Lovely, blonde Susan Biltmore decided" in the summer of her seventeenth year that she had been a virgin too long. And, with the idea of correcting that situation, she and her close friend Anne Armsted set off on a madcap summer journey from their homes in Toronto to Vancouver and back. During which time both girls lost their inhibitions (not to mention their maidenhoods), were quite willingly used by the members of several rock groups, participated in a love-in that got out of hand, embarked on a plaster casting business whereby certain parts of the male body were preserved for all time at a price, and then . . .
INTRODUCTION
I haven't always been as uninhibited as I am now. At one time I used words like vagina and phallus, intercourse and embrace. I was almost as square as my parents. I used to go to church practically every Sunday and if a boy so much as touched my boobs by accident I thought him a lecher and would immediately ice him out. I was told that chastity was a woman's most important possession and I believed it. Shit, thinking back on it now, it's a wonder I had any friends at all.
I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Susan Biltmore and you can bet I get a lot of corny remarks about that because, ironically enough, I've always had an exceptional build, even when I was very young. Boys used to call me the girl who was built more but used less than any girl in the city of Toronto. It bothered me for a while, but I soon proved them wrong.
The big change in my life came at the end of the 1968 school term. I had just finished graduating from grade thirteen and I was looking forward to starting at the university the next year. On the afternoon of the last day of school, my best friend, Anne Armsted, came over to my house. We sat in my room, deeply engaged in "girl talk," as we had been thousands of times before. But, on this particular day she said something that made me just about shit in my pants. Right out of the clear blue, for no reason at all, she turned to me and, with a kind of dreamy look in her eyes, she said, "I want to get fucked this summer!"
Back then, any four-letter word shocked me, but to hear the ultimate swear word, the king of the four-letter obscenities, was ample reason for a heart attack. I wanted to say something. I think I wanted to chastise Anne, but for the life of me, I could not force my tongue to rise to the occasion.
"I want some nice blond boy to bust my cherry," Ann continued, as if I weren't feeling faint enough. "You know, Susan, I have never held a boy's prick! As a matter of fact, I have never even seen a boy's prick, except for my little brother's and he's only three years old. All I know about them is what I've read in books."
I was disgusted, revolted, nauseated and angered by Anne's language. What was worse, what really bothered me, was that I was getting wet between the legs. I could actually feel the lips of my virgin cunt opening up and dribbling wet, slippery juice into my undies. I tried to stop Anne's string of obscenities, but all I could do was blush.
"And I'll bet you've never seen a prick before either. I mean a real grown-up prick. A hard one. Have you?"
I didn't know how to answer her. I would have liked to blast her with some religious threats, but I knew I was just as guilty as she was because I was getting excited. My cunt was sinning even if I weren't.
"Well?" Anne insisted. "No, I haven't seen-" "Haven't seen what?"
I hesitated. I knew she was trying to make me say that word, just for the fun of it, but I couldn't. I was sure I couldn't.
"What haven't you seen? Say it, Susan. Say cock or prick! Say it!"
I wanted to. I really wanted to, but something stopped up the words in my throat. There was some power over me that would not let me utter those obscenities. Hearing Anne do it excited me beyond description, but I couldn't get them out.
Anne coaxed me on, "P-r-i-c-k . . . prick! Feel it between your legs, Susan, and say it. Enjoy it. Let it swim around in your mouth."
I was like a cripple trying to walk when his legs are completely numb. I struggled against this force that didn't want me to enjoy that word. My eyes were clenched shut, my mouth partially open, my cunt drenched with anticipation. Suddenly, it came in a flood. "Prick! Prick, cock, cunt, cunt, balls, prick, cock, asshole, cunt, fuck, fuck, fuck." I fell back on the bed, perspiration making lines down the side of my face and I laughed. For several minutes, my body tingled all over, especially inside my virgin cunt. I was hysterical. I couldn't stop the laughing. Anne laughed with me until my transformation was complete. I didn't know until much later that I had just undergone my first minor orgasm.
Somewhere along the line, Anne had undergone some strange metamorphosis and now, with her guidance, so had I. The stage was set for the greatest summer of my life.
Chapter One
Anne Armsted was, indeed, my best friend and she proved it by supplying me with birth control pills at the end of my next menstrual period. She got them easily from a doctor friend of hers. I was still a virgin, but the likelihood of changing that condition in the very near future was great. So, like the boy scouts, I was being prepared.
I remember sitting in my room one Friday afternoon talking to Anne. We were going to a party that night and were getting more excited by the minute. Most of the parties we had been to up until that time had been school gatherings at the home of one of the "nice" girls or boys. They were always chaperoned by the parents and broke up no later than eleven o'clock. But this one was different and that's why we were getting excited. This one was being held in an apartment and there would be no chaperone. The guy who was throwing the party was a school dropout who was making a very good living as a rock and roll musician.
"Are all those things about Danny true?" I asked Anne, hoping she would repeat some of the dirty stories about Danny Bloomfield.
"Sure they're true. You'll see for yourself tonight. They say he can't even count the number of girls he's fucked in the last year. They say his prick is ten inches long and that he always makes girls suck it for him."
"Are you going to suck it for him, Anne?"
"Sure, if he wants me to."
We were talking pretty big about fucking and sucking and God knows what else that afternoon, but really we were scared shitless. Anne had vowed to me that she was going to get fucked that night. She tried to get me to vow too, but I was chicken. I kept making up excuses like, "I have to find a boy that I like first," or, "it depends how many people are there," but the real reason was that I was petrified at the thought of some ten-inch cock going right up into my tight little cunt. I had heard many stories about the pain girls go through when they get busted.
We arrived at Danny's apartment at about nine o'clock. There were a lot of people there and a lot of booze. Most of the guests were already pretty drunk and they were all doing sexy dances. I knew immediately that I was in over my head. The only choice I had was to leave or get drunk. The former would have been too embarrassing, so I chose to do the latter.
Anne was much less inhibited than I. She was making advances toward every man who came her way. Being a new face, or rather, I suppose, a new body on the scene, she was extremely popular.
It was about eleven-thirty, I think, when I saw Anne disappear into one of the two bedrooms with the host, Danny Bloomfield, the guy with the ten-inch prick. Being a bit drunk, I didn't care if anyone saw me follow them out of the room, down the short hall and into the bedroom.
"I want to watch," I said matter-of-factly, just as Danny and Anne assumed a comfortable position on the bed.
"Do you want me to fuck you, too?" asked Danny as he undid his shirt.
"No, I just want to watch."
I could tell that Anne was nervous, but she was doing a good job of hiding it from Danny. When he dropped his underwear onto the floor, she just lay there, speechless. Those stories about him were true, because his cock hung down five or six inches and it was still slack.
I had to admire Anne's show of courage. She lifted her quivering arms to him and in a voice that cracked with fear, she begged, "Fuck me, Danny. Fuck me hard."
She told me later that she got those lines from a book she once read. But wherever she got them, they worked beautifully. Danny's limp prick started to swell up. It swelled and swelled until we thought it would never stop. It stood at least ten inches straight out with a slight bend upwards. The head of it was dark red, almost purple, and it must have been two inches thick. His balls were big, too. They hung down three inches in a limp sac and banged back and forth between his thighs when he walked.
Danny lay down on the bed beside Anne, but not the way I expected him to. His head was down between her thighs and his throbbing prick was right at her mouth. "You suck me and I'll suck you for a while," he said, parting the hairy lips of her wet, inexperienced cunt.
Anne did as she was told. She took his big, sinewy cock in her hand and shoved it into her mouth. The head of it was all she could take, so that's all she sucked on. I watched while both of them grew noticeably agitated. Danny's pink tongue flicked in and out like that of an asp. He covered every part of her cunt, concentrating mostly on the hard, swollen clit. Anne drew strenuously on a mouthful of cock. She told me later that it swelled up even further while she was sucking on it, but, of course, I couldn't see that at the time. In any case, it was hard to believe that it could get any bigger than it was when it disappeared into her mouth, but Anne swears it did and I don't see what reason she'd have for lying.
Danny called all the shots and when he was ready he suggested they do it "the other way." I would have called it "the proper way," but that was the difference in our outlooks on sex.
Anne played everything by ear and, thinking back on it now, she did quite well. By watching her, one would have thought she had been fucked many times before, but I knew she had not.
But cunts don't lie and as soon as Danny had parted the sticky lips with the hard fat head of his penis, he knew right away that she was a virgin.
"You've still got a cherry in there somewhere, have you, baby?"
Anne only nodded. She was too damned scared to say a word.
"Well," Danny added with a broad, evil grin, "this is an unexpected surprise. Cherry-busting is just about my favorite sport."
Taking his prick in his hand, he guided it into the proper opening and started to push it out of sight. He got two inches of it in and Anne broke. Some blood appeared on the underside of his prick. I know because by this time I was right up behind Danny with my face about a foot away from his asshole watching him split Anne open with that monstrous hard-on of his.
Before too much more damage could be done, Anne climaxed. It was her first real climax and even though, as she told me later, it was mostly one of pain, she was ecstatic at the time. She rolled around under Danny, clutching at his back with her fingernails. She had big tears in her eyes, but they were tears of joy. That, even I could plainly see.
Unfortunately, Danny got nothing out of it. He was still as hard as a brick and just about as thick by this time. His proud cock stood out and up, straining at its roots as though pleading for somebody to whack it or suck it off to get rid of the terrible pain in its adjacent testicles. Anne was more than obliging. It was the least she could do for the man who had busted her cherry and given her a climax with only the first two inches of his mighty weapon. Lying on his back, Danny held his stiff organ up in the air while Anne took up a position between his legs. When he let go his grip, she replaced it with her own. Then she began by running the taut tip of her tongue up and down the broad back of his prick. By accident she touched the sensitive ridge at the base of the head and noticed an immediate response from Danny. By repeating this action she soon had him in a frenzy.
Such is the process of learning, I thought to myself as Danny started to show signs of a coming climax.
Anne took the whole end of his prick in her mouth and began to suck on it methodically. Danny bent and twisted under her, pushing his prick deeper into her mouth. I could tell from the way she jerked her head that the first shot of cum had gone into her throat. She coughed and tried to pull her head away, but Danny had her firmly locked in his hands.
"Swallow it," he ordered.
She did.
"You're the first man I've ever been with, and I fucked you and sucked you both. That's pretty good, eh?" Anne asked, proud of her new achievement.
"The only thing that bugs me," continued Anne after a moment of thought, "is that my cunt wasn't big enough for your prick. Do you think it ever will be? I mean, when will I be able to fuck completely? I mean, when will men be able to put their whole prick into me, right up to the balls?"
Danny said he would screw her again in about a half an hour. This time he was going to shove his whole ten inches into her cunt. That I wanted to see. I told him right then it was impossible, but he claimed he'd do it with ease. Because I had my clothes on, I was elected to go out to the other room and get three drinks. When I came back, Danny was still lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. Anne was sitting cross-legged beside him, playing with herself to try to loosen up for the next fuck.
Danny pretended his cock was a swizzle stick and stirred his drink with it. "I've got the biggest tool in the band," he said as if he were sure we wanted to know. "In fact, I have the biggest tool I've ever seen."
I don't know about Anne, but I was a bit disappointed to hear that. If you start out getting fucked by the biggest cock around, where are you going to go from there?
"You'll never get all of that in her cunt. Not in a million years," I said, tossing a glance at Anne's hairy crotch.
"Sure I will. Women are made to stretch," Danny replied wisely. "I've heard of guys who have abnormally large pricks."
"How do you know it's true if you've never seen it with your own eyes?" I countered, putting the pressure on.
"Look, you little virgin, do you want me to put it in your tight little box instead?" "No, not just yet."
"All right then, don't argue on something you don't know anything about. If I say I'll get all ten inches in, I'll get them in. You wait and see."
So I did. I waited and I saw. I saw Anne open her legs as wide as she could. I saw the lips of her glistening cunt open up of their own accord. I saw right up inside her where Danny was going to ram all of his ten hard inches. I saw Danny move in on top of her, his stiff prick bobbing and weaving, ready for the strike. It was every bit as long and thick as it was the first time around. I saw Danny lower it into position and pause just at the tip of Anne's crack, the silky, blunt end of his cock rubbing gently against her wet clit, then I saw the chunky head push back the lips and slowly nudge its way into the hot pit between Anne's legs. Danny thrust with his buttocks and a quarter of an inch of his rod sank out of sight. Only nine and three-quarters to go. The skin around Anne's cunt was stretched tight. I saw Danny thrust again. Anne closed her eyes and winced slightly. Another quarter of an inch disappeared.
Bit by bit, like a snake eating a frog, Anne's cunt gobbled up Danny's giant cock. Bit by bit, quarter inch by quarter inch, the bonelike organ found room to enter. Breathless and sweating like a wrestler, Anne nibbled and sucked on everything she could find, Danny's nose, lips, tongue, ears, the pillowcase, everything. She tried to open her legs farther to make it easier, but she couldn't. She could only hope now that her insides would stretch far enough to take him without rupturing. She swung her head wildly back and forth from left to right as Danny sucked on her nipples, making them screw up into a tight, hard knot. Bit by bit, quarter inch by quarter inch, he eased his prick right up her cunt until there was only five inches to go.
Looking at Anne's smooth white belly, I tried to imagine where ten inches would come to. Around the navel somewhere, I figured. Christ, I thought in astonished silence, what happens to all those intestines and things? Where do they go? I still don't know the answer to that question.
I got a good glimpse of Danny's bag. It had shriveled right up, holding his balls in tight against the base of his prick. I guess that's to keep them out of the way, so that they don't slap against the girl's cunt, I thought to myself. But they were way ahead of things. There were still about four inches to go before they would be anywhere near Anne's juicy cunt.
Danny jerked his bum and a full inch of his prick was gobbled up by Anne, holding her head in her hands and twisting her face in sweet agony. Then, suddenly, with a burst of energy, four or five successive thrusts put it home. Danny's cock was gone from view, somewhere up inside Anne. His balls were clenched up in a tight cluster, resting against the open mouth of her cunt. He had done it, the bastard! He was fucking Anne right before my eyes, with all ten inches of his penis. Amazing!
With their pubic bones touching, the two of them rocked back and forth, then Danny started to slide his prick in and out of her. When it came out, it was all wet and sticky-looking and it glistened in the light. It was beautiful! For the first few thrusts, he only brought it out two or three inches before slipping it in again. Then, as both of them approached their second climax of the night, Danny arched his back and slowly withdrew his cock. Once again, I was amazed by the length of it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten inches of it came out of that little hole between Anne's legs. I couldn't believe it. I felt faint thinking about all that grizzly meat going into me. But as if that weren't enough, Danny humped his back up so that the head of his cock rested just at the door of Anne's cunt, just touching her clit, then with all the strength in his body, he stabbed the whole fucking organ right into her-the whole ten inches in one fell swoop. Anne almost bent in half. Her body snapped into a sitting position then straightened out like a poker. Her head flopped around on the pillow and her fingernails brought blood to Danny's shoulders.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," yelled Anne as she twisted and turned around Danny's prick. It was evident that this was a real climax, not a virgin climax, but a real female orgasm. So violent was her reaction that she managed somehow to fall away from Danny just as he was about to come. In a frenzied fit of twitching, his prick got out of hand and spat hot jism all over Anne, the bed and the floor. Luckily, I was able to get out of the way.
"I feel bad about that," said Anne sincerely as we talked about the events of the evening in the back seat of a taxi on the way home. "Poor Danny didn't get to come in me either time."
"I've heard that can drive a man insane," I added to her misery.
We said good-night out in front of my house and the cab drove away. I went in and jumped into bed to dream of big pricks, tight cunts and fucking.
The next day I saw Anne around one in the afternoon. She was walking bowlegged and said she felt as if Danny had left his prick inside her-still hard. That same day Anne convinced me I had to get fucked very soon.
"It's the most beautiful thing in the world, and for that reason alone every human being should do it as passionately and often as possible," she told me. "Your cunt's not made the way it is just to make it easy to piss through, you know. It's made that way to take pricks, big pricks, little pricks, fat ones and skinny ones, circumcised and uncircumcised. Your cunt is made to get fucked and if you don't use it for that purpose, you're only half a female. Wouldn't it be silly for someone to have good eyes and not use them? But it's the same thing as having a beautiful cunt and not using it. And you do have a beautiful cunt, Susan. Believe me when I say that."
Anne was right and I knew it. I had to get fucked sooner or later in order to be a whole female, so I might just as well get it sooner. I no longer believed all that stuff that my parents told me about virtue and chastity. There were a lot of things about my parents' way of life that I didn't understand. For example, how they could go to church every Sunday, but swear all week long. My old may would say that premarital or extramarital sex was wrong, but ogle every young girl he saw in a miniskirt. I know for a fact that my father fucked a woman other than my mother because I saw them doing it when I was just five years old. My mother had gone away for a weekend to a funeral in New York and my dad fucked a woman from his office. I saw the whole thing, but I never told him about it. For one thing, I didn't even know what it was all about, but somehow I sensed that it was something I shouldn't see. But to listen to my old man, you'd think he was lily white.
So, anyway, there was no reason for me not to get fucked. It was only a matter of time. And Anne was there to see that I did it right away. She seemed genuinely interested in sharing with me the thrill of getting busted. She said she felt sorry for any girl who had never been fucked.
"Nuns," she exclaimed, "have to be totally insane!"
Graciously Anne volunteered to retain Danny's services for the following Friday. He was the man to bust me and one thing was for sure-he'd do a thorough job of it with that ten-inch cock of his. In preparation Anne and I worked on my cunt with a carrot which we carved in the shape of a prick. And it was then, during one of those practice session, that I really lost my virginity. I remember the afternoon it happened. I was almost heartbroken. There was nothing, I thought at the time, more inglorious than losing your virginity to a carrot-and a five-and-a-half-inch one at that. The whole motive behind recruiting Danny was so that I ruptured my cherry with a vegetable carved in the shape of a prick and not even carved well, I must say.
But for Anne, I should have fallen into a state of depression. She convinced me that this was just the unofficial busting. The official busting, the one that counted, would be left for Danny. "Besides," she added, "there are still five unexplored inches to go. Your cunt is at least fifty percent virgin."
That kind of thinking was very comforting to a girl in my position, and what was even more comforting was the way in which Anne licked the lips of my unofficially busted cunt to soothe the wounds the carrot had left and the way she slipped her index finger up inside me to give me a vague idea of how it would feel when Danny's prick would follow the same path. Anne was a good friend.
Every chance we got, Anne and I worked on the fuzzy little patch between my thighs. We stretched, pulled, probed and pushed it this way and that, trying to work it into a shape that would accommodate Danny's rod with a minimum of pain. Anne also sucked on my nipples to toughen them up for Danny, or so she said. But I think she did it because she liked doing it. I think she had a bit of Lesbian in her, but then, I must have too, because I enjoyed it. My breasts were bigger than Anne's then-I guess they still are-and I think she idolized them a bit. She used to comment from time to time on how well they stood up for their size and on how she preferred my brown nipples to her pink ones.
But anyway, that's beside the point. My first fuck was arranged for Friday and by Thursday night I was rather agitated. I felt like I was going to write a final exam the next day, and I guess in a way I was. I wanted to be at least as good as Anne was. I was even hoping I would be able to take the whole ten inches of him on the first round. My cunt was in shape, I was sure of that. And so it was with some confidence and a lot of anticipation that I fell asleep that night.
I dreamt of a giant cock. It was about three hundred feet long and sixty feet wide and I was trying to get it into my cunt. How it happened I don't know, but I ended up crawling into the piss hole, along the sperm duct and to the sac. I can still remember looking out through the thin skin of the ball bag. It was pink with blue veins running through it. The balls themselves were purplish. Ever since then I have had a strange desire to cut open some man's bag and take a look at his balls to see if they really are purplish. I haven't done it yet, but who knows, some day I might.
The next day I had a bath before breakfast. I put Chanel No. 5 in my cunt hairs in case Danny wanted to suck me that night. I thought it was a nice gesture.
At the breakfast table Mother asked me what my plans were for the day.
What do you want to know for, you dizzy old clitoris? I wanted to say.
"I'm going to an all-girl party tonight," I said.
She wanted to know where.
What's it to you, you shriveled old cunt hair? I wanted to say.
"At a friend of Anne's," I said.
As usual, the conversation with my mother was a dud. I wanted more than anything to ask her why she pretended not to have a cunt. Why she acted as though she had never sucked a cock or had her juicy old clit tickled by some man's tongue. But I didn't. I couldn't. I just answered all her stupid questions and hoped she'd shut up sooner or later, which she did. How I wished I could tell her I was getting fucked that very night. How I wished I could tell her a lot of things!
What a fine day that was, with butterflies in my stomach and adrenalin shooting through my system. I looked forward to that evening's festivities with eager anticipation. In the afternoon, Anne's parents went away, leaving the whole house for the two of us to romp around in-naked, of course. I guess I should tell you here that Anne's parents were rich and so were mine. At one time, that would have been the first thing I told about myself, but now it doesn't matter to me. I used to think I was lucky having rich parents, but I realized that summer how wrong I was. Growing up in a wealthy home was a disadvantage, if anything. The only reason I tell you at all is to make some of the things in the story, some of the things my parents did and some of the things I did, easier to understand.
Anyway, that afternoon Anne and I ran around her house in the altogether, fingering each other's cunts and bums and tits and generally having a good time, getting excited for my maiden fuck that night.
I remember I was chasing her down the hall with a broomstick telling her I was going to push it up her cunt and out her ass when she barged through a door and jumped straight into their indoor swimming pool. She disappeared from sight and didn't come up. I panicked. I figured she had smashed her head on the bottom and was down there drowning. With my fingers pinching my nose and my arm protecting my tits so they wouldn't slap on the water, I leaped in and sank to the bottom, then fought frantically to get over to her. I could see that her cheeks were puffed out and her eyes bulging, but she was sitting in an upright position, which I couldn't understand. If she had bumped her head, I assumed she would not be sitting up. When I got closer, I noticed she appeared to be clutching her abdomen. Cramps!
Growing short of breath myself, I struggled against the water with all the strength in my body. I was not a good underwater swimmer. I zeroed right in on her and was about to seize her arms when I got a good look at the position of her fingers.
"That's right, masturbating," she said while we recovered our breath at the side of the pool. "What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing's wrong with it, except that you scared the shit out of me. I thought you were drowning."
"Now, really, Susan, would I do that on the day of your cherry-busting?"
The rest of the day was as zany as that. We continued to swim in the nude for several hours, enjoying the nudity more than the swim. And when a little boy of about eight looked through the glass walls that surrounded the pool, Anne jumped out of the water and ran over to where he was standing. The little boy was delighted. He pressed his nose against the glass and shaded the light from his eyes to see better. Anne, on the other side, pressed her cunt against the glass and rubbed it up and down. The little boy laughed and licked the glass. When Anne put her finger in her cunt, the little boy pulled out his penis. It was an inch long. Anne bent down and put her mouth about where her cunt had been, pretending to suck his wee organ through the glass. The little boy jumped up and down and giggled, putting his hands on his head and letting his tiny rod dangle and bounce. He was amused, to say the least, and refused to go away until Anne threatened to tell his mom.
"I'll tell her you let your prick hang out in front of me," she shouted through the glass. He ran away.
Anne dove into the water and came up in front of me with her hands between my legs. Her index finger dipped into my cunt and I squealed.
"That's where Danny's prick is going to go tonight, only it'll be a lot longer and a lot thicker than my finger." It was an unnecessary statement, but it did what she intended it to do. It got the subject of conversation back onto the busting of my cherry.
"What's it feel like, Anne, to be fucked by Danny?"
"Well ..." Anne began slowly, gracefully scratching her head and looking off into the distance as though searching for the right words. "At first, of course, there's a lot of pain. It's like he has to make the hole before he can get in. The head of his cock is very blunt and very soft and it's also very, very thick. When it starts to get deeper into your cunt, you think it's going to push all your guts right up into your throat. But it's not a horrible feeling. It's a beautiful feeling. You feel it getting deeper and deeper inside you, but then you look down and there's still five inches to go. And it just keeps coming, coming and coming, until your whole body seems to be full of Danny's cock. You can feel it in your stomach, your chest, even your fingertips. Your whole body is full of Danny's cock. And it's so thick, it pushes your legs wide apart and stretches the skin all around your cunt. Every time he moves it tickles your clit, and when he moves enough you have an orgasm."
"Can you feel him shoot the semen into you?" I asked, eager to keep her talking on the subject.
"I don't know. He didn't come in me, remember? The first time he came in my mouth and the second time he came all over my stomach."
"And the bed," I added.
"And the floor," she continued. "But I've heard from other girls that you can feel them shoot the semen. And they say that when you get up afterwards, all the gunk dribbles out of your cunt down your legs."
"Oooh, I like that," I said, twirling my curly crotch hairs between my fingers. "Semen dripping down the insides of your thighs after the fuck. I'd like to see that in a movie. That would be very symbolic."
When Anne and I got up to leave the pool, we were greeted by the admiring glances of ten or eleven little boys, all about eight years old and all with one inch cocks squashed up against the wall surrounding the pool. At the end was our little friend. He was licking the glass. Anne tried to frighten them away, but they just laughed and banged their pricks against the glass, yelling that we needed haircuts between our legs.
"Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em," said Anne with a shrug as she sat down in front of the lineup and opened her legs. With her finger buried deep between her yawning cuntlips, she was in the advanced stages of masturbating when all of a sudden- "Look out, somebody's coming," I screeched and splashed into the water, Anne falling in behind me. We were in the deep end clinging to the side nearest the glass wall when the old broad shooed the infant voyeurs away. She was a cuntless old curiosity piece and it would have been a treat to be able to tell her so, but we just smiled at her as she frowned at us through the glass. She stayed there for a while, hoping, I suppose, to find out what the boys had been staring at, but she saw nothing but our heads. When she too had moved on, we jumped out of the pool and slopped into the house.
I was almost too nervous to eat that night. I bit my nails and fidgeted until seven rolled around and it was time to leave for Danny's place. Because it was a nice evening, we walked.
Chapter Two
Julie Christie is my favorite actress, mainly because I look almost exactly like her. Most people who know me say I'm her double except, of course, I'm a lot younger than she is. I suppose I should take the time to describe myself. Otherwise, how are you going to picture me in your imagination when I'm getting fucked? I mean, if I tell you that so and so shot semen onto my nipples and let it trickle down over my boobs onto my belly, you're going to want to know what my nipples and breasts look like, aren't you?
