feel the gigantic prick jerking up against his belly, the head red and throbbing with desire for his young Barbara. Even in dreaming, he wondered why he wanted so badly to hurt her, to rape her. Yes-he wanted to sink that cock into his own daughter and feel her submit painfully to him.
So clearly he could see her naked body, and seemingly without effort he pinned her to the bed and stripped, feverishly, of his own clothing. She dream-slowly lay back on the bed, as if too feeble to resist. One part of his mind wanted to take her fast, the other part demanded he take his sweet time. His hand moved over her tits, kneading and pinching while the other cupped the soft pubic bush between her lovely young legs. His fingers worked slowly, demandingly through the soft down, spreading the lips of her sweet pussy until he found her clitty. He rubbed it hard until it stood up, answering his silent message.
His forefinger continued to rub her clitoris while his other fingers searched for the tight chaste slit of her cunt. He found it and pushed and prodded at the soft, fleshy lips, easing one finger in slowly. Barbara bucked helplessly under his touch and she moaned.
Now she was part of the dream with him and he pushed harder until his finger slipped wetly into the moist warm hole between her outstretched legs. He could feel the walls of her cunt cling tightly around his finger and he teased it slowly within her, trying to force the young juices of love to flow. She was becoming completely open and wet, readying for him to ram it into her. Finally he inserted another finger into her slippery cunt. It was tight-and yet slippery. She was smiling! Wanting her father to fuck her!
But now Barbara cried out in pain as he continued to work his fingers around and around her cunt, trying to stretch it. He could feel a shudder run through his daughter's whole body and he could hear her tiny little whimpers coming through his mind as a vague, muffled moaning sound. Barbara squirmed and writhed with desperate energy and he steadied her by clutching one hand around her waist. He moved forward and pinned her undulating, gyrating body tightly into the deep mattress.
So actual now was the feeling of the strong erection as it jerked against the flesh of the inside of her thigh. He moved his pulsing prick higher up between her thighs and, even in sleep, he gritted his teeth. He felt it probing, slipping at her between his guiding fingers. And then... and then... he was forcing his weight, moving his way into the tight, unyielding hole. He could sense her body screeching in every pore as he tried to enter her, to take his daughter's cherry.
Her stretching cunt felt as if it were a raw wound, and he thought of his prick as soothing that wound. A groan spiraled from the depths of his chest, exploding from his mouth, and resounding from every corner of the room. Barbara's cunt gave and opened wider as the head of his cock pushed harder and harder against the elastic ring of her womb.
His cock gushed into her like a great tide, bursting and smashing all before it, deeper and wetly deeper through the thin membrane of her cherry until his hips smashed hard against the roundness of her ass cheeks. He felt the fleshy globes flattening against the mattress as he squirmed his loins tight down between her spread thighs. He placed his hands convulsively on her shoulders, drawing them up her back as he thrust deeper and deeper into that juicy cunt. He drew them down her back and held her waist for a moment, then clasped her hips so that his fingers fit into the crease of her thighs and loins and his thumbs reached out for each other against her buttocks.
He pulled the cheeks of her ass hard back against his onrush and held his prick inside her to its fullest extent while he revolved his hip around and around, the giant blood-filled head ready to burst. Rocking back and forth on top of her, fucking into her like a wild stallion, watching that smile of hers slip from one side of her face to the other, his cock moist along her cunt's whole length, moist with his daughter's juices, her involuntary secretions, her tiny drops of blood. And in the last glimpse of his dream he saw the ragged pink edges of her flesh drawing back with it and swallowing it whole again like the lips of a child eating a foot-long hot dog.
Coming in great globs, back-cracking convulsions, he awoke, sweating and groaning openly, eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling. His breath came back to him, and he looked down to the feel of his soaked-with-come pajamas. Then he looked beside him. Harriette was snoring her gin-drenched breath directly in his face.
Chapter Four
Barbara was still awake when her father paused at her bedroom door, smiled in at her, then closed the door and went to his room. Sweet, considerate Daddy! She had seen him through the long eyelashes that shielded her baby blue-eyes. The momentary glimpse of a man at the door of her bedroom had reminded her of something, something which had happened a long time ago when another man, so very different from her father, but still a man, had appeared-like the fragment of an image- then stayed to stare at her as she had lain so still, pretending to be asleep.
Jerry! The young man whose name her father had mentioned to her that night. It seemed so long ago! Was it really less than a year since he had stayed in their house, ate at their table, engaged in their conversation and activities and slept in their guest room? A year? It seemed more like ten!
Her mother and father had made him feel at home: almost as though he were one of the family, to share all that was theirs, like the sun room and the bathroom, the stereo and the television. What was theirs was his, too, to share- and Barbara-was he free to share Barbara too?
He was a shy young man. That was the first thing that Barbara had noticed about him. It would be the first thing that anyone would notice about him, she had thought.
His eyes seemed too big for his lean, tanned face-and his hands, with their long, nervous fingers, were never still: always twitching or turning, or bending each other. "An engineer's hands," her father had said, and he should know because he was an engineer himself. "Their hands are never still, always moving, exploring. They're constantly curious," her father said, "always fiddling."
And Barbara had wanted to giggle, because she'd thought he said diddling-and Jerry had thought so, too. Barbara knew that! His face wouldn't have flushed such a bright, revealing red if he hadn't thought that!
"How tall is he?" Barbara had asked her father when he had first told them that a student engineer would be spending two weeks in their home as a house guest.
Her father looked vague, as though height was not one of the things he considered when selecting an assistant. "Oh," he'd said at last, frowning, "about six foot. A little less, I'd say." And he'd blinked at Barbara as though it was a peculiar question.
"Well," Barbara had given a small sigh of exasperation, "that's not much of a description! Is he big, I mean fat, heavy?"
Her father shrugged. "I don't know how heavy he is," he muttered.
"One-seventy?" Barbara prompted. "One-sixty pounds?"
Neil shook his head. "Less than that."
Harriette looked at Neil. "You're not telling us much about him," she said.
"He seems a little less than everything!" said Barbara, then she had giggled, and left the breakfast table as though she'd lost interest. But she had been interested in him after he arrived. Interested in him as something to tease... interested in the same way that she'd been interested in cats when she was very small, when the strange, cruel streak in the nice little girl had made her enjoy pulling their tails, hearing them again and again scream, screech, and squeal!
It was the same curious interest that she'd had when she went to school and had stuck a stealthy pin in an unsuspecting child to make her cry. She was never caught, never suspected-because Barbara was such a nice little girl, and she only did it because she liked it, enjoyed it-the act itself and the sound of pain.
And Jerry was such a perfect victim! She could never have found a finer foil for her, perverse, strange performances. And they were performances, they were perverse, too. But Jerry didn't know that!
"My daughter, Barbara," said Neil proudly, beaming at his pride and joy when he introduced them.
And Jerry had stretched out an oversized hand and blushed. He did everything and blushed. Though Barbara hadn't known that, not then! "How do you do, little girl," he'd said.
Barbara giggled, and Neil beamed.
"She's not really a little girl," Harriette had begun to explain, when Neil had snapped: "She's eighteen! That's not old!"
And Jerry's eyes had bulged. "I-I thought you were-were very young," he'd stammered, "about fourteen-or less-" Then he'd blushed a deeper red and added: "I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Jerry," said Harriette. "The way that she dresses-" She sighed, then: "I don't blame you for thinking..." Her voice had trailed off because Neil was glaring at her so hard.
Barbara stared at Jerry's face and blinked her eyes and moved her lips in strangely suggestive movements. She was curious to see if it made him blush more. It did! He would come downstairs in the morning, see Barbara sitting at the table-and he'd blush.
"Good morning, Jerry," she'd say sweetly, watching his face.
He'd stare, his lips would move. "G-good morning," he'd reply, blushing. Barbara would giggle.
"He's very competent," Neil was saying to Harriette one morning. "It's extraordinary for someone his age."
"How old is he?" her mother has asked. "About twenty?"
Barbara laughed out loud, and Harriette jerked her head at her, asked: "What's so funny about that?"
"He's probably a little less!" Barbara giggled.
Neil nodded and looked up from his paper. "As a matter of fact, he is," he said.
"Less than everything," said Barbara, giving a sweet but snide laugh.
"Sshh!" Harriette jerked her eyes upstairs, where Jerry was in the bathroom.
"Like nothin'," said Barbara, loudly. "Jerry's like nothin'!" She pursed her lips, then made them round: "Zero!" she said, wetting them. "Zero!"
He liked to watch the science shows on the boob-tube in the living room. Harriette resisted and wasn't interested and Neil didn't bother, but Barbara would appear on the scene. She would stand by Jerry for a moment, leaning so that she touched him, knowing he was aware of it-knowing too, he was too shy to show his awareness, or do anything about it. Then she'd drop a coin, or a ring, or beads near the TV set. She'd bend down to pick them up; crouch down, knees bent, buttocks low, facing Jerry, squatting near the set so that he could not help but see. His eyes would go down, down to the white stretch of flesh that led down her thighs to her crotch, and he'd stare as though he was transfixed at the dusky darkness where the thatch of hair nestled round the thin, moving slit. And he'd blush.
Barbara would squirm herself forward, closer and closer. Making sure she kept within his line of sight, checking by his eyes and the color of his skin to be sure that he could see. She'd open her knees, squeeze together her thighs, then part them widely, and make small sounds. Innocent sounds, girlish sounds-but sensual, sexy sounds, too. The mound at the crotch would begin to increase in size. His face would lose its color, become white, then gray. At last he'd rise, make a strangled excuse of a sound and hurry up the stairs.
Barbara would follow, silently, surreptitiously, then stand outside his bedroom door or the bathroom door, whichever the case would be.
She would heard the sounds first. The groan of strained frustration as soon as he'd closed the door; the snap of the bolt or the click of the key, then the sigh. The squelching sounds would start-the slather of a lathered shaft, as though a hydraulic pump was gliding its shaft into a greased slot or a punch was pressing through porous plastic or large, ungainly hands were squeezing and sliding on a jerking, squirting penis....
The sounds gave Barbara pleasure. She enjoyed it. She knew how to give pain, too-that heightened her pleasure, intensified it.
Barbara would wait, listening, savoring the sensual sounds that seeped through the locked door. She knew when he was reaching his climax. And at the vital moment, the sex-split-second, she'd scream: "Jerry!" Her mouth close to the keyhole; her voice at its highest pitch, her lungs pushing forth their most powerful blast of ear-shattering sound, she would shriek his name.
The sobbing sound of a groan would spew from his mouth, then he'd call feebly, his voice higher and weaker than usually: "W-what-what is it?"
"Phone!" she'd scream. "Urgent." She'd hear the frightened rustle of clothing being replaced, refastened and the panting sound of an increased frustration would bubble from babbling lips. Barbara would hide in a preselected place where she could see. He'd stumble from the room, his face white, hands trembling, crotch bulging. Then his fiddling hands would thrust into his pockets and he would try to restrain the swollen shaft. And Barbara would giggle to herself. She'd run downstairs, loudly, hurriedly -then stand in front of Jerry and stare, saying: "Sorry, Jerry. I'm so sorry, I was wrong. The call wasn't for you!"
And he'd feel too humiliated to know whether there had been a call, or if there'd been a call and he'd been too busy to hear it. She'd focus her eyes on his crotch until he became aware of it and his face would turn gray with pain. That heightened Barbara's pleasure.
She used small schemes, too, to torture Jerry. When he came home from the engineering office where he spent his days with her father, Barbara would open the bedroom door, slide off her skirt, then stand, bare buttocks outthrust towards the door and her face to her full-length mirror. Because the first thing that Jerry did when he got to the house was to go to his room to change and he had to pass Barbara's door. He would stop, suddenly quieting his breathing; and Barbara would glance at the corner of her mirror where she could see the reflection of his feet in her doorway, and she'd know.
She would bend, making the smooth cheeks stretch apart widely, then straighten, undulating her hips, swaying gently, opening them and then closing the hollows that nestled so snugly on the lower cheeks of her bottom. He would draw in breath, she'd then hear. It pleased her. Then she would make as if to turn, letting him know by the lifting of her head, and the tentative half twist of a shoulder, and she'd hear the stealthy rustle of clothing as he slid himself out of her sight.
When she looked behind her, he'd be gone. Always! Barbara made certain of that-she would never look until she was sure! He didn't know that she knew. Knew he was always watching her, seeing her nakedness. Barbara didn't want him to know. It would have spoiled some of the fun. She enjoyed deceiving him. Teasing him!
She would sit where he could not help but see her, with an unbuttoned blouse and no brassiere, then she'd lean towards him. The nipples would peek out as her breasts slipped down, and he'd stare, and blush, and wriggle.
Shy Jerry. He lost weight while he stayed there. His nerves became worse, and he cracked his knuckles more loudly, moved his hands more jerkily, fiddled, diddled, and he did these things constantly.
Wherever he looked, there was Barbara! She'd squat on a settee, legs drawn underneath her buttocks, crosswise, thighs open-and not wearing briefs-until he saw her, blushed, blanched, then shivered his way upstairs.
And she'd follow. To listen, or to watch through the keyhole in the door-or to tease. Especially to tease!
One night, when Barbara's torment had become more than he could endure, he went out for a few blessed hours. He had gone to a bar, heard voices that talked, not teased, and music that soothed instead of soft, sexy sounds that incited, excited and tortured. The liquor too, helped to ease the fear of ever-near frustration and quelled the pain of constant, unfulfilled passion and temptation. Jerry felt better... for a time.
He returned to the house late. Jerry had his own key and he tried to draw strength from the liquor in his body-and the thought in his mind that Barbara would be in bed. The house was very still. Harriette had left a dim, downstairs light on for his benefit. She was considerate of him, Jerry was thinking as he mounted the stairs, and Neil was kind, too.
At the top of the stairs, he froze. The light was still on in Barbara's room and the door was ajar. Jerry's heart pounded. He moved on stealthy tiptoes, trying to hold his breath. He had to pass Barbara's room to get to his, he told himself with tiny, silent sobs of guiltridden fear, he had to!
He glanced in her bedroom as he was forcing himself to pass: she was asleep. His breath choked in his throat and he couldn't swallow. She looked like an angel! Her hair was awry on the pillow and one tousled lock had fallen across her eyes, masking them, making her look softer, innocent, younger than ever!
Barbara-puss! That's what her father called her. She stirred as though he'd spoken her name out loud, then a smooth, rounded leg slid out from under the covers, flexed itself then stretched straight out, moving slowly. Luscious! A trickle of saliva dribbled down his chin. He watched her twist herself, restlessly, sinuously, and the sheet slipped off so that he could see that she was wearing her pajama top-just her pajama top-no panties, nothing.
Jerry's hand jerked down to his crotch. Oh, my God! He closed his eyes, tried to relax the constricted grip of his fingers on his penis, but couldn't. His eyes flickered open. She had slewed onto her back, squirming her buttocks into the mattress, bending her knees and spreading her thighs. He stared up into the dusky, still mysterious, hair-shrouded niche.
Living little doll! Oh, Barbara-doll! His hand moved and his fingers tightened their grip on his still-swelling cock. Then his fingers wormed their way to the underside of his prick and began to tease his naked hardness with knowing fingers. He nearly sobbed. Barbara had the temptation to laugh softly, knowing the power she held over him and enjoyed it.
He skillfully lifted and stretched his cock, hard as a rock. He shifted his hips. He gazed from her body down to his throbbing penis in the firm curl of his moving fingers. Then he slipped his other hand to his balls and cradled the heavy twin load in the palm of his sweating hand. He gritted his teeth, went red in his face, and made little anguished sounds that really spoke of the torture his body was suffering.
Barbara moved on the bed seductively. He stroked his rod slowly, his fingers making a tighter and tighter fist around it, making the meaty tool redder and redder from the tight pressure the fingers were applying. He groaned through tightly clenched teeth. He was standing flat on his feet, his cock standing hard and erect, pointing straight up at the ceiling, his eyes gulping in the beauty of her young body. His face was a tortured mask, displaying wanton lust. He leaned over her body, bringing her face close to his testicles, her warm breath fanning over his straining prick, and her nostrils caught the musk smell of it. But she still did not open her eyes. Her hair trickled over his quaking thighs as she sleepily moved her head.
Now his two hands were furiously massaging his burning cock, and she could imagine the fantasies that must be swimming through his mind. Why doesn't he taste it? Doesn't he know it tastes like honey! Barbara thought. Oh suck me, you idiot. Suck that honey-pot, make me feel groovy, make me come too!
The thickness of his hard cock was shoving in and out of the strong fingers of both his hands. Was he picturing her tongue washing around his wet, fleshy cock, she wondered. Diving her hungry, gaping, gripping lips onto that awful thing? And maybe he pictured her savoring every lovely moment of the sucking! The fool!
