"When the time came, he took me to his bedroom, lowered his trousers and gave me the surprise of my life. What a root! Why, the damn thing must have been nine inches long and as big around as my wrist! It stood out from his crotch, stiff and quivering and already dripping. Who the hell cared that he was fat and sloppy otherwise. I'd taken some fairly big ones but we still had a heck of a time getting that ponderous pecker into me. When it was snugly bedded in my body, I demonstrated the trick I had learned from Lani. To my amazement, he came like a fire hose. Since that night with Doc, I've never turned down a man just because of his age. In fact, come to think about it, I've never turned down another man anyway."
The above is quoted from one of the letters appearing in this volume. It is presented as fair warning to the prudish, the squeamish and those of delicate tastes. As will be readily appreciated from a glance at the above excerpt, the people who wrote the letters of which this book is composed are not particularly delicate people and are rather more concerned with telling it as it is than with sparing your sensibilities or mine.
It all began while I was having lunch with my literary agent.
"Doug," he said, tidily wiping a bit of steak sauce from the corner of his mouth and fixing me with a sad but accusing eye, "your last novel, the one about the exciting events that took place in Aunt Martha's Antique Shoppe when the genuine Hepplewhite disappeared, has now been in the book stores for six months. It's still there. All the copies."
"I guess it's a slow starter," I offered hopefully.
My literary agent snorted. "Let's face it, Doug, fiction is a dead duck, unless you can come up with another James Bond and, to me, you just ain't the type. Nope, this is the day of the documentary. Now I got a hot lead on a bunch of people in California ... "
"You mean that ... er ... sex sort of thing?" I asked, shuddering.
"What's wrong with sex?" he demanded indignantly. "Whadaya think sells toothpaste, cars, vitamin pills and Pepsi Cola? Sex. Right? Now about this bunch of kooks in California ... I got a letter from a guy named Arnold Fentis who belongs to a wife-swapping club. It seems that he and his group want to be interviewed. They want to tell all and have it published. Don't ask me why. You should go see for yourself. We've had documentaries on all kinds of nuts ... homos, nymphos, Lesbians and even one on the kind of creep that gets his jollies by diddling dead women but we never had one yet on wife-swappers. This could be a real break. I already got your ticket for you on the Sunset."
Like a salmon on a hook, I gave a last, desperate wiggle. "I was thinking about doing a nice juvenile," I started to say and then my literary agent's sad, accusing look turned grim and piercing and I suddenly remembered the overdue payment on my Expando trailer. Meekly I held out my hand for the ticket.
Three thousand miles later, Arnold Fentis and I were sitting in my hotel room in Los Angeles. Arnold is a man in his early thirties. He is an aeronautical engineer, good-looking in a rugged way, well-dressed, well-educated and even a bit polished. My first question was the one that had been bothering me all the way from New York.
"Would you mind telling me why you people suddenly want publicity, Mr. Fentis?"
He grinned wryly. "Not publicity as such. Our real names and even our actual places of employment must be kept out of this. We do have an axe to grind, however, Mate-swapping is more than an amusement with us, Mr. Macauely; it's a way of life. We're not out to convert the world but we would like to let people know that we're neither monsters nor criminals. As you may be aware, the law, spurred on by religious fanatics and busy bodies, sees fit not to respect our right to privacy. We would like to see that changed. Perhaps through education the public can come to accept us for what we are ... ordinary, hard-working Joes and Janes with jobs, families, homes and cars that aren't paid for, who have found a more meaningful and more interesting way of life. We think a book on the subject would help."
We then discussed the mechanics of the thing and I perceived that my original idea of holding tape-recorded interviews with each of the twelve people involved would prove impractical. These were busy people. Some of the wives worked and all engaged in the usual club and church activities, as well as belonging to various civic groups.
I decided that the easiest and quickest way to do it was to have each of them write a letter, giving a brief outline of their background, telling how they happened to become introduced to wife-swapping and how they now felt about membership in the group.