So, I'm going to try to give you a detailed description of myself. Please excuse me if I sound conceited, because I'm really not (nor am I humble, of course).
At the time of this writing, I am nineteen years old, but when the events I'm writing about took place I was only seventeen, going on eighteen. My birthday is July thirtieth. My height is five feet seven inches and I weigh one hundred and twenty pounds. (I weighed a bit less when this story took place.) I have blonde hair which comes down to the small of my back and I almost never put it up.
Now for my face. Like I told you, I look a lot like Julie Christie. My complexion is fair, my eyes blue and my face in general, slender. I have a long, thin nose with sort of flared nostrils. My lips are what most people consider the best feature of my face. They are full, especially the bottom one and they somehow give the impression of being strong, yet soft and supple. One boy once told me that my lips were the kind that most men like to be sucked by. I guess there might be some truth in that, but I really don't know. All I know is that I've sucked a goodly number of cocks and I've never had any complaints that I can recall.
Anyway, on to the rest of me. I would have to say I have an excellent figure. My bust is thirty-seven and one-half inches, my waist twenty-three and my hips thirty-six. One of the oddities about my breasts is that they are upturned even though they are big. When I stand normally, my nipples point out at about a fifty-degree angle. My breasts are full. They don't have a hollow at the top like some stand-up breasts do. They are very pale with one small blue vein just barely visible in each one, running down toward the nipple and disappearing where the brown skin of the aureole begins. The aureole is light brown in color and quite smooth. I don't have little bumps there like many women except, of course, when I'm sexually aroused or cold, when the aureole twists and puckers up into the nipple. My nipples are huge. Many boys have told me that they are the biggest nipples they have ever seen. I guess that's why they like to suck on them so often and so hard. When I am aroused, my nipples are about one-half inch across and almost perfectly round. They stand up from my breasts about a half an inch as well and they're almost always hard.
There's an old saying that if you get sperm on your body, it makes hair grow, but that's a lot of bullshit. I've had some on every single square inch of my body at one time or another, but I have no hair except on my head, under my arms and around my cunt. My belly is completely smooth and hairless. It is round and sticks out just enough to be sexy and I have a very sexy navel. In fact, some men say it's just as much fun to come in my navel as it is to come in my cunt, but I wouldn't know about that. I like it either way as long as I get a climax out of it.
Some of my cunt hair I shave off so that it doesn't hang out of my bikini, although some girls think that's sexy. Anne, for example, likes to show a lot of cunt hair on the beach. Each to his own, I say.
Even though I have fucked like a mink this last year, my cunt is still tight and men love that. My clitoris is big and quite sensitive which makes it easy for me to have a climax. But men tell me the greatest thing about my cunt is that when I flex, they can feel a kind of ring inside me that squeezes their cocks and makes the fuck all the more enjoyable. I don't know anything about that, not being able to fuck myself, but I have read somewhere that gypsies have this muscle ring in their cunts. They say that European men know about this and that whenever they're hot for a piece of tail, they look up a gypsy girl to put the blocks to. Whether or not any of it's true, I don't know, but it's interesting anyway.
My legs are long and also hairless. They are slender, but I am not knock-kneed or anything like that. I would say that my legs, too, are nearly perfect. It's a funny thing, but I used to spend hours looking at them before I masturbated. I would lie back on the bed and run my hands up and down my legs, tickling them softly from the ankle to the very top, right by my cunt. That used to get me excited and then I would masturbate. It never worked when somebody else tried it. I don't know why, but it never did.
"Buttocks are my bag." That's what a friend of mine used to say and he liked mine best of all the buttocks he'd ever seen. Personally, I would have liked a bigger ass. Mine is quite tiny, but at least it's firm and shapely. I've had many, many men come in and on my ass, so it must have quite a bit of appeal.
So that's what I look like. Picture a younger Julie Christie with a slightly better figure and that's me!
Anyway, Anne and I bounced along cheerfully, talking dirty and giggling about sexy, girlish things. I had a steady, pleasurable irritation in my cunt, taut nipples that poked at the inside of my crisp white bra and butterflies in my stomach as I listened to Anne tell tall tales of erotica.
"You know that after a while homosexuals can't hold their shit any more."
"Why?"
"Well, because they've been fucked in the ass so many times that their assholes get stretched and weak. They'll be walking along the street sometime and all of a sudden, they'll shit in their pants without any warning. That's why faggots have to change their underwear so often."
"How do you know they change their underwear often?"
"Well, wouldn't you if you were always shitting in your pants?"
"Yes, I would, but how do you know they do? I mean, how do you know they shit in their pants all the time?"
"I told you, they can't help but shit in their pants. They've got no asshole left. They've fucked it all away. It's like married women who've had a lot of kids. Their cunts fall apart and their husbands can't even tell when they're fucking them. There's nothing there. They keep falling out and spewing all over the sheets."
I reminded Anne that that's what happened to Danny when he was fucking her.
"Oh, my God, I hope I wasn't born with sloppy cunt!" she exclaimed, unconsciously putting her hand down between her legs just as we passed a nun on the street. The holy woman glared at us.
"What are you looking so snotty for, you've got one too. Or have you?"
I felt like crawling in a hole.
"Well, she deserved it," Anne insisted. "They have no right to feel superior."
"Maybe she was a Mother Superior."
Anne ignored that. "Well, they haven't. I've heard about priests and nuns, you know. You know what they do?"
"No."
"The nuns masturbate with their little statues. They rub them against their cunts pretending to bless themselves. They believe their cunts are sinful and dirty, so they have to bless them directly by touching them to those little statues. Only they don't just touch them, they rub them hard until they climax."
"How do you know?"
"I know. And I also know that you have to be a queer to be a priest. If you're not queer when you go to the monastery, you are when you come out. They're not allowed to touch their cocks, so they whack off by rubbing themselves against something, just like the nuns, then they blame it on the devil. They run around the monastery naked, screaming that the devil has spilled their holy seed and they ask to be beaten for it. Then when they're beaten they climax again, only this time they say that's the devil coming out of their prick holes. That's true. They're all masochists. They once found a monk in France, dead as a doornail with a fifteen inch candle right up his hole. They didn't find it until they went to embalm him."
I liked Anne's story, but I wanted to hear something else. "What's it feel like to suck a guy off?" I asked, absent-mindedly putting my finger into my mouth and sucking on it.
"What do you mean, what's it like?" asked Anne, being very blase.
"I mean, what does it feel like to suck a cock?"
"It feels like you would expect it to feel, I guess." She intended to go into detail. I knew that and she knew I knew, but still she played her little game. "I mean, what do you think it would feel like? A cock's a cock and you suck it like you would suck anything else. I mean, what's it feel like to suck your thumb, you know?"
We walked ten yards in silence. "The head of the cock is softer than the shaft," she began, mouthing an imaginary one. "It's as soft as your cheek, only it doesn't cave in, you know. I mean, it has substance to it even though it's soft. It's about like velvet packed tight with foam rubber. The slit in the end is softer still. I mean, inside the slit. If you stick your tongue into the slit, it's softer than the head of the cock. The foreskin is soft as well and it's stretchy. But the prick itself is as hard as bone and when you suck on it you can feel a pulse against the roof of your mouth. And it twitches too. All the time you're sucking on it, it twitches faster and faster until it flexes one last time, one long stiff twitch and then it spews all that hot, salty gunk into your throat. That's all there is to My cunt was dripping into my undies. We walked the rest of the way without saying too much. For one thing, I was getting too nervous to carry on a conversation. For another, we had just about talked ourselves out. When we arrived, a friend of Danny's answered the door. He was about six feet tall and stark naked. His build was passable but his prick was short compared to Danny's. It hung about two and a half to three inches down and a bit to the right.
"Come in and take off your clothes," he said with a smile, bouncing his balls in his right hand. "Which one's the virgin?"
"The blonde one," said Danny coming out of the bathroom at that moment. His prick was just as I remembered it from the week before, five inches long, brown and smooth as silk-just waiting for stimulation. His balls were loose and swayed gently as he walked toward Anne and myself. "Take off your clothes, girls, we'll be ready to start any minute. Where do you want to do it, here or in the bedroom?"
I chose the bedroom. I felt a trifle strange at first, sitting around in the nude in front of men. My nipples were hard and erect and my cunt ran like a maple tree in spring. I was obviously the amateur of the lot because neither of the men had erections yet. Their rods dangled down between their legs as though they saw a naked woman every day of the week. Even Anne seemed to be relaxed compared to me, although I think she was play-acting just a little. She was squeezing her thighs together every once in a while and twisting her nipples absent-mindedly.
After a couple of drinks, Danny suggested that we split up. They had decided beforehand that Danny's friend, Al, should fuck Anne while Danny busted me. Anne was in accord, but I was scared.
"Don't be such a silly," Anne said to me in the bathroom, where we had gone to get ready. "What good would it do for me to be there anyway?"
I won't bother to relate the whole argument, but finally Anne convinced me to go with Danny by myself. She wanted to get balled too and I couldn't blame her for that.
In the bedroom Danny and I sat down on the bed and talked for a while to get things started. We smoked while I examined his cock in detail. Since it was the first opportunity I'd had to look at a man's penis close up, I was fascinated. It was heavy for its size and all that loose skin! It really was beautiful just to sit there and play with it.
"Would you like to suck me?" Danny asked when I had crushed out my cigarette.
I nodded rather shyly and went down on my knees in front of him. With my left hand, I gathered up his balls, with my right I took hold of his limp prick and pulled the foreskin back to reveal the smooth, blunt head. It was very light pink in color, not the purple it was the last time I saw it.
It must have something to do with how much blood circulates through it, I thought to myself as I slipped the foreskin back over the end. Danny was circumcised (although I didn't know the difference at the time) -but he did have lots of skin to play with as long as his cock remained slack. It was loose and slid back and forth over the shaft with ease, making the penis seem almost like a liquid or, at most, a jelly in my hands. His ball bag was the same.
When I had stretched the foreskin back and forth a few times, the prick started to expand. As it did so, I licked it all over and sucked it from every angle. The shaft was the first part to swell and when it had the consistency of rubber, I plopped it into my mouth, all of it! As I swished it around with my tongue, I could feel it growing and growing and, because I was holding on tight at its base with my lips, it had nowhere to go but down my throat. It wasn't until I choked on it that I let go and settled for only half of it. I started now to suck with more enthusiasm, rubbing my supple lips over the hard ridge of the head and jabbing my tongue into the sperm hole. And still it kept swelling up and up, bigger and bigger, until I could only manage to keep the head in my mouth. I sucked on it with force, trying to draw the semen out of him, but it was a long way from coming. When I slipped him out for a minute to catch my breath, I noticed that the head was the same color purple it had been when Danny fucked Anne.
Yep, that's what it is: the amount of blood that's circulating, I thought once again as I eased the slippery, glistening hard-on back into my mouth.
Danny did not let me suck him much longer. When he had had enough, he slipped his prick out of my mouth, causing my lips to slap together in a loud, sloppy noise. With one hand he pushed me gently down onto the bed. With the other he played with my clit while mounting. Once into position, he smiled warmly and whispered, "Okay, baby, here goes." A quick and effortless jab plugged up my cunt and made my heart jump in my bosom.
"Danny, you won't make it," I said, panic in my voice. "You're too big. You'll rip my cunt." I was straining my head forward to watch and I could see that only the head was between the lips of my tight little cunt. There were still eight inches to go and it wasn't just the length, but the width as well. It was like putting his prick through a funnel and I watched in mixed amazement and apprehension as his right hand, which had probably done this many times before, squeezed another inch of his bulging prick into my cunt.
I felt it come in and I felt a few more inches come in the same way, each one seeming as though it had to be the last, but each one being accommodated by that hungry little cunt of mine. When he had about four inches of his mighty manhood inside me, Danny began to move it back and forth, working up some more lubrication and easing in farther with every thrust. The feeling of his hard cock tugging at my clit and the big hammerhead probing deeper and deeper into my cunt set up a spiraling sensation that I knew was the climax coming on. Each time it came around, it was more intense. Until that time I had been lying there like a dead fish, but then the pleasure was beginning to outweigh the pain and I started to move my hips.
Up and down, around and around, I tilted my pelvis this way and that, giving Danny more cunt to fuck. And he fucked and fucked, in and out, back and forth, faster and faster until the walls of my cunt had wrapped themselves around all ten inches of his big, hard, slimy prick. All ten inches! I don't know how I did it, but there it was. Ten long thick inches of muscle and blood packed away somehow in my virgin box.
Our movements became frantic as our hips banged together, sending his prick up the fuck-tunnel into my guts. I was getting fucked for the first time. Fucked, banged, balled and screwed and it felt lovely.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I screamed into Danny's ear, throwing my belly up against him and digging my nails into his back. "Fuck me, Danny, with your hard, hard cock. Fuck me hard!" I moaned, my voice jiggling with the force of his thrusting. And he did, real hard!
He lifted himself to his hands, leaving only our genitals touching and pushed his prick in and out of me with the speed of a jackhammer. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my cunt slapping and sucking at Danny's lightning-fast rod. The only thing I could see was Danny's face twisted in ecstasy. After that, everything went blank. I remember nothing except that my whole body throbbed and tickled for a few minutes, then coasted slowly back to normal. It was my first real man-made climax! And, as if that weren't enough, Danny told me later he came just after I did. I could hardly wait to tell Anne. But I would have to wait, because, according to the sounds we heard coming from the other room, they were still fucking.
Danny and I sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, and smoked. A few drops of semen were still oozing out of his prick. I leaned over and picked them up with my tongue and swallowed them.
"I've always wanted to know what that stuff tasted like," I said as Danny smiled contentedly. "It's not bad."
"If you want, I'll let you suck me off in a little while and you can drink all my sperm," Danny offered graciously.
When it was evident that Anne and Al were finished, Danny and I joined them for a drink. The subject of conversation was cherry-busting. All of them wanted to know how I felt, now that I was no longer a virgin. I told them truthfully that if felt almost too good to talk about. So, I didn't talk very much. My mind was somewhere else. I was trying to figure out why my mother and her friends and, indeed, the older generation as a whole, could believe that sex was dirty. How could they actually believe that virginity was a state of purity! How could they live their lives without ever contending with the facts of life? How could any woman live a satisfying life while regarding a man's cock as some ugly growth between his legs, instead of the beautiful instrument of pleasure that it really is? As I sat there in the nude, Danny's semen oozing out of my cunt, I thought about what my mother would say if she knew I was a cocksucker. What would she do if she knew that only minutes before I had been bouncing around on the end of a ten-inch prick and loving every second of it, or that I had tasted semen? What would she do? What would she say? I knew the answers only too well. What I didn't know and still don't, was why she'd feel that way.
I didn't suck Danny again. My emotional state was perfect as it was. I had had just enough sex for the first attempt and I wanted only to enjoy the feeling of liberation that had set in almost immediately after my virginity was officially taken. I was no longer a virgin in any sense. I was no longer chaste. I was no longer decent, but I was happy! I think a few people, including my dear old mother, could take a lesson from that.
Thanking Danny and Al for their services, Anne and I left the apartment and walked toward her place. It was a nice night and it was still fairly early so we stopped at a cafe to have a lemonade. We talked mostly about what we wanted to do that summer. Anne liked the idea of going to a resort because, as she said, "There's a lot of meat floating around up there." I thought that if our parents would give us the money, we should go somewhere like California. We talked a bit about Danny and his ten-inch penis, but not much. He was already fading from our minds. I suppose, a few years ago, a girl would hang onto the boy who took her maidenhood for fear of not being able to get another, but the world we live in is different. Danny had merely done me a service. I was grateful to him, but that's as far as it went. His ten-inch cock had done its duty and now I was fast forgetting the man attached to it. He, I'm sure, was fast forgetting me.
In the coffee house, a rock group called The Short Hairs was playing music that commanded us to listen, so we gave up our conversation. When the group had finished their set, the lead guitarist stepped down from the podium and approached our table. He invited himself to sit down and, feeling somewhat like celebrities, we did not object. He said his name was Wilfred Wilfred, but later told us that was just his stage name. His real name was Bob Wilfred and his friends called him Shaggy for short and Shag for shorter still.
"Partly because I shag a different girl every night," he bragged. Shaggy informed us that he and his group would be playing for two weeks at this coffee house before they left for Vancouver. After Vancouver they would be going to either Montreal or New York. Both Anne and I were impressed with his casual attitude toward travel, sex and show business. We were intrigued with Shaggy Bob Wilfred Wilfred and his way of life and when he asked us if we would like to come with them to Vancouver, we almost shit. We told him we would have to think it over, but really we were so shocked we couldn't think at all.
"It's very simple," he explained. "You come on the trip with us and we get to ball you whenever we feel like it. There are girls who do it all the time. They're called groupies. Their whole object in life is to see how many groups they can ball. It's crazy, man. It's where it's at."
Neither Anne nor I wanted to let on that we were apprehensive about making the trip. We couldn't let on in front of Shaggy that we were afraid our parents wouldn't let us go. I mean, that would have seemed terribly old-fashioned to him. He was only twenty, but he'd been out on his own for over four years already. He was a man of the world-the new world. He was a real dropout and we couldn't admit to him that we still lived at home and had to worry about what our parents thought. By the time we left the coffee house, we had all but promised him that we would go with him to Vancouver, although neither of us believed we would.
All the way home Anne and I tried to build up each other's confidence by spouting cliches about sexual liberation, independence and the establishment. We didn't really know what we were talking about, but we could feel it somewhere in our young bodies, probably in the groin. We could feel the need to break away from our families and join the new world before it left us too far behind. It was a decision that would affect our whole lives and, surprisingly enough, I think we were somehow aware of that, even though we were just two teen-age thrill-seekers at the time. We wanted to go-badly! But we had no idea how to bring up the subject with our parents, or whether to bring it up at all.
I said good-night to Anne at her front door, promising to call her the next day to make further plans. Then I walked the rest of the way home, desperately trying to think of a way out of the predicament.
Anne and I talked all the next day and the day after that about how to get permission from our parents to go to Vancouver, but we achieved nothing. We were frustrated, confused and nervous, but worst of all, we had the frightening sense that we were going to miss out on life entirely. We were deathly afraid that we would have to grow up in the obsolete world of our parents, outdated before we even got started. That's the way things might have turned out if something hadn't happened at my place to change the whole situation.
When I returned home for supper after my second day of consultation with Anne, I was greeted at the door by my mother, who had honest-to-goodness murder in her eyes. She was holding a pair of my panties between her thumb and index finger as though they were covered with leprosy or something.
"What's the matter?" I asked, looking at her and then the panties, then back at her.
Without answering, she took a giant stride toward me and before I knew what was happening, she drew back her arm and smashed me across the face. My whole cheek and the left side of my lips went numb. I crouched in the corner behind the door.
"Whaa ..." I tried to speak, but she cut my words off in the throat by her slapping me in the face again, only this time with the panties.
In an effort to get away from her I fell on the floor. I was there crouching like a petrified dog in the corner with my mother standing over me beating at my head with that pair of panties and yelling words like slut and whore, when my father came in.
When he had pulled my mother off me, I ran upstairs to my room and locked the door. My face felt like it was on fire and when I looked at it in the mirror, I noticed little blood specks that the force of the blow had brought to the surface just under the skin. I was amazed that my mother had it in her to hit me that hard. Usually when she was angry with me she just went bawling to my father and got him to do all the dirty work. But this time she must have been really mad and it wasn't difficult to guess what it was she was mad about. She must have found semen in those panties, because they were the ones I was wearing the night I lost my virginity.
I was frightened and hurt by the attack my mother made on me, but I was also thankful. She didn't know it, but she had just lost her only daughter. She had made up my mind for me. I was going to Vancouver with Shaggy and his group for sure now and I didn't have to worry about how to break the news to Mom and Dad.
In five minutes, my father was up knocking on my door but I refused to let him in. He pleaded in a fatherly voice once or twice, but then he got mad. With one blow he broke the lock off the door and charged into my room.
"All right, Susan, you'd better confess the whole thing," he began in stern tones, completely unaware of my feelings. That's the trouble with parents. They don't give their children any credit for having brains or emotions. All they want to do is give orders and lectures. They think that's the proper way to bring up kids. I might still be getting along well with my parents if my father had come into my room that night with sympathy in his eyes instead of anger. But all he knew how to do was lecture. He didn't know how to ask, only how to tell. And it was because of this that I screamed at him.
"Go away, you old bastard. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you. I don't want to see either of you!" And I threw myself onto the bed face down and cried like a baby.
Again, no sympathy.
"It's too late to cry now. You should have thought of that before you made a pig of yourself. Who did you sleep with? I want to pay him a little visit. When I get through with him, he'll think twice about doing it again. Who is he? What's his name?"
When I heard my father talking like that, you can't imagine how glad I was to be getting out of that hole. It was like some stupid scene from a Jane Austin book or something. My father was completely unaware of how much the world had changed. I guess he seriously thought I would give him Danny's name and address. God, I still can't believe he could be that old-fashioned. But what really made me mad was the fact that my parents were never able to see things from my point of view and even if they could, they would never bother. As far as they were concerned, my feelings, my thoughts and my beliefs weren't worth a pinch of coon shit. They were the bosses in that house, and as long as I lived there I had to take whatever they dished out. Well, I made sure I would not be there long by answering my father in a way he never expected.
"Fuck you, that's who! You dizzy old bastard! Get out of my room."
I'll never forget the look on his face. Had he been hurt by my remark, I probably would have melted right there. But he wasn't. He was outraged, just like an officer would be outraged if a private refused to obey an order. That's all the relationship between myself and my father amounted to.
His face turned beet red. He came at me with his arms stretched out in front of him as though he were going to choke me. But instead, he grabbed my blouse and ripped it right off my body. I think he must have been insane at that moment, because he tore blindly at my clothes until they were nothing but a shredded heap on the floor and I was stark naked on the bed. He started to swat at me with his hands. Mostly, he hit me on the ass, but several times his hand went between my legs, which may have been accidental. I didn't appreciate it very much, all the same. He was trying to humiliate me, but it wasn't working. In fact, except for the considerable pain he was causing me, I found it all rather grotesquely funny. It was then that I dealt the death blow. I leaped off the bed and stood directly in front of him, not bothering to cover my nude body. My breasts bounced as I shouted.
"I don't know why you're trying to appear so pure, old boy," I spat, staring straight into his eyes. "I saw you fuck a woman from your office when I was just a little girl. You did it right in the same bed that you and Mother sleep in. What do you think about that? You're not in much of a position to criticize me now, are you?"
I'm sure now that he'd have killed me, had my mother not made her presence known at that precise moment, just as my father made a move toward me. His eyes were those of a wild man. His face had murder written all over it. But if my father's blood was boiling, my mother's was ice cold. She didn't say a word. She only glared at my father until, in a frenzy, he stormed from the room and thundered down the stairs. A look of pure, unadulterated hatred from my mother froze the air, but I refused to drop my eyes. I looked right back at her with an expression that was almost indifferent until she broke and retreated, slamming the door practically off its hinges. They may still be wondering how I could be so cruel, but if they are, it's because they themselves are self-centered and cruel people.
I have not seen my mother since that night. My father I've seen once but I'll come to that later. As soon as I heard my mother's angry footsteps on the stairs, I ran to my closet and pulled out my suitcase. I threw as many summer things into it as would fit, plus the most important thing I owned at the time, my package of birth control pills. Then, employing a trick everybody has seen at one time or another on TV and in the movies, I tied my sheets and blankets together and lowered the suitcase down to the ground. I pulled my bed over to the window and tied the free end of the sheet rope to it. In a matter of seconds, I was on the ground, suitcase in hand, sneaking under the windows and out to the street. As I walked away from the house I had lived in for seventeen years, I heard my parents' voices fading into the past. They were fighting about the woman from my father's office.
I had ten dollars on me and I used it to rent a small hotel room in a shady district of the city. I guess I could have stayed at Anne's place, but I didn't want to get her into trouble. But as I found out the next day when I called her, it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because my parents had phoned hers and told them everything. Naturally, Anne's mom and dad wanted to know whether she, too, had been experimenting with sex. Anne could have lied, of course, but she didn't. She told them the whole truth, not so much out of a sense of honesty as out of expediency. She recognized the situation, as I had done, as a good way to make the big break from her family. And, although her parents weren't nearly so hard on her as mine were on me, she left home that same day.
Together, we celebrated our freedom by going down to the coffee house where The Short Hairs were playing to make arrangements for our upcoming trip to the west coast of Canada. For the rest of that week and the whole of the next, we stayed with Shaggy and his friends. I got fucked seven times and each time I thought of my parents and enjoyed it all the more. I fucked with a vengeance and don't think the guys I fucked didn't appreciate it. In less than two weeks, I earned a whopping reputation that has followed, or rather preceded, me right up to the present.
Susie Fucker the boys called me and I enjoyed that just about as much as I enjoyed fucking them. Anne was no slouch either. She fucked just as many guys as I did and they had no complaints. Together we made quite a pair. We fancied ourselves the two nicest pieces of ass in the city and if we weren't the best, we were certainly the busiest.
Chapter Three
It was mid-July and beautiful weather when we took off in Shaggie's Mustang, a rented car and a rented U-Haul trailer. Anne and I were in Shaggie's car with Shaggy and the drummer, whose name was Stan Stettler. The other two members of the group took the rented car and the trailer. With them was a girl named Shanks. Nobody knew her real name. All we knew was that she was from Denver, Colorado, originally and she fucked like a mink. I discovered much later the reason for her popularity. She used to love to get banged by four guys at once. One up her cunt, one up her ass, one in her mouth and one in her hand.
"That," Shaggy once said to me, "is an economical groupy. She can take the whole band on between sets. She's four pieces of tail all wrapped up into one."
I don't know about the other carload, but in Shaggie's car, the four of us were drunk with the weather. It was the clearest day I remember. The sun shone brightly but it wasn't excruciatingly hot. In fact, it was an absolutely perfect day for driving. With the windows down and the wind spinning through the car, the four of us sang and laughed up to North Bay, then set out on the Trans Canada for the long trip to Vancouver. The steady vibrations of the car soon put Stan and me to sleep in the back seat. I didn't wake up until we reached Port Arthur and the thing that woke me up was a finger inching its way up the leg of my panties.
"Who's that knocking at my door?" I sang out in a sleepy voice.