She felt power, not humbleness, as she lay there. He was completely under her power, like a helpless zombie under her hypnotic spell. She could actually hear his cock driving rhythmically in and out of his hands, knowing that every inch of his strained body was concentrated on his task. The moment was near, she knew. A great fountain of white come would come pouring from his cock. She heard him gulp and swallow.
She lifted her knees, opened her legs wider. Oh, why doesn't he bend over and kiss it once! The thought shot through her mind like a hot dagger. Behind closed lids, Barbara's eyes were getting glassy with her own desire. She tried to stop her belly from rising and falling with her quickened breathing. She could no longer smell the heated odor of his cock near her face. He was backing away! Barbara lay very still, waiting. The elastic lips of her cunt expanded to give entrance to a probing tongue that she knew was not going to dip itself into her honey-pot. Yes, he was moving away from her. Why?
Tingles of wicked pleasure were grabbing at her body, and she sighed as she felt the pleasurable sensations the imagined tongue was giving her, picturing it curling, caressing her soft, warm and yielding flesh. But there was no tongue! Jerry's body stiffened, but she knew now he was three or four feet back away from her bed. Even so, her cunt would not stop twitching madly and she wondered if he could see it.
Sadly alone with his painful tight grip on the full meat of his penis. He felt the juices in his body becoming alive, surging downward towards his belly then converging, melanging until they became a long, sharp sliver of pain and desire that spiraled to his crotch then pulsed with wracking spasms until he dragged his penis and squeezed it, then pointed it towards the naked flesh of the sleeping girl as it spurted then squirted a jagged arc of viscid sap onto Barbara.
Ecstasy! His body sagged as he watched a thick glob of fluid trickle down a white, virginal thigh. Then a strange, new satiation embraced his limbs, relaxing them, relieving them. She was the sweetest thing! He moved away sluggishly, his legs heavy, feet dragging but body appeased. For a moment, he felt better. For this time he had left some of his Barbara-induced lust juice to soak and seep into the unprotected flesh of the sleeping unaware, innocent but bedeviled virgin!
Barbara lifted her eyelashes a shy fraction of an inch as soon as she heard Jerry moving away from her door. It had been fun! She wriggled her body. It'd made her come all wet! She slid her finger into her vulva, felt it, caressed it. This time had been the best! Her finger felt an alien moistness on her thigh. Jerry! She drew back her hand in horror! His stuff-his filthy stuff!
She squirmed her body, feeling her flesh shrink away from the extraneous fluid. Then, suddenly, shatteringly, her movements ceased and the tiny goosebumps rose. It thrilled her! Her legs stretched out stiff and straight, she curled up her toes, felt her clitoris rise, tense then jerk with erotic spasms. The alien essence intensified it! She twisted her body like a whirling dervish, pressed her flesh against the damp sheet. Her clitoris thrust down with plunging throbs and the wet friction caused pleasure, then pain-then orgasm!
Barbara clenched her teeth and let the air hiss out. She had orgasmed more intensely, more acutely. It had been the highest she'd peaked! She allowed herself a secret smile that was more of a grimace of desire. It had been something new, too! She smiled again, serene now with satiation. Tomorrow she'd find some other way to tease Jerry and, maybe, raise her own sensations.
Barbara pressed her face into the pillow, reached out a lazy hand and switched off the light; lassitude flowed through relaxed limbs, and she fell asleep sweetly, completely and purely. Jut like an innocent virgin should.
Jerry's face became hollow, the cheeks indrawn-and his work deteriorated. Barbara's father was worried. "I don't understand it!" he told Harriette. "The first few days he was fine. I've never had a more intelligent, conscientious assistant, but now-" Neil raised his arms in a gesture of futility. "He seems to have gone all to pieces. He can't concentrate on anything any-, more. His nerves seem shot." He looked up at Harriette. "He's not eating so good, is he?
"No," said Harriette, then she looked at Barbara. Barbara stared back, innocently, demurely. Harriette tightened her lips, then got up and left the room.
Neil turned to Barbara. "Have you any idea of what's botherin' Jerry?"
She blinked at him, shrugged impishly... then lisped: "Just haven't a clue, Daddy!" Then she giggled, rose from her chair and did a small pirouette for her father.
He watched, admiringly, as she tripped lightly into the garden. Pretty as a picture, he told himself for the nth time, and pure as a lily! Then he told himself, like he'd told it before: He was a pretty goddamned lucky guy to have a daughter like Barbara.
Three days before he left the Bennett home, Jerry got better. The light came back into his eyes, his step became more alert, alive, and his appetite returned. His nerves seemed improved, too. His hands seemed smaller, more controlled. And it was all because the weighted metal bar fell on Jerry's shoulder.
They took him to the doctor, of course, and there was nothing seriously damaged. "It'll probably be painful," said the doctor, "for a day or two, or if you have trouble sleeping, take one of these." He looked at Jerry, noting his size, "Or two, not more. They'll put you out like a light." He pushed the small vial of pills across the desk. He smiled at Jerry, patted the injured shoulder with professional care, added: "After a couple of these pills, they would probably be able to drag you down the stairs and you wouldn't even know it!" And he'd laughed.
Neil told Harriette and Barbara all about it over their supper. "Jerry was damned lucky he didn't get a serious fracture," he told them while Jerry listened, pecked at his food and blushed. "But he'll be okay. The doc gave him something so he can sleep. He'll probably be okay in the morning, eh, Jerry?" He smiled at Jerry. Neil liked the shy young man.
"Like what?" asked Barbara. "The doc gave you like what to make you sleep?"
Eagerly, Jerry showed Barbara the small vial of pills. "These," he said nervously, "they'll put me out like a light, the doc said."
Barbara fingered the small pills curiously. They didn't impress her. "Like nothin'," she said. "They look like nothin'!"
Neil looked at his daughter, frowned. "Don't ever you take anythin' like that, Barbara dear -they'd knock a little girl like you right out!"
And Jerry's head jerked up.
"Don't worry, Daddy," she murmured, then she stared at Jerry. "Who wants to go out like a light, anyway?" She blinked at Jerry, stared down at the pills. "It gives nothin'." She looked at Jerry, "Zero." she added, spewing her lips. "Like nothing!" Then she got up and squirmed in a dainty, little-girlish way, into the garden.
Jerry stared after her, very thoughtfully.
Harriette sighed. "She's a funny girl!"
Jerry said nothing, just blushed.
"Sweet-" said Neil, watching her dawdle in the garden. "She's delicious!" And he gave his silly smile.
Harriette winced.
Chapter Five
Barbara usually had a Coke before she went up to bed. Downstairs, that is. Upstairs, she might have a small shot of the vodka that she kept so well hidden-or, if there was nobody around, she'd sneak a tumbler of gin into her bedroom and enjoy a nightcap before bed. But on that particular night-the night of the day when Jerry bruised his shoulder-her secret supply of vodka was dry, so Barbara was mixing some of her father's vodka with the Coke in her long, slim glass.
Jerry came into the living room and saw her. Barbara was surprised. She'd thought he was in bed. He usually went to bed early to keep out of her way, Barbara suspected, to put an end to her ceaseless series of teasing sessions. Tonight, with her parents out, visiting friends, she'd been sure that he was securely in bed, sleeping-or, she thought with a giggle, diddling with his fiddling, engineering fingers. Maybe his bruised shoulder interfered with his diddling! Barbara felt a tremor of amusement flicker through her body at the thought.
Then Jerry spoke. "You drink?" he sounded shocked as well as surprised.
Barbara gave her little-girl sigh. "Headache," she murmured, "I've got a headache. I'm afraid I won't sleep, so I thought a teeny drink might help." She smiled at Jerry, watching for his blush.
His expression seemed more strained than embarrassed. "W-would you like one of these pills?" he asked, taking the vial from his pocket. "The ones that the doc gave me for sleep?"
Barbara's eyes widened. "Oh, no-what a dreadful thing!"
Jerry moved uncomfortably. "W-what's so dreadful?"
Barbara stared at him in mock horror. "Just one of those would knock me out. You know that! I'd be helpless!"
The vial seemed to tremble in his fingers. "Well-I mean, if you're going to bed with a headache, one'd make you sleep."
"No, thank you, Jerry," she said primly, determinedly. "Just a little Coke and tiny shot of vodka will put me to sleep all right." She smiled at him demurely, then walked into the kitchen to get a cube of ice.
Barbara was replacing the tray in the fridge when she glanced up and saw Jerry in the mirror. She froze. From where she was standing in the kitchen, Barbara could see the reflection of the liquor cabinet in the antique mirror on the far wall of the living room. She could see Jerry, too-and her drink. Jerry was dropping some pills into the glass! The sleeping pills! She closed the door of the fridge quietly and moved out of the line of vision.
Why would Jerry do a thing like that? Barbara sat on a kitchen chair. She wanted to think this out. After a moment, she took a deep breath and stood up. She had figured it out.
She smiled at Jerry as she walked back into the living room and dropped the small cubes of ice into her glass. "D'you think I should?" she asked Jerry.
"S-should!" he stammered. His face seemed pale, not blushing.
"Take a drink, I mean-" she said, indicating the glass. "Maybe my headache'll go away- maybe I shouldn't drink this."
His hands started to tremble. "Oh, I think you should." He sounded too anxious. "It'll help you a lot. I know it will!"
Barbara smiled at him. She was right! "You really think so?" She slightly raised her eyebrows.
He wanted to knock her out, and then he could-just what would he do? She felt a burning curiosity to know. Would he rape her? Or would he be too shy? Would he lose his nerve -even with an unconscious girl-and stand there, diddling himself, playing with himself, maybe staring at her breasts, or her what?
"Oh, yes." He was overeager. "I'm sure it'll help you!" Then the phone rang. "S-shall I answer?" he asked with his stammer.
She smiled at him. "All right, Jerry." She watched him as he shambled into the hallway. As soon as he was out of her sight, she took a fresh glass from the cabinet, filled it with Coke, then added a spare cube of ice. The other glass, the one with the vodka and the pills, she took to the kitchen and quickly and silently emptied its contents down the sink. When Jerry returned, she was standing by the cabinet. "Well?"
"Your father," said Jerry, "they'll be very late-your mother and father-somethin' w-with the c-car," he finished, stammering worse than ever before.
Barbara sighed. "Well-no use waitin' up. Guess I'll go to bed." And she moved towards the stairs. "Good-night, Jerry," she called over her shoulder.
"Your drink!" his voice was shrill like a girl's. "You've forgotten your drink!"
"My drink?" Then Barbara sighed, as if remembering. "Of course." She moved back to the liquor cabinet, picked up the glass. "Can you drink a whole glass in one long swallow?" she asked.
He shook his head, watching her, breathlessly.
Barbara tiled the glass, threw her head back and poured the Coke swiftly down. She gasped, choked a little, then pretended to stagger. "Funny," she said, very low, "I-I feel kinda dizzy-" He reached for her arm, held it. She could feel the tremor in his fingers. "I'll help you upstairs," he muttered, his voice all choked up.
"I-I'll be all right," Barbara made her voice weak. "I'll go straight to bed." Then she moved away from him and walked unsteadily up the stairs. She didn't know how fast the pills were supposed to act, she thought as she wobbled upstairs, didn't know how shaky to act-how soon -but then, Jerry didn't know either, she reassured herself, restraining a giggle at the crazy situation.
Barbara stood in front of her dressing mirror in her panties and bra and admired herself. So that's what Jerry wants to screw! she said below her breath, then giggled. She slid down her panties, stepped out of them-then her eyes flickered back to the glass. The pubic hairs seemed more profuse each time she examined them. She let her hand drop, stroked them lightly; they seemed alive with electricity. She slid her fingers down, felt the wet lips moving of their own accord. She slipped a finger inside, let it glide up and felt her clitoris twitch. Barbara moved her hand away quickly; she didn't want to peak too soon.
She giggled. Then she saw the pink slit oozing open. That! she spewed, wetly and soundlessly, That's what Jerry wants! Her hand moved up, removed her brassiere and her breasts seemed larger, bigger, fuller than usual. She stroked them idly, unconsciously almost, thinking of Jerry, and wondering what he'd do if she let him do anything... He'd squirted his stinkin' stuff onto her. Now, he wanted to spurt it into her!
She mouthed the words at her reflection, forming the words with her lips visually but soundlessly, then adding: Filthy prick! Horrible thing! Saying it, then repeating it-and finding strange pleasure in that, too! How could she tease him when she was supposed to be unconscious? she asked herself.
She jerked up her hand, stared at her face this time instead of her body. Her lips looked pale, and the lines around her mouth seemed tight, strained, tense. She'd like to hurt Jerry! Barbara clenched her small fists in the thought. Her eyes flickered back at her from the glass; flickered wildly, rapidly, erratically. She felt hungry for pain, to inflict it! How could she do such a thing without him being aware? Without making him aware that she was awake?
Her fingernails pierced deeper into her palms as she clenched her fists more fiercely. He'd know she was awake! A real live girl, not some inanimate doll that he could rape or screw or use in any way he liked, then discard! All at once, Barbara became aware of the pain in her hands and unclenched her fists. Her head jerked down and she looked at her hands, opening them, curiously, wonderingly, staring at the small marks that her sharp nails had left in her flesh.
The breath hissed from her lips! She'd claw Jerry! It would be the natural thing to do- even for an unconscious girl-to scratch, tear, to use her nails, claw like a cat or a kitten.
A kitten, she thought. Jerry probably thought of her as a kitten, not a cat. She smiled at the thought, then her lips tightened. Even a kitten has claws! She tensed suddenly. Was that a sound on the stairs? Barbara strained her ears, heard nothing, then slid her feet out of her shoes, stared down at her stockingless legs. Then she slipped lithely under the covers. Had she heard Jerry coming up for his piece?
She closed her eyes, just in case. She wouldn't want to shock him with wide-open eyes! He'd be scared! The thought amused her. Imagine Jerry thinking that he could use her!
Barbara clenched her lips to restrain her giggles. Then she heard him, and lay very still, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, breathing deeply, serenely-like a good little girl, who'd been doped.
Jerry stood at her bedroom door, staring at her. Drinking her in with his eyes. She was out! he told himself. Right out! "Barbara," he whispered, just to be sure, "are you asleep?"
She lay very still, barely moving.
He gave a deep sigh of relief, moved into the bedroom and carefully, closed the door, then locked it.
Barbara heard the click of the lock-and felt a faint flicker run through her body. Not of fear but of curiosity! He locked the door before he diddled. Did he have to lock it before he screwed or raped? Then, belatedly, Barbara felt revulsion. The prick! The horrid, filthy prick!
She didn't want it in her! She was a nice, clean girl who didn't screw. That's what she was-nice! Everyone knew that. She was sweet and nice and Daddy's little girl! but if she was unconscious and raped, that wouldn't stop her from being nice! She'd still be a sweet, young virgin really. Even though someone had pushed it in her-the thing-the prick! It would only be because she couldn't help it!
She felt a new kind of sensation flickering through her body. A sensation of half apprehension, half desire. Would it hurt? Barbara's thighs squeezed tightly together at the thought, as though they were denying entry to any alien flesh or muscle or bone-she didn't even know exactly what it was! She let her breath out silently. Maybe, just maybe, Jerry wouldn't even try to rape her! Maybe at the final moment, he'd be too scared. Too shy! Barbara was startled at the throb of disappointment and fright that pulsed through her body. She relaxed her legs, opened her eyes a crack, saw Jerry standing there, unfastening the buckle on his belt. Oh, my God! Something like fear raced through her veins. What had she started? But he was merely preparing to slide his pants down. He wasn't going to slash her, as she'd thought for a frightened tingling minute. She bit her lip surreptitiously to keep it from trembling. That's what she'd have wanted to do! Barbara screwed her eyes shut tight, as if ashamed of her own emotions, desires... If she'd had someone helpless, at her mercy it would have thrilled her intensely!
She eased her eyes open. His underpants were off now and the penis was visible, protruding outward, already aroused. Barbara looked at it through shielded eyes. She'd seen it through the bathroom keyhole, she'd seen it in Jerry's bedroom. Each time, he'd been gripping it, lathering it with a sweaty slather of lust, of frustrated passion-because of her teasing!
She was still aware of a sensory response at the sight of it. Even though it seemed as familiar as the big, nervous hands which gripped it as though they hated it, squeezed it as though they loved it, and pulled, twisted and tortured it with such savage intensity. Barbara remembered seeing it, too, when he'd paused at her bedroom door-then entered, stood at the foot of her bed and pointed it at her as though it were a gun. It had exploded, all right! The penis had shot a spurt of wetness onto her flesh, and she recalled her emotions afterwards-the strange, melanged emotions of hatred and love. Repulsion and desire! She had the same sensations now.