Fentis agreed to this procedure but made the suggestion that each person be required to read his or her letter to the group before submitting it to me for editing. He thought this would act as a restraining influence on any tendency to over dramatize or exaggerate. All of them being thoroughly familiar with the true circumstances of each other's lives, this seemed reasonable to me. As might well be imagined, there could be no secrets in so intimate a congregation.
In the course of our conversation, I elicited the general information that the group had been in existence for over four years. All of the husbands happened to be employed at a large space agency installation near Los Angeles. All were in the ten-thousand-a-year bracket or better. Most of the men were in the thirty to thirty-five age group, the women averaging somewhat younger.
"May I ask what form your ... a ... er ... group activities take?" I asked a bit diffidently. "Are they what are known as ... well as orgies?"
Fentis laughed. "Never. We meet once a week, pair off and return to our own homes ... only not with our own wives."
"Doesn't this involve a lot of driving around? Los Angeles is a big place."
"No. We all live within a block or two of each other. We have all found homes to buy or rent in the same subdivision. We like being close together."
"So I gathered," I said drily, and Fentis chuckled.
Getting the letters, editing them and then calling on the few from whom I needed further information, took several weeks. But the letters were better than I had expected. They were invariably literate, for most of them were people who had enjoyed the advantages of higher education.
I did ask the group, through Fentis, to make no particular attempt to be literary but to concentrate their efforts on giving me the full and true flavor of their lives. They took me quite at my word. I doubt if a less inhibited coterie might be found anywhere. For people of their stations in life, they did surprise me by their marked preference for vulgarities and obscenities in describing the very graphic details of their sexual experiences. I realize, of course, that even "nice" people do talk that way in their bedrooms but I sometimes suspect the group of laying it on a bit thick and of having taken an impish delight in trying to shock me. They succeeded.
I did less editing than I had anticipated. After something of an inner struggle with myself, I decided, in the interest of honest reporting, to delete none of the four-letter words apparently so dear to their hearts and I offer no apology for their inclusion herein. You, as a reader, are entitled to know exactly how these people think and feel and talk, not what I, with my editorial blue pencil poised on high, decide is fitting and proper for you to know.
In working with these people, and in meeting all of them at the nice, sedate, non-orgiastic party they gave for my benefit when the job was done, I came to know them quite well and I found them a delightful bunch, bright, fun-loving and witty ... even though I'm sure they regarded me as a hopelessly square, old fuddy-duddy. Did I enjoy interviewing such beautiful and charming women as Paula Fentis, Susan Martin and Honey Van Haagen? You bet I did. I'm not that square.
Knowing them, I find the name "mate-swappers" totally inadequate to describe them. I think of them as modern-day disciples of Pan, the Arcadian god who has, down through the ages, symbolized man's merry and often ribald pursuit of the sensual pleasures.
They might better be termed cultists and sex worshippers.
D.M.
Chapter One
THE ARNOLD FENTIS STORY
I am that California rarity, a Native Son. I was born and raised in the Bay Area at Berkeley, where my father had a small grocery store. I was an only child but I don't feel that I was either over-protected or spoiled. My parents, happily, were inclined neither toward indulgent permissiveness nor tyranny. It would be difficult to imagine a situation in which a youngster would be more likely to have a healthy, happy boyhood in a sane, well-adjusted home. So, if after reading this, the tribal witch doctors decide to classify me as a filbert or an almond, they at least can't blame the parental tree that bore me.
I liked school and my teachers liked me, although my grades were only average. I loved sports, possibly because I was good at them.
I was about thirteen when I first became aware that girls looked, smelled and felt much nicer than boys. It was a monumental discovery. I went after them with an enthusiasm that was tempered only by the sudden awkwardness and shyness I felt in their presence. But the first one I succeeded in cornering presented me with a terrific problem when I realized that neither of us had more than the vaguest notion of what we were supposed to do with each other.