"It's me, it's me, I'm home from the sea," returned Stan, giving me a sharp pain in the groin by pulling a pinch of cunt hair.
"Ouch, you mother fucker," I screeched and drove my fist at his balls. Stan jumped back, pulling up his knees with great reflex action, then shot out a right hand that seized hold of my left tit with a viselike grip.
"I have you in my ancient Chinese wrestling hold," said Stan, grinning and squeezing simultaneously, "the boobie strangle!" He began to twist slightly, but like a fool he let down his guard and in a flash I had a fleshy fistful of testicles. For a few moments, each of us dared the other to squeeze, but neither of us was that foolhardy. Realizing it was a draw, we converted our respective grips into fondles and massaged each other gently.
Stan came alive immediately. His prick began to swell under his pants until it threatened to burst through the material. I leaned over to give him access to the clasp on the back of my brassiere and, while in that position, took hold of the top of his zipper. As I eased it down, the riches of his manhood were revealed to me in all their splendor. First, the broad shaft of his cock presented itself like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. With a little help from me, the meaty head popped out of its hiding place and, with its new-found freedom, pushed upward toward Stan's navel. With my left hand, I undid the clasp on his pants. With my right, I pulled out the silky, wrinkled ball sac and spread it out before me. The testicles themselves were reacting to my touch by moving around of their own accord. I suppose they were trying to get into a fucking position, but I stopped them dead in their tracks by popping the right one into my mouth and sucking on it. Stan was in an obvious state of advanced stimulation. He had an erection the likes of which I had never seen on him before. It was as hard as steel and it bumped against my ear with every beat of his heart. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a small drop of semen appear at the end of that throbbing hard-on. It glistened reddish in the setting sun-a truly beautiful sight, but unfortunately I had no time to sit there and admire it. In his state, Stan could have ejaculated at any second. I deftly wriggled out of my panties and swung my leg over him. In a crouching position, I inserted his cock between the lips of my cunt and lowered myself down onto it. It went deep.
With my head buried in his neck, I began to life and lower my rear end in a deliberate rhythm. Stan cooperated by tilting his pelvis to get the maximum depth out of each thrust. As both of us were nearing climaxes, I felt the car come to a stop but I was too preoccupied with the sinewy cock that was snuggling up against the wall of my uterus to pay much attention. Our movements got more frantic and therefore less coordinated, causing Stan at one point to slip out of my slippery cunt and skid off at an angle, parallel to his stomach. I quickly lifted up my dress to help him get back on course and it was then that I noticed the busful of people gawking at us through the window. A city busful of people watching us fuck and grinning like a lot of nitwits, drooling like retards and giggling, flattening their noses against the windows of the bus and ogling Stan's slimy cock that was sticking into my cunt.
As I saw it, we had only two possible choices, to stop and look like a couple of fools until the light changed and we could pull away, or to go right on screwing.
"Is that right?" said Stan in a cocky voice when I told him about the busload of people who were watching us. "Well, let them have a good view." He lifted my dress up higher and pulled his prick out just a little so the citizens of Port Arthur would not have to use any imagination and then, with exaggerated movements, we fucked until the light turned green.
We were just pulling away from the bus when I felt Stan blow his load into my cunt and we both broke up with laughter. In the front seat, Anne was sucking Shaggy.
"Were you doing that while the bus was sitting there?"
Anne disengaged herself to answer my question. "Of course! We wouldn't let a few spectators ruin our fun." The thought of patrons of the Port Arthur Transit System enjoying not just one spicy show, but a double feature, caused more laughter. I was convinced this was the only real fun I'd ever had in my life. Although it seemed longer, it was only two weeks before that I had lost my virginity and now here I was fucking in front of a whole busful of people. How strange life is! How quickly human beings change! It makes me laugh when stupid people try to peg everybody they meet. They can't stand to know someone unless they can immediately put him or her into a specific category. A few months ago these people would have put me into the category of wholesome, religious girl. Yet here I was, fucking in front of at least twenty people. You see, you can't always put people into rigid categories because they will always prove you wrong. People change too fast to be labeled. That's part of what the youth revolution is all about, I think. Kids today know how silly it is to put name tags on people as though they were some kind of merchandise. The human being is the only animal that makes up his own nature as he goes along and people like my parents would do well to remember that. Fucking and sucking are part of human nature simply because humans do it, and ignoring it as my parents do is not going to make it go away.
So, anyway, to get back to the story, there was Stan slouched in the seat with his head against the back and his prick still dribbling gunk. Men's pricks are funny, you know. They go at each fuck as though it's to be their last. They are as hard as bone and as proud as lions when they start, then they fuck themselves into limp, sickly flesh. They don't save anything for later. Maybe there's a lesson in that, maybe we should live each day as though there won't be any more to follow.
"Your underpants are going to be a mess when you put your cock away," I said.
"I'm not putting him away, at least not just yet!"
"No?"
"No. You're going to clean him off before I do. That's one of your duties."
I didn't kick. "I'm doing this for my poor old mother. She doesn't have a sex organ you know," I said, adjusting my position to get my tongue on Stan's prick. "No, all she's got is a third armpit between her legs. She shaves the hair and puts deodorant on it. She has to piss through her asshole, poor broad, and she can't even get fucked in the fanny because her shithole is a one-way valve. So the only sex she gets is from her girdle which she subconsciously buys a size too small so that it will masturbate her while she walks."
"No wonder she was pissed off when she found sperm in your panties!" said Stan, lazily rolling his testicles between my fingers so I could get to them.
"Pissed off!" said I. "She damn near burst a gut. I don't know how the hell she knew it was sperm. I'm sure she's never seen any before. It must have been a lucky guess."
"I bet she hasn't washed them yet," Stan suggested. "She probably sneaks off into a dark corner every night and sniffs them deliriously."
"Maybe she rubs them under her arms or up her ass," Anne added.
"Maybe she puts them under her pillow at night and hopes the good fairy will come and fuck her in her sleep when her resistance is low," Shaggy kept the ball rolling.
"Maybe she ate them," I concluded.
When Stan's prick was clean it was stuffed unceremoniously back whence it came and we pulled over at a restaurant for something to eat.
The dinner time went without incident so I won't bother writing about it, but we hadn't been on the road again but an hour when something interesting happened, something I consider worth telling.
We were whizzing along at about seventy-five miles per hour. Stan was driving and I was sitting beside him in the front seat. We passed an old hitchhiker and I shouted to Stan to give him a lift. Stan slammed on the brakes and backed up to let him in. He was an Indian, dressed virtually in rags and reeking of fish. He thanked us for picking him up, but he appeared to be more than a little apprehensive about riding with four teen-agers.
After the pleasantries had been performed, there was total silence in the car for several miles until Anne took it upon herself to say what all of us had been wanting to say since the old beggar had dropped himself into the back seat.
"You stink of fish," she observed adroitly, but seeing him cringe in embarrassment she took pity. "Don't get upset. It's the truth but I'm not knocking you. I must smell of something, too, don't I? Well?"
The old Indian mumbled something deliberately unintelligible. He looked out the window to avoid our eyes.
"Well, come on, speak up. I want to know what I stink of!" Anne coaxed.
"Perfume," the old Indian slurred shooting frightened glances at Anne and me.
"Of course," bellowed Anne, "Indians don't use perfume, do they? Therefore, it must stink to you. So go ahead and say it. Say, 'You stink of perfume.' Say it!"
"You stink of perfume," the old Indian managed to get out.
"Right, and you stink of fish."
"And you stink of perfume."
"You stink of fish and I stink of perfume. There, you see," smiled Anne, "now we have an understanding and that's the basis of human communication. Understanding, right?"
"Right," said the old Indian. "You stink of perfume and I stink of fish. Understand?"
"Understand . . . ing!"
"Understand . . . ing!"
"Right!" There was a brief silence during which Shaggy farted. Then Anne addressed the old Indian again. "What do you do for a living?"
"You stink ..."
"No, I want to know how you make your living. How do you make money?" "I fish." "You fish."
"You perfume." And the old Indian laughed until tears rolled down his sagging cheeks.
"Hey, you're all right. What's your name?" asked Anne, rather intrigued as we all were with our wrinkled passenger.
"Charlie," replied Charlie. He was loosening up now and beaming a broad smile to each of us around the car. When no one was speaking, he giggled to fill in the gaps.
Anne, who hadn't slept since we left, excused herself from any further conversation and slipped off her shoes. When she lay back against Shaggy, she found that the shorts she was wearing were too tight around the waist so she unfastened the button and slid the zipper down halfway. I guess it was this that gave her the idea. Looking over at Charlie, she caught him giving her long, young legs the eye.
"Do you like my legs?" she inquired, with a coquettish grin. She ran her fingers lightly up and down her thighs, waiting for the old Indian to answer. He didn't. "Would you like to see more of them? Right up to here?" She slipped the palm of her hand over her crotch. Charlie's wise old eyes bounded round in their sockets nervously. He didn't know whether to shit or wind his watch, as the saying goes.
Lifting one side of her rump, then the other, Anne worked her shorts and underpants out from under her, then pushed them to the floor of the car. Lifting her right leg and straightening it out in front of Charlie, she coaxed him to examine it.
"You can even touch it if you like. Do you want to touch it?"
Shaggy and Stan and I encouraged him and finally he extended his hard, cracked hand and wrapped it gently around Anne's slim ankle. His mouth was frozen in a grin and his teeth were clenched together. A giggle gurgled in his throat. He was reluctant to give in to his instincts and I think he was worried that we might be setting a trap for him.
"Bring your hand further up to my knee," Anne directed. A handful of calluses scraped along her smooth, soft limb to the knee. There is nothing so tender as an oaf at a time like this. Charlie handled Anne as if she were a potato chip. Only when Anne gave him the go-ahead with her eyes did he allow his ancient hand to pursue its course along the shank to the furry V, the pleasure pit, the forest of love, or as he himself so aptly put it, the cunt.
"You let old Charlie fuck you?" "If he wants to."
Old Charlie undid his belt, his buttons, his fly, wiggled his fishy frame out of his baggy trousers and sported an erection far more youthful than himself. It was as straight as an arrow and as hard as a hatchet.
"Redskin fuck palefaced cunt. Make palefaced cunt red," Charlie grunted waving his Indian prick in the air.
"Paleface cunt fuck redskin cock, bring paleface gunk out of hole," said Anne, sliding into position atop the panting anachronism.
"Paleface fuck ..." His words collapsed into a heavy sigh. Anne had sucked up his prick into her hot, tight cunt and he was speechless.
"Tuck it in, Anne baby," chimed Stan trying to get a peek in the rear-view mirror.
"Fuck 'im, fuck 'im, fuck 'im, fuck 'im," said Shaggy from his ringside seat beside the fornicating couple. Stan and I joined in and it became a chant.
"Fuck 'im, fuck 'im, fuck 'im, fuck 'im, fuck 'im, fuck 'im." It was a monotonous beat like that of Indian war drums. Stan and I joined in and it became a chant. Stan thumped his hand on the steering wheel while Shaggy and I stamped the floor in rhythm. Charlie slipped it in and out, in and out, in and out. Anne bounced up and down, up and down, up and down.
We took our cues from old Charlie. As his climax approached, his breathing became shallow and rapid like the thrusts of his stiff cock.
Anne wagged her tail back and forth, around and around, exposing every crack and crevice of her cunt to Charlie's thrashing phallus. Her vaginal walls hugged the bloated head of it and sucked at the arched shaft, cajoling the semen to gush forth. It did. And her cunt drank from the old fountain.
We let the old Indian out the next morning in Kenora, where we stopped for breakfast. He only said good-bye, but there was a twinkle in his eye which had not been there when we picked him up. I think Anne was proud of herself for having given him a piece of tail and quite frankly, I don't blame her. It was a nice gesture! He was evidently older than my parents, but at the same time he was younger. Maybe that had something to do with his Indian philosophy. I suspect it did.
After breakfast, we drove for what seemed to be a very short time before crossing over into the province of Manitoba. There was a special kind of tickle in my stomach at the thought of leaving Ontario. I hoped right then I would never see it again except in passing through. As it happened, I got my wish. All I have seen of Ontario since then has been from a car or train window.
"Roll up the windows for a second," said Stan, who was in the back seat again beside me. Shaggy and Anne complied without question but I, who was getting considerable enjoyment from the breeze, wanted to know why.
"Don't ask any questions," ordered Stan breaking open one of his filter cigarettes and shaking the tobacco into the palm of his hand. I rolled up my window.
"What are you doing?" I asked, watching Stan fiddle with cigarette papers, tobacco and a little package of what looked like dirt.
"I'm rolling a joint, my dear."
"A joint?"
"A joint."
"You mean marijuana?"
"I don't mean milkweed!" he shot back.
When the crude-looking cigarette was finished, Stan lit it up and passed it around to the rest of us. He went to great length to instruct Anne and me how to smoke it for the maximum effect. When the first drag of hot smoke hit my lungs, I had to fight down a cough. Stan had told us that once you start coughing with this stuff, you can't stop. He said that if you could get past the first few drags without choking, you'd be all right.
Following Stan's instructions to a tee, Anne and I inhaled our fair share and when the joint was finally all smoked out, we lay back just as Stan told us to do. Immediately I felt my cheeks flushing. My body tickled all over and my head seemed a bit tight. I was assailed by a strange sense of humor. Everything I looked at, everything that was said and everything I thought about was funny. The four of us giggled. We laughed and giggled until I thought I would rupture my stomach. And you know I cannot remember one single thing that we laughed about. I'm sure nothing we said or did was that funny. It was just that the whole world was a big, stupid joke, an absurdity. We laughed until I felt faint, and all merely for the sake of laughter. Since then I have come to the conclusion that in this cruel world, only saints, fools and heads can laugh for the sake of laughing. Head, of course, is the slang term for someone who smokes grass. So, there we were, breezing along the highway, four insignificant people in a fleeting moment of time, enjoying life as we had never enjoyed it before, laughing because we were unable to talk and unable to talk because we were laughing. We were only a couple of miles east of a small Manitoba town, Portage la Prairie.
"Let's give the citizens of Portage la Prairie three full moons," Stan roared above the hysterical giggling in the car.
"What's a full moon?" Anne and I asked almost simultaneously.
Pulling his shirt up and his pants down, Stan turned himself around and flattened his bare ass against the window of the car.
"That's a full moon," he explained. Anne and I practically threw up with laughter.
The town was in sight. We prepared ourselves and waited, our guts knotted with excitement. Up ahead there were several people on both sides waiting to cross the road. Shaggy slowed down to give them a good view and when he gave us the signal, three heads disappeared and three white asses popped up to smile through the glass at the unsuspecting bystanders.
"Perfect!" shouted Shaggy, braking and pulling into a drive-in restaurant. "Let's go back and take another run at it."
By the time we got back to the same spot in the highway, there was only one middle-aged woman standing on Stan's side and nobody on ours. Stan lifted himself and thrust his pelvis up to the window, then with the old broad looking right at him, he wagged his cock through the glass at her asking her if she wanted to suck it. The old woman threw her hands in the air and shrieked as though she'd seen a monster. She ran around in small circles looking for someone to tell. That's typical of stupid old bitches like that. They pretend to be disgusted, but can't wait to tell everybody what it is they're disgusted with. That's the way they get their kicks, I guess, but if you ask me it's a lot sicker than the way I get mine.
Shaggy turned the car around at a gas station and we drove back down the highway. The old bitch was still there. She had managed to snare some poor bastard in a business suit and was dragging him over to the side of the road.
"Here they come again. Here they come again!" we could hear her shouting as we approached slowly. When we were right beside her and the unfortunate businessman she had apprehended, Stan sprang from nowhere and presented his genitalia once again for her inspection. This time I grabbed it and wagged it at her.
"There, you see. You see!" she was shouting at the man beside her. "You see what I told you. Those filthy little beasts!" As we pulled away at a snail's pace, she ran alongside the car, shaking her finger and bellowing at us.
"You'll go to hell-the lot of you!" she warned as I opened my mouth and pushed Stan's prick inside. I sucked on it deliciously. She was looking straight at my mouth as she jogged along the side of the road, screaming, crying and waving her hands in the air like a religious maniac, and licking her lips. Yes, she was licking her lips like a hungry dog in front of a raw steak. What a hypocritical old swine!
I spat out Stan's cock and rolled down the window. "You cuntless sow. You're just dying to suck a cock, aren't you?" I blasted as Shaggy stepped down heavily on the accelerator and we sped off, leaving her to lecture the wind. She had condemned us to hell, to misery after death. But it was evident even to her I suspect, that she had condemned herself to misery on earth and that is far worse. Envy-that was her real hang-up. She couldn't stand to see people doing what she had never had the guts to do. That's the way it is with all moralists. They hate the thought that they may be leading a meaningless life for nothing. They want other people to suffer with them, figuring that if they can get enough people to do it, it must be right. Poor idiots! At that time I hated them but now I only pity them. Their entire lives are passive and reactionary-a waste of time!
Most of the rest of the trip was uneventful. Shaggy asked us not to fuck any more in the car because he didn't want to get semen all over the seats. There were shot spots already on the carpets, probably from the old Indian, and they are very difficult to get out. So we confined our activities to playing silly games and sleeping until we arrived in Calgary. Then we did make up for it!
Stan bought a bottle of vodka and we all sat in the car and drank. When the bottle was half-gone and we were all feeling its effects, Stan and I decided to go to a show. Shaggy wasn't interested so he and Anne went off to try to get into some bars to continue their drinking. Stan and I took the remaining half-bottle of vodka, or wodka, as we called it, and went to a show. The movie we decided to see was called Becket and it starred Peter O'Toole and Richard Burton, two of my favorite actors. Actually the film was made, I think, a couple of years earlier, but neither Stan nor I had seen it. What I saw of it was good, but we had to leave rather hastily about halfway through. This is how it happened.
Even before we got to the show we were feeling no pain. After all, we had had our fair share of the booze and we were not great drinkers. So, anyway, when we went into the theater we bought two large soft drinks and Stan stole a couple of extra paper cups. We took seats in the back row and settled in to enjoy the movie and the drinking. While watching the movie, I kept my left hand in Stan's lap where no one could see it and played absent-mindedly with his cock and balls. It was just as Thomas Becket was being made Archbishop of Canterbury that Stan leaned over and whispered in my ear.
"Suck me off, Susan," he slurred into my ear. He was quite drunk by this time.
"Don't be an idiot," I whispered back.
"Susan, suck me off!" he insisted, his whisper getting a bit louder.
"Stan, that's ridiculous. I can't suck you off here. Even if I could, I wouldn't. I'm trying to watch the movie."
"Susan, suck me off!"
"Shut up, for Chrissake!"
"If you don't suck me off, I'll masturbate."
"If you do, I'll pretend I don't even know you."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him undo his fly and fish around drunkenly for his penis. Sure enough, he brought it out. "Stan," I whispered rather loudly, "don't be an idiot. Put it away."
"Suck it!" He was getting insistent. I began to realize that maybe he was a hell of a lot drunker than I had suspected. He might just be serious. I leaned over to him and enunciated precisely into his ear.
"Stan, if you put him away until the movie's over, I promise I'll give you a suck you'll never forget. I'll suck your cock and your balls too, okay?"
"Suck me now or I'll masturbate," he muttered dropping his chin to his chest and slipping the foreskin back and forth along his erection. It was then that I made the mistake of thinking he was just showing off. I decided to ignore him, hoping he would fall asleep so I could enjoy the movie. But he didn't fall asleep. Instead, he took his hard prick between his thumb and forefinger and stretched the foreskin along the length of it. He was really whacking, right there in the goddamn show, beside me. I tried to stop him without attracting the attention of the people around us, but he was determined to carry out his threat. His hand was moving a mile a minute, up and down along the reddening shaft of his hard-on. His whole body was flexed and he was holding his breath. When I attempted to cover his prick with my hand, he bumped me away violently. By now several people had caught on to what he was doing and were ignoring the screen entirely to stare with delight at the masturbating fool beside me. I tried to reason with him.
"Stan, think of all the good juice you're wasting. Shouldn't you save that for me?" But he was deaf to my plea. He brought his knees up against the seat in front of him to get a better whacking position. Whenever I got too close, he beat me with his whacking hand without even breaking the rhythm of his strokes. I knew that if he were allowed to continue for only a few more seconds, we'd really be in trouble. There'd be jism all over the place, mostly on me, I figured, and I didn't want that! I took one last dive at his groin hoping to be able to arrest his activity and calm him down, but unfortunately I was too slow. A great blob of semen shot past my face, over the shoulder of the woman in front of me and SPLAT, dead in her lap. Two more quick ones followed, one slapping her in the ear and the other hitting the brim of her hat and dripping down onto her shoulder. She obviously didn't know what it was until she turned around and saw Stan's big prick staring her in the face. It was losing power by that time, shooting smaller drops of semen against the back of her seat. The woman was mortified. At first she just gawked with her mouth open. Even in the middle of all that, I couldn't help thinking how funny it would have been if Stan had been able to blast a nice gob into her gaping mouth. But then she collected herself and screamed her bloody head off, smashing at Stan's organ with her purse. Of course by this time I had torn my humble self from the seat and was in the aisle sprinting for the door. Once outside, I hid in a doorway and waited for Stan. He made it. I was there only seconds when Stan barged through the door like a bronco coming out of the chute. In the process he knocked the manager and the doorman off their respective feet. His wang was still hanging out and slapping against his pant leg, dribbling sperm droppings onto his trousers and shoes.
He tucked himself away on the run and together we must have set some kind of Olympic record. We didn't stop until we got to the car. In the back seat we collapsed in a fit of laughter.
We were asleep when Shaggy and Anne returned. We told them about our escapade and they told us about theirs, which was exciting but not nearly so beautifully absurd as ours. They apparently wound up in a bar that had a live band. With quite a few drinks under his belt, Shag got up and seized an electric guitar from one of the musicians. Before the guy could get it back, Shaggy was playing a tune that everybody in the place dug. When the owner saw how much his customers liked Shaggy's music, he told the band to let him play for a while. Then Anne got up on the stage and started to do some very suggestive dancing. She had never taken dancing lessons or anything like that, but Anne really knew how to be sexy, you know what I mean? She really knew how to make men squirm without ever putting her hands on them. Anyway, Anne was doing this dance and Shaggy was pounding out this fantastic beat on the guitar, then Anne started to take off her clothes. She got right down to her bra and panties before the owner stopped her. It sounded like a lot of fun. Then apparently the owner offered the two of them a permanent job at the bar. Naturally they refused. All in all, it was a night to remember for all of us.
We didn't spend the night in Calgary. As soon as we had finished telling our stories, we got back out on the Trans Canada and headed west. Stan drove and I sat in the front with him. Shaggy and Anne slept until the sun came up. All night Stan complained of the dry sperm in his pants and how it itched. He repeated over and over that it was his own fault and that was about the extent of our conversation.
When the sun came up we were well into the foothills of the Rockies. The feeling of being surrounded on all sides by these utterly unbelievable mountains was enough to take my breath away. I mean that literally. On more than one occasion I found myself puffing for air. That's how overawed I was by the Rockies.
When Shaggy and Anne woke up they took over for Stan and me. I spent the next hour just gazing out the window at the mountain peaks. I had a strange desire to fuck on top of the highest mountain snow-the idea was fascinating. When I told Stan, he made a joke about it, of course. He said, "The way I felt last night, I would have been more than satisfied to fuck the mountain."
I didn't laugh very much, nor did I talk. I was in a dreamy mood. The mountains had done something strange to me. Somehow they seemed to be calling me. I don't know how to explain what I felt, but it was as if the mountains represented my freedom. Even though we had been traveling for some time, I felt that I hadn't really been free from the bond of my parents, society, in fact the whole of my past, until now! That is, until I met the Rockies.
A feeling that I had not had since I was a little child, a feeling that I used to get when I knew I was going to a fair or when I knew I was going downtown to buy new clothes or a doll, a light, tickling sensation came to me that day in the car. It settled in my abdomen. It was a feeling of anticipation, of true happiness. Reluctantly, I gave in to the weight on my eyelids and slowly subsided into a wonderful sleep and dreamt of greatness, because I felt great.
When I woke up, we were just outside Vancouver. Anne and I were just about pissing our pants with excitement. We couldn't get over the fact that we were actually going to live here for a few weeks, our parents over three thousand miles away. The boys were excited too, but not like us. They'd been to Vancouver before, several times, and knew their way around. Anyway, they wouldn't have let on even if they were as excited as we were. Boys are like that for some reason.
When we arrived in Vancouver, we went straight to the hotel. The rooms were booked in advance and to my surprise there were no questions asked about whether or not we were married or how old we were or anything like that. We were given the key to Room 301 and went straight up. Room 302 was booked for the rest of the group, but they hadn't arrived yet. Shaggy told me that all the groups and their groupies stayed at this particular hotel because the management made it a policy not to interfere with the activities of the people staying there.
So everything was perfect. We'd be in Vancouver for about two weeks and then, who knows where we'd be going. This was the life, full of fun, fuck and frolic and no responsibilities but to yourself. That's the way it should be.
Anne and I were so excited we didn't know where to start, but Stan did. He dragged us off to the bathroom, where we fucked in the shower. Believe it or not, it was the first time I had ever fucked standing up and I must say, it was one of the best I've ever had. With the hard spray of the shower splashing down from the top and Stan's thick prick driving up from the underneath, a very powerful sensation grew in me until I exploded in the most violent climax I've ever had. It was lovely. Stan pulled his prick out just before his orgasm for some reason, then shot the sperm all over my stomach and into my navel. We played with it quietly for a few minutes before I washed it down the drain. Even that was enjoyable in some strange way. It really is fun to fuck in the shower. If you haven't tried it you should.
Chapter Four
The first few days of our stay in Vancouver were used up just looking in shop windows and buying whatever we could afford, which wasn't very much. But after The Short Hairs opened in a coffee house called The Little Wren, things started to pop as far as we were concerned. And I mean pop!
The night of the opening, a big party was thrown for the boys in the group. Naturally, as their official pieces of tail, Anne, Shanks and I were in attendance. The party was held in an old house which was occupied by a hippy and his woman. The house was due to be appropriated by the city within a couple of months, so there was no sweat about getting stoned and causing damage.