Jerry ripped off his shirt and she saw that his hands were trembling; saw too, that his penis had risen of its own accord until it seemed to be pointing at her face. Naked now, Jerry walked to the head of her bed and stood very still. Barbara closed her eyes tightly to hide the smallest glimmer. She could hear his breathing: harsh, heavy, uneven.
"Barbara," he whispered, then louder: "Barbara-can you hear me?"
She lay still, kept her breathing regular, easy and relaxed with an effort of will.
He seemed reassured and she felt the bed sag as he sank down on it close to her face. "Oh, Barbara," he breathed with bated emotion.
Now! the small voice in her head told her, warned her, promised her. Now he'd rape her! Then she felt his face touch hers, gently, softly -and it was hard to restrain a startled gasp when she realized that he was rubbing his cheeks against hers.
"So smooth," he murmured, "so sweet." He nuzzled her, hungrily and longingly. He kissed her forehead, then her eyes, cheeks and lips with a gentle mouth.
She felt him draw back, then he spoke quietly; "Sweet-but cruel!" His mouth went onto hers again, but this time he drove in fiercely, probing his tongue into the secret crannies, sucking the warm, wet tissue, drawing her tongue into his mouth, and savoring it, hungrily, urgently.
Barbara neither helped nor impeded. He held her close with his fingers, pressing inward, forcing her lips to part whether she wanted them to or not, and she accepted his ministrations as though she was a limp, plasticated, but porous doll.
She felt him stand up and she lay still as though she were quite helpless, unconscious, drugged. But her eyes opened a glimmer and she saw the big hands holding his penis. Holding it lightly, pointing it towards her face. Then he moved it forward and she felt him rubbing it against her cheeks. It crossed her lips and her slightly parted mouth felt the wet slit at its tip pause at the opening. Oh, no! she moaned within herself, Not that! Please, not that!
He pushed it inward and her lips stretched as wide to accommodate the bulbous head forced into her mouth. He slid it in, then out, with smooth, wet movements.
Barbara took it passively. The head of the shaft felt so smooth, as though the skin was stretched to the tightest limit to contain the pulsing energy which was striving to burst out and spew itself onto her tongue, her lips, her teeth. For a crazy moment Barbara wondered what he'd do if she bit down sharply with her strong teeth, sinking them into the vibrant but vulnerable shaft, drawing blood from the alien flesh that dared to penetrate the secret recesses of her mouth. She felt a shiver of pleasure just at the thought. It would be an intense sensation for both of them!
She restrained a crazy giggle-and heard Jerry's breath rasping in his throat. He withdrew his penis from between her lips and she felt a driblet of wetness drop from the end of it onto her chin as it passed. Filthy prick! she spewed silently. But she was careful to keep her lips still, retain her pose of helplessness.
"Lovely!" Jerry said the word out loud as though he were bolder now. He squeezed the tip of her breast, making the nipple flatten, then tense, elongate. His mouth went onto it and he drew it into his mouth, sucked it as though he were a child.
She felt his hand moving over her body as he did it. The long, sensitive fingers traveled over her flesh. Stroking, caressing, feeling, probing, exploring. Curious hands, she thought, nervous fingers, so used to manipulating, fiddling, diddling. He was diddling her now! She felt the finger press into her vulva. Felt her vaginal lips part spontaneously as he pushed upward. The inner walls squeezed against the long slenderness, gripping it, creating wet sucking pressure. The air panted from Jerry's mouth, hitting her breast as his lips sucked, pulled, bit.
Then she felt his whole body tense, his finger freeze when it encountered her intact hymen. His head jerked back from her breast. "A virgin!" he breathed. Then his head slid down her body until it nestled between her thighs. Two long fingers slid into the opening, stretched the wide vaginal lips, while a third finger slipped up, high up, and then jabbed at the barrier. "Untouched!" Jerry gasped, then: "Incredible!"
She felt his body trembling with emotion-or eagerness? Then he was dragging her legs open, pulling them apart heavily, viciously as though he no longer needed or desired to be tender. "You're gonna be screwed!" he mouthed loudly. And it didn't sound like Jerry's voice at all, Barbara thought. "I'm gonna screw your teasing, virginal hole, my little bitch," he muttered wetly. "Screwable little bitch," he added as he spread his long body on top of her small, so vulnerable and available flesh.
His knees pressed against his thighs, opening them wider and Barbara felt the wet lips parting with a small, sucking sound. He dropped on top of her heavily; his chest flattened her breasts, his face was so close to hers that his breath rasped in her ears. He groped down with his hand, seized his penis and steered the pulsing shaft up to the virginal cunt, pried at the entrance, opened it-thrust up...
It's too big, Barbara screamed inside herself. It's too long! It'll tear, rip, shred me wide open! She tried to say the words out loud, but couldn't because his mouth covered hers, his lips slathering saliva onto hers, into her mouth, while his whole face worked spasmodically.
The stifled scream was quelled by his mouth when his penis touched, then pierced the fragile hymen. Barbara felt the pain shooting outward, then inward until it climaxed at the tender ring of ruptured tissue. "Rape!" she wanted to shriek. "I'm being raped!" But the maw of a mouth which covered hers muffled all sound.
He was too engrossed in his thrusting, jerking motions to be aware that she was wriggling her body, gripping him with her thighs, bending her knees. He worked until his penis had swollen grotesquely, stretching Barbara's vulva as it had never been stretched before. Then he thrust deeper, lifted his shoulder, arched his back, spurted.
"I'm coming, Barbara!" he shouted, though he thought she was unaware. "I'm screwing you, Barbara!" he screamed. "You virginal cunt!" And he drove with a violent compulsion. "Oooooooh, Barbara!" His voice rose to an ear-splitting shriek. "I've come! I've screwed it- you teasing, prick-tempting, delicious cunt!" His body collapsed on top of her. His breath came in painful sobs. With his mouth beside her ear, he moaned: "You little bitch, you-you sweet bitch!" Then he moved his head tiredly and kissed her on the mouth.
Barbara lay very still as though what had happened was not of her doing. As if it were an occurrence over which she had no control, no power, no involvement. She was still a virgin! A sweet, young virgin! She was still nice! She tried to smile, reassure herself that what had happened wasn't really real-was just some dream, some daydream that hadn't taken place. Hadn't involved her. But she knew it wasn't true, because when the raping penis had squirted its lust, its juice spurting through her shattered virginal barrier, she had orgasmed with a wild intensity that was not only unexpected but also undreamed of. She had been involved-so very involved!
You bastard! she wanted to scream. You filthy bastard! But her limp body felt powerless; her lips too weak to move, and her voice was paralyzed by the paroxysmal orgiastic frenzy which had enveloped her so completely.
She felt Jerry rolling off her; moving slowly, tiredly, breathing deeply through his nose. He lay very still for a minute, then she felt his hands go onto her body again, and he was turning her, as if she was a raggedy doll, until she was lying facedown on the bed. His breath seemed to hit her bare back with small hot spurts, then he spoke: "I've seen it before," he muttered, hoarse and breathless, "but never so close."
His hand went onto her buttocks and he squeezed her flesh, twisting it between his long, strong fingers, pulling it, teasing it. "Never so -" he rasped, "accessible!" Then his hand came down with a sharp, hard slap, and Barbara felt the hotness spreading from her bottom to her thighs, then flickering between them and upward. His hand came down again, harder. "Ohhh, honey...!"
And Barbara's flickers started. The flesh on her buttocks was a hot mass of tender tissue. Each slap seemed to burn in a little deeper, penetrate more intensely. Barbara moaned audibly.
Jerry stopped his spanking and moved his head close to her face. "Barbara," he hissed.
She lay still, breathing deeply, forcing her lips to keep closed.
He gave a small sigh of relief. "Don't wake yet," he said lightly, as if he were making a joke. "I haven't finished with my teasing little girl yet!" And he spanked her again, making her bottom bob up and down the violence of the slaps.
He was still slapping, and with the other hand waving her rear architecture in front of his wide eyes. The eyes were feasting madly on the jutting, high-set moon-round haunches. He moved the deeply divided domes of saucy, taut flesh in a slow pain-enacted grind. He spread her cheeks with almost dainty fingers this time, and a slightly rosy glow marked the center spot.
His eyes were still feasting. He arched her ass, then swung it shallow in a forward thrust. She was now turned halfway to one side and the silhouette of twisted waist and adorable bottom was superb before his gaze. He moved a hand up, fingers spread wide apart, to make her creamy bubbly breasts bob and jiggle a separate dance.
Now he was gently holding her hips, steadying them in his grasp of easy rhythm, and he was just watching, enchanted. He was breathing painfully hard, the one hand again creeping up to those white tits, under them, squeezing and feeling and nipple playing. His fingers began a gentle rubbing and plucking at the long, tender, aroused nipples. His hands were now both filled with the smooth, round and resilient flesh.
His entire body seemed strained with excitement. His strong fingers dug into her as he arched her against him. His body was all gleamingly sweat soaked. A speculative withdrawal, a determined goading, a wiggle, a grind and then another rubbing of his full weight thrust down on her.
His kisses all over her body were hungry, deep, long and exalting. There were tears on his cheeks, his arms locked around her ribs now as he held her in a long enduring embrace, all his senses reeling, instinct and desire gushing through his balls, his prick, his stomach, gashing itself against the inside of his spine. With a single, seasoned motion he again dropped his hand over her bottom and plunged a solid finger, bulls-eyeing her asshole on the first shot. Little gurgles of sudden astonishment caught themselves in Barbara's throat, and she wanted so badly to aimlessly walk her legs up in the air on either side of him...
He rocked back and forth on the bed, as if in a cradle, his finger a knuckle into her rear, then two joints. Barbara's mind was going wild. Tears rubbed off his cheek onto her tormented flesh, his mouth woman-hungry, gulping at her. Every nerve in her body urged her to become a bursting bouquet under him, let her hot skin become hysterical with movement, but she resisted. Sky rockets shot up at the roof of her mouth, and she dared not even swallow. A leaf drifted downstream inside her excited brain.
Then his body went limp over her young hunger. She could still hear the long moans deep in his chest, while he did nothing but move that one submerged finger. When he finally ceased, the spurting throbs of heat ran over the whole of her body, and tiny thrills of melanged pain and pleasure flickered in every part of her flesh.
"Good," said Jerry softly. "That was so good, Barbara-tease." He caressed her flesh again, gently, not hurtfully this time, then asked: "Like it, Barbara-puss?" She heard him laugh and hated him, because she knew he was mimicking her father.
"Barbara-baby!" he said, touching the tiny star that nestled between the hot, abused cheeks of her bottom. "Barbara-baby like?" he asked, thrusting his finger into the small orifice, then twisting. The sound bubbled from her lips and he withdrew his finger quickly. "Don't waken," he spoke urgently. "Not yet-not just yet."
She forced herself to curb her moans. The dirty diddling slob! She sobbed to herself, as she felt his finger slide out of her anus.
"Irresistible," he said quietly. "That's you, Barbara, quite irresistible." And she felt him lower his head, press his mouth against her tender flesh, and kiss her beaten buttocks. He kept his head down, pressing it between the sensitive cheeks and mumbling words that she didn't understand at first.
"Barbara-ooooh, Barbara!" She listened, trying to decipher the sounds. His tongue moved wetly on the skin that she knew must be marked. "Barbara darling," he said, and she felt surprise that was more like shock. Darling! She wriggled herself, as though she were stirring in slumber.
His tongue traced its way up her body, sliding through the crevice of her bottom, up the rocky mountains of her spine until he reached her neck. He kissed the small, bare spot below her tousled hair. "You don't know it," he mumbled, kissing the back of her neck, "you can't hear it," he said, turning her head, then her whole body over until she was laying on her back. "I love you, Barbara darling, I love you!" And he kissed her lips, this time as though he were doing it for love, not lust. "I love you, Barbara-puss."
And he didn't sound as though he was mocking anyone when he called her Barbara-puss this time, she thought, letting his tongue slick onto hers with a warm, moisty devotion. At length, he drew back with a sigh, rolled himself off the bed.
Barbara took a chance, sneaked her eyes open a slit, stared at him. He was standing beside the bed, his hands hanging down and his penis swelling before his eyes. She looked at his face. He was staring at her body. His eyes were riveted on the triangle of pubic hairs and the abused slit at their base. His penis was getting bigger. He moved a hand onto it, curled long fingers about it.
He leaned forward, not looking at her face- not seeing that her eyes had opened more than a crack-and pushed his shaft towards her breasts. Barbara felt her nipples tensing, spontaneously. He touched each tip with the wet slit at the end of his penis-touched them, teased them, then drew back.
She saw his eyes moving and closed hers until she could only see the glimmer of his penis approaching her face. He touched her cheek with the tip. The head of his penis had swollen immensely. It was so close that Barbara could see small, mottled veins which seemed to pulse and throb and enlarge.
"I love you, Barbara," said Jerry, and his fingers started to move. She watched breathlessly as his hand slid up and down the massive shaft. He was pressing his pelvis forward, throwing his head back, and the organ in his hand was jerking and straining as though it was trying to escape from his grasp.
"Ohhh... take it!" he screamed, squeezing, sliding his fingers, then squirting a wet stream of spurts onto Barbara's face. The wetness hit her lovely lips, her eyes, her cheeks and her chin. Sighs of release sobbed from Jerry's mouth. Barbara opened an eye a fraction. Jerry was standing still, his eyes closed, and his penis was slowly sagging downward, with drops of goo trickling onto his thigh.
As she watched, he moved. He opened his eyes and reached to the bed, dragged up a sheet and covered Barbara's nakedness. His eyes flickered over the outline of her body. "Love you," he mouthed, then he uttered something soundlessly and turned, picked up his clothes, and, without bothering to don them, moved to the door. Before he put out the light and closed the door, he said it again, with sadness. "Barbara darling-lovely Barbara darling, I love you!"
Then he was gone, and it was a long, long time before Barbara could fall asleep.
Barbara pressed her head into her soft pillow, remembering it all, reliving it all. So long ago, and yet, so vivid. Jerry had been different during the last two days of his stay at the Bennett house.
"How's the shoulder?" Neil had asked during breakfast. His concern appeared genuine.
"Better," said Jerry, not stammering; then he had seemed to glance towards Barbara, sitting very still, very quiet, as he added: "It seems to have cured itself during the night."
And Barbara's head shot up.
"Good," said Neil, smiling, "nothing like a good night's sleep."
"No," said Jerry, eating his food with relish, "It seems to have done it good."
Barbara had felt her face flush angrily. The smug, dirty bastard! Then her anger had evaporated as she remembered his words: Love you, Barbara darling, love you. She pecked at her toast, wondering if anyone else had ever told her that he loved her. Wondering if she had to be drugged, passed out-or thought to be-before anyone could tell her something like that.
"I hope you'll be back with me," said Neil. "Keep that in mind, won't you, Jer?"
And Jerry had said that he would, while Harriette had smiled at him-as she never smiled at Barbara-and said, "It's been really nice having you, Jerry, really nice!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Bennett," Jerry had said. Then he added, looking at Barbara but speaking to Harriette: "I'll never forget you."
"I'll see you again," he'd said to Barbara, shortly before he left. His eyes had moved over her body, lingering on parts that she'd flaunted so brazenly, so teasingly, frustratingly-until he'd finally taken them and used them, abused them.
Barbara's eyes flickered to his hands. "You've got big hands," she said. Then she glanced up quickly to see if he'd blush; he didn't. "Long fingers," she'd added, and moved her glance from his hands to his crotch, "never still, always moving, fiddling." Then she'd lowered her voice so that Neil and Harriette wouldn't hear. "Diddling," she'd hissed.
He'd flushed then. She was very close to him, and it might have been accidental that a long finger protruded, touched the hem of Barbara's mini then pressed against her crotch. "Yeah," he'd breathed, "diddling," and his finger moved, causing wetness to flood Barbara's cunt.
Barbara squirmed herself deeper into the mattress of her bed. Would Jerry be changed? Just thinking of him had made her more awake. She hadn't forgotten the thing he'd done, but it had been buried in her mind. Her father's brief words had brought it all back. Did she want to see him again?
Barbara sat up in bed. She felt more like a drink than sleep. She pricked up her ears: the muffled sounds of sullen mumbling had long since ceased to drift to her ears from her parents' bedroom. The coast was clear, she could nip downstairs.
She slid out of bed, glided lightly downstairs and opened the liquor cabinet. As she poured a strong shot of vodka in a long, slim glass, she thought of Jerry again. Did she want him to be changed or the same? Then she'd wondered... Which was the real Jerry? The shy one-blushing Jerry-or the one who'd raped her? Which?