Margie was twelve and cute as a baby chick. I lured her into the garage at the back of our lot one evening after school. We did some self-conscious kissing and hugging and, after much argument, she finally allowed me to lift her dress and pull her panties down for a quick peek at her sweet, little pussy, still nearly hairless. In turn, I half-masted my trousers and gave her her first close-up of the male penis, if my stiffly throbbing but insignificant boy's pecker could be dignified by that name.
That was all we did and both of us were so frightened by our own daring that we couldn't get away from each other fast enough. That night in my room, however, I thought about her slender, lovely thighs and visualized her delicately shaped vagina, with its temptingly fashioned vulva, and I jacked-off frantically.
I was fifteen before I got that close to another of the bewitching creatures. Her name was Cherry ... a misnomer. Cherry was a year younger than I but older, much older.
There was a tree house in my backyard, one I had built when I was twelve. Cherry expressed a desire to see what it was like inside, so we climbed up and crawled in through the small door. It was musty smelling in there and very cramped, so cramped that she had to sit with her knees under her chin, revealing the undersides of her thighs. Also revealed was the tremendously exciting fact that she was without underwear! She saw where my attention was centered and, with a knowing smile, took my hand and placed it firmly on her warm, moist crotch. She kissed me and her kisses were not at all like the artless ones I had exchanged with Margie. I was shaking like a fox terrier in a blizzard when she unzipped my trousers and took my cock out, fondling and stroking it expertly.
It was impossible to do anything in such close quarters, so we climbed down and went to the garage. One end of it had been partitioned to form a storeroom and, among the junk collected there, was an old mattress. We spread it on the dirt floor, removed our clothing and lay down.
"Kiss my titties," she instructed me.
They were small, beautiful globes of firm, silky flesh with nipples like tiny, pink penises. I kissed them ardently as she stroked my cock.
She taught me how to finger her clitoris. We continued to kiss and to engage in mutual masturbation until our love play had brought us both to the boiling point of excitement. When she urged me to mount her, I scrambled eagerly but awkwardly to a position between her legs and started hunching her like a jack-rabbit. She finally got me calmed down enough to take better aim and actually get it inside her. Of course, I did it much too hard and fast and came long before she was ready but she was very understanding and patient with me. While we were getting ready for a second go at it, she tried to give me a quick cram course in the fine art of fornication and I think I did a much better job that time, although I still came ahead of her. She didn't seem to mind and showed me how to bring her to an orgasm with my fingers.
We were resting, just lying there naked and idly toying with each other. In the thin shafts of sunlight that came through the cracks in the wall to stripe her body with golden bars, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
When the door for the garage burst suddenly open, I damn near died of fright. I was sure it was my father, home early from the store. It wasn't. It was Ed Stone.
I didn't like Ed Stone. He was my age but bigger than I and rougher and meaner.
"Uhuh!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Caughtcha at it! How come you give Arny some and you wouldn't give me none?" he demanded of Cherry.
She shrugged her shoulders. She had neither moved nor made any attempt to cover her nudity. "I do it with guys I want to do it with," she told him calmly.
He leered at her. "Well, you better start wantin' to do it with me, Baby. If you don't, I'm gonna tell. Arny's mom is standin' right at the kitchen window. All I gotta do is holler."
Here, I thought with wildly beating heart, was my chance to make like a TV hero. I would spring to my feet and knock Ed cold with one mighty blow to his ugly face. My second thought on the subject was more realistic. Ed was bigger and stronger than I. I decided to stay safely on the mattress and try to either talk him or bluff him out of screwing my girl.
"You don't have to do anything with him," I assured Cherry. "He's just trying to scare us." I glared at Ed in what I hoped he would consider a terrifying manner.
He ignored me. He was unzipping his pants and taking his cock out, grinning at Cherry. With a pang of jealousy, I saw that his erection was nearly twice the size of mine. I looked at Cherry and saw that her eyes were gleaming more with interest than with fear.
"Oh, I suppose I might as well," she said casually. "Come on, Ed. Let's get it over with."