At first there was nothing different about the party. Except for the loud music, it was much like the parties my parents used to throw. There were people standing around in all the rooms drinking and yelling to each other over the sounds coming from the stereo. There were tall slim girls, standing in models' poses, twisting their bodies so that their tiny breasts would protrude through their flowered pantsuits. And there were shorter, more buxom girls in low-necked dresses who even at that early hour had deep red ridges across their breasts from their bras, which they bought a size too small so that they would hang out. And there were ugly girls who continually argued political subjects so that they would appear intelligent and the boys they were talking to would not get a chance to take a good look at them and see just how ugly they were. And then there were the men. The men with long hair down to their shoulders, who wore rimless glasses and tilted their heads to one side when they talked and said ridiculous things like, "Oh, mannnn, what groovy ear lobes you have." They think you're really intelligent or sensitive or something like that if you make a fuss over little things and ignore the big things. Then there were the men who had shorter hair and bigger bodies, who seemed as though they had an erection all the time. When they were talking to you, they looked as though they could see a cunt in your face. Then there were the you-can-have-me-if-you-like kind who just walked from one girl to another, talking with each one just long enough to see if she were interested. If she weren't they moved on to the next one.
But the one I remember the most was a stumpy little character named Joe. I never did get to know his last name, not that I wanted to. Joe had curly hair which he obviously set himself every month or so. He wore glasses and had a mustache that hung down like a Mexican's. He was a bit tubby and inferior-looking. The main reason I remember him was because he was the first person I fucked that night, or rather the first one I tried to fuck. Poor little Joe didn't have much going for him when it came to laying a girl. But I should go back and tell you the whole story, otherwise you're not likely to appreciate it.
I ran into Joe about an hour after I arrived at the party. He was standing at the bookcase in the broken-down living room. I overheard him telling someone about all the books he had written. He was saying that he had written three books on the subject of epistemology. I later looked that word up and found out what it meant, but at the time I didn't have a clue what it was all about. All I knew was that it sounded very impressive and here I was standing beside a man who had written not one but three books on the subject. I listened attentively. Someone standing nearby claimed that he had studied philosophy at the university and had never heard of Joe's books. Little Joe was almost too quick to point out that he had written them all under false names. That topic of conversation was soon dropped, but only minutes later I again overheard Joe talking, this time to a different set of people. He was informing them of his not-inglorious career as a painter, but when a sincere young girl asked him if he would do a quick sketch of her in the nude, he made excuses and walked away.
Well, to make a long story short, during the next three hours, as I followed this fellow around, I learned that he had been a writer of philosophy, novels, plays, an artist, a sailor, the pilot of a private plane, a musician of some recognition, a cowboy and an actor, not to mention the holder of an M.A. from the University of Southern California. I did not think it rash of me to conclude that since he was only 22 years old, little Joseph had to be the most proficient shooter of bullshit I have ever met. But even though he was a pain to listen to, the party wouldn't have been half as much fun without him. This is what happened.
Several of us were sitting in the corner listening to Joe brag about what a great lover he was. He could get any girl, any girl in the world, into bed with him within one week, he claimed. Apparently this was because, in addition to all the other things, he was an expert on female psychology.
"A rapist can get any girl he wants, given the right set of circumstances," I suggested. But it didn't phase Joe. He claimed he could do it without force. In fact, he said that in a week any girl would beg him to take her to bed.
It was then that I issued the challenge. "Let's go upstairs and I'll be the judge of fucking abilities."
Right away he got scared, probably because I had so brazenly used the word fucking. But he had committed himself in front of too many people to back down. I got up and headed for the stairs. He would have followed me, so he said, except that he had not come to the party to have sexual intercourse. He had come to "partake of some intellectual conversation."
"Okay," said I, "I will discuss Shakespeare with you while you put the blocks to me."
Again he made excuses. "I don't do it on command. I do it when I feel like it."
I didn't have to answer that one. Practically everybody in the room was listening in on our little cat and mouse game by now and they all laughed in his face. He was trapped and he knew it. He had a choice between making a fool of himself in front of me upstairs, or in front of all the people at the party downstairs. Wisely, he chose to follow me up to the bedroom.
Once inside the room, I continued to goad him. While I talked, I stripped, leaving him fully dressed standing against the wall like a prisoner hoping for a chance to escape.
"I've found that people who brag a lot have inferiority complexes, but I'm sure you're an exception to the rule," I sneered, slipping my stockings off over my feet. "I mean, if you're not really a great lover you never would have said so in front of all those people, would you?" My skirt was off and my blouse was on the way.
"Maybe I don't like you well enough to screw you. Maybe I don't find you attractive at all. Have you ever thought about that?" he spouted, faking confidence.
"That's possible," I said, undoing the clasp on my brassiere and letting my boobs swing forward. "That happened to me once before, back in Toronto. Only once, mind you, but it happened, with a boy named Clarence. He didn't like me at all-not at all." I had my thumbs in my panties and was slipping them down. "But he liked my brother. He fucked him twice in the ass." Of course it was a lie, but it worked perfectly. I giggled viciously as Joe's face went scarlet.
I was standing in front of him, winding my pinkie through my pubic hair. "Well, Joe, aren't you going to undress? Don't you usually undress before you fuck?" I could see that he was getting angry, but I pressed on all the same. I was going to show him what I thought of bullshitters. I reached for his belt buckle.
"Look, bitch, lay off," he spat at me, spinning away and backing halfway across the room. "Leave me alone or I'll smash you."
"Is that part of your technique, lover boy? Do you beat girls unconscious before you fuck them?" He backed up to the wall again as I closed in on him. When I was right up to him, I leaned my cunt into him and lifted my breasts. "I hate to say this, friend, but if you don't find this appealing there's something wrong with you." I had a sarcastic grin on my face.
In a jerky, effeminate movement, he lifted his hand and smacked me across the face. I was livid, but before I could move a muscle, the door of the bedroom swung open and three of the guys barged in. They were followed by about ten people who crowded into the room and lined up against the opposite wall.
Shaggy, who was one of the first into the room, took Joe by the scruff of the neck and lifted him to his toes.
"Little man, you should hit girls only if you intend to hit their boy friends as well. Understand? Now you're going to put your money where your balls are, fellow, and we're going to see what kind of a lover you really are."
Shaggy threw him on the bed and, with the help of another boy, undressed him. When they were down to his underwear, they paused for a dramatic effect. "The moment of truth has arrived," Shaggy bellowed in his best baritone. And he yanked the undies down in one motion. There, under an impenetrable cloud of uproarious laughter, in the center of the room, in the center of the bed, in the center of his groin, poking its pink head out through the bushy pubic undergrowth was Mister Bullshit's wrinkled and pathetic one-inch penis. "It's a worm!" "It's a grub!" "It's a joke!" I forgot the numbness in my cheek. Vengeance is sweet. "With that you would fuck me? It would strangle in my cunt hair!" I picked up the weak excuse for a reproductive organ between my thumb and forefinger and stretched it until it was the width of a pencil. His balls, what there were of them, were tucked up almost inside his body as though hoping I would not notice them. What cowardly little testicles they were, perfectly willing to let pencil prick take all the punishment! They wrinkled and shivered in fear, peeking out from the wilting foliage of pubic hair to see if the coast were clear. Those balls, it was safe to say, had never known a gentle bump against a wet, gaping cunt. That prick had never seen the inside of a woman's genital tract and even if it had, the cunt in question would never know about it.
Unknown to the rest of us, Stan had slipped out of the room, slipped to the kitchen downstairs and slipped back up with a plastic bucket of honey in his right hand and a shaker of salt in his left. We coated the little prick, the cowardly balls and the sparse pubic garden with a liberal serving of honey, then ground in the whole shaker of salt. We watched as he inched into his undies, then into his pants. As he winced out the front door of the house in the dark street, we advised him to brag less and to think twice about hitting girls.
Within twenty minutes I was back upstairs on the torture bed receiving a different kind of torture-the sweet kind. That is to say, I was being fucked hard by Sunny Joe Brockford, a big Negro with a rod that rivaled Danny Bloomfield's for the honored title of biggest cock in the life and loves of Susan Biltmore. Sunny was the leader of a soul group called The Midnites. We'd been downstairs still laughing about Little Joe the braggart when Sunny quite unabashedly walked up to me and asked me if I wanted to ball. Well, the only reason I attended the party was to get screwed by some interesting people and, besides that, I had heard a lot about blacks and how they have such massive machinery, so I was quick to answer yes.
Once in the bedroom, he wasted no time. He had his clothes off before I did and stood in front of me, playing with himself while I stripped. He was probably about six and a half feet tall and well-proportioned. His skin was very black. I must say he was handsome enough, but there was something in his attitude I didn't like. I sensed it right at the beginning. Even though he asked me to ball, he gave me the impression as he stood there waiting for me to strip that he was doing me a favor. He seemed impatient, waiting for me to strip as though he was a busy man and couldn't waste time on any one girl since he had so many to satisfy. I was wondering as I climbed on the bed if maybe he had heard the same rumors I had about the size of black cocks and about how good Negroes were in bed and was a bit big-headed about it. He lay down beside me on the bed and held up his limp prick. It squirmed in his fingers.
"You gotta make it hard or it won't go in, baby," he said with a humorless grin on his face.
"I know, I've been fucked before," I said, taking the beautiful brown organ between my pink lips. I sucked on the head and rubbed the shaft with my hand, but it was several minutes before it responded. For an abnormally long time it remained jellylike in my hands, wrinkling and disappearing into itself as I shoved down on it, snapping back when I released it, stretching when I pulled on it. But when it finally started to stiffen up, it was a wonder to look at. It grew lengthwise first to about nine inches, then it started to thicken. The shaft was first, then the head which blossomed out into a powerful bulb with a ridge around it that must have been a quarter of an inch high. I had to tug quite strenuously to make the foreskin reach the ridge, the cock had grown so much. The shaft was like an iron bar. The ridge on the underneath side, the seminal duct I think it's called, was the size of my biggest finger.
"I think you can get it in now," I said lying back on the pillow.
Without saying a word, he lifted his huge frame and dropped it on top of me. He was about to push himself in when I asked, "Don't you think I should have some lubrication." I was hinting that he should stimulate me as I had stimulated him, but he seemed to have other things in mind.
"Don't worry, I'll get in."
And indeed he did. With his hand, he parted the lips of my cunt and worked the head of his cock inside, then he held my hips down hard and jabbed his way in a little at a time. He practically ripped me apart until my cunt lubricated in self-defense. I cursed him under my breath, but said nothing out loud. To tell you the truth, I was a bit afraid of him. I decided to lay there in silence until he had vented his lust but, in spite of myself, I found that the continual thrusting of his prick was getting to me. My body began to get warm and seemed to squirm of its own accord. Each jab of his impressive cock filled my cunt to capacity. Each time it slid along my slippery canal it bumped its blunt head against the door of my uterus. Twisted and hard as bullets, my nipples begged for attention, but he refused them that privilege. Instead, he concentrated on that gun between his legs and the holster between mine. His movements were unrelenting and monotonous. Back and forth, in and out, dipping his hard organ into the swelling hollow of my cunt. His hands were still on my hips, his body was arched and a look of determination consumed his face. I was getting considerable enjoyment from his manly organ, but it was incidental as far as he was concerned. His thoughts were glued on that impending moment when oceans of sperm would explode down the shaft of his prick and flood my cunt. His thoughts were only on that moment. If I was going to achieve a climax, I would have to help myself along and I would have to beat him to it, because I knew that once he had come he would roll off me and march to the bathroom to wash as though he had just had a bowel movement or something. Almost frantically I began to play with my breasts. I cupped them in my hands and massaged them passionately. I tweaked their nipples and rubbed them across my palms. In effect, it was mostly masturbation, but it worked. Only seconds before he came, I achieved a climax that bent my body with a shock of electricity. I flopped my head to one side and bit into the pillow while the painful pleasure cracked my entire system. Twice more after my climax, his iron prick sunk itself into the soft flesh between my legs, and then he too was in ecstasy. His body wriggled like a snake as the semen came down in a torrent. His cock pulsed inside me, squeezing out the last remains and then he collapsed on top of me.
For a few seconds, I forgot the animosity I held towards him and I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. It was a normal, post-orgasmic mood, a tender mood that you know won't last, but one that you cherish while it exists. But this one was nipped in the bud. Sunny tore himself away from me, taking his cock with him. As I had anticipated, he marched to the sink in the washroom as though he had just had a shit.
I had been fucked and fucked well. But it was a fuck I wanted to forget. However, as you can see, I haven't managed to yet!
Such a beautiful prick going to waste, I thought as I dressed slowly. Sunny was still in the bathroom. I guess he was making sure he got rid of all traces of my cunt. I couldn't understand how a man could enjoy screwing a woman as if she were nothing but a machine, something to put his prick into like a bowl of warm water. If that's all he wants, he might just as well do it himself into the toilet.
"Thanks," he growled as he entered the room again and charged over to pick up his pants.
"Thanks for what, the use of my cunt?" I said without bothering to look at him. He pretended to be perplexed.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, I feel more like a toilet bowl than a woman!"
"Well, baby, maybe you is a toilet bowl!" He stormed out of the room without putting on his shirt or his shoes. He carried them in his hands. Like the little fool that I was, I began sobbing right there. I was still whimpering when Anne came up twenty minutes later.
After giving her all the silly details, the two of us sat on the bed and cursed men, Negroes, singers, just about everything we could think to curse. As I recall it, it was a pretty ridiculous session, but then that's what girl friends are for. We still idolized sex. We didn't understand how it could be made to look ugly, or how it could be used as a tool for prejudice or revenge. Sexual intercourse to us was the most beautiful thing in the world and so when it went wrong, as it had just done with Sunny, it left a bitter taste in our mouths.
We vowed we would never speak to another male Negro as long as we lived. Naturally, it wasn't long before the vow was broken. As a matter of fact, only a few days later we saw Sunny himself, but I'll tell you about that later on.
So Anne and I sat and swore for a half-hour or so, then we dried up the tears and went downstairs, determined to be as tough as Sunny.
"I'd like to set his cock and balls in cement," I said quite seriously as we descended the stairs.
We rejoined the rest for a couple of hours before going back to the hotel room and turning in. Shaggy and the other Short Hairs didn't get in until much later. When they did they were all too drunk to ball so Anne and I were allowed a reasonably good night's sleep.
The next morning, I had pretty well recovered from Sunny's insult. Anne and I were in the hotel cafeteria having a breakfast when she reminded me of my statement about casting his genitals in cement.
"I think it's a fantastic idea," she said in a whisper. There was considerable excitement in her voice.
"But, Anne, I was only saying that because I was angry. I couldn't really do that to any man, no matter how badly he treated me."
Anne crouched over the table and conspiratorially explained what was on her mind.
"You see, I don't really mean that I like the idea of casting a man's fucking equipment in cement, but it was from that that I got this idea. Listen! Why don't we cast men's genitals in plaster of Paris, then make little statuettes from the mold? I mean, they'd make good conversation pieces and we might even be able to sell some of them."
On first thought, the idea was brilliant; on second thought it was even better. We wasted no time getting the necessary materials, which included vaseline, plaster of Paris, and plastic that could be melted down and hardened over and over again.
That night after Shaggy and the group had finished playing, we presented the idea to them. They were almost as enthusiastic as we were. Shaggy had his pants down before we had finished explaining the project.
"Cast away," he said holding his prick in his hand and we started our first statuette. Anne mixed the plaster while I sucked Shaggy. Naturally, he wanted to be as big as possible. After all, this might be his only form of posterity and he didn't want to be short-changed. He didn't want later generations to have the wrong impression of his manhood. And so I sucked him thoroughly and for some time. When Anne had finished preparing the plaster, I spread the vaseline all over Shaggie's cock and balls, making sure that his erection lost none of its magnificent swell. We were ready to cast. Anne packed the plaster into every crack and crevice, being careful to get the true shape, the true size and the true inclination of Shaggie's marvelous specimen, while I held my hand under the cast-covered cock to support the weight.
"I suppose this is what you'd have to go through if you broke your prick," said Shaggy, grinning broadly and looking for all the world like a little boy doing something he shouldn't.
Some people will think that casting a boy's hard-on is immoral, but really, what's so bad about it? For years actors and actresses have been putting their footprints in cement outside that famous theatre in Hollywood and what we were doing was not much different from that. The only thing is, we were getting closer to the real point of life. I mean, a man's cock is more valuable to him and the women who know him than his foot is. And besides, you can always see an actor's foot, but you can't, unfortunately, always see his cock and balls. What better form can posterity take than that of the reproductive organ? Just think of how exciting it would be to be able to show a great, great, great grandson all the pricks down through the ages that were responsible for his being here on earth? To me, there is nothing more symbolic of life than the male sex organ. One can learn a lot from a healthy cock. It can be soft and flexible or, when there's a job to be done, it can be hard and stubborn. It responds immediately to other human beings and communicates clearly and to the point. It does not discriminate against women because of the color of their skin. In fact, the list of good qualities of the phallus is endless, so why shouldn't it be cast in plaster and preserved in plastic for all the world to appreciate? It makes more sense to me than a cement footprint.
When the plaster mold had hardened, Anne slipped it off and examined it. It appeared to be perfect. Then, while she melted down the plastic in a homemade contraption she had rigged up, I finished off the suck I had started before the plaster casting. I washed the vaseline off Shaggie's cock and balls with a warm washcloth, then told him to lie down on the bed.
This sequence of events eventually became a patented routine. First, I would suck the subject to the longest, thickest and hardest erection possible, then we would cast the plaster. Then, when Anne completed the statuette by pouring in the molten plastic, I would clean up the subject and suck him off so that he didn't go away with lover's nuts or anything like that. I guess I've sucked a couple of hundred cocks since we started Plaster Casting Inc.
When Shaggy had taken up his position on the bed, I nosed my way up between his legs and took his testicles in my hand. They rolled over my fingers like Captain Queeg's marbles. They rippled the diaphanous skin of the ball bag. They jingled at the ends of their cords. Holding the balls in my right hand, I picked up the still slack prick with the thumb and index finger of my left. It was about an inch thick and rubbery. It wriggled between my fingers. As I pulled the foreskin toward me, the soft meaty head tucked itself away like a turtle. I pinched the foreskin down over the blunt end and pushed the penis in toward Shaggie's pelvic bone. Miraculously, what had been three inches of male organ now became less than an inch. I don't know where it all went, I guess up inside the body, but when I released the grip of my thumb and finger, it all sprang out in my face. It regained its three inches and then some. The head began to swell and the shaft expanded. One and a half inches thick, four inches long, one and three-quarters inches thick, five inches long. The head pulled away from the foreskin, revealing a hard ridge that was full of minute glands. They were dark red in color and highly sensitive to touch. I stuck my tongue out and ran the tip of it around the ridge, feeling a torrent of blood gush to the prick as I did so. Two inches thick, six inches long. The normally soft, pliable head was now hard and stretched to its maximum size. The shaft, which had a slight bend upward, was as rigid as rock. It throbbed against the palm of my hand. I lifted the organ and left a moist trail with my tongue along the seminal duct that bulged out on the underside. The wet, shiny trail started at the base of the head and traveled in a straight line down the penis to the base of the trunk, where the flaccid ball bag joined with the body. I buried my face in the forest of pubic hair and with my lips nibbled playfully at the thin skin of the sac. Inside it, Shaggie's balls were rising and falling with an unsteady rhythm. His erect penis bumped against my ear. Two inches thick, seven inches long.
I gripped the pulsing organ at its root and pointed it straight in the air, then, with a slow, suspenseful movement, I opened my mouth wide and directed it down over the head and along the shaft until I felt the smooth blunt end bump at the back of my throat. I closed my mouth on it and sucked hard. Keeping the suction constant, I drew my taut lips up along the shaft, being careful all the time not to let my teeth touch the sensitive organ. The foreskin rolled between my lips, the cock bobbed and throbbed against the roof of my mouth, the ball bag in my right hand contracted, lifting the testicles to a safe elevation at the base of the cock. I sucked and sucked. Shaggy moved his hips, driving his cock once or twice partway down my throat. His hands clutched my head pushing it down and lifting it up. The climax was on its way, the tickling sensation must have started in his cock and the semen must have been on its way, because Shaggy was holding his breath, flexing every muscle in his body and driving his prick into my mouth at a frenzied speed. I felt the twitch, that last twitch before the explosion. The hard muscle jerked once, twice, three times. Shaggy lifted his hips and held them in the air. A gutty groan rumbled in his throat and then the first shot of white stuff splashed against my soft palate and slithered down my throat.
When Shaggy was sated, he bounced from the bed and trotted off to the bathroom. Anne was finished with the statuette. The plastic had pretty well hardened and she had just been waiting for us to complete our activity before revealing the creation. She waited until Shaggy had returned from the toilet and dressed, then with all the aplomb of a Picasso unveiling, she disengaged the mold from the plastic and proudly held the masterpiece high in the air for inspection. It was perfect-accurate in every detail and quite as impressive as the original.
"Reproductive organ reproduced before your very eyes!" she exclaimed joyously. "My greatest creation!"
The three of us indulged in the magnificence of the statuette. Shaggy was fascinated to look at his pride and joy from different angles. His eyes danced along its smooth, sweeping lines; along the shaft which had just the right tilt and the right thickness; along the seminal duct on the underside which protruded exactly as the real one had only moments before; around the perfectly shaped head which sat like a thick cap on the end of his prick; in and around the ball bag which displayed the same hard follicle bumps and flat curly hairs as the real thing.
Indeed, our model of Shaggy's fucking equipment was pure art and it was only the beginning of an exciting and lucrative career for Anne and me. The Plaster Casters we would call ourselves, and we would cast every cock we could get our hands on.
That night both Anne and I slept with Shaggy, but no sex was involved. It had only been a little while since I had sucked him off and he was not very interested in fucking. As far as Anne and I were concerned, we were too busy thinking about dipping cocks in plaster to think about dipping them into our cunts. Finally, we talked ourselves to sleep while our first creation watched over us.
In the next three days we managed to cast the rest of The Short Hairs plus Shaggy once again. The reason we did Shaggy twice was because the boys were so engrossed with the statuettes of their own pricks that they wanted to keep them. We had done four and still had nothing to show for it. So we kept the second one of Shaggy, telling him that we would use it to masturbate with whenever we were separated from the boys. The truth of the matter was that we intended to use it as a sample to advertise our little business. In other words we wanted to expand; not that we didn't like the boys in The Short Hairs, or anything like that, but we had big plans for our little enterprise and to fulfill them, we would have to be free agents, unattached to any particular group. We were looking for new horizons, for new cocks to fuck, suck and cast.
We started with The Midnites. Anne went to the club where they were playing with the model statuette in her purse. Meanwhile, I studied the newspapers to find more music groups that would be hip enough to go for the plaster casting idea. I came up with only two. Midway through the evening, Anne returned to the hotel room with good news. The members of Sunny's group were unanimously in favor of casting their pricks for posterity. Anne and I were to go with our equipment to their hotel that night after they had finished playing. That would be about one-thirty, an hour and a half earlier than The Short Hairs usually finished. This meant that for the first time since we arrived in Vancouver, Anne and I would not be there to greet them when they got back to the hotel. We feared there might be some trouble, but we really could not pass up the opportunity The Midnites had presented. Leaving a short note explaining only that we would be back, we packed up our materials and headed across town to the four cocks and eight balls that would be preserved for all time in plastic.
The first to be done, of course, was Sunny. He seemed to relish the fact that it was I who did the sucking. He stood with his legs open, his hands on his hips and his head tilted to one side. There was a cocky grin on his face which bugged me. But, much as I disliked him then and still do, I must say he had one hell of a prick! And as I sucked on it and watched it grow majestically, I forgot my hostility. As Anne remarked some time later, I'm a sucker for a well-built prick. It's true. I may hate a man, but love his penis. Such was the case with Sunny. He would have been an unbeatable lover had he known how to use the equipment he was blessed with.
So, anyway, I sucked on Sunny until his cock was its full size, then helped Anne apply the plaster. When the cast was removed I sucked him off. I did the same with the other three members of the group, all of whom had rather small organs, thus smashing the myth that Negroes have larger pricks than whites. When our evening's work was completed, we had four lovely molds from which to produce four even lovelier model cocks. All of The Midnites asked to have statuettes of their organs and we agreed, but only on condition that they pay us two dollars apiece for them. We then set out for home to face the music which, as we had anticipated, was not at all pleasant to the ear.
When we reached the hotel, Anne took all the casts with her and I bravely tiptoed into the room that Stan and I shared with Shanks and Ray Gaits, the organist. The first thing I saw as I crept through the door was a white ass bobbing up and down on the bed. There appeared to be two pairs of arms and the same number of legs and from that it was not difficult to determine the activity I was witnessing. The only question was, who was engaged in the activity?
We were not shy about these things, so neither they nor I was embarrassed by my walking in. I simply entered and walked silently across the room to the armchair in the corner. There I waited patiently for them to climax. I was delighted that both of them managed to do so and when they did, I turned on the light.
"Well, was it a good one?" I smiled, glancing down at Stan's gunky prick. I did not recognize the girl he had been screwing.
"Yep, she's a nice piece of tail. You know the rules, Susan. You weren't here when I got home and I felt like a fuck, so I called Carole."
Seizing the opportunity, I sat right down with Stan and within an hour, we had come to an agreement-I was leaving in the morning. In the discussion, he used lofty expressions like sexual freedom, existential rights and several more that I can't recall. But I'm sure the real reason he agreed so readily to let me go was that he liked the way this Carole broad put out. I was happy to be free, but I must admit that I was a little jealous at the thought that he might like her cunt more than mine. But, anyway, I had accomplished what I wanted and with much less effort and pain than I had expected, so I was feeling very good when I climbed into bed with Stan and his new piece of ass. I only hoped that Anne had been as lucky as I.
She hadn't! The next morning Stan, Carole and I were awakened with a jolt as Shaggy came crashing through the door. He was incensed and started pulling me around the room threatening to ram a guitar up my rectum. Luckily for me, Stan stepped in to prevent any damage being done to me or the guitar. While the two men were arguing, I took advantage of the situation to get dressed. I was just thinking of making a break down the hall to Anne's room when she appeared at the door. The whole left side of her face was as red as blood and her eye was beginning to turn purple. She had a suitcase in her hand.
"Come on, Susan, we're leaving," she said with almost no emotion in her voice. I threw all my possessions into my suitcase and made a move for the door. Shaggy shot his arm out across my bosom.
"You're not going anywhere, either of you. Not until we say so!"