She ran upstairs on her toes, balancing the glass with the grace of a ballerina; then she closed and locked her bedroom door. Which Jerry did she want? Or did she want him? He even had two personalities, she thought to herself. Her father didn't know that, neither did her mother, but Barbara did. She swallowed her drink in a gulp. Took great draughts of air into her lungs, felt better. She'd know how she felt about him when he came back, she told herself as she climbed back into bed.
Barbara swallowed the tablet that was ready on her bedside table, closed her eyes, prepared for sleep. The contours of Barbara's face softened as she relaxed, and the last conscious thought she had before sleep completed its insidious invasion, was: Why did thinking of Jerry make her feel more sexy than thinking of Grant? A tiny sliver of moistness started to trickle as Barbara slept, and she squeezed her thighs together, tightly and fleshily, as if to stem the flow.
She dreamed that night.
In her dream, a multiple-faced man worked his lips feverishly over Barbara's pussy. Sometimes in the dream it was Jerry's face. Sometimes it was Vincent. And sometimes it was her father's face. One by one the face changed, as the dream man knelt at her side. Barbara turned over on her stomach with her body trembling and heart beating madly, and lay with her thighs slightly parted, her arms crossed in front of her face to provide a pillow.
The man took hold of the waistband of her panties and began to lower them over her buttocks, inch by inch they were peeled away from her cheeks, bringing the round white spheres into the dream's full vision. First Jerry studied them carefully. Then Vincent did. Her father looked longest of all, lowering his face until his eyes and lips were extremely close to his daughter's now naked ass. Soon a probing tongue-was it Jerry's?-began to tickle and lick that "honey" cunt. She felt her pussy begin to contract. Then it was Vincent-continuing to tongue her cunt, smiling into it and getting as much pleasure from it as Barbara was.
Her thighs were now widely spread and the tongue turned to her asshole and licked furiously at it.
Now she was sure-it was her father, sucking back at that cunt again, working the clit between his juicy lips. He sucked that honey pot slowly-as if he was relishing every moment of it. Then the vibrant hard tongue pulsed inside her pussy and crammed it completely.
He made the tongue quiver as fast as he could. His lips revolved also, keeping wet, wild, juicy movement around that tasty cunt always.
"You have to fuck me now," she heard her father's voice saying, and Barbara awoke and sat straight up in bed-still shaking from the orgasms that were wracking her body.
Chapter Six
It was on a Friday night-the night that Grant usually dated Barbara-that Neil came home and announced to his wife and daughter: "I managed to get two really good seats for the water ballet tonight!"
"Oh, goody, Daddy!" Barbara smiled sweetly and made small sounds of pleasure.
Neil smiled at his daughter, then his eyes flickered to his wife. "I could only get two," began Neil uncomfortably. "If you want to go with Barbara," he hesitated, "well, then..."
Harriette spun around. Her face was set and she didn't smile when she spoke: "You know damned well that I can't stand those things." Her face almost sneered as she added: "Take Barbara. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Now, Harriette-" Neil began, then stopped when Barbara moved quickly to the door, slipped into the hallway, and closed the door quietly behind her. Neil's face changed. "See?" he almost snarled. "You've done it again! Scared the poor kid away!"
"Poor kid," Harriette mimicked.
He breathed hard and when he spoke, Neil kept his voice under control with an effort. "What's the matter with you, Harriette? You're on my back an' pickin' on Barbara all the goddamned time. What's got into you?"
Harriette's lips were white, then she made a lewd sound as she spat: "Not you-that's for sure. You haven't got into me for-" Neil interrupted: "Harriette, not that again!"
"Again," she mocked him nastily. "Are you so damned washed out, so damned old that you can't-" "Harriette!" he snapped.
"Screw," she said, "so you can't screw any more!"
Neil jerked his head towards the hallway. "Harriette, stop it!" His face worked with emotion. "Barbara," he hissed, "Barbara might hear you."
Harriette raised her voice. "Barbara, Barbara, Barbara! That's all I hear! That's all you can say! I'm sick and tired of that goddamned name an'-" She seemed to lose her anger and strength at the same time. "Oh, what's the use," she muttered, then she walked out of the kitchen and Neil heard her going slowly up the stairs to the bedroom.
Jesus! he said below his breath. Holy Jesus Christ! He jerked his head up when Barbara came in and tried to compose his face.
"Somethin' wrong, Daddy?" she asked in a small, shy voice. "Somethin' with Mommy?"
"Nothin'," he said. "Nothin' for you to worry about, Barbara-puss." He forced a smile back onto his face. Just seeing her and saying his name made him feel better. "We gonna have a ball tonight, Barbara baby. Just you an' me, a real ball!"
"Yes," Barbara gasped, her eyes gleaming as though she really were a little girl. "I just love the water ballet." She clasped her hands together and smiled at Neil. She really did like it. Seeing the perfectly proportioned performers knifing into the water, so crisply, so cleanly-it was beautiful and luscious. She got a deep thrill at the sight. "Lovely," she said, "so lovely!"
"Yeah," Neil agreed, thinking of something else, "it'll be lovely, all right-just you an' me, Barbara-puss!"
Barbara spun around in her adolescent dress, then clapped her hands and laughed. "That's right, Daddy-Lovely. Just the two of us!!"
Harriette poured another shot of gin into the tumbler, then drained it. She sank down onto the bed, then swung her feet up and let her head drop onto the pillow. Damn Neil, damn Barbara. Neither of them gave one solitary damn about her!
She squirmed herself, then kicked off her shoes, unfastened her garter belt and filled her belly with air. She breathed out deeply, then unhooked her bra, let her breasts swing free as she rocked her body on the bed. Damn them both!
As though she couldn't bear any restraint upon her flesh, she reached under her skirt, placed her hands in the waistband of her panties then slid them down and off her feet. She sighed, she felt a little better. She rolled herself off the bed, padded to the door and locked it, then grabbed the bottle and refilled her glass with gin.
This time she felt the warmth of it hit her. She lit a cigarette, squeezing it between her lips, drawing deeply upon it. Then she bit the filtertip as though it was the teat on a bottle, the nipple on a breast, or-the penis on a man!
She screwed her eyes shut. Damn, damn, damn! Liquor always made her this way. Ever since the party, the lousy party two days before when she'd drunk too much, she'd felt hot, sexed up, ready for love, for sex. Damn Neil! He couldn't give her anything anymore!
She pressed her fingers over her crotch as though she were holding her desire inside. Then a small stream of profanity bubbled from her lips. Neil either couldn't or wouldn't! She wondered if there was someone else and then was shocked to find that she didn't care if there was. The end result was the same-she didn't get any satisfaction! Whether it was because Neil couldn't or wouldn't because he had someone else, she didn't get it.
She stubbed her cigarette out fiercely. She oughta get herself someone else. If Neil didn't care, then why should she? He liked being with Barbara better than her, anyway!
Harriette wheeled suddenly; someone had rattled the knob of the door. "Who is it?" she called, her voice too high.
"Barbara, Mommy," said her daughter.
Harriette closed her lips firmly. How she hated being called Mommy! "What is it?" she snapped, not moving to open the door.
"Can I come in?"
"No. I'm resting. What'd you want?"
"It's about Grant," said her daughter's voice. "I'd forgotten about Grant."
"What about him?"
"Well, Mommy, he was calling for me at eight an' I'd forgotten."
"Well, call him and tell him."
"I did call but I couldn't tell him."
"Why not?" Harriette tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. Damn Barbara-and damn Grant!
"He wasn't home. He was going to come straight here and pick me up, and if he does I'll be gone," Barbara explained.
Harriette listened to the young voice trail off, then she frowned thoughtfully as she asked: "You'd rather go to the water ballet with your father than out with Grant?"
"Oh, of course, Mommy."
Harriette, thinking now, was silent.
"Will you tell him when he comes?" asked Barbara.
Harriette's mind was not on her daughter's words. "What?" she asked.
"Will you tell Grant where I've gone when he comes? Tell him I tried to call."
"Yes," Harriette sighed, "I'll tell him."
Barbara's voice brightened. "Goody, thank you, Mommy. 'Bye now." Then Harriette heard the childish footsteps tripping down the stairs.
Goody, she muttered to herself, Mommy, she slurred ironically. When was Barbara going to grow up? She lit another cigarette thoughtfully. So Barbara would rather go to a show with her father than out with her boyfriend. It didn't seem natural. Even if it was the water ballet, which Barbara liked so much. She cut off her thoughts, poured herself more gin, and felt the hot waves start to flow again.
What did she care about Barbara and her crazy, childish ways? What she, Harriette, wanted was a man, a man who'd-her hand dropped down, scrabbled between her thighs and she felt the moistness and the oozing movement of the hungry lips. Damn Barbara! Damn Neil! she swore silently.
She heard the front door slam behind them as she was writhing onto the bed. Let them go and leave her. She didn't want them if they didn't want her. Her fingers trembled. Screw 'em both - and Neil especially. And don't forget Grant, also!
Her mouth formed the words as she thought them. Then she said again, Screw Grant! Her fingers stopped their spasmodic twitchings and she said it again, slowly and thoughtfully, like a question: Screw Grant? Grant?
Harriette's eyes flickered feverishly towards the clock on the dresser. He was coming at eight, Barbara had said, and it was now seven-thirty! Slowly, Harriette rose from the bed, then began to get dressed with extra care.
Chapter Seven
Grant Tyson stared blandly and blankly at Barbara's mother. "But why didn't Barbara call me, Mrs. Bennett?" he asked at last.
"She did call," said Harriette, "but you weren't home from work yet."
Grant made a sound that could have been exasperation or disappointment, then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
"Come in, Grant," said Harriette. "I hate standing at the front door." And she opened the door more widely, then stepped aside to let him enter.
Grant walked into the living room, sank down into an armchair without being invited. He had been visiting this house, calling for Barbara, for so many years that he knew the place as well as his own home. "Sometimes I just don't understand Barbara," he muttered half inaudibly.
Harriette heard him, smiled. "Who does?" she said, lightly, then: "Would you like a drink, Grant?"
He looked up, startled. It was the first time he'd been offered a drink in the Bennett house. "Well-" he began, then hesitated.
Harriette smiled again. "It's all right, Grant -don't be afraid to say yes. You're over twenty-one, aren't you?"
"Twenty-two," he muttered, staring at Harriette as though he was seeing her for the first time. She was wearing a miniskirt and he'd never known that Barbara's mother had such well-shaped legs. He watched her walking to the liquor cabinet, noticed her buttocks working as she moved and he wondered why he'd never noticed that before.
He swallowed, embarrassed at his thoughts, feeling tongue-tied, suddenly shy in front of a woman he'd known almost all of his life.
"You do drink, don't you?" Harriette looked at him with her eyebrows raised.
Was she laughing at him? Grant felt his face flush, then blurted: "Yes, I drink." But he had to add: "But never with Barbara."
The smile faded from Harriette's face. "Of course not. I didn't think for a minute that you did!" She took a deep breath and her bust expanded, uplifted-and Grant saw it.
"I'd like a-a bourbon, please, Mrs. Bennett," he stammered like the polite young man that he was.
"All right," Harriette turned, and Grant could hear the sound of ice and liquid being mixed together. She must have had a bowl of ice all ready! he realized with surprise.
"Here," she said, placing his glass on the low table beside his chair, bending low, letting him see down the front of her blouse, between the dusky cleft. "Like it?" she said softly.
He jerked his eyes up guiltily, feeling his face flush again, then stammered: "Taste it-" she indicated his drink. "Tell me if it's all right, or maybe I made it too strong."
Grant almost knocked over his glass when he reached for it. He gulped greedily, nervously, then sighed. "It's good, Mrs. Bennett. It's fine!" He glanced up at her, seeing the smile on her face, aware too, of the way her nipples indented her blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra, he told himself. He'd seen that when he stared down her blouse.
The thought excited him. Did Barbara wear a bra? he asked himself suddenly, then a small frown creased his forehead as he recalled that she'd never let his hand rest on her body long enough to find out. But Mrs. Bennett was starting to sit down right opposite him, and the sight dragged his mind off Barbara.
His gaze flickered down to her eyes, and she was looking at his face, smiling at him with a warm, understanding smile as though she knew what he was seeing, thinking. His face became hot with embarrassment.
"What's the matter, Grant?" she asked, her voice very low.
"Nothin'. Why, nothin', Mrs. Bennett," he gulped thickly.
"Call me Harriette." She laughed, sounding as though she were very amused.
"Having a man like you call me Mrs. Bennett makes me feel old!"
Grant held himself up a little straighter. She'd called him a man! He wondered if Barbara ever thought of him as a man-or was he just a little boy, like she was a little girl.
"Old!" he jerked out the word. "You're not old, Mrs. Bennett." He paused, smiled embarrassedly, then: "I mean Harriette."
"No?" she crossed her legs as she spoke and Grant caught his breath at the barest glimpse of pinkish lips moving between the flesh.
"You're beautiful," he said without meaning to.
"Thank you, Grant."
Harriette got up, refilled her glass and drank it so quickly that Grant was scarcely conscious of the action. "Another drink?" she asked.
He picked up his glass, drained it. "Please."
She took the glass from him and he was aware of the slight stagger as she moved quickly back to the cabinet. She must have been drinking before he arrived! he realized. Had something upset her? What? he wondered. Could it be something with Barbara?
"Wonder if Barbara's enjoying the show?" he mumbled, speaking a thought out loud.
"The water ballet?" Harriette handed Grant his drink, took her own refilled glass back to the chair. "Oh, I'm sure she is." Her voice was ironic. "Children always do," she laughed, squirming herself down, letting the too-short skirt ride higher. She didn't seem to notice it, but Grant did.
"Barbara acts so childish." It was as though she were talking to herself.
"Yes," said Grant slowly. The insides of Harriette's thighs seemed to glisten, as though they were slicked with moisture. He saw the pink lips move. "She does act like a child sometimes," he croaked.
Harriette raised her glass, swallowed, then: "So does her father." Her voice was thicker, deeper.
"Mr. Bennett?" Grant tried to drag his mind off the flesh of the beckoning woman.
"Yeah." The voice was sullen, drunken. "Neil acts like an overgrown kid sometimes." She drained her glass. "Most times." She let her empty glass drop from her hand beside her chair. "He's not much of a man."
Her eyes flickered over Grant's face, then body. They flickered erratically, as though she had trouble focusing, controlling them.
"What?"
"Are you really a man, Grant?" she slurred.
"Why-" Grant swallowed. "Yes-Harriette -sure."
She stood up, swayed, then moved towards him. "D'you think I'm a woman?"
"Sure you are, Harriette."
Her face seemed to float in front of his eyes, as though he was the one who was drunk, not her.
"Are-are you all right?" he stammered.
She laughed right in his face, swaying her body more than ever, opening her mouth wide so that he could see the wet pinkness, the white teeth and the tongue which squirmed like a frenzied, hungry worm. "I'm drunk," she said, "an' I wanna be drunk."
He thought she was going to fall and reached out to steady her, gripping her elbow firmly but gently. He felt a small shock, like static electricity.
"Help me upstairs, Grant," said Harriette, then repeated: "I'm drunk."
He walked with her towards the hall and the stairs. Moving slowly and holding her arm, though he was sure she could have walked by herself. At the foot of the stairs, he stopped. "You're all right now, Mrs. Bennett. I'll watch you go up and then I'll let myself out."
She stared into his face, her eyes glowing with anger or passion. "Take me up, chicken!" she spewed. Her lips curled back, showing her teeth.
"All right," he said almost inaudibly. "All right, Mrs. Bennett."
"Harriette," she said.
Grant took a deep breath. "All right, Harriette."
She leaned against him, her breast pressing the back of his hand as he held her arm, helping her up the stairs. At the top he stopped, but she reached up, grasped his wrist and dragged rather than led him into the bedroom. She turned and faced him, letting her hand drop to her waist and she stood, hand on hip, staring up at him, making him conscious of the way her breasts rose and fell with each sharp spurt of air that panted from her lips.
Grant felt the sweat start on his forehead, then run down to his eyes until he tried to blink it away. "Well," he said, his voice very low.
She must have released a clasp or undone a button while her hand was on her hip because Harriette's skirt slid to the floor. He was aware of whiteness, nakedness then, as his eyes went down, he saw the tiny goose pimples on the flesh above the tops of her stockings; he saw, too, the thick thatch of pubic hair which seemed to writhe, glisteningly, beckoningly.
"Are you a man?" she asked.
The tightness at his crotch told him that he was, and his belly quivered with spasms of increasing intensity. "Yes," he panted. "I'm a man!"