I spluttered and protested but, by then, they were both ignoring me, so there was nothing for me to do but go sit disconsolately on an empty nail keg and watch Ed take my place on the mattress. By the time he had finished playing around with her, and had mounted her, it occurred to me that this was my chance to pick up something heavy and brain the bastard. But I didn't. I kept putting it off because I had discovered that watching the two of them was nearly as fascinating as doing it myself. As I studied the rotary movement of Ed's fanny, and how Cherry's hips matched it with a like gyration, I realized what a fumbly, dumb kid I was and I was ashamed of the inept display I'd made of myself earlier.
Something else was happening too. I became acutely aware of the terrific excitement generated by mere observation of the sex act and my cock was so hard it made my nuts ache.
Like a spectator who watches a runner from his home team come sliding safely in over the plate, I felt like cheering as Cherry achieved a wild, moaning, groaning orgasm and Ed came right behind her. Panting, he collapsed on her for a minute and then rolled off, his cock still erect and glistening wetly.
He grinned at me and it was a friendly grin. "Go on, Kid," he offered indulgently, "you pop her again too while she's still warm."
I lost no time in complying. As my cock slid easily into her cunt, all slippery from Ed's semen, Cherry smiled up at me, her eyes sleepy and contented, like the eyes of a well-fed cat. I tried to remember all she had told me, and what I had learned from watching Ed, and I think I turned in a rather creditable performance that time. I was immensely proud of myself when I caused her to have a violent orgasm.
After I had dismounted, the three of us lay on the mattress with Cherry in the middle. Ed had cigarettes. He offered me one and he and I smoked while she played with our cocks.
Well, Ed turned out to be my best friend and, for a long time, we continued to share Cherry's favors. As we grew older, we shared other things too, like booze, an old car we bought together and all the girls we could get.
When, by reason of my R.O.T.C. training, I obtained a reserve commission in the army, Ed enlisted. We were in the same outfit in Korea. We nearly shared death there but that was one experience Ed had to face alone. I cried like a baby and, when they sent me to Japan on leave, I got drunk and tore up a whorehouse out of sheer frustration.
I was twenty-three when I came home with my wounds, a dose of the clap and the resolution to obtain an engineering degree.
There were girls in college and I never missed a chance to lay one of them. I was happily discovering that each was a little prettier and a little sexier than the one before her. It seemed to me that, pussy being so much better than anything else in life, it was a damned shame a man had to waste so much of his time studying or working for a living.
I was twenty-eight and working at Lockheed as a junior engineer when I met Paula. She was a clerk in the Personnel Office. She was two years older than I, had been married and widowed. I didn't give a damn about any of that. The first day when I stood at the counter with my application for employment in my hand, and watched her trim legs twinkle across the office to a filing cabinet, I fell madly in love with her. When she smiled at me, I came apart so completely I could hardly remember how to spell my name. She had blue eyes, brown hair, big tits and the tiniest waist I'd ever seen. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and, after eight years of marriage, I still think so.
She wasn't easy. It took me two months to get a date with her and another two weeks to get her into my bed. She was heaven! I thought I knew all about sex. Hell! I was still just a stupid kid sitting on a nail keg watching Ed screw my girl. Paula taught me that my tongue and lips were good for something other than nibbling on her beautiful boobies. She also taught me that a woman's body has more than one orifice and that each is its own little gateway to paradise.
I sometimes wondered if she didn't regret teaching me to go down on her. When we were first married, I hardly had my head out from between her legs long enough for her to go to the bathroom.
It didn't take me long to realize that slipping a ring on Paula's finger hadn't necessarily eliminated all of the competition. Men stared at her wherever she went, whistled if they thought they could get away with it and, at cocktail parties, there was always some wolf trying to proposition her or even ease her into the nearest bedroom.
The hell of it was that I couldn't tell from her apparent reaction to these advances how she actually felt about being the center of male attraction. She certainly didn't act like she was insulted. She'd just laugh, but it was the sort of noncommittal laugh that could have meant almost anything. In my own mind, I was positive that she loved me yet, at the same time, I had the sneaking suspicion that she really enjoyed being admired and made-over by the other guys too. I wanted to know I could trust her but didn't dare probe too deeply, afraid I might find out I couldn't.