Anne stepped into the room and stood directly in front of Shaggy. Her eyes were like ice. "You dare touch her or me again and I will call the cops."
It took a while, but the threat sank in and he dropped his arm. Together Anne and I walked from the hotel into the early morning sun and that's the last time we ever saw any of The Short Hairs, the boys who were really responsible for our emancipation. I wish it could have ended in a more civilized manner but then, that's life.
On the street Anne told me what had happened between her and Shaggy. When she got home he was asleep, but he woke up the minute she touched the bed. He demanded to know where she had been and what she had been doing and told her he'd beat the truth out of her if he had to. So, Anne told him precisely what had transpired that evening and he flew into a rage. Had she told him she'd been out getting gang-banged, he probably would not have minded nearly so much, but casting other men's cocks was an outrage to him. Don't ask me why. It doesn't make much sense, but I guess it was some kind of insult. It's also possible that he figured this meant we were getting independent and from things he had said and done before, we knew that thought would not be a pleasant one to him. He loved girls who were free, but free to serve only him. So, anyway, when Anne told him what she had been doing and when it was apparent to him that she was not going to repent, he started shoving her around. He found the casts and smashed them all on the floor, then slapped Anne several times across the face. He even punched her once and that's what gave her the black eye. Only when he had taken most of his anger out on her did he flop on the bed and fall asleep. Anne slept sitting in the chair.
In the morning it started all over again and he slapped her again. It was then that he stormed into our room to inform Stan of our goings-on.
So, there we were, walking around Stanley Park in the warm forenoon with the freedom to go where we wished, but with nowhere to go to. We had some money, so we started by going to a store and buying more plaster and more plastic. Then we went to the hotel where The Midnites were staying and waited until a respectable hour before calling on them to explain the situation. They were understanding and agreed to stand for us again that night after their show. It was obvious that they were as interested in the plastic replicas of their genitalia as we were. That's the way most men are-proud as punch of their manly organs. But I don't blame them. As I have said before, the cock is a wonderful instrument and if a man isn't proud of it, he is only partly a man. If he doesn't like to hold it in his hand and study it from time to time, he is sexless. Any man who ignores his cock is ignoring life. And there's no reason on earth why a girl shouldn't feel the same way about her pussy. The pussy in its way is just as magnificent as the cock. It's just that for centuries women have been told that their cunts are ugly and dirty things that they should be ashamed of, especially when they're being used for the purpose of sex. Women have always tried to act as though they didn't have cunts and any woman who didn't act that way was automatically labeled a slut. But that's what emancipation is all about, not whether or not you can vote, but whether or not you love your cunt as much as you love men's cocks and whether or not you are able to use both for as much pleasure as you can possibly get out of them. That's what cocks and cunts are for and long may they rule the world!
The Midnites had a rehearsal that afternoon so Anne and I decided we'd just wander around the city and enjoy the gorgeous weather. Before we set out, Sunny stopped us at the door of his hotel room.
"You might as well come to the club tonight and watch the show. Don't worry about getting in, I'll look after that. Then after the show we'll come back here and you can do your plaster casting. And then, if you're good girls, you can sleep with us tonight, but only on one condition."
Simultaneously, Anne and I asked what that condition might be. When Sunny told us, we looked at each other, raised our eyebrows and giggled inhibitedly, then agreed, perhaps too hastily, to the condition.
Chapter Five
Having been thrown out of house and home by The Short Hairs and then finding, within a matter of hours, another place to stay, gave Anne and me the probably erroneous belief that a girl could get anything she wanted in this world merely by twitching her hot little butt in the direction of some horny man. It does hold true, but only in certain circumstances. The butt must be pretty, the man hungry.
Anyway, this time we'd been lucky. We were not worried about the next time. Throughout the day we dreamed about what we might do if we had money, which wasn't such a wild dream because we were very serious about selling the statuettes and expected to make a bundle from them.
At eight o'clock, we went to the coffee house where The Midnites were playing and somehow managed to sit through their three sets without getting bored. When they had finished for the night, we all went to a bar for a couple of drinks, then piled into a cab and went back to their hotel for the night. Anne and I were thinking more about getting the plaster casts made than we were about the condition that Sunny had placed on our staying there. Actually, I was more excited than scared by the whole thing.
The casting went well. Each of the four molds was perfect and my part was a lot easier than usual, since none of the guys wanted me to suck him off. All I had to do was get them erect for the casting. This speeded up the entire operation. We were finished in a couple of hours and even as the molds were drying on the table in the corner, Sunny asked the two of us to strip and lie down on the floor facing each other about three feet apart.
It was time to meet the condition.
Sunny and the rest of the group stripped off their clothes and arranged themselves around us. Sunny flopped to the floor behind me, nudging my rectum with his prick. The bass player, Pete, took up a position in front of me while the other two assumed similar positions with Anne.
Well, that's it. You can guess the condition. Fucked up the ass and cunt at the same time. Both of us! Neither Anne nor I had ever got it up the ass before. It was going to be a tight squeeze. The okay was given by Sunny and we began by wrapping our hands around the two pricks that were begging entrance. I would rather have had Pete in the rear and Sunny in the front, but that was Sunny's idea of fun. He would revel in whatever pain he could cause me.
Pete didn't take long to prepare. His medium-sized cock was straight as a pin in no time at all, but Sunny insisted he wait. The great organ in the rear had to be as hard as a rock in order to get up that tight canal. We were still preparing when I heard moans coming from Anne. Apparently, she had been invaded already and her partners were going to town, as they say.
But my agony was soon to start. Sunny lifted my right leg, then spread the cheeks of my ass until they stretched at the seams. I felt the head of his prick touch the tight anal sphincter. It bumped and my ass flexed automatically.
"Relax," ordered Sunny.
I relaxed. It bumped again. Again I flexed. Again Sunny ordered me to relax, this time digging his thumbs deeper in the crack to the very perimeter of the hole. He pushed.
"Aaaaaggghhh . . . shit!" I bellowed. This was it. His prick had stuck there. He was in. And how! I dared not move. But now, from the other angle, in came Pete. One easy jab and his slender, almost pointed prick slid into position inside my cunt. I had them both, and now the rocking and thrusting would begin.
Pete began immediately slopping in and out, sometimes missing altogether and skidding across my abdomen leaving a glistening snail's trail behind him. But Sunny had more of a sense of the dramatic. He flexed and wiggled only the head against the rigid wall of my rectum. He withdrew about a quarter of an inch, then reinserted himself. It felt like a massive wooden shit that couldn't make up its mind whether or not to take the dive into the toilet bowl. It hurt like fucking hell! But this was only the beginning. Sunny was only tantalizing. He had a lot more to come and had I known what was in his twisted mind, I would have high-tailed it out of there and found another place to sleep.
I felt Sunny's strong hand grip my hips. I knew something was coming, but no sooner had the thought occurred than it struck. All of it! Twenty feet of bone hard cock, two tons of Negro vengeance, three hundred years of abuse, anger and frustration. A thick black sword right up my ass.
The scream that exploded from my lips reverberated off the walls and rattled the eardrums of the others in the room. Anne cried out in sympathy and I could see her contorting her neck to make eye contact with me. Pete's puny, harmless organ froze and wilted on the spot. His eyes opened wide with concern. Sunny was heartless. He withdrew his cock and hammered it in again and again. I was splitting in the ass. It seemed as if my crack had opened halfway up my back. I was sure I would fall apart in two halves, but he still fucked on. That thick prick probed my bowels, drilled, screwed and bum-fucked me until the pain was so great I started to enjoy it. It was like one of those unbelievable toothaches that saps you of all your energy and leaves you floating in a sea of pleasure-pain. I was nearing that state, when, without warning, Sunny withdrew his rod and lifted himself to his knees. I turned to see what he was doing and suddenly his cock yawned and spat all over my face and upper body.
It was over. I had made it. I had a place to stay the night. I was sore. I was bleeding ever so slightly from the ass, but I had managed to get two or three seconds of enjoyment out of it near the end.
Anne and I went to the bathroom and rubbed our rears for several minutes before going to bed. I slept like a log!
As it turned out, we stayed with The Midnites for a week, during which time I was buggered four times, Anne twice. I was getting worried about it because of what Anne had told me once about what happens to homosexuals when they banged in the ass too often. Their assholes virtually fall apart and they can't hold their shit. But, fortunately, my asshole muscles still worked by the time we left and took a bedsitting room of our own.
The room was not exactly what we had been accustomed to. In fact, it wasn't much bigger than the bathroom in my parents' home in Toronto and it had only one bed, a small table and a hard wooden chair in the line of furniture. But it was about all we could afford on the money we had made so far by selling the plastic pricks. And anyway, it was great fun for a while.
We had to share the bathroom with six other people from four other rooms on our floor and it was situated right beside our room. Someone who had lived in our room before us had thoughtfully drilled a hole through the wall into the bathroom. One of our favorite pastimes was peeping through to watch the different assortment of roomers taking baths and going to the toilet. On our floor were a middle-aged couple, a young couple, an alcoholic and a young female student and each of them had some peculiar habit that he or she performed in the bathroom.
The middle-aged married man used to come in to the bathroom every Tuesday night with a mucky erection. He would wash it off carefully in the sink, sometimes taking as long as ten minutes to do it, then he would whack off into the palm of his left hand. With cold water and soap, he would wash the semen down the drain and then walk around the bathroom waiting for his old prick to go limp. When it did, he would piss, wash his hands once again and tiptoe down the hall to his room. Seconds later his middle-aged and slightly plump wife would tiptoe into the bathroom to begin her ritual. First she squatted on the toilet without touching the seat-I guess she'd heard stories about catching VD from community toilets-then she would insert the nozzle of a douche into her withering cunt and clean herself out. With a washcloth, she would wash her thighs, her saggy tits and her face. Then she would slump down the hall to her snoring husband. This happened every Tuesday without fail!
The favorite pastime of the young couple was communal showering. Twice a week at least, they would go through their unchanging ritual. She would enter the bathroom first, he would follow immediately and lock the door. They would remove each other's clothing one piece at a time. First, she would take off his shirt, then he would reciprocate by removing her blouse or sweater. His pants were next, followed by her skirt or slacks, her bra, his undies, her panties. Then, for a couple of minutes, they rubbed their hands over each other's bodies, in and out of the cracks, the balls, the tits, clit and prick. She would start the taps going and fiddle with them while he fiddled his prick up and down the cleavage of her round, tight little bum.
Of the two, she was by far the most attractive. Her extremely long, well-tapered legs met at the top in a high, firm rump. In the front she had just a hint of a pot belly which men find irresistible. About six inches below her perfectly formed navel, a liberal smattering of bushy hair began and extended down and around the precise slit of her cunt. Perhaps her most esthetic attribute was her breasts, which were small but magnificently shaped. So firm were they that they barely jiggled at all when she walked. Their brown nipples pointed to the ceiling and when she came out of the shower, they stood out hard and puckered so that even Anne and I felt a desire to suck them. Her angelic face was framed seductively by her Greek style hairdo which stood out from her head in large, unending curls. Her hair was blonde and appeared to be natural, and with her wide, innocent brown eyes, it made a rare and stunning combination. Her lips were a cocksucker's delight!
He, on the other hand, was less than plain-looking. In fact, he looked rather stunned-the kind of man I least like to fuck. Apart from his hollow, hairless chest, puny arms and legs and ratty hair, he had a weak, diminutive cock that hung with a violent twist to the left. I would guess that it hung at an angle of about forty degrees from the perpendicular. It was uncircumcised and almost black in color and when flaccid, looked more like a macerated cigar than a sexual organ.
When the water temperature was deemed suitable, they would climb behind the shower curtain and scrub each other up and down. They were only barely visible through the curtain, but from what we could see, they spent a disproportionate amount of time soaping and rinsing each other's sexual areas. First he did her, then she did him, then he did her again, then she did him again and so on until we used to wonder how they had any tissue at all in those areas.
When they finished showering, they would step out onto the towels they had carefully laid out in advance beside the tub and then the fun began. Their whole air in having sexual intercourse seemed to be to see how many different ways they could do it. I'm telling you, I learned a lot of positions from them that I had never even thought of before-positions that ordinary people could not possibly do. You see, she was double-jointed.
If I had to pick out one position that they used more than all the rest, it would be the one where she stood with her legs straight and her head down between her ankles. When he came up behind her, cock first, she would reach through and grab his ankles, then in one motion they would fall backward so that he was on the bottom. She, of course, was on the top, but with her head and her feet down at his feet. I don't know whether I've described it well enough, but it was one hell of a sight to see. His cock was inside her, that's for sure, but where it went, I don't know. I guess her cunt was double-jointed too. They would stay that way, making jerky movements and twisting this way and that until he finally came.
Another of their favorite tricks was to perform sixty-nine standing up. She would be hanging upside down with her thighs wrapped around his head. He would eat her out in this cramped position, while down below she would suck him off. When they had both come, they would straighten up and exchange long, succulent kisses, spitting the semen back and forth between their mouths. Of all the people I've seen fucking, they had to be the craziest.
But the funniest by far was the old drunk who lived in the room next to ours. His sex life consisted of only one thing-masturbation. Every night, without fail, he would stumble into the bathroom, stoned out of his mind, not even bothering to lock the door on most occasions, and point himself in the direction of the toilet bowl. When he managed to drag his soggy body that far, he would take another five minutes or so to get his fly undone and then beat his tired meat for a half-hour before the gunk came out. When he couldn't manage to drag himself that far, he would do it in the middle of the floor.
His method of masturbating was a riot. He was of the full-hand whacker school. He would grab hold of his cock as though it were an axe handle and start in beating the shit out of it even though it was still limp. This would cause him to slip off constantly and, when he did, his whacking hand would shoot off on a reckless tangent, cracking into the wall ahead of him or into the toilet tank. When this happened, profanities would roll out of his mouth like marbles. He would seize his abused organ with even more determination and smash away at it until his hand would slip off again and again collide with the wall. This went on for some time, until his cock decided to respond.
As middle-aged, drunken cocks go, it wasn't a bad-looking tool. But I felt sorry for it having to put up with this unending abuse. It seemed to ejaculate only in self-defense-to get the old derelict off its back. It certainly could not have enjoyed these nightly sessions, as indeed, I am sure the old man himself did not get much real pleasure out of them. When the gunk finally came, he didn't even seem to know it. He just kept bashing away at his semi-hard erection, spraying the white stuff all over the toilet and the floor.
When it was over for another day, he would waddle off to his room to drink the night away. Often he didn't bother to put his mucky prick away, but just let it dangle down the hall ahead of him. He never washed it off, so I can imagine what his underwear smelled like.
But, of the lot of them, the one that made me sick to my stomach was the young student. She-was a holy terror to look at with her pimples, her tiny parted teeth and her stringy hair, not to mention her boobs, which were all but non-existent and that repulsive box between her legs, which she kept tightly closed at all times. She was indeed a poor excuse for a female, as Anne used to say every time we watched her through the peephole. Not even to herself would she admit that she was female, would she allow even herself to gaze upon that grotesque patch of stinkweed and crab grass that grew wild at the base of her abdomen. She kept her thighs pinched closed at all times, except when she spread them just enough to allow the flow of urine. And even then she must have felt like a slut, because she kept her hand in her lap, palm up, while squatting on the toilet. She wouldn't even touch herself down there when she took a bath. Instead, she would sit in the tub for hours hoping to soak the scum away.
Only a blind man would offer up his cock to this monstrosity and even that was unlikely, for blind men have a keen sense of touch and she was untouchable. It was pretty obvious that a hymen still festered in that hole of hers and it would probably stay there for the rest of her miserable years on earth. The only sex she'd ever know was a slight whiff of scattered semen left behind by the old drunk.
So obnoxious to the eye was this creature that, in the end, both Anne and I stopped peeping on her.
So that was the crowd we lived with. Not the kind one would like to spend the rest of one's life with, but amusing for a short period of time.
We stayed there for a month or so, during which time our plastic prick sales went up tremendously. We were making about two hundred dollars a week at seven dollars a statue. People were buying them as book ends, masturbators, ornaments and conversation pieces. What had started out to be a wild kick was turning into a lucrative and very enjoyable enterprise.
As far as our love lives were concerned, well, don't ask me how, but I had struck up a rather deep relationship with Sunny during that month. We were going more or less steady, although I know that he was getting balled on the side quite often. I went out with him every weekend and sometimes during the week. Anne was still freelancing, as we used to call it. She was only getting cock once a week, but it was varied and she liked that more than a steady diet of the same meat day after day. By this time, we were casting four groups regularly which amounted to eighteen different models. We sold them with the man's name and the name of his group attached to each one. From those eighteen guys, Anne could pick and choose from week to week which one she wanted to fuck. Apart from that, she was getting it from strangers as well, so she wasn't doing too badly in the sex department.
Like I said, I was going pretty steadily with Sunny and in a period of three months I only got fucked by one other person-an American draft dodger. But I won't even tell you about that. It was too dull to warrant the ink.
What I will tell you about, though, is how Sunny and I finally broke up. It wasn't your average lovers' quarrel, that's for sure! In fact, it is indirectly responsible for this book, although you won't understand why until the end. This is what happened.
Over the weeks that I had been going with Sunny, I had gotten to know him quite well. He was an egotist who carried a grudge ten miles long and as thick as his skull. I would have to admit that I was intrigued by his tough, who-gives-a-fuck attitude. He hated almost everybody. As a matter of fact, I cannot remember him ever really liking anybody. Even the boys in his band enjoyed little more than an occasional cold smile from him. But they, like me, were fascinated by him. I guess it was just a case of wanting to be on his side.
Anyway, on several occasions, I saw bursts of anger from Sunny that really scared the shit out of me. And I don't mean just a bit of swearing and foot stomping. One night at the club where they were playing, he picked some guy up by the ear and snapped his eardrum. For some strange reason, the man never contacted the police.
Another time, when he got mad at me, he broke a bottle of beer and threatened to jam it up my cunt. Luckily for me, he had the presence of mind to realize he wouldn't have much to fuck if he did.
And all the time he used to talk about slitting women's cunts open like Jack the Ripper used to do, shoving hot pokers up their assholes, cutting off their nipples and drinking the blood, which he said would squirt out in fountains. Honestly, sometimes he made me shiver with horror, but for some reason I stuck with him. Not only that, he even got me started thinking about gruesome things like biting off men's pricks and eating their balls, putting broomsticks up their holes and all kinds of things like that. But I guess I've always had a bit of that buried in me somewhere. Remember? I told you that I've always wanted to cut open a man's bag and see what color his testicles are. It took Sunny to bring all of that to the surface.
One night we were walking around some deserted back streets after Sunny was finished playing for the night. I don't remember why we were doing that, but it was probably one of Sunny's weird ideas. He was forever making me do things that scared the piss out of me. But, come to think of it, that night there was something different about him, something stranger than usual. Maybe he planned it all.
We came to a narrow, pitch black alley and Sunny stopped me.
"Listen! There's someone in that alley."
I wasn't terribly interested, to tell you the truth. I was fucking petrified and I wanted to get the hell out of there. But just then a drunk emerged from the darkness. In his stupor, he bumped right into Sunny.
"Hey, man, you watch where you're goin', see?" Sunny pushed him hard and he tumbled backwards onto the sidewalk. Too drunk to know better, the little creep, who couldn't have been more than five-feet four-inches tall, tried to spit at Sunny, who loomed over him like a grizzly bear.
"Wah . . . washit, you big fuckin' nigger bastard!" he tried to say.
Sunny didn't say a word. He lumbered over to the drunk and picked him up with one hand. "I'm goin' to show you what nigger bastards do to boozed up whities." He threw the drunk back into the alley where it was dark and I could just make out his hand as it disappeared into his pocket. I knew what was coming and I tried to stop him, but he threw me off like a piece of paper. By placing his size twelve shoes on the guy's throat, he held him down as he ripped his pants down. What followed I could not believe! I was literally speechless for several minutes before finally fainting right there on the street.
The last thing I remember seeing was the blade of Sunny's switchblade as it sliced cleanly through the drunk's fleshy cock. Blood gushed out of a hole a quarter of an inch in diameter. The drunk passed out immediately and I followed in a few seconds.
When I came to, Sunny and I were in the back seat of a cab. Neither of us said a word until we entered the elevator at his hotel.
"If you say a word about this to anyone-even Anne-I will make you wish you hadn't. I will cut off your titties and shove them up your cunt. You understand that?"
I only nodded and whimpered, "Yes!" I was too scared to say any more. Sunny made me stay there for the night, but he allowed me to call Anne and tell her I wasn't coming home.
All night I lay beside this maniac without closing my eyes or relaxing one bit. He indicated to me that he would like a screw but I was not able. I wasn't able to do anything but worry. Images kept flashing through my mind-images of that severed penis, that fountain of blood, the end of the penis that came off in Sunny's hand, which he threw on the pavement and crushed.
The next morning, about seven o'clock, I requested permission to go home. After promising three more times not to tell anybody, not even Anne, permission was granted. But I didn't go straight home. No, some weird, magnetic force dragged me to the place where the crime had been committed. Much as I tried to talk myself out of it, I just had to see if the old drunk was still there; if his penis was still squashed on the pavement where Sunny had mashed it with his foot. I just had to see!
I took a taxi most of the way, then got out and walked. I would walk past the alley and take a few quick glances out of the corner of my eye, that's all. Whether the old drunk was still there or not, I would just keep moving. I didn't want anybody to see me looking suspicious. I walked down the street with my head up, trying to appear as though I had somewhere definite to go. The alley was just up ahead. The closer I got, the harder and faster my heart beat under my breast. Adrenalin charged through my body in currents and I could hear my own pulse.
Still trying to appear nonchalant, I stepped briskly up to the alley and shot a glance out of the corner of my eye. What would I find?
Nothing! The old drunk was not there. Perhaps he had been rescued and taken to the hospital. Perhaps right now he was sitting up cheerfully having breakfast in a clean white hospital bed. The only sign of Sunny's temper tantrum was a large pool of blood, but even that was not clearly visible because of the way the light was spilling into the alley. The blood was mostly in shadow. But wait!
In the second or two that it took me to pass the alley, I noticed that the blood was not just in a pool at this end of the alley. It had formed a trail that led deeper into the alleyway. I turned around and came back to the alley. Making out that I had dropped something, I bent over and pretended to search the sidewalk. I looked back up the half-lit alley and there, twenty-five feet back, slumped against the wall, was the old drunk. A single shaft of light crossed his face, the rest of his body was dimly visible. But that single shaft of light told me what I did not want to be told-he was dead!
I moved swiftly away from the area, muttering to myself in horror. At the next main street, I hailed a cab and went directly home to wake Anne.
"What's the matter with you, Susan, are you sick?"
"Yes, I'm sick, very sick!" We made coffee and I immediately forgot all of the threats and warnings Sunny had made. I blabbed everything to Anne, every gory detail.
Within one hour we were at the train station booking two tickets to Montreal, then we killed time in a restaurant until the banks opened. I would never have been able to get through that morning if it hadn't been for Anne. She was cool and calculating. She supplied conversation when my mind drifted back to that half-cocked corpse in the alley. She reminded me constantly that I had done nothing wrong and that I could not be held responsible for Sunny's aberrations. She encouraged me to look forward to living in Montreal and plaster casting our way to fame and fortune. She was a real gem and she kept me going until the banks opened, then things started to go better. With the tickets in our hands, our escape seemed more concrete as we sat in the coffee shop at the station and counted down the minutes until the train was ready to pull out.
Even though it is one hell of a long trip from Vancouver to Montreal, we did not bother to buy berths-they were too expensive. Instead, we got coach seats, which turned out to be quite sufficient since, during the whole trip, the train was never full. We had two seats to ourselves all the way. We swung the seat ahead of us around forming a little compartment that was more than comfortable.
"Tickets, please! Tickets!"
We were on our way. How exciting! We were leaving Sunny, The Midnites, the corpse and the police all behind. Ahead of us were Montreal, more cocks to fuck, suck and cast in plaster, more potential buyers and more night life.
We were deep into the Rocky Mountains when I finally fell asleep. I dreamed of the old Indian who had fucked Anne in the back seat of Shaggie's car at the beginning of the summer. It was a happy dream. I also dreamed of school and that was the first I had thought of it since we left Toronto. I'd have been in the university by that time had Anne not come over to my house on the afternoon of the last day of school and started talking dirty. I'm sure I would have been bored to tears there. I'm sure I would have turned out exactly the kind of person I least wanted to become. In spite of Sunny and the horrifying things that had transpired, I was far happier here in the train, running away from Vancouver, than I ever could have been living with my parents in Toronto and going to the snobbiest school in the country-the University of Toronto. Here, at least, I knew I was alive.
The trouble with middle-class people in this society is that they try everything in their power to avoid being free. They chain themselves to religious beliefs or to a profession or to a philosophy that only restricts their lives. They want to let someone else make their decisions for them, either God or the government or the boss of their company. They want to destroy everything that does not fit into their small scheme of things. Their attitude toward sex is a very good example of how they try to destroy things that appear to threaten their security. You see, if married men were to accept the fact that sex is really enjoyable and that they should fuck for the sake of fucking, then half the marriages in this country would fall apart. Because their wives, who were chosen for their good cooking, their companionship, their ability to have children, but not their ability to fuck for fun, would become unsuitable partners. In other words, if men dropped all the taboos on sex, they would drop their wives along with them. And women! Forget them! I don't think most women will ever be emancipated, because they just don't want it. It's a lot easier to live through and by your husband than it is to live through and by yourself. To most women, sex is just a means of exchange, with which they can buy security, attention, children and God knows what else. All I can say about these women is that it is a pity cunts were wasted on them. A couple of slabs of calves' liver would give their husbands just as much enjoyment.
There I go, making speeches again. You must forgive me, but where I am, there isn't much else to do. But I must tell you an incident that happened on the train.
When I woke up, Anne was no longer sitting in front of me. It took me a few minutes to wake up completely, but when I did, I left the seat and went to look for her. My first guess was the bar car, my second the diner, my third, the dome car. My third guess was correct. She was sitting right at the front of the dome car with a young boy who looked to be about thirteen years old. They were the only two there at the time.
"What are you doing?" I asked, coming up behind them. The boy jumped about two feet off the seat and swung around violently to see who I was. Anne merely smiled and told me to sit down in the seat across the aisle from them. I didn't have to ask any more questions, because as I took my seat I noticed the boy's sharp little erection jutting out of his fly. Anne apparently had been whacking him off when I came up.