Her hand flashed to the front of his pants, slid down the zipper, and his swollen penis lurched out.
"Then screw me," she spewed, working her mouth and moving her lips. She squirmed onto the bed.
He stared down at her, feeling his pores opening and letting a cold melange of fear and desire seep from his body.
"What're you waiting for?" Harriette screamed. Her hands dropped to her thighs, the fingers had gripped the vaginal lips, parted them, showing the wet opening.
"Screw me," she shrieked.
He dropped on top of her tremblingly, feeling her hand seize his penis, squeeze, then guide it into her. The walls of her vagina closed around it, gripping with a fierce, sweet intensity. He pushed himself upward.
"Now screw," she hissed. Her hands gripped his body, twisting the clothes that he was still wearing, pulling him deeper into her and bending her knees, then raising her hips and groaning as he thrust into her.
He tried to mutter a word, but she silenced him. "Don't talk-just screw." The air squirted from between her lips as she spoke. "Make me come," she moaned. "I do so want to come. And I'll make you come-come like you never did before!"
"I-I don't know that I can, Mrs.-I mean Harriette."
"Then I'll teach you... ohh, I'll teach you so much!"
Their eyes met for a long pain-filled second. "Is that what you want, Grant? Do you want me to teach you?"
"Yes, that's what I want, Harriette."
The light showed wetness on her inner thighs, the bedroom lamp gloating on the telltale liquid. Fingers came between the thighs and she touched the wet, slowly at first, then sliding into it, then smearing it blatantly over the plump flesh till it glistened. Grant watched as her fingers discovered strands of damp hair curling out, the hand moving now with a new kind of joy. Her fingers crept to the tuft, then pulled on it as if in mad desperation. The hand then limply drew back and she slid lower on the bed.
Grant was sitting with arms outstretched at the foot of the bed, and now she was able to hook her feet over his arms and Grant saw the thighs spread wide open before his eyes. He watched her hands languidly caressing the thighs. Then his eyes turned up to look again directly at her crotch. Harriette pushed her loins up into a more prominent vantage for Grant's gulping eyes. He could see the dark-matted bulge of the mystery marked with crimson at the center of her, and something in his head was beginning to scream.
The thighs opened and closed like a huge, pale moth, then slid awkwardly down as her legs stretched forward, twisting and squeezing around his neck. She whimpered and moaned and he could feel her toes clenching and unclenching on his back, drawing him closer, drawing his mouth nearer and nearer.
The lips of her cunt looked lurid red now, an inch from his trembling lips. Inside his head, it felt like ice breaking up on a river in spring; shattering with huge slowness. The contact of his lips to her cunt was like an electric shock in his stomach. Without even knowing he was doing it, Grant's hand reached upward to touch her breast with wonderful gentleness. Her hand came over his, urging it to stroke her and stroke her.
He was half kneeling over her now, the fingers stroking constantly, pulling at the nipples. He could feel the wetness running down her thighs, against his cheeks. He could feel, too, her legs slowly giving away and her knees sagging further apart. She was moaning steadily, wide open and sprawled wantonly, her pussy spread open so outrageously before him, the bowl-shaped ass moving up to him, in explicit, three-dimensional shamelessness, and his eyes gulped close up and obscenely clear, showing every nuance of the sides, of the cleavage, of the bottom rounds.
Grant was so excited now he was trembling. Everywhere his hand went there seemed to be more breasts. The room seemed to overflow with the twisting female body before him. And the cunt at his mouth was incredibly lavish. He buried his face between the soft thighs and squeezed them up around each side of his head. God, how pulpy it was against his mouth. First the soaked mat of hair and then the swollen flesh itself. He slid the tip of his tongue into the mushy flesh. Her juiciness was so great he could feel it running down his chin. He dabbled his tongue in the sopping mystery, explored up and down the secret, hairless folds.
Harriette's voice was one continuous high-pitched wail. She screamed and bit her lower lips, straining against his imprisoned mouth. Her fingernails dug viciously into his shoulders. Her body went completely stiff, spasmed and collapsed.
Grant was intoxicated, his face sopping wet, his excitement at its highest peak. Harriette slid down off the bed and was lying all limp with her face in his lap. Gradually she began to stir. Weakly she caught his hand and began to kiss it. The kisses gradually grew stronger as her strength returned. Then he felt her hand fumbling at his cock. He was paralyzed. He looked down to see his prick standing hard and bare before her mouth. Then Harriette began kissing it.
It took Grant by complete surprise, but she would not let him move. Slowly and with tenderness, she kissed up and down the length of him, soft and open-mouthed. Now she began licking it. Long, lapping catlicks all up one side and down the other and then working into one long, continuous, wet, slow sweep. Then she blew softly on it until the wet Head was dry. Again she started the kissing. She kissed all the way to the top, but instead of going down the other side like before, she began licking the fluid that had begun to seep out of the hole. She made a mmmmmmmm sound with the taste of it, and slid her mouth all the way down over it burying it deep in her throat as Grant felt the velvety tongue in there lusciously milking at it. Softly and wetly she drained at it, her cheeks puffed out, and Grant went completely out to sea as he gushed his load deep into that working mouth, joining her mmmmmms with his own helpless groans.
Then they went at each other like hungry animals. It was difficult to reach her breasts with his mouth while still jabbing away at her with his shaft, but the pleasure was well worth the effort. He sucked the crimson nipples between his lips and felt the tips harden again and dilate. Her breasts were wet with his slavering mouth, blending with the rank feminine odors of her body. With hands firmly planted under her heavy buttocks, he rammed and thrust and jerked, push-pulling away with all his might. Her teeth sank into his shoulder at the moment of climax, but her loins didn't stop their pounding away.
She screamed again when she felt his hot spurt flood her vagina and her teeth bit even harder into his shoulder. She humped vigorously, even after Grant's whole body went limp, and the thought of what he had done began to take hold in his sobering brain.
Chapter Eight
"Lovely, Daddy-just lovely!" Barbara pranced beside her father as they hurried to where the car was parked.
"Yes," Neil admitted, "it was a good show, all right." He unlocked the car door, got in, then opened the other door for Barbara. She switched on the radio, changed stations while Neil was picking his way out of the flock of cars. By the time they were clear of traffic, she had found the kind of music she wanted and was humming in tune with it, her eyes dreamily closed.
Neil glanced at her, smiled. Sweet kid! It made him feel good to see Barbara so happy, to know that she had enjoyed the show, appreciated it. Appreciated him taking her, too. That was one of the nice things about his Barbara-puss.
As though she were sharing his thoughts, she murmured: "Thanks, Daddy, thanks a lot." She reached over and stroked his hand gently as he gripped the wheel.
"All right, Barbara-puss," he said huskily, glancing sideways at her and smiling. Then he stared ahead of them. "Soon be home, now," he sighed, added: "Wonder if Grant came."
Barbara shrugged uninterestedly. "I wonder." She seemed more interested in the music coming from the radio.
"Don't you care at all?" asked Neil.
"What?" Barbara looked at Neil blankly.
"Don't you care about Grant at all?" he asked her again.
She shrugged. "I guess so." She moved her shoulders in tune with the music, hummed a few bars, then added: "Maybe-like who knows?"
The downstairs lights were blazing but there was no one around when Barbara and Neil entered the house.
Barbara stared at her father curiously, then said: "Mommy must be asleep."
"Or drunk," Neil muttered as he moved to the stairs to find out. The bedroom door was unlocked and Neil opened it gently and stepped in.
Harriette was sprawled on top of the covers, naked, save for the twisted garter belt and tightly stretched hose.
Neil moved closer and heard the heavy breathing. Was she drunk? The thick pubic hairs were sweating and tangled in lewd knots. Her thighs were parted grotesquely, and the tip of one slim finger was touching the edge of her vagina. Neil frowned, then leaned his head close to Harriette's face. He could smell the gin as he whispered, "Harriette!" then more loudly, "Are you all right, Harriette?"
She stirred but didn't open her eyes. "Lemme sleep," she slurred. "I wanna sleep." She turned, moved her hand up under her cheek and her breathing became deeper.
Neil stood up straight, then scowled his disapproval. Drunk! what a way for Barbara's mother to behave! With Barbara in mind, Neil reached down to draw up a cover over Harriette's body. He wouldn't want his Barbara-puss to see her mother like that!
His hand touched Harriette's as he dragged up the sheet and the contact half aroused her. "No," she mumbled. "No-I wanna sleep, just sleep." She wriggled herself under the cool sheet and Neil noticed the small smile on her lips as she drawled sleepily, "Later-maybe later..."
A puzzled look or frown poised between Neil's eyes, then he shook his head, turned and moved to the bedroom door. Talking in her sleep and dreaming, he thought. Then he wondered- What was she dreaming about?
"Mommy?" asked Barbara in a small, anxious voice when Neil came back downstairs.
He shook his head, then: "Your mother's asleep," he said, then added: "Maybe she drank a little too much."
Barbara giggled. "Just maybe, Daddy." She tripped across the room on her tiptoes as though she were doing her own private ballet. "I called Grant." She hummed a few bars of the song she'd been listening to on the car radio. "He was here." She hummed some more.
"Was?" Neil paused in the act of pouring himself a drink.
"Uh-huh, Mom told him I'd gone to the water ballet with you."
Neil finished pouring his drink. "Was Harriette-" he hesitated, then: "Was your mother all right-I mean was she drunk or anything?"
Barbara gave a smothered giggle. "I didn't ask Grant that!" She danced in front of her father. "Can I have a drink, Dad?"
He pretended to frown. "Just a Coke."
"Okay," Barbara smiled, "a Coke's fine." She spun her way to the kitchen, the fridge and an ice-cold drink.
"What d'you think of Grant, Daddy?" she asked when she came back into the living room with the glass in her hand.
"Well," Neil sank into his armchair, "I guess he's all right," and he sipped his drink, "he's always seemed a pretty decent young feller." He glanced up. "Why, Barbara?"
"Nothin'," Barbara smiled at her father, dragged her feet onto the chair underneath her. "He sounded-well, kinda funny on the phone... different." She blinked her eyes seriously.
"How?"
"Well, he said-'Was the water ballet good?' And I said, 'Yes, it was a good show.' Then he laughed and I asked him what was so funny? And he said: 'Guess I saw a good show, too.' Then he hung up!"
Neil frowned at Barbara, then shook his head.
"Maybe he went to the drive-in by himself," Barbara said, then giggled.
Neil didn't laugh with her. "Grant's okay," he said ponderously, "but I never thought he was particularly bright!" He watched Barbara's face anxiously, as though he were afraid he might have said something wrong, something to worry her. But he need not have been concerned.
She blinked her eyes, giggled, then squiggled on her chair. "Me neither," she bubbled, "I never thought he was very bright, either!"
They stared at each other, the father and the daughter, then they both started laughing-as though they shared a delightfully funny secret. Finally, Neil stopped laughing, took a deep breath and said: "Maybe you can have just one very small drink after all."
Barbara erupted from her chair. "Dad! You're a dear." Then she was fixing herself a weird concoction at the cocktail cabinet. Her eyes laughed at him as she danced her way to his chair. She kissed him lightly, on the forehead, then stood back and held up her glass. "Cheers!" she said softly.
Neil clinked his glass against Barbara's, then drained it. He sank back in his chair, glanced up at Barbara, admired the delicious morsel that was his daughter. "It was a nice evening," he said with a certain nostalgia, as though it was something that had happened a long time ago or wouldn't happen again.
Barbara sensed his tone. "There'll be more," she said gently, "so many, many more."
Neil swallowed. "I hope so, Barbara," he said, then managed a smile as he added: "Barbara-puss!"
"Sure," she said, lifting her glass, sipping, then draining it. "Sure," her voice sounded deeper the second time she said it.
He noticed the dimples in her cheeks, which didn't seem to match the feverish light in her eyes, when she smiled down at him and said: "Bed-I'm going up to bed."
"Yes," he said, "of course."
She leaned close to kiss him good night, and he smelled the ever-sweet freshness of her body. Her lips brushed his cheek and she seemed to press hard against him before she turned and ran lightly up the stairs. He stared up after her, sensing a dull pain in his heart.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, turned and blew him a kiss-then she moved towards the room she called her own.
"Sweet dreams, Barbara-honey," he whispered, watching her until she passed out of his sight.
Neil stood there just staring at nothing, but the image of his daughter's wiggling ass walking away from him still remained in his brain. "What in hell is happening to me!" he whispered to himself.
Although he concentrated on fighting it, he could feel the guilty erection rising stiffly inside his pants. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, gathering new determination to put this from his mind. God, what did it all mean?... and why did his balls ache with the very sight of his very own daughter!
Barbara closed her bedroom door behind her, clicked the key in the lock; she didn't want to be disturbed tonight. She leaned with her back against the door for a breathless moment. Her breasts heaved and she pressed back hard with her buttocks. Barbara closed her eyes and bit her lip. Oh, my God! She seemed to get worse every day!
Suddenly, her hands began to tremble and she hurried to her dresser. It was not because she was tired that she had come to her room so soon after their return. She snatched the bottle of vodka from the drawer, poured a tumblerful of it with shaking hands, lifted the glass, drank half then sank onto her bed with a shuddering sigh.
As soon as Neil had gone upstairs to check on his wife, Barbara had taken the bottle from the liquor cabinet, hurried to her bedroom and hid it. She knew that she would need it. It was too easy to arouse her, she thought, finishing the drink she'd poured. The glistening flesh at the water show, so smooth, wet shimmering-that had caused the smallest flicker to tingle through her body. Then the position of two participants, so innocently posed in a routine, had reminded her of Vincent and a different kind of position for a so-different kind of routine-and the tingle had grown stronger.
She moved to her dresser with short, jerky steps, poured out another glass of the liquor, took out a cigarette, lit it, then slithered off her clothes. Oh, Vincent! she mouthed soundlessly, as she sank her buttocks, nakedly, into the mattress. An innocent good-night kiss to her father, with an inadvertent pressure against him, had made her aware of his empathy; his hardness had reminded her of her own ever-increasing demands.
She drank more liquor greedily. And liquor strengthened her desire! She'd discovered that with Vincent. She remembered how frightened he had been the first time. She had told Vincent: "It intensifies it!" And his eyes had changed, become frightened.
Barbara gave a small moan, snuffed out her cigarette with a fierce movement, then immediately lit another and bit at the tip viciously. A capsule! Barbara clenched her teeth at the thought. She didn't have one, she didn't have Vincent, she didn't have anyone who could appease the torment that was starting to expand so intolerably.
She drained her fresh drink, leaned back with an effort, then screwed her eyes shut and remembered, remembered the first time she'd taken a capsule with Vincent. It seemed such a long time ago. Barbara had been working at Erickson's for three months before she found out about the capsules that Vincent had been taking. He had been standing beside his desk, looking at her with a hungry expression in his eyes when she had asked: "What are those?" pointing to the small vial of capsules that he had placed on the desk top.
It had been after regular office hours, one of the nights when she stayed late. "Just something," Vincent had muttered, stripping off his clothes and watching her face as he did it.
She shook a capsule into her hand, examined it curiously, smelled it. "It's like nothin'," she said.
He smiled at her, dragged off his shorts, and she saw that his penis was limp, flaccid. Vincent walked to his cabinet, poured out a Coke and brought the glass back to the desk. He took the capsule from Barbara's hand, swallowed it with a drink.
"So?" she asked, staring at him.
He grinned again, flipped his penis with a finger. "It's supposed to make it stand up," he said.
Barbara pursed her lips in a big, round O. "It needs somethin'," she said, staring at his crotch, sneering with her eyes at his limpness. "Your thing's creepy, Vincent," she said. "Horrible thing," she added for no reason.
Vincent moved closer to her. She did something to him! Something he didn't understand, but it was there.
Suddenly, she leaned back in his executive chair. "My, it's growing," she said softly, not sneering.
His penis was swelling. Whether it was the capsule or Barbara looking at it, Vincent didn't know. But he could feel it beginning to throb. He glanced down-it was big now, real big. He stared into her face again with something like triumph in his eyes this time.
She shook her head. "Gee, Vincent-you need special cigarettes, special capsules." She sighed. "What kind of a man are you?"
He looked at her in silence for a long time. At last, he asked: "What kind of a girl are you?"
"I don't know," she said, then added quickly, "would that capsule work on me?
"You, Barbara!"
Vincent stared at her with something like horror in his eyes. "You don't need it! You have enough." Too much, he mumbled quietly under his breath, just too damned much!
"No," she said quietly, taking a fresh capsule out of the vial, "I never have enough, Vincent, never!"
He leaned forward and she shrank away from his weaving penis. "Don't take it," he told her, grabbing her hand with the capsule in it. "Barbara, please," he pleaded. Then he bent down, kissed her on the lips. "Let me," he began before she stopped him.
"No, Vincent! No and no!"
"Let me-screw you!" He said it.
She slapped his face, a mean, vicious, hurting slash that burned his cheek and tore his flesh where a deliberate fingernail had raked it.
Vincent touched the cut, more wonderingly than angrily. "Blood," he muttered, looking at the redness on his hand.
Barbara's face was turned up; he saw her eyes dilated, her tongue flicking out and touching her lips pinkly, with quick, excited licks. "You liked it!" he said accusingly. "You like to hurt, to make pain. It excites you!"
Barbara didn't answer but her face was flushed and her eyes were flickering now. He saw her hand tremble as she thrust it inside her open blouse and caressed a breast with jerky, urgent motions of her fingers.
He took a step back as though he was afraid. Her hand moved up to her mouth and she swallowed, half gagged, then swallowed again and said: "I took it." Her eyes mocked him. "The capsule."
The breath came from his throat in a whistle. "You shouldn't!" His voice was hoarse. "You shouldn't have done that, Barbara."
"I did," she said with satisfaction. "Now give me a drink."
He hesitated, irresolute for a second, then he hurried to his liquor cabinet. Took out a half-full Coke bottle, then locked the cabinet door and hid the key in the palm of his hand. "Here," he said, passing her the bottle.
She didn't touch it. "A drink, I said," she told him, "give me a drink!"
"No!"
Barbara's eyes flashed and she moved close to Vincent. "Give me a drink." She gritted the words from between her teeth.
"No," he said again, backing against his desk. "You can't take a drink after one of those capsules. I don't know what it'd do!"
"I wanna find out," she spewed into his face.
He drew back, sliding sideways round his desk, the key still clenched in his fist. "No," he said, but his voice sounded weaker.
Suddenly, Barbara seemed to calm down. She slid open the small drawer at the side of his desk, took out his spare key, then slithered across to the liquor cabinet and opened it. Vincent watched as though he was turned to stone. She had known the key was there all the time! She was like a cat who teased a mouse. Vincent shivered. Teased? Tortured, more like.
She held up the bottle, tilted it to her lips, and he watched her throat move as she swallowed. There wasn't anything he could do now! Vincent stared at her in fascination. She panted for air, keeping her eyes on his face, watching his reaction, then she lifted the bottle to her lips again and drank some more. The blood seemed to be draining from Vincent's face. How many ounces had she drunk? And the capsule!
Carefully, Barbara had walked back towards the desk and stopped when she was close to Vincent. His eyes fastened on her body as her clothes slid off, and the muscles in his limbs seemed to tense. He watched the cluster of hairs appear as she slid down her briefs: they looked sweating, wet, hungry. He glanced up-her face looked the same way!
"All right, Vincent," she said, smiling at him, her eyes overbright, "all right." Her lips moved; her breasts seemed to swell and she thrust her hips, her pelvis forward. "All right," she said again.
Was it the capsule? The drink? Was she really going to let him do what he wanted? What he'd been craving ever since that first day when he had kissed her, sucked her and licked her until she came?
"Barbara!" he said hoarsely, looking into her young, innocent face. She smiled up at him. Was she going to let him screw her? He had never touched her with his penis. The closest he had ever gotten was when she seized his penis to hurt him, to torture him so she could get more pleasure, intensify her own sensation out of his pain!
When he had kissed the hungry lips of her vagina, licked her clitoris, sucked her until she came, he'd had his own involuntary ejaculation, jamming his penis against the edge of the couch as he eyed Barbara's spasmodically opening and closing lips. And she'd watched him; stared at his face and his penis as he orgasmed with a sympathetic reaction to her frenzied climax. Then her eyes would become cold, disinterested almost, and she'd then reach for her drink or cigarette as though he didn't matter anymore.
Would it be different this time?
She turned her face up to be kissed and he kissed her. Her hand slid down to his crotch and her fingers encircled his penis, held it, squeezed it-then twisted it excruciatingly, viciously until he pulled back with a scream choking his throat. Barbara stepped back quickly, laughing at him. Her eyes flickering, excited, eager as the scream bubbled to his lips.
"You bitch, you," he moaned. "You filthy little bitch!"
"No!" she snapped, her mouth still worked with emotion and excitement. She licked dry lips with a nervous tongue. But she was angry. "Don't call me that!"
Vincent panted from pain and bitter anger. "Just a nice girl!" He spoke the words ironically, bitingly. "Is that how Daddy's little girl acts?" He sneered, then mouthed with a bitter-sweet flavor: "So pure-so good-so honey-sweet!" The words seemed to hang in the air and Vincent waited for the reaction.
Barbara cringed. A muscle began to quiver on her thigh and she covered her crotch with her fingers as though, she thought, she were trying to hold something inside her vulva. "Now, Vincent." Her voice pierced high. She ran to the couch and climbed onto it with jerky, frantic movements. "Now, Vincent, now!" She stretched her legs apart, opened the wet lips with her fingers, undulated her hips up and down on the padded couch and spewed: "Suck it-suck, suck, suck!" As though he was a dog whose only way was to obey, Vincent went down over her, onto her, and slid his tongue into her.
Barbara squirmed on her lonely bed, remembering. She could recall how she had felt-and she knew how Vincent had felt, too. His face had mirrored his emotions so nakedly. Poor Vincent! She felt a faint flicker of pity for him. It was possible for her to consider his feelings now. Lying alone on her own bed, it was possible. But at the time, the moment when the urges were racing through her flesh, making their intensified demands upon her body-and the instrument, the man, who was appeasing the raging passion-then all she could think of was herself, her own flesh and the satiation of her frenzied desires.
The memory made her shake and she poured more vodka, then rocked on her bed again.
Finally, as though she couldn't stand it any longer, she took two of the pills-the sleeping pills that her mother and father didn't dream that she possessed-washed them down with potions of liquor, then lay on her back, trembling, until blessed oblivion came at last.
Chapter Nine
"What's with Grant Tyson these days?" Neil Bennett dropped his briefcase onto the table in the kitchen, then stomped towards his liquor cabinet to fix himself a drink. His voice came faintly to Harriette from the distance. "Saw him downtown. Asked him what was new, and he just gave me a silly grin and didn't answer."
Harriette heard Neil shutting the door of the cabinet in the living room; then he came back to the kitchen with a glass in his hand. "Don't ask me," Harriette seemed to drawl the words. She was sitting with a mirror propped on the table, doodling on her eyelids with a bright-colored pencil.
Neil stared at her, frowned. "Don't you know?"
Harriette licked her lips, examined them in the mirror, then licked them again before she resumed her task on her eyelids. "Haven't a clue," she murmured. "Ask Barbara."
Neil drained his drink, put the glass down and stared intently at Harriette. She seemed different these days. Less tense and nervy, not as sharp-tongued as usual. Nothing seemed to disturb her anymore. "You all right?" he asked.
She stopped doodling for a moment. "Why, yes!" She blinked her eyelashes at him. They looked longer, darker. "Why do you ask?" her voice was almost formal.
Neil stared at his empty glass. "You seem different!" He twisted his empty glass. "Why?"
Harriette raised her eyebrows, blinked her lashes. "Haven't a clue!" She repeated.
"That's the second time you've said that since I came in." He got up from the table, feeling angry without knowing exactly why, "That's what I mean about you being different." He went into the living room again, glass in hand, and replenished it. "You talk different." He stared at his wife, then sipped at his drink. "Haven't a clue," he repeated. "Sounds more like Barbara than you!" Suddenly, he banged his glass down. "And you're dressin' more like her! Miniskirts!" he said, as though it was a dirty word.
"I thought you liked them," said Harriette mildly. "You always said how sweet Barbara looked."
"Barbara's not forty," said Neil brutally.
"Neither am I." Harriette was still unruffled. "Thirty-nine, to be precise... if you have to be precise."
Neil was silent, breathing deeply.
"Engineers are supposed to be precise, aren't they, Neil?" asked Harriette, with innocence.
He didn't answer her question; instead, he spoke broodingly, more to himself than to Harriette. "It's since that friend of yours-that Gladys came to the Coast that you've changed. What kind of a woman is she, anyway?"- "Very nice," said Harriette, completing her face, "very quiet." She got up from the table, took her mirror and her make-up kit, moved into the living room.
Neil followed her. "Why don't you bring her over here?"
"Shy," explained Harriette, "she's very shy."
Neil suddenly changed the subject. "What's for supper?"
"There's all kinds of things in the fridge," said Harriette. "I'm meeting Gladys at the Women's Press Club for supper. She started towards the stairs before Neil's voice stopped her.
"Tonight!" he shouted loudly. "You're seeing Gladys tonight?"
"Why, yes." Harriette paused. "What's wrong with that?"
Neil seemed to breathe with difficulty. "You've seen her three times already-and it's only a week since she came out here!"
"Old friends-long time, no see." Harriette smiled at her husband.
"How come I never heard of this old friend until just this past week?" Neil asked with suspicion lining his voice.
"She was back East-you remember I told you that!" Harriette came close to losing her cool, something she did not want to do.
Neil's shoulders seemed to droop. "Oh, well, guess I'll wait for Barbara and eat," he said morosely.
Harriette paused with a foot on the stairs. "Barbara won't be home. She phoned."
"Oh!" Neil sounded surprised. "She eatin' out with Grant?"
"No, she's working late-so she said."
Neil frowned, puzzled. "What about Grant?"
"What about him?" Harriette's voice sounded more like it usually did: sharp.
"Won't he be comin' over? I mean, it's Friday and they usually go out every Friday night."
"Haven't a clue," murmured Harriette, moving up the stairs.
"Funny," Neil muttered, "haven't seen Grant at our house since-" he frowned-"since before I took Barbara to the water ballet!" He stared up at the stairs, but Harriette was already out of sight. "Gin and lime," said Harriette. "More gin than lime," she added with a giggle.
The waiter smiled, took her companion's order, then moved away into the darkness.
"Why do you always order gin?"
"Like it," said Harriette.
"Not any other drink-I mean, like bourbon, vodka, or anything?"
Harriette laughed wetly. "Gin makes me feel sexy," she whispered.
He drew in his breath, "Let's dance," he said quietly.
She leaned against him and he held her too tightly. They weren't dancing, barely moving -just feeling each other, making themselves more and more aware of each other.
"You're a wonderful dancer, Harriette," he said, feeling her breasts, braless, outthrust, piercing into his chest.
"You, too," she murmured, pressing her pelvis forward, and making the head of his penis, already enlarged, swell a little more.
"I mean, it's fun," he explained.
"That's what I always thought," she said.
It was so dark that they didn't know there were other couples on the tiny floor until they squashed against an occasional pair.
His hand had slipped onto her buttocks, He squeezed gently, exploring her flesh with his fingers. She was naked beneath the short skirt; he already knew that. "I like your dress," he whispered.
"Goody."
He was silent, drawing his breath in sharply.
"What?" asked Harriette, her mouth close to his ear. "I say somethin' wrong?"
"No," he said. "Just that sounds more like Barbara then you!"
They swayed together in silence.
"I'm naked underneath." It was a throaty whisper.
He laughed softly. "That sounds more like you!"
Harriette's pelvis seemed to rotate slowly against his penis as she spoke. "You know what you're gettin' into, don't you, Grant?" She felt him shake his head in the darkness. "What d'you want?" she asked.
He jerked his penis forward. "You!" he said.
"Not more'n that?"
"Just wanna get into you."
"Just that?"
He hesitated, then admitted: "Right now- yeah-just that. That's all!"
She moved rhythmically, slowly. "You're growing up, Grant."
He laughed; it was a low sound that could have been either sad or bewildered. "In the last week, I've grown-maybe."
"Yes," Harriette's voice was thoughtful, "that's right-you've grown some."
She moved her head, caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth. "Got a place?" she asked.
He put his mouth on hers, kissed her, thrusting his tongue in as deep as he could. "Yeah," he answered when he'd recovered his breath.
"Abbey Motel. Booked in an hour ago."
She laughed, and he felt her body vibrating against his in the blackness. "You musta booked it right after I called you back!"
"That's right, that's just what I did!"
"So?" she asked.
He took a deep breath. "Well, like they say -wanna come, baby?"
"Condition," said Harriette, "one condition. That you screw me," she whispered into his ear, "screw me, and screw me until-" "Until you come," he promised.
She gave a dry giggle.
"How did you know?"
"You told me before."
She spoke thoughtfully. "So I did, come to think of it." She laughed, happily this time. Harriette could feel his heart thudding against her body. "What're we waitin' for?" she asked.
He stopped their sluggish weaving, steered her back to their table. Their drinks, untouched, were waiting. Harriette picked up her glass, drained it. "Like I told you," she said, "gin makes me sexy."
He laughed. "You're always sexy."
"Come on." She pulled his arm, "what're we waitin' for?"
"The check," he told her, trying to get their waiter's attention, "I gotta pay the check!"
She was quiet, thinking, for a long moment, then: "You're lucky," she said. "Some guys have to pay the woman just for screwing her!"
He placed his lips close to her ear. "You oughta pay me!" Even in the darkness, Grant was aware of the way her whole body stiffened.
The waiter arrived and Grant paid him. Then they moved out of the club and into his car.
"You'll pay for that crack!" said Harriette.
He laughed, not noticing the change in her tone of voice.
She moved herself closer to him, sliding her buttocks along the car seat until their bodies were touching. "Wait," she said as he was inserting the key in the ignition. She placed her arms around his neck, kissed him, then slid her hand inside his shirt, stroked his chest gently.
His mouth became hungry, urgent. "Let's go," he said. "I don't wanna wait."
"Wait," she said again.
She turned forward, turned on the radio, then slid her hand inside his shirt again. "I told you you'd pay," she said.
"For what?"
Grant half turned in the seat. Her fingernails raked a bloody path through the skin on his chest. The music from the radio drowned the scream of agony that burst from his lips. She slid to the far side of the seat; waited a moment then turned the volume of sound down when he stopped screaming. "You bitch!" he said. "You vicious, rotten bitch!"
She laughed. "Still wanna screw me?"
"Yeah," he grated, starting the motor. "I'll screw you until your damned pussy bursts!"
And the car jerked forward as though it shared his anger.
"That's the way I like it," said Harriette with satisfaction. "That's what I want!"
"You'll get more'n you want!" Grant promised her venomously.
"Don't get too mad, Grant," said Harriette, calmly and coolly. "Someone's always gotta pay!"
The car's tires screamed as they turned into the entrance of the Abbey Motel.
In the dark motel room, Harriette got more than she had bargained for. Grant took his face from Harriette's cunt and made her straddle his legs. He pulled her down on his cock. Groaning, Harriette wound her legs behind his back. His penetration was deep and she screamed out with joy. "Not so fast, baby, you're hurting me," she whispered.
"Shut up, bitch!" Grant growled.
Grant made her stand and turn so her back was facing him, then ran his big hands roughly up and down her body. She noticed that the way his hands moved, it was as if he now owned her.
Grant cupped her breasts and pulled her back against his chest-her ass jammed up against his palpitating cock. He fondled her tits and gave them painful squeezes, his fingers tingling as her big-nippled tits grew hard under his crude strokes. One hand gripped tightly at her bosom while the other roamed down her stomach. Then he pushed her head forward hard, and looked down at her almost luminous ass. With two fingers he spread the cheeks of her backside, and, grabbing his cock, he zeroed in on that opening, forcing unmercifully the head of his stubborn prick into the resisting cavity with one stabbing thrust, causing Harriette to let out a startled grunt.
"Oh, no!" she screamed, but then she had to hold her breath as he forced it up higher and higher. He plugged it into her again and again, keeping her bent over. To his surprise, he found that she was now struggling and squirming closer to him, clamping his bursting cock in her rectum. She had spread her legs as wide as they would go, and he could feel the hot, moist flesh closing around him, its thousand, membranous fingers clutching him. "Oh, fuck me, fuck me!" she screamed.
Grant was transported, hurled into a dimension which was pure sensation. The delirium that was swirling around in his body was becoming all but full-fledged insanity. And he knew Harriette was making the trip with him. His powerful young body, driven by sheer lust, all beyond his control, thrust his swollen organ almost to the hilt in the gleaming white body as the pressure of his orgasm shot the fluid into her, some of it escaping around the stretched hole.
With one foot he kicked her away from him, thus releasing his cock. When Harriette turned around, he grasped her by the hair of her head and forced her to her knees in front of him. "Now lick it clean, bitch," he demanded. And Harriette did.
Chapter Ten
Barbara was taking the fresh vial of capsules from the drawer in his desk when Vincent entered his office. She jerked guiltily when the door opened.