"I'm beating his meat for him," Anne said coolly, taking hold of the adolescent organ and resuming her activity.
Because I was there, the boy wanted to stop and put himself away. He pushed half-heartedly at Anne's vibrating hand.
"No . ..I . . .I . . . "
But Anne would have none of it. She insisted he relax and enjoy the free ride he was getting. I watched with interest as the boy's young cock responded to Anne's experienced hand. From the look of it, it promised to be a good-sized prick. It was long enough already to tickle a girl's fancy, but it still needed that bulk, that thickness that separated the men pricks from the boy pricks.
Anne took a look around to make sure we were alone, then dove down and gobbled up the shiny new cock. She drew on it as though it were a drinking straw and tweaked the tiny hairless balls that dangled not too far beneath it. The expression on the boy's face was one of wild delight, a kind of silly grin that bent his mouth out of shape. His eyes squinted hard.
I gather it is more difficult to masturbate a young boy than it is a mature man, because Anne was whacking, sucking and beating for about twenty minutes before her youthful subject jerked his way through a clumsy climax. His body bounced spasmodically, his face contorted even further, a lungful of air gushed from his throat, and one small obsequious drop of semen appeared at the end of his burning penis. Anne picked it up with the tip of her tongue and held it inches away from the boy's face, then, like a frog eating a fly, she flicked it to the back of her throat.
"What do you think of that?" "Ahhhh . . . mann ..."
What a beautiful sight that was! The boy's first encounter with a female. He'd probably done it to himself many times in the privacy of the bathroom, but now to have it done by a woman was obviously the greatest experience of his young life. Anne and I were pleased at his response. He was breathless and shaky when he recovered from this orgasm of orgasms. He was too shy to say anything but, "Thank you," and finally embarrassment forced him to get up and leave the car.
We saw him many times after that, until he got off the train at Ottawa, but each time we met him, he just lowered his eyes and smiled a faint and bashful smile, then quietly excused himself and moved on.
Anne thought it was funny to be so bashful with the girl who had sucked you off, but that's what it's like to be an adolescent.
"When he gets back to his home town, he'll be a real mover," Anne observed, rather astutely, I think. "He'll be bragging about all the girls he's had during the holidays and all his boy friends will be very impressed. Little will they know that he was only whacked off once and at that he was scared stiff."
The rest of the trip was rather uneventful-through no fault of ours. We tried to get some action going aboard the train, but to no avail. All the men we were interested in were stuff-shirted pricks or married and scared their wives would find out. So our entertainment was reduced to a series of childish pranks.
Like sitting with our blouses open and our brassieres off so that every man who passed could get a good look at our breasts. Word seemed to spread around the train like wildfire, and at one point the conductor had to come to find out what had caused the unusually heavy flow of pedestrian traffic through our car. It was so bad that congestion had occurred at each end.
Or going to the toilet and taking off our panties, then sitting with our legs up and showing our cunts to the men who were sitting facing us. The two who got the best view were both married and traveling with their families. What they went through to get a good look, but not let their wives catch them, was excruciatingly humorous. One of them, the one who was staring up my skirt, even went so far as to burn a hole through his newspaper so that he could pretend to be reading when really he was drinking in every soft, brown detail of my vagina.
The classic one, the one that almost got us thrown off the train was the one that only Anne had the nerve to do. We were sitting in the dome car. Naturally we both had our purses with us and in Anne's was one of our sample plastic pricks. It was one taken from Stan's cock. Anne took it out when we were along in the car and started to masturbate with it. She had it right up to the hilt in her cunt when two old women-looked like grandmothers-came into the car. Wanting to get a good view of the landscape, they took the front seat, the seat just in front of and across from us. What they ended up getting a good view of was not just the landscape. Whether they smelled something or whether they heard the squish of the statuette going in and out of Anne, I don't know. But they did turn around and stare right up between her thighs at the pink plastic and the wrinkled, hairy box.
In unison, they let out a frightful shriek and bounded, as much as old ladies can bound, out of the dome car, yelling that they would have us thrown off the train. Luckily, we heard no more about it. We assume they would be too embarrassed to tell anybody what they'd seen. The old buzzards avoided us like the plague for the rest of the trip and we were just as happy that they did.
The remainder of the journey was consumed in dreaming about what awaited us in Montreal. I had managed to put Sunny and the poor old drunk just about out of my mind. That's my philosophy: "Don't look back!" If you do, you're likely to trip and fall. Always look ahead to where you're going and take each day and each situation as it comes.
Chapter Six
Steel wheels screeched to a halt in Windsor Station and the remaining passengers piled out. It was the end of the line for this train. Passengers going farther would have to transfer while the rest spilled out onto University Avenue and lost themselves in the sprawling city of Montreal.
Anne and I took a cheap hotel room on Dorchester Street and flaked out on twin beds to smooth out our agitated systems. It was a late Saturday afternoon and raining. For the rest of the day, we ventured no farther than the restaurant downstairs. Most of that evening was spent looking through the paper for flats, apartments and rooms to let. From the many that were listed, we selected a few that sounded suitable and on Sunday morning, after a twelve-hour sleep, we phoned them all from the pay phone downstairs.
The one that sounded the best was a two-and-a-half-room flat. It had a bedroom, living room and bathroom, with a small kitchenette tacked on to the living room. We hustled our asses right over to the address given by the man on the phone and within minutes of arrival had paid the first week's rent and moved in.
The next few days were dedicated to getting to know Montreal and one of the first things that impressed us was the competition we'd have as females. The cunt that walks the streets in that city is sexier than any other place in North America, I'm sure. Those French girls are taught to wiggle their little butts and stick out their tits from a very young age. They know that spot between their legs is for something, I can tell you that. In Vancouver we'd built up a reputation quickly and easily as the loosest broads in town. But here in Montreal, we would just be two more cunts in the sea, as it were.
On the other hand, the cock in that city was not terribly impressive. Most of the men were small and, I think, rather effeminate. They seemed to be more interested in themselves than in us. However, that was just a first impression. I found out later there was plenty of fuck to be had if you knew where to look.
When Anne and I were more or less settled and had the materials for casting, we invested ten dollars in printed cards which we had done at a small underground publishing outfit. The cards read: THE PLASTER CASTERS We make multi-colored statuettes of phalli and breasts while you wait. ONLY FIVE DOLLARS On each card was our telephone number and a loose sketch of an erect penis. We passed them out in the cafes and discotheques and went home to wait for the response.
It was unbelievable. That same night we got about twenty phone calls and the next day we lost count after fifty. We had to make appointments that stretched on for weeks and even at that it was all we could do to meet the demand. Most of the customers, of course, were male. They ranged from huge pricks to tiny ones and there were even a couple of VD pricks which we refused to cast.
In addition, there was a handful of females who wished to preserve their mammaries in plastic. We had never done breasts before but every one we did turned out beautifully.
The clients flowed into our apartment like troops-the money, five times as fast. The landlord, who was a pretty groovy guy, didn't find out what we were doing for about a month and when he did, he put his name on the waiting list. I'll have to digress here for a minute and tell you about him. He was a funny character.
His name was Orlandersen and he was Scandinavian. He had a wife of seven years whom he loathed-or, at least that's what he told us. He was, I guess, about thirty years old and he had one child, a little boy whom he seemed to like moderately.
We notified Orlandersen when his appointment was due and when his wife had gone downtown shopping, he came up to our flat with a broad grin on his face. For some reason he found our practice of casting cocks in plaster excruciatingly funny and the whole time we were explaining the process, he merely stood in the middle of the room and giggled.
When we were ready to begin, we asked him to strip and he did so sheepishly. With his pants around his ankles, and his white prick-a respectable one-dangling in front of him, he stood with his hands behind his back and a look of pure glee on his childlike face.
I took the organ in my hand and gave it a slight jerk. Instantly, it swelled to a full erection and, although I did go ahead and suck it, the fellatio in this case was redundant. I had barely enough time to lick the surface salt off it before Anne was ready with the plaster of Paris. We greased the area generously with vaseline and Anne coated it with plaster. When it had dried, we removed the cast and as Anne went away to pour the plastic, I went down on him right there in the middle of the floor.
He was still giggling at the thought of it all. Nervously, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, causing his slippery cock to plop out of my mouth and slap me in the face. Each time it happened his laughter increased until finally, when my lips were practically numb from trying to hold his squirming bone and I asked him if he would mind fucking me instead, he had no objections and we both reclined on the floor in front of the couch.
"Give me a nibble first," I suggested, directing his head down to my still dry cunt. He obliged, gracefully gliding his sinewy body over mine until his face was between my legs. With his hands, he spread the lips of my cunt, exposing my clean, shiny clitoris to the stuffy air of the room. His tongue moved quickly and precisely in, on and around the clit as it engulfed my whole cunt. I felt his wet tongue push deep inside me. It tickled the vaginal walls, making them drip with anticipation while his left hand massaged my breasts and his right probed my anus. My head began to feel light and sweat oozed from my pores. I reached for his cock to make sure it was still hard and, when I found it, it was. It was as hard and as big as a rolling pin and I couldn't wait for it any longer. Pulling it over toward my wet, open cunt, I called down to the blond-haired cunt lapper whose face was half inside me.
"I love your tongue, but I need your cock. Fuck me!"
He did. With that long curved rod, he opened me as wide as I was made to go, right up to the dead end of my cunt. I could feel him bump against the wall. He slapped it in and out as I rolled my hips in a circular manner, rubbing every crevice and ridge of his taut cock with the juicy walls of my vagina until I finally consumed him entirely and his seed was released. It splashed against my uterus as his cock twitched and pulsed. He arched his back and pushed himself into me to the hilt and held that position while the last drops of semen drained out of him. His balls felt like hard little crab apples against my swollen, sensitive lips. It was a masterful fuck and when I stood up the sperm dribbled out of me, down my slender thighs, over my knee bones and off onto the rug.
In memory of Orlandersen we did not walk on that part of the rug for two weeks. You see, Anne and I loved a man's cream. We could eat it on our breakfast cereal every morning. In fact, we have only done it once!
That screw with Orlandersen was the first I'd had since leaving Vancouver and it sure felt good. My cunt yawned and smiled dreamily for the rest of the day.
Anne hadn't really been aware of how much she needed one until she watched us do it. She said she could almost taste Soren's cock (Soren, as I recall, was Orlandersen's first name). She said she could almost feel it pushing the sides of her cunt open. She said she would die if she could not get it soon and so we arranged to have Soren come back the next day to ball her between the hours of two and three (that's all the time she could spare).
And that's where the funny part of the Soren Orlandersen story starts. When he entered our apartment the next day, he had a Polaroid camera under his arm and he intended to have me take strategic shots of him putting the blocks to Anne.
"What for?" I asked.
"For my wife. I've had it with her. Seven years I've put up with her bloody 'Don't touch me tonight, Soren,' and 'What do you want it again for? You only had it last week.' I'm going to show her what her slit is for. I'm going to show her why I was built with this hunk of meat between my legs," he answered in a torrent, patting his testicles and penis with an exaggerated action.
We were willing to further the cause of sexual freedom, so while Anne took up her position on the bed, one leg straight, one knee drawn up and her long black cunt tilted for entry and Soren perched above her, cock in hand, eye on the hole, I began snapping the first of sixteen photos.
I got the perfect shots of the approach, the entry, the sucking of a nipple, the fingering of a cunt and the shooting of sperm over a rippling belly and straight young thighs. Lastly, but perhaps most important, I got a shot of the beaming, contented face of a thirty-year-old Swede who had just set the stage for the worst battle of his married life.
Exactly four hours later, Soren was back up in our flat relating all the gory details of the encounter. His wife had stormed out of the house after breaking every dish in the place. She had tried to cut off his organ, pluck out his eyes, rip out his hair and, failing these, had finally settled for tearing the photos into confetti. He was convinced he would never see her again, but to his immense surprise and to ours, too, she returned the very next night.
Anne and I did not know about it until the morning after her dramatic return. She herself came up to our apartment and threw her arms around both of us, which left us in a state of bewildering shock to say the least. She'd come to thank us for giving her a lesson in life. She claimed the photos and later the fight made her see what a prudish pig she'd been with Soren for the last seven years. Apparently, she bounced in the night before and even before two words could be spoken between them, she stripped off her husband's pants and sucked on his prick until it withered from fatigue. Oral intercourse was something she had never even allowed herself to think about before and now she was singing its praises to Anne and me and had solemnly sworn to perform it on her husband at least once a month for as long as he could raise an erection.
By the time she had gone from our apartment, Anne and I were feeling like sexual sages. Merely by doing our thing-fucking-we had saved a marriage that was otherwise doomed. I don't think I have to justify anything I've done in my life so far, but if I did, this incident would be all the justification I need. By showing them that sex is not only natural but necessary, we made two people happier and that is more than a lot of people can boast.
After that, our relationship with the Orlandersens developed to the point where occasionally we were fucking Soren in front of his wife to give her a few pointers on how to do it for the greatest effect.
But I must get on with the story. Over the next few months, Anne and I made an absolute killing with our plaster casting business. We grossed anywhere from two hundred to three hundred dollars a week and were understandably almost drunk with our success. But then, somethin happened that kind of punctured our balloon for a while.
One night about nine o'clock our apartment was raided by the police and I was caught sucking a guy off just after we had cast his cock. I was scared shitless. I figured I would be in big trouble for performing oral intercourse, because I had heard somewhere that it was illegal. But, as it turned out, all they charged us with was operating a business without the proper license. They took us down to the station and registered our names. Bail was set at twenty-five dollars for Anne and myself, fifty for the guy I'd been sucking. I don't know what the charge against him was.
But the next day when we thought we were out of the woods, we picked up the paper and found that the whole incident had leaked out and some bloody journalist figured it was newsworthy. That was the beginning of a lot of trouble for me.
Overnight we became celebrities of a kind. Several other newspapers picked up on the story and an underground paper in New York even sent up a man to interview us. I must admit that part of it was rather fun, but I would gladly have given it up to avoid the unseemly incident that was soon to follow.
It happened two weeks after we had hit the papers. Anne and I were in our apartment getting ready to go to an all night bash at a pad behind a boutique on Mountain Street when the buzzer from downstairs rang. Anne answered and let the person in, even though she did not recognize the voice. It was common practice to have complete strangers dropping in on us, what with the line of business we were in and all, so we just assumed that he was a client come to pick up his statuette which, incidentally, we were still selling on condition that the buyer promised to tell the police (if he were questioned) that we had given it to him.
The knock came at the door and since I was busy putting on my eyelashes, Anne answered it. There was a silence that seemed unnatural to me. I stepped out of the bathroom and edged down the hall to the door. Anne was standing with an embarrassed and extremely childish look on her face.
"What's the matter?" I inquired, craning my neck to see around the door. But Anne didn't have to answer. My answer, all six feet of him, was looming in the doorway with a cold, almost cruel look on his face. My father!
What I intended to be an invitation to come in and sit down came out as gibberish. I was traumatized. Even after he was in and sitting on the sofa, I couldn't seem to do anything but stutter. My father, here in Montreal, in my own apartment! I hadn't even thought of him for months, and now, when I least expected it, here he was, staring holes through me and enjoying every minute of my predicament. He watched me struggle into silence, then he began slowly.
"You're coming back with me to Toronto where you'll do as your mother and I tell you to. You're coming back and there'll be no arguments. Understand?" He clasped his hands together and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Do you understand me, Susan?"
He obviously didn't know it, but he had just blown whatever advantage he had had over me by virtue of his surprise attack. Because of that familiar, unbending authority, that same old refusal to recognize that I'm a human being, not a domesticated pet, that tired old, 'I'm right because I'm older' attitude, brought back to me emotions I thought I had lost long ago and there was no room left in me for embarrassment.
This time when I opened my mouth, I didn't stutter. My words were precise and very clear-obviously too clear for his liking because he appeared very much taken aback by what I had to say. If I remember correctly it was something like this: "Listen, before you get started, I think you should know that I no longer consider you an authority of any kind. I see you only as the man who is responsible for my being in the world. I neither thank you nor hate you for that. It is just a fact. Beyond that you mean nothing to me. I don't even like you at all and I have very little respect for you. And so when you talk to me like that, you're only making a fool of yourself."
He hadn't anticipated that. He paused, evidently to regroup for an attack from another angle, then began ponderously.
"You're entitled to hold those beliefs if you please, but I can assure you, from experience, that you'll change your mind later on. Someday you'll see how unfair you've been to your mother and me. You'll see that everything we have tried to do is for your own good. I think somebody's been putting very bad notions into your head and you've swallowed them hook, line and sinker without thinking them out for yourself." He looked up at Anne for several seconds. That's a favorite ploy of parents. Blame it on someone else's kid and all that. I soon put an end to that argument.
"If you're trying to suggest that Anne or anybody else has talked me into doing what I'm doing, you're crazy! It's just typical of you to assume that I can't think for myself. That's the reason I left in the first place. You figure that if I'm not doing what you tell me or Mom tells me, then I must be doing what someone else tells me. I guess you think everyone in the world is just as obsequious as you are. Well, I've got news for you! Some people in this world don't like to be told what to do and when to do it. Some of us want the freedom to direct our own lives."
"Do you call this directing your life? You're just making a slut out of yourself, that's all. Any girl can do that, and she doesn't need direction."
"You may call me a slut, but then I may call you obsolete."
"Maybe I am, but I've had a hell of a lot more experience on this earth than you have."
"That's very true and I have no interest in gaining any experience whatsoever in obsolescence."
The battle raged on for several hours. I told Anne she could go ahead to the party without me and she did. Dad went on yelling about hippies and their long hair and beards and fleas and crap like that. I tried over and over again to tell him that just because some people do things differently than they did in his day doesn't make them wrong, but his mind was obviously deteriorated from so many years of idleness. He just kept cursing everything he couldn't understand and I kept telling him he was out of date. The argument, like so many of this nature, was at a stalemate and it seemed as if it would go on forever, but then he hit me with the strongest point he had-a point that I could not possibly argue.
"I don't see why you're making things tough on yourself. If I say so, you have to come with me. You have no choice in the matter. It's the law!"
I don't know why I hadn't thought of that before, but he was right. I wouldn't be eighteen for almost another month and in a month they could make life pretty miserable for me. I was in a fix and I knew it. I didn't bother to argue the point any further. Instead, I sat silently, trying desperately to think of a way to escape.
We passed about half an hour without saying a word to each other. I sat in the corner considering my next move while he snooped around the apartment-looking for tell-tale signs of my debauched life, I suppose. At length, he came over to me holding several photos in his hand. I knew they were the ones Anne had taken of some boy and me fucking. One of them was of me whacking him off and shooting his sperm halfway across the room. I was very impressed with that and so was my old man, but in a different way.
"Isn't that clever! Aren't they just lovely photos? Would you like your mother to see these?" I didn't look up or react in any way.
"Okay, come on, you little whore! I'm going to make sure you don't get a chance to do this ever again. We're getting the next plane back to Toronto."
I still did not move a muscle. I was waiting for him to grab me and he knew I was. But I could outwait him and he knew that too. Finally, he took me by the elbow and tried to lift me from the chair.
"Take your hand off me," I spat. "I'm not going with you. You'll have to call the cops." Instantly he let go and darted over to the phone. He dialed zero and waited for the operator to answer. When she did, he asked for the number of the nearest police precinct. He was trying to show me that he had no compunctions about bringing in the police against his own daughter, but he had underestimated me once again.
"I assume you're aware," I began deliberately and with an indifference that unnerved him, "that the press will be along with the cops."
I didn't have to say another word. He pushed the button down immediately with his finger and held a pensive position, then slowly replaced the receiver on the telephone.
Once again, he approached me with a different tact. It was the fatherly one. He even had the nerve to sit on the arm of my chair.
"Susie, listen. Your mother and I-"
"Screw Mother! Say something on your own for once. She's not here so why bring her into this argument!"
"Your mother's here in spirit-"
"So's Bob Dylan but I don't pretend to speak for him."
"Okay, Susie, I am not trying to be cruel. I'm only trying to help. I know what's best for you and I'm just trying to make you see that."
"How do you know what's best for me? Did you know what was best for your grandfather?"
"Susie, don't be silly-"
"I am not being silly. If you pretend to know what is best for me, you must have known what was best for your grandfather."
"But you are being silly. How could I know what was best for my grandfather when I wasn't even alive then?"
"That's exactly the point I'm trying to make.
You're not alive now either so how can you believe that you know what's best for me?"
My father threw his hands up in mock despair. Everything he did was imitation. He'd forgotten how to feel real emotions years ago. Striking a pose that roughly resembled the thinker, he furrowed his brow to indicate the weight he was bearing and planned his next move.
"Susie, your mother and I, I mean, I love you very much and I'm sure your mother does too and that's why we want to protect you from yourself," he began, but I cut him off.
"If you really loved me, you'd let me live my own life as I wish, instead of always trying to push your values down my throat-values that you've never bothered to think out. You just accepted them because someone told you they were good."
The argument took several more turns, mostly for the worst. The old man got up the nerve to actually mention the plaster casts, but he used the word penis instead of cock. In the course of an hour he went through an aggressive stage, another fatherly stage and finally broke out into an utter rage. His face went as red as a beet and he swore several times. Then, obviously losing control of himself, he tore the front of my blouse exposing my left breast.
"You little slut," he bellowed, "you don't even wear underwear anymore. What's the matter, does it get in the way?"
I did not answer, nor did I make any attempt to cover my breast. I just let it hang out where it was and it drove him crazy. I don't mean with lust, because my father didn't have any lust left in him. No, it drove him crazy because he had made a fool of himself and every time he looked at me he saw that proud pink breast staring back at him, he was reminded of that fact. He wanted to order me to cover myself, I know that, but he knew damn well what my reply would be. So he paced the room like a madman, getting more and more agitated by the second. Finally, ridiculous as he knew it was, he charged at me with his fists clenched and screamed like a hysterical schoolgirl. "Cover yourself up!"
I raised my eyes slowly and glued them on his face, then I waited for him to make eye contact with me. When he did, I smiled an innocent and very sarcastic smile and enunciated in my sweetest voice, "Fuck you!"
The buzzer rang and I answered it. It was a boy I knew and he had come to see why I was not at the party. It was a timely arrival. I had never seen my father or any other man that mad before and I'm sure he was going to beat the crap out of me. But Joachin-that was the boy-had a good build and had been known to be pugnacious on occasion. With him in the apartment, it wasn't likely my father would try anything. Well, at least that's what I thought. As it turned out, my father was more courageous, or perhaps, more foolhardy than I ever suspected.
When Jo entered the apartment, naturally he wanted to know what was going on. He couldn't help but notice my bare breast hanging out and my father's rage was hardly less obvious. But when he asked, my father snapped at him to shut up and stay out of things that were not his business.
"Look, ole man," Joe had a distinct animosity in his voice, "when I come in here and see Susie's tits hanging out and you standing there like the Marquis de Sade, I think I should make it my business. I'm one of the few lucky ones who get to suck those tits and I don't want to see them abused by some old pervert." You see, Jo had no way of knowing that the old pervert was my father and by the time he found out, it was too late.
"Look, you young bugger, don't start talking to me like that. I'll have you know I'm her-"
"You're nobody special, buddy. Susie's public property, so everybody who balls her has a say in how she's treated and I say she's not to be pushed around."
I sat in the corner chair, tit still bobbing in the open air. I watched the proceedings without attempting to help my father identify himself. As I saw it, he had walked into this trap himself and therefore deserved everything he got. If he was blind enough to think that he could still dictate my life, perhaps a confrontation with Joachin would open his eyes for him. I only hoped that he would not push it to the point of physical combat. I may have had my back up at the old man, but I didn't want to see him get the shit kicked out of him. I don't think anyone could stand to see his or her father beaten up.
But the old man's temper had gotten out of hand. He was no longer in possession of any common sense whatsoever.
"You pig, who do you think you're talking to?" He charged at Jo with his hands outstretched, presenting a greater threat to his own health and welfare than to Jo's. When he was four feet away, a well-timed, well-measured blow from Jo's knotted fist met with his face and sent him heavily to the floor.
I was on my way over to Jo to tell him that the man he had just struck was my father when the old man lost his head. He swung his arm in front o me, driving his hard elbow between my breasts and knocking me back onto the floor. He grabbed Jo by the neck and made several wild thrusts with his knee, trying to catch him in the groin. Luckily, he couldn't get a square shot, but that certainly didn't stop him from trying. He flailed with his arms and kicked repeatedly and the more I screamed for him to stop, the worse he got. He was a crazed man and I was genuinely frightened of what he might do or what might be done to him by Jo in self-defense.
But it ended suddenly and without warning. Two quick jabs to the head thrown with Jo's customary accuracy put the old man down for the second and last time. He was out cold.
Joachin helped me bring him around with some cold towels, then we sat and watched him regain his senses. Still numb and a bit dizzy, he lifted himself from the sofa and made a futile attempt to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothing. He pulled, brushed and twisted with the exaggerated action of a defeated man who won't admit he's defeated. He looked at me briefly, then at the floor.
"Okay, Susan, I won't take you back with me. As ... as a matter of fact . . . you'll never set foot in my house again as long as I live!"
It was his last stand and in a way it was admirable. But he was soundly defeated. He had been since he first lost his temper. All of this was just superfluous emotion.
"I could have told you it would end like this, but you don't listen to anyone younger than yourself. Too bad! You're going to be old some day and you might want somebody to take an interest in you."
Without saying any more, for there was nothing more to be said, my father left the apartment and I have never seen him since. But I've heard indirectly through Anne's parents that my mom and dad are on the verge of divorce and that doesn't surprise me in the slightest.
When our nerves had calmed down, Jo took me in his arms and held me firmly. His hand moved to my shoulder and slipped my tattered blouse off my back. I was naked now from the waist up and my breasts flattened out against his gently rising and falling chest. As he wriggled out of his shirt, I felt the coarse hair on his chest brush against the very tip of my nipples. It brought them up hard and round and they pointed to the mouth that would suck them, the bristled mouth that had known every part of my body on several occasions.
He dropped his head and drew on the brown flesh that surrounded the nipple of my left breast. The whole mammary gland was cupped in his hand and flowing through his busy fingers. His left hand grappled with the belt of my hip-huggers and when it gave way, the zipper fell with ease. The pubic hair that had been flattened all day by the pressure of my skintight pants rose like a garden in spring. It felt light and airy. Jo dropped to his knees, inserting his hands into my pants as he went. They were smooth hands, smooth hands on my smooth, firm ass and they brought my hip-huggers down much easier than I could ever have done myself. They brought my hip-huggers down to my thighs, uncovering my cunt, only inches from his face. They brought my hip-huggers down over my knees, over the long, slender bones of my shins to my ankles and off. I felt clean and beautiful in my nakedness. It was a clean beauty that my father could never understand, with all his professed experience. It was a cleanness that could only be surpassed by a fuck-a deep, succulent fuck.
I helped Jo off with his pants and when we were both cleanly nude, we lay on the floor and kissed and sucked and ate each other until he was erect and saliva glistened on the head of his penis and I was dripping for want of that penis in my cunt.
We righted ourselves and Jo slipped it into me. He slipped his whole hard prick up the avenue of my cunt and thrust it back and forth.
He had a well-shaped cock. Not one of great length or breadth, but one of perfect conformation, about seven inches long, about two inches thick at the base. Just the perfect cock to please a woman. It glided in and out of me sending shivers up and down my spine and bringing goose bumps to the surface on the insides of my thighs. His mouth engulfed my mouth and his tongue licked my gums. His fingers rolled and twisted my dark brown nipples, making them stand up like mushrooms and his cock moved in and out, in and out.
His whole body moved on mine until I thought it was a part of me. We were melting into each other-becoming one person, helpless in our consuming passion, helpless in our fornication.
The fuck. This is where life is created and where it is transcended, where the male and the female meet and become one, where there is equality, where the cock meets the cunt and is sucked in by it, where the balls meet the asshole, where the nipples meet the hairy chest and where mouths become Siamese twins.
My cunt was loose and wet now. It dribbled into the hairs between my legs. It dribbled onto Jo's balls and onto the rug. It gobbled up the grizzly male meat and spit it out again, creating friction, bringing on a climax.
Our movements became frantic as they always do at this point in the fuck. We were well-lubricated machines, the right sized shaft fitting the right sized sleeve. Then the end came. My clitoris sent out pleasure shocks that seemed to wrench my body away from some deeper self. I was foreign to my own body, but at the same time enjoying its pleasures. That was the transcendence of sex.
And I was delighted to feel Jo undergo that familiar, rigid pause before the twitching of his cock, the pause that his body needed to build up the pressure to blast sperm against the wall of my uterus.
Our mechanisms moved again in a few last coordinated thrusts and then we collapsed into each other. Our bodies were as flaccid as water.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the fuck that my parents objected to, the fuck that they refused to let themselves enjoy. And without that fuck no male and female relationship on earth will survive.
Jo withdrew, but remained on top of me. I could feel the semen oozing out of him, inching across my abdomen and dribbling down my sides. I was aware of the pool of it that had formed in my navel and the odor of it filled the room. The aftermath of the fuck-the limp, sticky cock, the closing cunt, and the precise mixture of cunt and sperm in the air-the aftermath of the fuck, the most relaxing moment of anyone's life.
Jo and I showered together and dressed to go to the party.
We were there by twelve o'clock and most of the guests who had been partying since seven and eight o'clock were fresher looking than we were. There was a fantastic band playing when we arrived and drugs as well as booze were floating around like water. But the biggest attraction was body painting and wouldn't you know it, there was Anne, the center of attention, sitting stark naked while an artist put the finishing touches on her legs. She was painted all over in gold paint and looked for all the world like a statue. Even her cunt hairs were a glittery gold and the reflection on her tits was almost enough to blind you. Several other people were painted up in various colors and patterns. One guy had red, white and blue rings on his prick and, you guessed it, he was British. Another cat had crude looking cunts painted all over his body in brownish red paint and he had his cock tied up with a string around his waist for some ridiculous reason. One girl had black patches painted across her nipples. It really was an unbelievable sight, all these human art pieces drifting around the room, high as kites on drugs or liquor, chanting weird slogans and generally having the time of their lives.
I had intended to tell Anne all about the clash with my father, but I realized after I got there that it would be out of place. Besides, Anne was bombed out of her mind.
Jo and I joined in by stripping off our clothes and slapping crazy, multi-colored abstractions all over each other. After the first few nearly straight vodkas, I remember very little about the party. I have some vague recollections of a lot of fucking going on and I think I must have taken part.
I do remember waking up the next day at twelve noon with a hangover and trying to get ready for the big event, the event that had been planned for months and months.
Chapter Seven
There was no starting time. You could go any time and stay as long as you felt like it. You could wear, do and be what you liked. It was being held at Mount Royal Park and it was anything but organized. It was the biggest love-in in the history of hip.
The park was clothed in autumn, alive, but falling asleep. The gathering of people which, by the time we arrived must have numbered a couple of thousand, was a mosaic of weird and gawdy colors. The participants milled around forming small pockets within the large crowd, singing folk songs and petting lightly. But it was dull. I had been to these affairs before and I always came to the conclusion, "What does it all achieve?"
All love-ins look promising. There are always enough people, enough energy and enthusiasm to make a real big splash of some kind or another, but nothing ever comes from it. All it amounts to is a big picnic and I don't recall reading in any history books where revolution ever started at a picnic. To me it all seems too passive. I mean, thousands of kids just standing around as if the mere fact of their being there is going to make something happen. Very few of them know what they are doing there but they are ashamed to admit it. And the danger in this is that if something were to happen, it would probably be a riot and since no one actually started it, no one would know how to stop it. It all seemed rather mindless to me, but for the first hour or so it was pleasant to see so many people at once. I bumped into a few old friends and had some nice conversation. As for the philosophic or social value of the love-in, I would say it was about zero. I was about to pack it in and go downtown for a while when I was assailed by an idea. Instead of leaving, why not make something out of this great big picnic? Why not stage a love-in that the city of Montreal or, indeed, the whole country would remember for some time?
And who could be better qualified to make a big splash than Anne and myself? I took her aside and explained the idea. At first she was a bit jittery about the police being so near-there were forty or fifty circling the crowd, just waiting for something to happen so they could jump in and look as though they were earning the money the taxpayers paid them, but after only a little persuasion, she agreed to go ahead with it.
Since we couldn't very well address ourselves to the whole crowd, we picked out a likely-looking circle of singers and took a place among them. In the center of the circle were three boys playing guitars. I didn't know the song they were playing, but it had good rhythm and they played it well. The group of about twenty-five people around them were clapping their hands and roaring out the verses. The beat was enticing and easy to strip to. And strip we did-Anne and I in unison.
I was wearing a purple silk blouse and tight hip-huggers. The blouse had many buttons all the way down the front which served perfectly to build up the drama of the strip, to which a good number of people were already paying attention. When the buttons were all undone, I let the blouse glide smoothly over my shoulders to the ground. I heaved my breasts into the sun and squeezed them with both hands, then I loosened my pants and inched them down over my bottom and off. Anne timed her strip to end with mine and when we were both naked I shouted out to all within hearing range.
"Anyone who wishes to fuck us may do so. We'll fuck every male here if you want."
"Come one, come all," Anne added like a sideshow barker. "Come inside, come on our bellies, come in our mouths, whatever you want, but come!"
The crowd seemed to be astonished and bewildered. No one made a move.
"Well, come on, this is a love-in, isn't it? If you want a Sunday school picnic you should go to church," Anne continued with her hands cupped around her mouth.
"You say you want to show the older generation what love is all about, well, this is what love is all about," I yelled, elevating my buttocks a foot off the ground and clasping my hand over my cunt. "Fuck this and you are fucking the world. Fuck for fun and save humanity from annihilation."
At last our brazen stunt began to have an effect. Jo stripped and slapped his cock in my hand. I worked on it while encouraging others to follow his example. Several more did, then other girls started to shed their attire and soon nude bodies were popping up like pink weeds.
We had started the ball rolling and not a minute too soon. The cops were already moving in.
"Fuck while you can, here comes the fuzz," somebody bellowed across the park. It was a rather apt phrase, I thought, in light of all the pubic hair that had suddenly appeared.
The excitement made it impossible for Jo to attain an erection, but for the sake of show, he mounted me anyway and pretended to be fucking. I could feel his limp organ swinging like a rope against my cunt-funny sensation! But there were some guys lucky enough to get hard and enjoy a real fuck. I could see them scattered all around me, being tugged at by policemen, who were evidently as completely confused as I had anticipated they would be. How do you arrest a fucking couple without being indecent yourself? That must have been what most of them were asking themselves, although there were some I could see who were enjoying themselves immensely. They were grabbing girls by the cunt and tits and putting knees into the bare balls of their lovers.
A couple of cops grabbed Jo by the shoulders and lifted him off me. They ordered me to stand up but I ignored them completely. One of them tried to pick me up and his hand accidentally slipped in between my legs. I felt his finger jab into my cunt.
"Look, cop, if you want a fuck, put your cock in there, not your finger." "Is that a bribe, kid?" "Of course!"
"I'll remember that when you come up before the magistrate."
"And I'll remember that you stuck your finger into my cunt, on purpose."
They dragged Jo and me over to a paddy wagon, but Jo broke loose and I cheered as he seized another girl and mounted her.
The fuck-in was out of control. Some of the men had already come and their girls were off looking for another cock. The police had managed to round up sixty or seventy nudes, but they were escaping as rapidly as they were being apprehended. And those who didn't escape were fucking in the paddy wagons. Had the love-in turned into a riot, the cops would have cleaned it up in fifteen minutes without any trouble at all. But faced with something different, something they had not been trained to handle, they were as useless as old women. After more than an hour, they still had gotten nowhere and by this time hundreds of people had come up from downtown to watch the show. Even though they were mostly so-called respectable people, they were cheering us on and laughing at the incompetence of the police.
By that time, I too had escaped and was encouraging the bystanders to strip off their clothes and join in. Only a handful of them did, but I'm sure there were one hell of a lot of businessmen who would have given their eye teeth to get a whack at me or any of the other good-looking girls who were racing around like nymphs with their cunts dripping sperm and begging for more. Oh, yes, I'm sure there were hundreds, but they wouldn't dare for fear their wives or their bosses would find out. So, they eyeballed us, getting their kicks vicariously like a bunch of voyeurs.
I put the grab on a stud who was wearing nothing but his guitar and tried to get him erect before the cops came, but once again I missed out and ended up in another paddy wagon. Anne was there fucking some crazed hippie and fingering another girl's cunt. It was just one big beautiful orgy and I loved it. I let some guy fuck me in the wagon while carrying on a conversation with Anne. She had been fucked three times already and was hoping to reach five before we got carted away to the clink.
"Susie, what a fantastic idea this was. It's the greatest thing I've ever seen."
The guy she was screwing climaxed and withdrew his slimy cock. "Who's next?" she inquired, like a receptionist at a dentist's office, but she got no takers. There were only three boys in the wagon, the one she had just fucked, another who said he was all fucked out and another who was pissed off at the whole situation and refused to have anything to do with her.
Anne and I sat at the door and waited for a chance to make a getaway. Through the window I could see a couple of cops dragging Jo over to the wagon. I notified Anne and she got up on her haunches, ready to spring. When the door opened, she took a dive and I went out right after her. She made it, but I was caught by a policeman before I hit the ground. He got a damned good feel before putting me back inside. Right behind me came Jo. He told me that he had overheard the cops talking. He said that from what he could gather, they had given up trying to stop the fuck-in for the time being and were going to cordon off the spectators so they couldn't watch.
That, to me, was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard of, but it's just typical of the mentality that governs us today. They knew damned well that what we were doing was fun and that if they couldn't stop us from doing it, they would have to stop people from watching it in case they got ideas. You see, if everybody in our society could do whatever they wanted so long as they did not hurt somebody else, it would have a devastating effect on the country. Industries would fall apart because the employers could no longer exploit their staff and religion would disappear because people would not have to go to a priest or a minister to learn about God. They would know all they needed to know about him. It would be a fabulous place to live in if that were to happen, but the people who rule would never allow it. The police were driving the crowd of spectators away from our fuck-in so they wouldn't get any ideas on how to enjoy life.
Within five minutes, Anne was back in the wagon and within twenty, the wagon was moving. That was the end for us. Anne and I talked and joked to keep everybody's spirits from crashing down from the intoxicating high the orgy had put them on, but I'm afraid it didn't work. By the time we reached the police station, the wagon was filled with depression and it was even worse inside, where we were book and officially charged. When you're in great spirits, you can run around naked and not care who sees you, but when you're low, you feel like such an idiot. In the police station, we were all ashamed of our nudity, even Anne and myself. I guess it was because they, the cops, were in control now. We were back in their world and so we were just a small bunch of odd-balls, not the majority that we were in the park.
"What's your name?"
"Susan Biltmore."
"Oh, yes, we've heard of you before."
They separated the boys from the girls and gave us one blanket for every two nudists. Anne and I huddled in a damp corner and speculated on what was going to happen.
"What's the maximum penalty for public indecency?" I asked her.
"I think we'll get a suspended sentence. We'll have a criminal record after this, but we won't have to spend more than a few days in jail."
"I certainly hope not. This place gives me the creeps."
"Oh, I don't know. I think it's worth it. I mean, you're nobody if you don't have a criminal record of some type by the time you're twenty."
Thinking that way made it easier to get through the night. The next day bail was set at fifty dollars each and those who could pay up got out. That's when I started to get scared. Because, even though I could easily get the fifty dollars, I was denied bail at this time and kept in the cell with the few who could not or would not raise their bail.
"Why am I not getting any bail?" I asked the matron who supplied me with some prison outfits.
' I don't know anything about that, my dear," she said over her shoulder as she disappeared around a corner.
I thought at first it might have something to do with the plaster casting, but if that were the case, why wouldn't Anne be denied bail as well? I was worried and very lonely as the few of us who remained were packed into a paddy wagon and transported like cattle to a women's prison just outside Montreal. This is where we would spend the night. The next day we would come before the magistrate to set a date for our trials.
But in the meantime, I had to sleep in society's dungeon with all the other poor wretches whom society had deemed unsuitable to live in freedom. Naturally I approve of prisons. I think anybody who wants some sort of order in society has to, but this dump! This hole in the ground! Even the loosest definition of reform institution would not include this rat hole.
I couldn't help thinking as I sat bunched up in the corner of the cubicle that was to house five of us for the night of how stupid it was that right now in the government, they were talking of amending the criminal code as part and parcel of the "Just Society" program. The bill had all kinds of goodies in it about homosexuality, abortion and divorce and all of these plus a few more that got a lot of publicity, but nothing was said or written about the crap cans they call reform institutions. Nobody was interested in rehabilitating criminals, only in getting them out of the way-sticking them into these torture chambers to get a venereal disease or be raped by a Lesbian.
Nobody was concerned about the obvious and undeniable fact that prisons were churning out criminals faster than the law could throw them back in. Nobody was prepared to crusade against that. I'm telling you, if you've never been to prison, you have no idea what it's like. They throw young pranksters like me in with hardened felons with records a mile long and expect us to come out untouched. It's like throwing someone with a slight head cold into a room full of people with the plague and expecting him to come out cured of his cold. It's worse than medieval.
That night was the longest of my life. I couldn't sleep for the constant moaning and crying that reverberated around the prison. By the time three-thirty rolled around, I wanted nothing, absolutely nothing in the world, but to get out and stay out of that fucking sewer.
At breakfast, I was sick to my stomach. Alcoholics, drug addicts, Lesbians, prostitutes, murderers and God knows what else, nudged around a table elbow to elbow, slopping down their lumpy porridge, burping, farting and picking their noses. The old broad next to me smelled like a turd. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer. I pushed away from the big table and vomited what little porridge I had been able to eat, plus a lot of bile.
"Clean it up, toute de suite," ordered a guard who looked like she might have a set of sharp teeth in her cunt. I cleaned it up and sat on the floor away from the table until breakfast was over. I spent the time examining the guards. There were three of them in the room and all were heavy, ugly and completely sexless. It would be a safe assumption, too, that they were all either single or Lesbians. I tried to imagine one of them making love to a man and the thought was absurd and repulsive.
".put your cock in my cunt, . thank you, now move it in and out . . . more force, if you don't mind, I've got a leather cunt . . . thank you. Now be sure to tell me when that white stuff is about to come out. I use it for shampoo ..."
Or maybe she was the kind that stuffed the whole man, head first, right up her smelly box, then lifted her leg and spat him halfway across the room, the kind who lubricated their cunts with sulphuric acid.
Anyway, I was damned happy when we were hustled out single file into a waiting paddy wagon and I felt even better when we entered the courtroom and I saw about one hundred and twenty kids, including good old Anne, who was beaming a broad smile at me as I entered and stood where I was told to stand. It's funny what strength you have when you know there are others with you. The tough criminals at the prison were just as much my enemies as the guards were, but here I was among friends and it was amazing how fast the fear and impotency of the night vanished.
The judge read out a list of over one hundred names and then explained that these people would be arraigned in two weeks. Neither Anne nor I was mentioned on that list.
Then the judge read out several more names of people who would be arraigned separately on charges of assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. Much as they should have been, our names were not included on that list either.
Then the judge announced that the trials of two people would be postponed indefinitely, pending the results of another trial in Vancouver. Those people were Susan Biltmore and Anne Armsted.
"Sunny," I gasped mentally. "The old drunk!"
So that was it. Anne and I were whisked away to the airport and along with two plain-clothes policemen, were hustled aboard a jet bound for the west coast.
Anne was subpoenaed as a witness, which wasn't so bad, but I was being implicated as an accomplice to murder, and I was scared shitless. Obviously, Sunny had lied to get me involved. He was probably sore at me for running off to Montreal and figured there would be no better way to get even with me than by getting me involved in this bloody murder. And even though I had faith in the legal system where crimes of this magnitude are concerned, I was still scared. I had heard too damned often about freak cases where innocent people were hanged for crimes they knew nothing about.
For the whole trip, I sat quietly looking out the window, getting progressively more depressed as we neared our destination. I started to doubt my way of life. Maybe my father and mother, stupid as they were, were right. I mean, I had only been out of the house four months and already I had been arrested twice and was now involved in a murder. The fact that I was entirely innocent was irrelevant. It was the fact that I hung around with people like Sunny that mattered. People are always judged by the company they keep and Sunny, admittedly, was not the best company.
When we landed in Vancouver, we were met by two other plain-clothes cops and the ones who had accompanied us during the flight said good-bye to us as though we were old friends.
On the grounds that I had run out once already, I was denied bail and locked away in another women's prison. During the next few days of incarceration, I felt myself slipping, psychologically. I was heading for a breakdown and every hour drove me further in that direction. But that was just the beginning. The worst was yet to come.
At the preliminary hearing, new evidence was brought in against me, evidence that proved I was being framed. They had found the knife that Sunny used to cut off the old drunk's cock. It had my fingerprints on it. Sunny must have been wearing gloves when he did it and then when I passed out he must have put the knife in my hand. That's the only way I could figure it and that's what I told my lawyer, but I could tell by the way he reacted that he did not believe me. Things were getting worse and worse and I was in a panic.
By the time the trial got underway, many things had switched around. I was being charged with manslaughter and Sunny with being an accomplice. My lawyer informed me of his plan to put me on the stand and then get Sunny on the stand after me. He said that if I were telling the truth, he thought he could rattle Sunny enough to show he was lying. It was a good tactical move, but I knew enough about legal proceedings to know that I would have to face the crown attorney if I took the stand and in my weakening emotional condition, I was afraid of what I might say.
I won't bother you with all the ugly details of the trial, but I will tell you the main factors.
Never, throughout the entire hearing, did my stomach stop flipping around, but by far the worst was when I had to take the stand. It wasn't so bad while my lawyer was doing the questioning, but when the crown attorney took over, things went badly. He asked his questions so rapidly that I really couldn't think properly. I was afraid he was leading me into a trap like I had seen Perry Mason do on television. If only he would slow down a little and give me a chance to figure out what he was trying to make me say. If only the questions were written like a school exam or something, then I would be all right. But, that's not the way a trial works.
In self defense, I started to answer negatively to all his questions, sometimes without even knowing what the questions were. And it was that childish attempt to protect myself that ultimately cooked my goose, as they say. One of the questions to which I answered no was, "Did you return to the scene of the crime the following day?"
A few minutes later two witnesses claimed they saw me there and naturally the court would and did believe them. Had it not been for that, I would be free right now, because the manslaughter charges were dropped two days later when Sunny took the stand.
My lawyer made mincemeat out of him. Had he not been such an egotistical bastard, he might have gotten away with the whole thing, but as it was, he fell right into all the lawyer's traps and ended up confessing the whole thing. He was charged with third degree murder, but I don't know how long a sentence he got. My name was cleared of the manslaughter charge, but I was charged with perjury and would have to face the music for that.
And that's where I am right now, in British Columbia's - beautiful reform institution for women. But before I start telling you about life here on the inside, I must tell you about my lawyer.
Most people think that lawyers are the mo^ law-abiding citizens in the country, next to judges, but that's a lot of bullshit. In fact, many lawyers are just big con men who'll take you for everything you've got and give you nothing in return but a lot of mixed-up legal gibberish.
My lawyer was not a con man. He was a damned good speaker and he knew the criminal code like the back of his hand. But when I was in his office before my trial for perjury, he did something that I would never have expected. He pulled out a marijuana cigarette and offered it to me.
"No, thank you, I don't smoke it," I lied, fearing it was some kind of trick.
"Oh, come on now, I know you do. Don't worry, I'm not trying to catch you. I'll smoke along with you."
Reluctantly I took a few hits off the joint and inhaled them deeply. The lawyer did likewise. He was a young and very handsome man whose name I will withhold. The more marijuana I inhaled, the better he looked.
"If this isn't a trick," I asked him, "why are you doing it?"
"You know that your trial this afternoon is just a formality. You have no hope of beating it. That means you're going behind bars for a few months and in that place you will be lucky if you get an ordinary cigarette, let alone one of these. I just want to see you enjoy yourself before they lock you up."
It was an extremely kind thing for him to do, but I knew men well enough to know that there was more to it than that, so I pushed him further.
"Thank you very much, but it seems to me that there might be some other reason for this treat."
He was a confident man. He had to be to be a good lawyer. So he didn't beat around the bush for too much longer.
"You are the most beautiful client I have ever had and I want you to know that, for the most part, I find your way of life very appealing. Sex is a wonderful thing and it's something else you're not going to get for the next few months. So what I'm saying is that I want it and I'm sure you wouldn't mind it. Why don't we make it right here in my office?"
All I could do was smile. I think of all the times I have been asked to fuck, this one was the most flattering. Here was a man who had made it in society and yet had not given up all his human qualities. Even though he was a lawyer and I a criminal, the call of the cunt was stronger than any social hang-ups he might have had about fucking clients. Of course, maybe this was a common practice for him, but I didn't want to think that at the time and I still don't. If ever I were to get married I think I would like to marry someone like him or even better, him.
I crushed out the joint I was smoking and advanced toward him. "I think that's a beautiful idea," I said, undoing his tie. His arms found their way around my body, and he drew me close. I opened his shirt and ran my fingers through the hair on his chest. When I felt his fingers tug my zipper down at the back, I leaned forward and let my dress fall off my shoulders. I was rather sorry that I had worn a brassiere, because I think they are ugly and silly. But I wanted to appear respectable in court and to stuffy people, a bra is a social necessity.
The lawyer let his shirt cascade to the floor, then undipped my bra. When it came off, my breasts fell forward and brushed against his chest. He held that position for several minutes moving ever so slightly and letting my nipples tickle his rib cage. His hands slid down my panty-hose and his fingers explored the cleavage of my ass. Under his pants, I could feel his cock coming alive. It bulged against my belly.
"Take your pants off!" And while he did, I stepped out of my panty-hose. When we were naked, we came together again. His cock was completely erect now and it stuck straight out about seven inches from his body. When we embraced, it dug into my abdomen.
"You have a very nice cock," I purred, wrapping my hands around it.
"You have a very nice body," he reciprocated.
"Really? What part of my body do you like best?"
"I like all of it, especially your breasts. I love your breasts. They're full and smooth and your nipples are big and hard."
He lowered his head and sucked on my left breast. It felt good. It would be the last time a man would suck my nipples for quite a while and I wanted to enjoy it to the full. I held his head and pushed my breast hard against his face. He increased the suction and I could feel it pulling at the root of my tit. I could feel it in the hollow of my cunt.
"Suck the other one please."
He shifted his head to my right side and took my breast in his hand. It bulged out, the aureole stretched smooth, the nipple straining its tissue. He plunged it into his moist mouth and lapped it with his tongue. My whole body tingled.
"Fuck me. Fuck me now," I whispered, already short of breath. I lay down on my back and spread my legs on the carpet. The lawyer stood for a minute and looked into my cunt, then he went down to his knees and slid along my body, kissing my vaginal lips as he did so. His body was heavy and powerful. It covered mine completely as he held the tip of his hard penis on my clitoris and teased me until a guttural demand gushed from my throat.
"Give it to me. Put it inside! Fuck me!"
But he still held back. Across my lips and chin, his tongue played and tickled. Then it sank deep into my mouth. His hands began once again to manipulate my breasts while he nibbled on my ear.
I was perspiring profusely. My body was burning with passion. I had to have that cock. It was like an addict's fix, but he wouldn't give it to me. I tilted my cunt this way and that, trying to negotiate contact with his rod. I tugged and pulled at him, but he kept the meat away from me. He kept me from my pleasure.
The incessant flicking of his finger across my left nipple tickled me into hysterics. My body pitched and twisted under him.
And then it came, what I had been waiting for. With a soft, mushy sound, his cock opened me up and penetrated seven long, thick inches. The flesh in and around my clit shifted with his thrusts, causing a sensation in my clitoris that would soon make me climax. I lifted my knees up to my chest and rolled my cunt around his cock. His greased organ moved in and out with ease, up to the pubic bone, back to the head, spreading the flexible walls of my cunt and letting them recede again.
Then, with the precision of an acrobat, he withdrew and turned me over. Lifting my hindquarters, he re-entered from the rear. His hands played with my dangling breasts. In this position, he fucked me through one climax and well on the way to another.
Without warning, just as the tingling in my body was about to reach a second crescendo, he pulled out quickly, causing the sides of my throbbing cunt to slap together with a loud smack. He opened my legs and slid between them. Then, lying on his back beneath me, he guided me down onto his swollen organ. This position afforded him the greatest penetration and that, coupled with the continual tweaking of my nipples, brought me to another orgasm. This time he came with me and I could feel his sperm gush in and dribble out of me.