"Barbara!" Her name spurted from his lips, then he checked himself, clicked shut the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing?" He spoke with restrained anger, moved towards her, reached out for the vial.
She stuffed it in her pocket, moved away from him, round the desk. "You don't mind, Vincent," she said, edging towards the door. "I just want them, that's all. You don't mind, do you?"
He moved towards her slowly, ominously. "You're goddamned right I mind." He breathed hard. "What d'you want 'em for?"
"You know I like them." Barbara tried to make her voice soft, wheedling.
"Why?" His voice went too high. "You're not staying late tonight!"
She turned her eyes away. "I just-just want them!"
It was then that he saw the name on the papers which were thrust so casually into the pocket of her jacket. "Gamble!" he said, pointing to the name that he'd scrawled on the copy. "You've got the copy that was supposed to be taken to the printer's this afternoon!" He stared at her. "Why?"
"I told Bert that I'd take it over."
Vincent drew in his breath. "Why?" he asked again softly, "Why you?"
Barbara's hand was on the handle of the door. "I-I happen to be goin' that way-an' I said I'd drop it off," she wistfully explained.
"You? Why you?"
"It-it's outa Bert's way."
Vincent drew in his breath. "Bert's the office boy-it's his job to go on errands like that-but you shouldn't go to a place like Gamble's."
"You sent me there yourself once," said Barbara.
"Just once," said Vincent, "in the morning- and that was months ago!"
"It's all right. There's nothing wrong with it!"
"Nothing wrong!" Vincent repeated. "That damned weirdo at that place!"
"Weirdo!" Barbara laughed shrilly. "Look who's talkin'!"
Vincent breathed deeply. "That's why you wanted those damned capsules!" He started towards her; Barbara was too fast. She opened the door and stood in the entrance where the staff could see-and hear-them. Vincent stopped.
"All right, Mr. Erickson," she said in her prim-est, youngest voice. "I'll be only too glad to take this copy to the printer's for you."
She smiled, half turned, then murmured, gently and sweetly: "Good-bye, Mr. Erickson. Thank you."
Then he was watching her, walking demurely, through the oblong-shaped office to the door. He slammed his office door viciously.
Sydney Gamble was a weirdo, Barbara admitted as she waited for a taxi at the stand. She had discovered that the first time she'd gone to his small shop in the basement of the rundown building in the old part of San Francisco. It wasn't much of a printing shop; just three crummy rooms filled with old equipment that Sydney operated by himself. But he was cheap, really cheap. Which was why Vincent Erickson gave him occasional jobs. Cut-rate jobs, cheap jobs-that-that's what Sydney depended on.
The first time she'd gone there, Barbara had found the pictures in the small room at the back, and the things in the drawer that had excited her. She'd had no right to be in that small room in the first place, and in the second place...
"Where's Bert?" Vincent Erickson had snapped at the staff in the small office.
"He didn't come in today," said John, the blond young man who helped with the accounts. "Phoned in, said he was sick."
Damn!" Vincent said unsympathetically. His eyes flickered over his small staff, then settled on Barbara. She had only been working at Erickson's for a few months then, though already she felt quite at home and at ease. She'd fitted in, easily though. Maybe her relationship -her special relationship-with Vincent Erickson had helped. He spoke to her now. "D'you mind going on a small errand, Miss Bennett?" he asked her formally.
And Barbara wanted to giggle, because she was thinking of what he'd been doing to her the night before. "Not at all, Mr. Erickson," she said politely, primly, smiling prettily.
Vincent hid a smile. "I wouldn't ask you if Bert was here," he said for the benefit of the staff, "but as you're the junior member of the staff-" He paused, and Barbara said: "The new girl gets the odd jobs."
"Yes," he made his voice gruff, "if you put it that way."
"I don't mind at all," Barbara said, enjoying herself, "You know I'm always willing Mr. Erickson."
He cut her off quickly and said: "Yes." His voice became crisp, businesslike. "Now take this copy to the Gamble Printing Shop. Just hand it in, then come back. I promised to have it ready for a client this afternoon and Gamble's the only place who can do such a rush job."
She had taken the sheaf of copy from him, noted the address of the shop, then hurried from the office. As she went down in the elevator, she remembered Vincent's final words, which he'd mumbled at the door. "Don't stick around his place -it's not a good district, Barbara. Just hand the stuff in, then come right back-understand?"
She wondered what he meant about it being a bad district, but when she arrived, saw the rundown buildings and the kind of people hanging around, she understood. She hadn't known about Sydney, though. Not just by looking at him.
"It's from Mr. Erickson," said Barbara, handing the copy to the fat man who'd let her into the shop. "He said it's rush -real rush!"
"Yes, I know," said Sydney Gamble, his small, beady eyes flickering from Barbara's face to her body, then back. "He phoned."
She turned to go, but he stopped her. "I've got some stuff you can take back," he said, "if you can wait a minute -just one minute," he added.
"All right," said Barbara, thinking that there was no hurry, no real urgent reason for her to rush back to the office.
"Sit down," Sydney said. "I'll be right back." And he disappeared behind a partition.
Barbara had glanced around her. The whole area was dusty, with an aura of disuse. She looked for a place to sit down, saw the small door at the side, which was usually kept locked but happened to be unlocked on this day. But Barbara hadn't known that when she tried the handle, pushed the door open and went in. It was then that she saw the things -the pictures and the things. After that she'd found out about Sydney being a weirdo. It had been bizarre but fascinating- intensely fascinating...
A taxi stopped; Barbara got out, gave the address. The driver turned his cab, nosed through the heavy traffic away from the business area towards the lower part of the city. Gamble's printing was in the lowest.
"Barbara!" said the fat, young man who pushed open the shabby door. "It's been a long time!!" He stepped back, watched the fresh-faced girl with the innocent eyes and childish clothes glide into his shop.
"Yes," she said, lisping, "it's been quite a long time."
He shut, then locked the door behind her. When he turned, she was throwing the sheaf of papers onto the dusty table.
"Rush?" he asked, indicating the copy with a jerk of his head. "Is it a rush job?"
"No," she answered, "there's no hurry."
He glanced at his watch. It was five-fifteen. "Late," he said. "You through for the day?"
Barbara shrugged out of her light coat, threw it onto the settee in one corner of the room.
"Yes," she said, staring at him, her eyes changing, becoming hot, glittering, cruel.
"It's been a long time," he said for the second time, and his body, fleshy overweight, seemed to sweat and shiver at the same time.
"Too long!" Barbara hissed out the words, then her hand stretched out towards Sydney. Wordlessly, he groped in his pocket, then handed Barbara a key. She squirmed towards the small door at the side of the room, and Sydney drew heavy drapes across the high, narrow window which provided the only natural light and ventilation for the dingy basement shop. He watched her opening the door, going in, moving out of his sight. His hand went to his crotch and he fingered himself, lewdly, crudely, urgently.
She came out in a minute looking just the same, except that her chaste blouse was unbuttoned and her breasts were bare, exposed, protruding; they looked bigger than they had just moments before. "Nothing new," she said, sounding slightly disappointed.
"No," he said, "Not really."
She dropped into the old leather settee; her hips lifted, she reached under the brief skirt, seized the waistband of the little-girl panties, slid them off and dropped them negligently, on the floor. "Get me a drink!" she snapped, not sounding like a little girl.
"Yes." He hurried to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, took out a bottle. "Vodka," he said anxiously. "All I've got is vodka-is that all right?"
"Of course," said Barbara, opening her purse, taking out a gold-tipped cigarette, thrusting it between her lips. "Light," she said, snapping her fingers. "Give me a light!" Her voice was impatient.
Sydney jangled the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass in his nervousness. "Yes." He put the bottle down, felt in his pocket and found his lighter. He snapped it, held it in front of Barbara's face.
She could see his hand trembling. She reached up, held his hand steady, lit her cigarette, then released her light grip. "Thanks," she said, her mouth smiling but her eyes staying cool.
He stood close beside her, staring at her, stroking his hand where her fingers had held it; stroking it gently, reverently, as though her touch had made it sacred.
Barbara drew upon her cigarette deeply. A small shiver cascaded through her flesh; she lifted her knees high, propped her hands on them, looked up at Sydney. He was staring at the hairy triangle; the thick foliage which nestled so sweetly and wetly at the base of her belly.
"My drink!" Barbara hissed, sounding angry. "Have you forgotten my drink, you fat slob?"
He waddled to his desk, stumbling in his frightened eagerness to do her bidding. Barbara watched him, smoking her cigarette and sneering with the curl of her lips. His fleshy buttocks strained against the pants which always seemed too tight for his body. When he bent to pick up her glass, the rough material drew in tautly at the cleft of his buttocks.
Barbara's hand paused in the act of taking her cigarette from her lips, and she seemed to hold her breath until he straightened, then turned and brought her drink to her. She took it wordlessly, not thanking him. Then she groped in her purse, took out the vial of capsules that she'd taken from Vincent's desk, unscrewed the top and shook a capsule out. She shook it onto her belly and it rolled down until it was stopped by the thickness of the hairs. Barbara looked at it, laughed. She lifted her glass, took a long swallow, then breathed out deeply.
"Where'd you get that?" asked Sydney, staring at the capsule, the hairs on her belly, her pussy.
"The capsule?" asked Barbara, her eyes flickering up to his face.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Where'd you get it?"
Barbara picked up the capsule, placed it on the tip of her tongue daintily, then swilled it down with a gulp of the vodka. Her breasts heaved as she drew in air. "Why should I tell you?" she snapped. "It's none of your goddamned business where I got it!"
Sydney seemed to tremble. "Just askin'," he muttered hoarsely. "Sorry."
Barbara waved her empty glass about in the air. "Get me a table-a chair-somethin' to put this damned glass on," she said, sounding peevish, irritated. "And get me another drink!" Her voice seemed to have dropped an octave lower.
"Sure, Barbara. Sure." He hurried across the room, dragged up a crate which served as a table, placed it beside the girl on the couch. "That okay?" he asked, anxiety in his voice. He hurried to his desk, returned with the vodka, spilled some of it into her glass. "Anythin' else?" His voice was tight, nervous.
Barbara's eyes moved to the belly which shook every time Sydney spoke. She lifted her glass, drank some, then placed it on the table. "I got the capsules from Vincent," she said, ignoring his last question. "They're for-" "I know what they're for," he muttered.
"They're to make your prick stand up," Barbara went on, as though he hadn't interrupted, "to make it get bigger, swell, grow."
She stared at his belly. Small tremors seemed to shimmer through his pants. Barbara reached to the zipper, dragged it down, thrust her hand in, searched and found. Her fingers tightened their grip, and Sydney moaned softly.
"Take your pants off," Barbara hissed. She shrugged out of her blouse as he did as she'd told him, and she caressed her breasts idly as she watched him undress.
"You-you don't wear a bra no more," Sydney said hoarsely as he stood beside the couch. He was nude now. His gross belly protruded obscenely. His penis projected almost to Barbara's face, and the balls of flaccid tissue hung down limply between his fleshy thighs.
Barbara's eyes fastened on the balls and the prick. She took out the vial of capsules again, shook two out onto her belly again and watched them roll into the foliage. "Pick 'em up!" she told Sydney.
The sweat glistened on his face, rolled in small beads down his chest to his belly as he bent over the white, luscious girl-flesh, groped with trembling fingers among her pubic hairs.
"Take 'em!" Barbara hissed.
Sydney hesitated. "Both of 'em?" he asked, his voice frightened.
"Yeah," she said wetly, "both of 'em!"
"Is it okay to take two? I thought that-" "Take 'em, you putrid bastard! Swallow 'em now!" she bellowed angrily. Barbara's voice was as vicious as the words she spoke to Sydney. "Now the vodka," she said, when he'd put the capsules in his mouth. "Drink some vodka!"
Sydney Gamble shakily poured himself a shot of the liquor, drank it, and then stared at Barbara, already starting to tremble. "What happens? If you take two-and a drink-what happens?" he asked her fearfully.
But Barbara just sat there calmly and coolly and drew upon her gold-tipped cigarette. Her cold eyes glittered with feverish excitement, small tremors of anticipation began to flicker on all parts of her flesh, especially her erogenous zones: her nipples were protruding, tensed, and she slid a hungry finger through the wet, spreading slit of her pussy as she answered him very innocently, as if she didn't know! "I don't know, Sydney. I really and honestly don't know!"
She saw the terror in his eyes, and laughed. Her finger moved more quickly on the inner tissue. "We'll find out, won't we, Sydney?" Her voice was intense with excitement. "We'll soon find out!"
He shivered with fear and anxiety and his penis began to swell visibly.
"Sydney," she murmured, her eyes half closed, loving the tickling sensations that were traveling through her entire body.
"What, honey, name it."
"Kiss my nipples!" she demanded. She gazed at him through heavy-lidded eyes, the pupils dark and mysterious and inviting.
"With pleasure," he said, bending his head down to her breast and fixing his lips upon the pink quivering nipple. It was so moist, so pointy, so sweet-tasting. She ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip, moistening it.
"Don't neglect the other one!" she ordered.
"Sorry," he grunted. He pulled her breast aside and bent his head toward the other nipple, catching its sweet succulence between his half-closed teeth. He nibbled her wet nipple for minutes, and then inquired whether he was hurting her.
"Oh God, I wish you had another mouth so you could be chewing between my legs while you're sucking my tits!"
"I have another mouth, Barbara," came a strangely familiar voice from the open doorway.
It was Jerry!
Chapter Eleven
Riding home in Jerry's rented car, Barbara said, "You didn't have to beat him up so badly. He's just a hard-up old man!"
"And you're just a hard-up young cunt!" Jerry said. "I found that out, just following you around town the last few days since I got back."
"You wasn't supposed to be back until next week. And besides, what right have you to sneak into town and snoop on me? You're no angel yourself! And don't think I don't know it!"
"Right you are-no angel, better believe it! But at least in the last year I've learned exactly what I am, and I've also learned to live with it-happily, I might add. That's more than I can say for you or the rest of your sick family."
"What the hell do you mean? My family has been very kind to you."
Jerry grinned. "I said sick and I meant sick. You're not the only one I been following around town since I got back. Your goody-goody boyfriend is fucking your mother in dumpy motels, and your father is going around trying to get up enough nerve to fuck you! And all the while you're fucking everybody! The only trouble is, none of you will admit to yourself what you really are. If you all did, it wouldn't be all that bad. Well, I plan to set you all straight tonight."
"Oh," Barbara said, "now you feel competent enough to liberate us all, eh? Whatever happened to poor shy Jer?"
"Shy Jer never existed. You just thought he did. So did I. No more."
Barbara lit a cigarette. "And just how do you plan this great liberation of the Bennett family? By telling everyone how awful the others are?"
"No, Barbara, honey. With your little capsules, that's how."
"What? You wouldn't!"
"Well, I made the necessary phone calls to make sure they're all there when we get there. The capsules in the drink they toast to my return to San Francisco will do the job, I won't have to say a word. I even invited your stupid Grant; wouldn't want him to miss the show."
Barbara sat back in her seat and thought.
Grant screwing mother? She couldn't picture it. And all the while poor Daddy wanting her just as much as she always wanted him. Now that she thought of it, with the effect of the capsule not yet worn off, isn't this the way she had always wanted it too? She puffed again on her cigarette. Maybe she'd just let Jerry try his "liberation" party. Maybe it would all work out for the best.
She reached in her purse, intending to pop another capsule in her mouth, not giving a damn about anything anymore. But the bottle wasn't there! She looked at Jerry. He was grinning from ear to ear. He managed the steering wheel with one hand and with the other held up the half-full bottle of capsules.
Everyone shook Jerry's hand when he and Barbara walked in the front door. "Good to see you back!" Neil said.
"You look well," Harriette half smiled.
Even Grant stood up and politely offered his hand.
"If you'll let me have that secret key of yours, Neil, I'll mix us all a drink. To celebrate my homecoming, you might say. I always felt very at home here," Jerry smiled.
"The key and the house are yours, Jerry," Neil said, handing the key over.
Barbara just watched as Jerry poured the drinks, his back to the group, feeling an extra little thrill that only she knew what he was doing.
"To the liberation of the soul!" Jerry toasted, raising his own drink high into the air. And then he watched them all drink thirstily. Except Barbara, who chose to only sip her drink. And then both she and Jerry sat down and waited... and watched. As for Barbara herself, she almost felt like thanking Jerry.
Dinner was cooked and ready, but it was never eaten. Barbara watched everyone's face, convinced now that everything that had happened to her had been fun, because it taught her that there wasn't anything evil about sex, and that one should simply face the facts. And the main fact was that sex, in all its various forms, was pleasure-giving. All this she was suddenly aware of, as she sat and waited for things to start happening. They soon did.
Barbara got up and walked to another chair, sat down and crossed her legs. Her moderately short skirt slid partway up her bare, creamy thighs. In spite of himself, Jerry couldn't resist looking. God, she's a beautiful girl! He thought.
"You're really disgusted with me, aren't you, Jer?" she asked, as he stood in front of her, his eyes troubled.
"I doubt that I have a right to be," he said. "You're entitled to live your life any way you want. I'll leave tomorrow, and at the same time leave you all to your separate destinies."
"But you hate me now, don't you?"
"Oh, hell, Barbara!" he said, and turned away. "What difference does it make if I hate you... or love you... or just plain want you."
"It makes a difference to me," she said, standing up and moving up behind him.
He turned slowly and looked down into her clear, bright eyes. "Sex isn't a monster. It's a friend. I just wanted you to learn that before I left."
She snuggled up against him. She stretched and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Her firm breasts pressing against him, her soft lips on his -rekindled the fire of lust he had known a year before. Only now it was a bit different. He understood it. His penis immediately stiffened, rising against the inside of his pants.
Barbara's eyes widened when she felt it press against her belly. Now, feeling Jerry this way, responding to the pressure of her body and to her kiss by gaining a wonderful erection-gave her such a rush of happiness that she suddenly realized that what she was feeling against her belly was the only prick that had ever been in her-a part of her. She terminated the kiss and, gasping with excitement, she backed up quickly. Jerry's cock flipped suddenly upright, quivering with lust.
Barbara gazed at the others in the room and gasped again. "I-I'm sorry," she said in confusion, and tried not to look down at the magnificent erection. But none of the others were even looking at her. Her father got up hurriedly and left the room, climbing the stairs two at a time. Then something made Barbara say directly to her mother and Grant, who were side by side on the couch, gazing lovingly at each other, "No! No, oh, no-I want it! I want Jerry's beautiful cock!" But Grant and Harriette were already too far out to even hear Barbara's words.
Barbara dropped to her knees in front of Jerry and fumbled the cock out of his pants. Greedily, she took the cockhead into her warm, loving mouth-sucking on it, licking it, and clamping between her jaws-and at the same time caressing his super-stiff shaft up and down, up and down, her encircling hand gliding from his nuts to her own working mouth and back again, over and over.
Jerry writhed on the balls of his feet and couldn't keep from fucking his hot prick in and out of her encompassing mouth gently, as the most delicious sensations he had ever known rocked him in wave after wave after wave.
Neil came out of the upstairs bathroom, thinking his quick masturbation had cured the strange lusty drive that had suddenly taken hold of his body. He looked over the railing. Downstairs, his daughter was kissing Jerry's prick passionately. On the couch, Grant's hand went groping up between Harriette's sleekly stockinged legs while her tongue leaped like a flame between his lips and her hand hotly caressed the hump that had risen at his crotch.
Neil watched, wide-eyed, as Grant's hand stroked higher-off her stockings and onto the warm, soft, smooth skin of Harriette's inner thighs. The look on Harriette's face told Neil that the boy's touch was tremendously exciting to her-and in the mad-watching moment, Neil asked himself why. Because Grant was so young and extra-virile? Something went click-click inside Neil's head and as he came down the stairs, still gaping, Harriette's thighs inched wider apart, giving Grant more freedom of access, and she thrilled wildly as his hand pressed against the narrow crotch of her flimsy silk panties. His fingertips traced the flesh fissure on the other side of the clinging silk and stroked through the dozens of soft curling hairs.
"Jesus Christ!" Neil heard Jerry cry, from the far end of the room. "I've got to fuck you, Barbara!"
Neil moved his gaze back to the couch where Harriette was tickling Grant's prick. "Oh, screw me, baby, screw me!" she panted, tearing her lips from his. Her voice had become suddenly passion-roughened and she grasped his stiff cock and gave it an especially vigorous stroking.
Click-click again in Neil's head. And then a selfish thought, one he would never be able to explain. It occurred to him suddenly that this was highly unfair. Why was he being left out of all this? Why wasn't Barbara sucking his prick, just as he had subconsciously yearned for her to do for so long?
Whining ecstatically, Harriette flopped onto her stomach over an arm of the couch. Her head hung down to the floor, her hair fanning out across the carpet. Her white ass was in the air. Grant had pulled up her dress and slip and these garments were bunched at the small of her back, and at the moment he was admiring with wild eyes her rounded buttocks which gyrating slowly in front of his face. Neil, at the foot of the stairs now, was treated to teasing glimpses of his wife's asshole and the interior of her pearl-wet cunt.
Grant climbed up on the couch behind her, his cock tingling straight out in anticipation. He drew a bead on Harriette's bare white ass, which was framed beautifully by her garter belt and stocking tops, and he gripped his rock-hard member in his fist. With a savage growl, Grant worked his blunt-headed probe into the wiggly warm folds of her vulva, found the snapping little mouth of her vagina and drove straight and hard all the way into Harriette's belly. He began to stroke his long, stiff prick in and out of her, slapping his belly against her ass, jarring every rigid bone in her body.
"Daddy!" Barbara gulped, rocking back on her knees. "Oh Daddy, help me!" Her mouth had let go of Jerry's cock, but his eyes were still clamped shut in ecstasy.
"Barbara, honey," Neil said. "Please don't ever call me Daddy again. From now on let's just make it Neil, shall we? And now I would suggest that we all go upstairs and get into bed together before we all go out of our minds completely."
The word honey sent Barbara's mind reeling back over the years. Poor Grant would have rebelled against this new twist in the strangely interlocked relationships if it weren't for the fact that Barbara's face lit up with a bright smile, and she hurried up the stairs toward a bed-any bed, eagerly accepting her father's amazing proposal. Only steps behind her, they all followed. Grant was last, taking a moment to note that old man Neil Bennett wasn't so old after all, judging from that young stallionlike hard-on that he was gripping in his fist.
Barbara tumbled onto her back on the bed in such a way that her skirt whipped up to her waist, exposing her luscious bare thighs and white-globed ass. They all threw off their clothing, intermingling it in an unorganized pile at the door to the bedroom. Jerry approached one side of the bed and Neil approached Barbara from the opposite direction. They knelt beside her, and she gripped both their huge, throbbing erections as they worked together to take off her clothes.
The blouse went, the beautiful bare tits bobbing out, their stiff nipples sticking rigidly upward. They used all four hands to pull down her skirt. Barbara writhed between them, causing her taut breasts to vibrate. Her thighs swayed open and closed, revealing, then concealing the narrow crotch and the moist softness of her delightful young cunt. Her moisture seeped along her inner thighs, and Neil gazed at it while Jerry just smiled knowingly. She pulled on their pricks and moaned wantonly, "Ohhh, suck me, eat me, fuck me-e-e-e!"
Her legs flew apart. Both men gazed at her luscious pink pussy with the curling hairs at both sides of it and above it. The two men looked at each other, both wanting her at the same time. Barbara solved that. She pulled at Jerry's prick until it was up to her mouth again, while her other palm moved her father's head down between her open legs.
Barbara felt her father dive headlong into the sweet valley between her thighs. His tongue toyed with the very firm, protruding clit, bathing it in saliva, then he concentrated on sucking it and finally chewing it between his teeth, with little, urgent nibbles. He opened her fresh, delightful pussy with his thumbs and gazed at the moist pink flesh, his hungry eyes running over the smooth, glazed clitoris. He put his mouth to it again, answering the begging of her open-mouthed vagina that solicited his tongue-thrust. Neil laid his tongue lengthwise in her slit and swabbed it up and down, up and down.
"Ohhh-ohhh-oooh!" Barbara panted, her lifetime dream finally coming true. Her father tongue-twirled her trembling stiff clit, then drove deep into the trough of her pussy, bathing in the hot clasping hole. All the while her mouth was stuffed with Jerry's prick, and her-own tongue swirled around it. Neil could wait no longer. He rolled her over on top of him and glided up into her moist, clasping warmth, and she began to fuck down on him immediately, turning her head to one side to recapture Jerry's stymied prick.
All the while Grant and Harriette had been standing at the foot of the bed helplessly. Now Grant grabbed a jar of cold cream from the dressing table, smoothed it over his prick and climbed aboard Barbara from the rear. Well lubricated by the cream and his own viscous juices, he worked the wet, rubbery pecker in between Barbara's wiggly-soft ass cheeks. He centered his cock on her hot little dimple, then twisted and pushed.
"Ahhhh!" Barbara screamed,- but soon she rose to the glorious sense of fullness as the two men plunged and rotated inside her at the same time, rubbing one another through the thin membranes which separated the two chambers. At last in her life she was full of cock! Her mouth, her rectum, her pussy!
The main thrill came from lying between the two men, being penetrated and possessed by both of them at the same time, feeling her body being buffeted forward and back as both of them fucked her. She was climaxing convulsively, sobbing and sucking at Jerry's prick as she did.
Harriette kneed her way forward on the overloaded bed and mashed her face between Jerry's ass, lapping her own tongue from behind, sometimes touching the gulping tongue of her daughter.
A dynamo spun in Neil's mind. A silent cry reverberated in Harriette's vagina. Smothered passion escaped from Grant's panting lips, hot breathing at the back of Barbara's neck. Vast globs of semen spurted from three cocks, and the bedroom-the house-the world spun through a chorus of five voices in "Ahhhhhs" and "Ooohhhhs!" and "Mmmmmmmmms."
And then the room was frighteningly silent.
Chapter Twelve
Every Sunday morning after that Barbara and her father solved the problem that had been haunting them both for years. She would come to his chair in the living room and sit down on his lap, just like that day 'way back. He would suck in his breath with surprise just as he had then. Her warm, moist, parted lips would press against his. Her tongue was in his mouth, stirring gently, curling and gliding. Her hands moving on his body.
Then she would have him lying on the couch and she would be taking the clothes, his Sunday morning robe, his pajamas off. And Neil would lay there in the wonderful awesome force that Barbara had always generated in him, and which he had finally given up trying to control. It didn't take any capsules anymore-just the simple truths of life. He wanted-and always had-this girl, his own daughter. He wanted her carnally. His prick was proof of that, the way it was sticking up straight, speaking its own uninhibited truths. Pricks have a way of being uninhibited.
Barbara would smile as she looked at it. Then she would put her hand around it and begin to stroke it up and down, up and down.
"Ohh, Barbara-puss, my little pot of honey."
From there on in neither would be able to control the raging inferno inside their bodies and their brains. She would then bend and put her lips around the head of his cock, and she would suck on it gently. His penis would twitch in the circle of her sucking mouth. Neil would reach out for her titties, cupping them and sinking his fingers into their firm softness. He would use a thumb to toy with her nipples, rolling and tweaking, making them pebble-hard.
She would lift her lovely leg and Neil would gaze at the fissure between her thighs which was pink, juicy and open. Then she would mount him on the couch, and, grasping his stiff cock, feed his iron-hard protrusion into her soft, moist slit. 'Way up it would go until her lovely cunt clutched all the way from the head of his organ to its hairy base. Her inner muscles would ripple voluptuously along the whole length of the rod, her hot, clasping pussy only then beginning to glide with a quickening frenzy. She would fuck him deliriously as she gazed down into his eyes, her lips soft and sensual, her breasts quivering with firm, luscious fullness against his hairy chest.
And Neil would sigh contentedly, knowing that his entire mind, his soul, and all his senses had made a much-needed adjustment to this way of life-and how lovely, how untroubled it all was.
Tuesday night was for Grant and Harriette, and the whole group would make themselves scarce, leaving the two alone in the house. Harriette would have her necessary three stiff drinks to get her started, then she would wrap her fingers around his strong, handsome shaft. A drop of clear lubricant would ooze out of the hole at the tip, and Harriette would feel the throb of his hot young virility, and would thrill to it.
She would play with it for a while, and then Grant would put it to work, after Harriette would stand before him wearing only high-heeled slippers, fancy laced-trimmed panties, a garter belt and a lacy bra, perhaps remembering her own youth and drooling in the fancy that she still owned it. This she needed, just as Neil needed Barbara.
Grant's excellent physical specimen, naked and waiting for her body, would help that dream along. The tight gut and the muscular arms thrilled her back twenty years. His young hungry mouth would swoop and his firm lips would seal themselves to hers. His tongue would surge into her mouth and thrash about, rubbing her tongue smoothly and stirring her excitement. Then one of his large hands would slide down her back and span the fleshy, shivery globes of her bottom, enjoying their quiver through her thin silk panties.
He would sweep her up in his strong arms and carry her to the bed, placing her on her back. Then he would kneel beside the bed, run his rough hands over her body, and strip off her bra, while Harriette would say something about them aching for him to suck them. He'd free her breasts and fasten his warm, wet mouth to the crest of one of them, then the other. He would draw the big titty deep into his mouth and draw on it hungrily. Tentacles of excitement would spread out from Harriette's nipples and spread to all parts of her body, finding a final home in the warm crevice between her thighs.
Then she would roll over and part her legs to receive him. He would twist his body to pull her panties off and Harriette would scream, "Eat me, ohhh, eat meeee!" And so Grant would eat her, suck her, lick her, nibble at her clit, and saliva her asshole before finally buggering that tight dimple with his cockhead, holding on to her big tits for dear life, while she gave him a wild and furious ride, all the while feeling that huge prick sink deeper and deeper into her rectum-and finally gushing it with his thick glob of young healthy sperm.
That's when Harriette would scream with joy, her voice echoing throughout the empty house.
Wednesday night was for Jerry and Barbara. They would re-enact his rape of her the year before. She would lie naked on the bed and he would act the part of the sneak-rapist. The only difference would be the way Barbara would twist her head and groan passionately.
After Barbara had discovered Jerry's pleasure at having his prick sucked, she had, over a period of weeks, trained her throat muscles to relax and expand sufficiently to entertain the whole of his organ in her gullet. Her mouth would go so far down on the shaft that her teeth would join and press into the soft flesh where the penis joined his body, her lips squirming in the mat of hair at the very base.
A cocksucking from Barbara became indeed an experience that swept all thoughts of leaving the Bennett household from Jerry's mind. He'd lace his fingers back of his head to keep from tearing at the bed covers once Barbara would get underway. With her head dipped, her hot, moist oval of ripe lips would capture Jerry's aching glans, and his lust-jumbled thoughts would go white with blind heat.
Barbara had developed, perfected, then added to her already redoubtable expertise an artistry far above anything Jerry could compare it to. She would throw herself upon him, heat of female lust and need for thorough fucking flowing out of every pore of her beautiful body. She would purr, tenderly squeezing the glans between thumb and forefinger and stroking the smooth skin.
Then Jerry's cock would be in her belly, her luscious breast-fruit in his mouth, plump and expanding with his every downstroke. Through the soft, curly hairs he plunged his weapon, watching her face as the animal heat began flushing upward through her on forceful waves.
Her half scream would become a wail of feverish joy, and with arms and legs she would seize him, her face screwed into a mask of passion. Then she would hold him clamlike, find his mouth and slither her pink length of tongue between his teeth. Thus Jerry would fuck into her, hunching to smoothly enter the hot cave to the full length of his rod.
Barbara's orgasm would strike with a mighty force, and for the next few moments she would become a mewling, screaming, clawing fiend bent on using her fiery cunt as a tool to break poor Jerry's cock off. She would buck, heave, and rake Jerry's back with her nails, eyes rolling wildly as she chewed her tongue, the hot jets of Jerry's release spurting into her belly, adding fuel to her wild act. A deluge of feminine noises would bubble from her throat past lips that would form odd, unnatural shapes. Yelping like a lunatic, her ass up off the bed, dancing an outrageous dance, she would coil small, stretch big... and come... and come... and come.
Then Jerry would just lay there, his prick deep in her cunt, soaking in a hot bath of mingled juices.
Friday nights, just like before, Grant would take Barbara to a drive-in. Only now, they never saw the movie. Most of the time Grant's head would be down below the dashboard, buried between Barbara's opened legs, and they would have to keep the windows up, to silence her little moans of joy.
And Saturday nights were for Harriette and Neil, for they too had recaptured something of their almost lost marriage. They recaptured that certain something only after they were both willing to lose something-jealousy.
"What do you mean you're quitting the job? What have I done to you, Barbara?" Mr. Erickson asked.
"You haven't done anything to me, Vincent," Barbara smiled. "I just found another job.
Thanks for everything." She gathered up her personal things from her desk and made for the door.
"Barbara, honey, wait," Vincent pleaded. "What is this other job you've found?"
She opened the office door and turned to him with a coy smile. "Just being a woman, Vincent... just being a woman!"