While still inside of me, my lawyer's cock began to withdraw into its foreskin. The ball bag loosened its grip on his testicles and allowed them to droop down to his asshole.
The red flushes that always appear on my breasts slowly disappeared and my nipples started to go slack. It was over.
When we had cleaned up in his private shower, we had a cigarette, then went downstairs to his car and drove to court. He was right, of course. The trial was just a formality and in no time at all I was on my way to prison. He said good-bye and promised to visit me when he got the chance.
As I was leaving the courtroom, he leaned over and whispered into my ear. I am sure all the people in the court wanted to know what it was he said to me. Was he saying we'd appeal? Was he giving me encouragement or legal advice? Nope! He was saying, "You're the best piece of ass I have ever had."
I have seen him three times since then and I think when I get out of here, we'll probably pick up where we left off. But now I must dedicate some space to describing this place. This place of residence or, more likely, this place of residue.
When I arrived I was given my prison dress. It came down two inches below my knees and did nothing for my figure, but that didn't bother me a hell of a lot, since I have never dressed for women anyway. But what did bother me was that they had insisted on cutting off my hair. And I mean right off. It had nothing to do with disease, it was just tradition. I was only supposed to be in there for a couple of months, but they went ahead with it anyway. They just like to humiliate you, that's all. That's what prison life is all about-humiliation. The guards and the warden try everything in their power to make you feel like an animal and the old broads who have been in and out of prison all their lives are exactly that-filthy old animals.
The prison itself was huge. I don't know exactly how many inmates it could hold but it would be in the hundreds. And it must have been pretty well filled to capacity at the time of my sojourn. Each woman had her own individual cell in which she spent about nineteen hours. The other five hours were divided into two hours for recreation (that's a laugh), one half-hour each for breakfast, lunch and supper. And that was how we spent our days.
I resigned myself to the repulsive fact that I would be spending considerable time in this dump. You have to resign yourself or you won't survive. You'd crack up in a week. And, surprisingly, the first few days went fairly well. At the so-called recreation time, I met one or two fairly nice girls who were in on silly charges. They weren't really criminals, but they had already been toughened up by the prison environment. They gave me some very valuable advice which was later borne out rather dramatically.
"These old guards have been around convicts so long that they look and act and think like the criminals they are supposed to be guarding. They don't care whether you're good or not, only whether you're tough. If you are tough, or pretend to be, you'll come out of here in one piece. If you're weak, it doesn't matter how good you try to be, they'll break you, one way or another."
The girl who said that, Bobby Windfred, was killed three weeks later by a couple of Lesbians. None of the prisoners saw the body, but it was rumored that her breasts were cut clean off and her vagina slit open with a butcher knife. Her death hit me very hard, but no matter how depressed I got, I never forgot her advice. It paid off.
Chapter Eight
In the reformatory, as it is often referred to as well as rehabilitation center and detention home, the inmates have three possibilities where sex is concerned: homo, auto or nil.
For me it is not too frustrating, because I know I will be out in a few months, but for the poor broads who are up for along stretch, it is hell. The ones who choose to abstain from sex altogether are usually ones who have undergone some kind of mystical or religious metamorphosis. They kneel in their cells for hours on end and pray themselves to spiritual climaxes. I often hear them at night wailing away at God, calling on him to cleanse their wretched souls and to give them the strength to bear the weight of the world. I find it rather curious that none of them, in the time I have resided in this institution, have gained any strength at all. They are all just as wretched as when I first got to know them. They are still crying at night and moaning during the day. I have far less respect for this group of inmates than I have for the masturbators and the Lesbians.
Where religion is concerned, I believe that we have to approach God as students, not as despicable slaves. I believe that God spits on people who grovel at his feet and complain about his world. Besides, anyone who refuses to use his sex organs is saying, in effect, that he is not pleased with the way God made him and no matter how much he prays, he cannot expect to get God's ear.
The Lesbians constitute the largest sexual group in the prison. Every second inmate is partly or totally Lesbian. In fact, with the exception of the religious fanatics, I think all of us have at one time or another had a Lesbian affair in here. Some of the non-Lesbians have done it once or twice merely out of curiosity. Some, like me, have been forced into it.
Naturally, when I first came I was approached by every butch in the place. They love young girls, especially ones as good-looking as I am. Most of the prisoners are tough and ugly and they've been banged and buggered in every way imaginable, so when I arrived there was an unhealthy and rather frightening competition among the butches to see who would get me as a steady girl friend. Of course, they didn't bother to ask me whether or not I was interested.
I have only had one serious Lesbian encounter since I came in and I don't think I'll have another. I'll tell you about that later.
The third group, the second largest, is made up of the masturbators. This is the group to which I belong and I think it is the most imaginative of the three.
We have many ways of giving ourselves climaxes and every girl has her favorite. Let me tell you about some of them now.
In prison, you select a friend quickly, without bothering about social niceties. I was only in two days and already I had a very close friend and confidante in Bobby Windfred, the girl I told you about earlier. Bobby had a macabre sense of humor that I dug very much. Prison had turned her bitter, but in a funny way.
On the second day of my visit here, as Bobby used to call it, we were weaving baskets in the recreation period. The recreation period is a bloody joke. You do what you are told to do and usually the discipline is more rigid than any other time. The guards stand around making sure the girls are enjoying themselves the way they are ordered to enjoy themselves. If they find one who is not, that is, if they find one who is goofing off, they have an assortment of disciplinary measures that they love to employ. Like pinching your nipples until they turn purple or punching you in the cunt. They do this all the time and often for no reason. They will grab a girl's nipple and squeeze, and while they are doing it they say, "This is for nothing! Can you imagine what we would do if you ever stepped out of line?"
In the first week I had that done to me four times and I can tell you it hurts like hell. It's a wonder I don't have breast cancer by now.
Anyway, when the guards are in a good mood, which is seldom, they allow the girls to talk during the recreation period. But you can only talk to the girl next to you. That's why Bobby and I always tried to sit together.
I was telling her one day about the plaster casting we used to do and she thought it was about the most imaginative thing she had ever heard of. She said it gave her a tickle in her cunt just to think about it. Then she told me about her most prized possession, the only thing she had managed to smuggle into the prison with her-a dildo. I found out later that there are many dildos in the prison and the guards don't bother to take them away from the girls unless they have a bone to pick with someone in particular.
During the recreation period, we are allowed to go to the shithouse once each and two people can go at the same time because there are two toilets in the John.
One day, about halfway through the period, Bobby and I excused ourselves and with the dildo stuck in her underpants we skipped to the can. It was my second week there and I was just getting used to the place. When you're in prison, you go through stages of highs and lows. The first few days are extremely low, then after about a week you start to get used to the idea of being locked away. If you're doing a fairly long stint, so I'm told, every anniversary is tough to go through, unless you're in for a very long stretch. Then only the first few and the last few anniversaries are difficult.
I was just getting over my initial depression the day that Bobby and I bounced off to the toilet with her dildo. When she took it out of her undies, I thought she was putting me on. It was about nineteen inches long and bigger around at the thinnest part than my outstretched thumb and forefinger could reach.
"I'm supposed to get that in me?" I asked, sounding much like I had months before when I first saw Danny Bloomfield's erection.
"No, not all of it," Bobby advised. She was very blase. "You just use as much as you can. Do you want me to go first?"
I did. Without wasting any time-we only had five minutes-Bobby took down her pants and sat on the floor, bringing her knees up around her chin. She had a loose, dark brown cunt that looked like it might have given birth at one time or another. Her pubic hair was remarkably thick and bushy, growing well up on her underbelly and down quite a distance on the insides of her thighs. After coating the lips with a generous dose of saliva, Bobby inserted the tip of the dildo into her cunt and jiggled it back and forth. Little by little, the polished wooden shaft disappeared between her legs. I could see that her vagina was lubricating itself, allowing the instrument to move with greater freedom to about five or six inches in. The actual in-and-out motion was no more than an inch. I suppose that's the way the dildo was made so big, so that you didn't need a lot of in and out action in order to get stimulation. Pulling it right out to the tip and ramming it all the way in would probably be too risky.
I heard two or three weeks later that the Lesbians have dildos stashed all over the prison and when they get together for some sex, they stick dildos up their asses, their cunts and God knows where else, with a Lesbian on each one, pumping them in as far as they will go at a frantic pace. One thing is for sure. The Lesbians around here are tough broads. Believe it or not, one of the main causes of death in the prison is internal bleeding. I've only had one brush with them so far and I came through it safely, but I hope like hell I don't get involved with them again. They scare me as much as the guards.
Bobby reached a climax very fast. She let out a little gasp and bit her lower lip for just a few seconds, then her mouth fell open and her body relaxed all over. When she stood up she showed no visible signs of having just masturbated except for some heaving of the breasts.
It was my turn. I took up the same position on the floor, wet the lips of my cunt and brought the tip of the dildo to the opening. It wouldn't go in. I jiggled and pushed and prodded, but it refused to go in more than an inch. My cunt was as dry as sandpaper and no matter how hard I tried to imagine that the hard object I was holding was a man's cock, I couldn't. There was no lubrication.
When it was time to get back to the rec room, I gave up in maddened frustration. It was the first chance I had had to have some kind of sex and I blew it. There would be other chances, but you don't think about that at the time.
Bobby and I scurried to the recreation room and went back to work. The other girls knew what we had been up to and so did the guards, but they didn't seem to mind much, although some of the butches did make snide remarks out of jealousy.
I was more frustrated after my attempt at masturbation than I had been when I started, so I was more than happy when I got another crack at it early the following week. This time, Bobby very thoughtfully brought along some vaseline which she went to a lot of trouble to steal from the prison hospital. She deliberately burnt her finger with a cigarette in order to have an excuse to go. Then, when the nurse wasn't looking, she slipped the jar of vaseline up under her skirt. If you think it's insane to risk getting slapped around by the guards and being denied all privileges just to obtain a lubricant for some girl's cunt so she can masturbate, then you've obviously never been in prison. Because that's the only way to get through a prison term-by setting up little challenges or other forms of excitement to break the boredom. Not only does your concept of time change on the inside, but your whole sense of values too. For Bobby, getting that vaseline was just as important as it would be for somebody on the outside to find a very rare gift for a dear friend. It's things like that that prison relationships are made of.
This time Bobby didn't masturbate. Instead, she dedicated the whole five minutes to me. I sat on the floor, leaning back on my hands with my knees up while she did all the work. First, she spread the cold vaseline on my vagina, then on the dildo.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be!"
She placed the head of the wooden cock in the center of my cunt and eased it in. I felt it force the lips back and stretch the skin around the clitoris. As it came in further the walls of my cunt opened up and began producing their own juices. My stomach fluttered as the dildo kept coming.
The shaft of the instrument was marked off in inches, with tiny notches and it was just as the seven-inch mark disappeared from my view that I asked her to stop. I was still aware that it was not a real male sex organ but, nonetheless, the old familiar feeling was creeping in on me again. That old feeling of being bloated with cock was there again.
Bobby started to move the dildo in and out. I could hear the unique sound that it made as the smooth wood glided along the wet sides of the vaginal barrel. It was exactly the same sound that a cock makes-a real cock, a real, flesh-and-blood, bone-hard cock. My cunt was coming alive again, alive with the friction of a fuck. It became the center of my system as all my organs geared themselves to fulfilling that intoxicating irritation between my legs. It's almost identical to the irritation one feels when one has to piss. But the way to relieve this irritation is not to drain water, but to magnify it until your whole body cracks like a whip under an all-powerful climax.
I could feel it coming. The climax, I mean. It started in my clitoris and spread in waves throughout my cunt, abdomen, stomach, breasts and then my entire body. I jumped and twitched around the dildo as Bobby poked and probed it as far as it would go into my tingling pussy.
When it was over, I was altogether enervated. I was content. That was my first bit of sex in the prison and, although it certainly wasn't my last, I think perhaps it was the most pleasurable, in a way.
I had it several times more with Bobby, but soon after that she was killed by those Lesbians. I wished then, and I still do, there was some way I could avenge my friend, but I know damned well the guards are on their side. They didn't even report it to anyone as far as I know. At least there was never anything said about it and nobody came in from the outside to investigate it. They just dug a hole in the prison graveyard and lowered her down in a cheap wooden box. At the funeral, I couldn't help wondering how many other girls had met with the same fate.
Bobby's death set me way back in my efforts to adjust to prison life. In fact, I guess I was worse after that happened than I was when I first came in. But what bothered me even more than her death was the fact that nobody gave a damn one way or the other. When you're inside you are the only one who cares what happens to you. That's why ex-cons sometimes seem so selfish, because they've learned that in the end, you're all alone in this world. If you don't look after your own skin, you're likely to lose it.
After Bobby's death, I was really alone, so it was up to me to learn all the ins and outs of prison life. Bobby's advice about being tough was more than handy. It helped me get along with the guards without getting my tits tweaked every hour on the hour and, more importantly, it helped me put the Lesbians in their place.
My first lesson in that subject came about two days after Bobby's body was in the ground. The Lesbians, or Lezzies as we call them, moved in on me like vultures on carrion. I had no buddy and therefore I was fair game.
The first one to make a concerted pitch for my hand in friendship was a thirty-five-year-old we called Pillows because of the shape and size of her breasts, which hung down around her navel somewhere. Pillows was one of the toughest broads there. Every new girl who came in without a buddy was considered fair game, but only after Pillows had had a whack at her. She never really bugged them if they had a buddy, although she might make a few passes, but as soon as their buddies left or split off, they were open to every abuse under the sun. I don't know where this strange ethic came from, but all the Lezzies respect it.
Like I said, two days after Bobby's death, old Pillows was on me like a leech. When I told her I was not interested in her or any other Lesbian in the place, she didn't even bat an eye.
"Look, honey," she growled in a harsh voice, "You're too young to know what you're interested in. You let Pillows tell you what you're interested in and what you ain't. I know what life is like in here and I know what life is like out there and I can tell you that there ain't no difference. It's just the same thing seen through different glasses. So you let old Pillows give you a bit of this wood up your pussy before you make judgments."
She pulled her dildo out from under her dress. It was like Bobby's which, incidentally, was mine now that she had gone, only it had the stain of many cunts on it. It was almost black.
"You want to let Pillows lick your furry little pussy with her big wet tongue before you say you ain't interested. You want to suck on these big tits like you used to suck on your mummy. It'll make you sleep better at night."
"I sleep well enough as it is," I answered, trying not to be frightened by her cold, hard voice.
"You won't. Take it from me. I know what life is like in here and I'm tellin' you, you won't sleep for a few weeks, maybe months from now. You'll be cryin' out for Mummy's tit. You'll be dreamin' 'bout Mummy's tit, but it won't come to you. You got to come to old Pillows and get your suckies from her. I'm tellin' you, I know what it's like in here."
That's roughly the same pitch she gave eve; new kid that came in. If it failed, she went into one that was not nearly so motherly.
"Look, baby, we give kids like you a choice. You can make it with the wood or you can make it with the butcher knife, sometime when you least expect it. Got the picture, baby? I think a friend of yours got it that way not too long ago."
"What do you know about Bobby's death?" I demanded sharply.
"Relax, I had nothing to do with her getting slit. If I had done it, it wouldn't have been such a messy job. Look, kid, be my flower and I promise, nobody's going to touch you. But if you refuse, I can tell you there are some pretty tough customers in this hotel and there ain't no tellin' what they might try."
"And you're the toughest of the lot," I sniped. Without warning, she backhanded me across the face and I went to the floor heavily, spraining my wrist. I was scared shitless and losing my cool fast. But then, just in the nick of time, a guard entered the shower room.
"What's going on here?"
"Nothing," Pillows spoke up before I could say a word.
"She hit me."
"Now why would she do that? You must have been doing something to bug her," the heavy-set guard sneered down at me.
"I didn't do anything. She was trying to force me to do her filthy things."
"What filthy things? Speak up!"
"Make love to her!" I spat out confidently, thinking that I had the guard on my side. What a mistake!
"Shut up!" I shut up. "Can you prove anything you've said? 'Cause if you can't, you're going to wish you never opened your mouth."
"How can I prove anything? We were the only ones here. It's just her word against mine, but everybody knows she does this to every girl who comes in here."
The guard stared straight through me. Her face was set like iron. She had lips like a snake and looking into her eyes was like looking into the glassy orbs of a robot.
"Open your legs," she said with no trace of any emotion whatsoever. I was still on the floor holding my face. I started to get up.
"Don't bother to get up. Just open your legs."
I did what I was told.
"Put your hands behind you and lean back." I did so, but reluctantly, because it put me in a very vulnerable position. Then, with a measured stroke, like the professional sadist that she was, she planted the thick black heel of her right shoe square in my cunt.
"That'll give you some idea what we think of cry-babies around here." And she turned on her heels and stomped out.
I was doubled up on the floor trying not to cry from the pain, but tears welled in my eyes against my will. My cunt was bruised right to the bone and the throbbing spread to my stomach and thighs.
"That wasn't very smart of you, was it?" Pillows delighted in my suffering. "Didn't you know she's a Lezzie?"
"It figures," I grunted. The pain was dissipating a little, but I was still worried about the possible damages. "It figures!" I gave up right there trying to sort out the prisoners from the guards. They are all alike. The old broads who have been working around here for a long time have taken on all the same characteristics as the prisoners they are supposed to guard. Besides, any woman who would take a job like this in the first place, especially in a prison system that is as outdated as this one, would have to be a trifle sick. I made up my mind then that I had nothing but enemies in here. Both the other prisoners and the guards were my enemies and I could not trust one any more than the other.
"Yeah, that's old Brenda. She's a butch you don't cross if you value your life. She ain't goin' to give me shit for comin' after you when she does exactly the same thing to every young flower she-can get her old hands on, now is she?"
I was still holding my cunt when Pillows approached me like a predator stalking a wounded animal.
"Let me see the damages. Come on!"
I was too weak to resist. I let her lift my dress and hook her callused fingers into the top of my underwear. A wave of shivers raced up my spine to the back of my neck when she tugged it down over my knees to my ankles.
"Oh, you're going to have a sore little pussy for a few days," she leered, her fingers exploring the puffy flesh. "Yep, that's a nasty bruise you've got there." She ran the back of her nails up and down the lips of my cunt, slipping her pinky into the crack almost bashfully. I have to admit, it was soothing, and even though her motives made me feel sick to my stomach, my swollen cuntlips were beginning to open to her expert touch.
"Pillows' lips are good medicine," she whispered as softly as she could with her gravel voice. "Pillows' tongue will lick it better." She inched her way down to the still throbbing area and pushed my legs open with her powerful, almost manly hands. Then, spreading the lips of my cunt with her fingers, she drew her wet tongue along the length of it, caressing my clitoris and probing my canal as she went. The damaged tissue stung with her saliva. I felt her relax. Her nose rubbed back and forth across the tip of my crack while her tongue, extended to its ultimate length, wriggled like a hot worm inside me. Ready and waiting, to my right, only inches from my hand, was her heavy, well-used dildo.
In a minute, I thought, she'll be banging my bruises with that fucking thing and then will I have the right to deny that I'm a Lesbian? Isn't this how they all start? They give in once and before they know it, they're hooked for life.
The thought of what I was doing was worse than the act itself. I would be out of this dump in a few months, but if I went through with this, God knows what I would walk out as.
Pretending that her lapping hr d gotten to me far more than it had, I arched my body against her face and shifted slightly-not much, but just enough to wrap my hand around the dildo.
It was massive. Any man would be more than proud to wear a cock that big and strong. But right at that moment, it was not a cock or a dildo to mi It was something else entirely.
Clenching my teeth and bringing every muscle and fiber in my body to attention, I took quick aim and with a violent twitch, drove the wooden shaft into her temple. Old Pillows collapsed into my cunt as it closed on her face.
I haven't seen Pillows since then. She was taken away from the prison to a hospital on the outside. I don't know for sure what's become of her, but I've heard via the grapevine that the force of the blow damaged her brain and that she will be an idiot for the rest of her life. If that's true, it doesn't bother me in the slightest. She got what she deserved.
Brenda, the butch guard, and a few others wanted to have me tried in a court of law, but the chief shithead at the prison soon dissuaded them. If it were to go to court, all the crap that goes on in here would be exposed. They certainly couldn't afford that, because half of them would lose their jobs.
Brenda has left the prison, but she has been replaced by another old broad who isn't a Lesbian, but who is just as tough.
But the significant thing about all this is that I have not been bugged by the Lesbians since then. Even though I don't have a buddy, I'm still listed as one of the few untouchables in the joint. I get my share of sex by myself with my trusty dildo, the one I inherited from Bobby, and I don't owe anybody anything. The guards treat me like dirt just like they treat any drop-in, but they have maintained a hands-off policy. I very seldom get my nipples tweaked any more. Thank God for that.
It was my lawyer who convinced me to write this book. He said that it might give some people an idea of what the new world is all about and besides, it might give me some bread to live off when I get out of here. So that's what I'm doing. All my free time goes into two things and two things only-writing this book and masturbating with Peter John, my dildo.
For the first couple of months, I exchanged a lot of letters with Anne, who is now living with her parents in Toronto, but they were always censored to the point where they were almost unreadable.
I did manage to read, however, that my parents' marriage is on the verge of breaking up, and that my father has just suffered a substantial loss of money on the stock market. One of the most exciting bits of news which I was able to decipher around the black blotches left by the censor's pen was that Anne has managed to ball her old English teacher. By that I don't mean that he is old in years, but that he is the one she had in her last year at high school. She didn't give me all the details, but she did say that he gave her a pretty good fuck and afterwards recited Shakespeare instead of having a cigarette. Good old Anne, she's always had a way of doing things well.
She says she's thinking of going to Europe and, of course, wants me to go with her, but I'm torn between that and trying to strike up a good relationship with my lawyer. He's done a lot for me and I wouldn't mind giving him at least a little pussy in return. We'll see about that in a month's time when I get out of this rat hole.
I think I should say here that I don't regret anything I've done. If I were to live the last few months over again, I would live them just about the way I did. I may have gotten myself some pain, but I think it is one hell of a lot better to suffer a little while you're young, than a lot when you're older.
I think I've liberated myself where sex is concerned. I'm a long way from being a perfect human being, but at least I have shed the hang-ups that are threatening to destroy our present society.
Almost every one of the so-called motiveless murders in North America today can be traced back to sexual repression and if that alone isn't a strong argument in favor of free love, I don't know what is. Right now, I'm at the stage where I'm almost preoccupied with sex and so, I think, are most young people today, but that is only because we are fighting against hundreds of years of tyrannical Puritanism. We are going to the other extreme like a starving man who overeats when he is offered a big meal.
But when sex is accepted as a natural form of pleasure, we won't pay much more attention to it than we do to eating or drinking. So, just remember, you people out there, if you think your daughter's a slut, it's you who have made her one. And besides, it's better to be a slut than a dried-up old clit or, to put it another way, a peeping Tom makes better use of his eyes than someone who keeps them shut.
AFTERTHOUGHT The Perfect Fuck I intended to end this novel with what I wrote yesterday, but last night I had a dream, the most beautiful dream of my life and I have to write a few more pages and tell you about it.
Everything in the dream was amazingly realistic except that I could not recognize the man I was with. He was nobody I knew. We were in a large bedroom that was decorated in gold and blue. I was lying on a huge, circular bed and wearing nothing but a pale blue negligee that let my brownish aureoles and nipples show through. There was a dark blue bow in the front, over my cunt.
The man, whoever he was, was doing a strip at the foot of the bed and with every piece of apparel that floated to the floor, more of his perfectly constructed bronze body was revealed to me. When his pants fell, I felt a flutter in my chest and action between my legs. His cock was pure gold in color and it hung down just above his knee. Even flaccid, it was bigger around than my ankle and the gilded foreskin that hugged the meaty head was soft as silk.
The strange man looked at me, then at his phallus and smiled. Picking the organ up in his hands, he guided the foreskin back, causing the head to ease out. The sperm hole in the end was about one inch long.
"My balls hurt," he said quietly. "They have manufactured sperm for your cunt and they ache to get rid of it." He was holding his boulders in his hand and gently rolling them in his fingers. I reached up and wrapped both my hands around his glittering cock and with a reassuring nod of my head, pulled him toward me. He sat cross-legged on the bed and watched as I moved the loose skin up and down the shaft.
It swelled under my touch. It swelled and swelled until the loose skin disappeared altogether and the shaft was five or six inches across and the head bobbed up and down in my face, over two feet from its base in shimmering pubic hair.
Without the slightest fear-that's the way dreams are-I lay back on the big bed and opened my legs. I could feel very distinctly the lips of my cunt opening up like giant doors. The wet, soft, inner lips and clitoris tingled in the fresh, clean air. My cunt was gaping, but still the lips pushed back farther . . . still it opened up more for the great golden cock that swayed in front of me.
"Are you ready?" he asked, lifting his cock up and pointing it in my face.
I said I was. And still I had no fear of the size of it. I somehow knew I could take him, all of him, into my warm body.
He dropped his heavy cock with a thump between my tits, then slowly lugged it down over my stomach and abdomen to the tip of my great crack and inserted the monstrous head into the damp forest. With a tender thrust, he sent it on its way deep into my body, into crevices of my cunt that no man had ever been man enough to explore.
As my body was filling up with his cock, I looked down and saw the large lump it was making in my underbelly as it penetrated farther and farther. When he was all the way in, the hill in my body extended from my cunt right up to my rib cage and as he moved himself back and forth toward ejaculation, I stroked him through my own skin.
Suddenly, there was an explosion that sent me flying across the bed. My whole body filled up with white, foamy sperm. It gushed from my mouth, cunt and ass and flooded the room and still it kept coming.
I was holding the mammoth organ now with both my hands while it shot semen in all directions. Like a cannon, it jumped and recoiled, spewing the white cream into the air until, finally, after what seemed like hours, it went dry and fell limp in my hands.
The two of us reclined together on the bed and licked the sperm from each other's bodies. It tasted like whipped cream. When my body was clean, it was gold all over and it shone in the light that was coming through a large picture window. For a long while, I examined myself in a mirror and when I looked back at the strange man with the wonderful cock, he wasn't there. Only his wonderful cock remained.
There on the bed was two feet of golden erection. I rushed over and took it in my arms, kissing it passionately on every side.