We'd been watching the late, late show on TV, one of those, sticky, triangle things, and I'd had a hard time keeping awake through it.
"Arny," Paula said as I flipped the switch that turned the set off, "what would you do if that happened to us ... if I screwed some other man?"
"Hell, I don't know," I replied, yawning. "Why? You planning to step out on me?"
"I've considered it."
"What?" I was no longer sleepy.
"Didn't it ever occur to you," she asked me, "that a woman doesn't stop being a woman when she gets married? You had a lot of variety in your sex life before you met me. Don't you ever have the teeniest, weensiest little yen to get yourself laid by someone new and different?"
"Christ no! You're talking nonsense. I love you."
"I love you too but don't fib to mama. I saw the way you were eyeing that chick in the blue dress at the Meadow's cocktail party."
"Aw, that's different."
"Is it? I was alone for awhile in the kitchen with Tom Meadows. He kissed me and I let him feel me up. I wanted him, Arny. That doesn't mean I don't love you, or that I'd leave you for him, even if he wasn't already married. Don't tell me you wouldn't have kissed that doll in the blue dress if you'd had the same chance I had with Tom."
We fought about it half the night. We spent the other half making madly passionate love, so it was a good thing the next day was Saturday and I didn't have to go to work. I sulked around the house, drinking a lot and feeling miserable but there was a funny, strange, little something nagging at the back of my mind. I couldn't identify it and it wouldn't go away but, whatever it was, it was keeping me in a constant state of sexual excitement.
Paula finally took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. "Come on," she said as she began stripping, "and show mama you still love her."
I did. I fucked her so long and so hard that I exhausted her and then I got down between her legs and sucked her until she'd had so many orgasms she was as limp as a wet noodle.
She lay there, her eyes sleepy and a little smile on her face. The afternoon sun slanted through the Venetian blinds to cast golden bars across her body. It was like watching a movie I'd seen years earlier. I was back in the storage room of our garage with a girl named Cherry. My buddy, Ed, was lying on the other side of her, smoking a cigarette. And, suddenly, I knew what the thing was that had been bothering me all day. I'd been subconsciously visualizing Paula being made love to by Tom Meadows and it had been turning me on like crazy.
Crazy is right, I thought. Christ! I didn't want her to be touched by any other man! Or did I? I thought of Tom kissing her and putting his hands under her skirt to feel her wet, gasping pussy and thrusting a finger into it while she clung to him, rubbing her breasts on his chest and sucking his tongue. I thought of what he had already done with her, and of all the things there remained for him to do, and a wave of affection for him swept over me. After all the screwing we'd just done, I again had a hell of a hard-on.
"You still want Tom Meadows to lay you?" I asked her. I was hearing my own voice say those words. It sounded hoarse and far away and I didn't believe it.
"Yes, but only if you'll say it's okay. I could never do anything behind your back, Darling."
"All right," I said, wondering if that was really me saying that.
She drew my head down and kissed me, her eyes shining, then she turned on the bed and took my cock in her mouth, sucking gently while she massaged it with her tongue and her fingers softly stroked my bag, delicately toying with my balls. When I came, it was a slow explosion that disintegrated me, blowing me apart and then letting the pieces flow together and run into her mouth in soul-shaking jets. I watched her throat move as she swallowed repeatedly.
Nothing more was said about Tom until the following morning and I was in an agony of suspense, afraid she'd changed her mind and wasn't going to go through with it, but I was afraid to bring it up. She got on the phone and stayed there for an hour but that wasn't unusual. Like most women, she loved that damned phone.
I was opening a beer in the kitchen when she came in, an impish look on her face that told me she'd been up to something. "You better shave and change your clothes," she told me. "You're going to have company."
"Company? Me? Who?"
"Remember the cutie in the blue dress? She happens to be Tom Meadows' wife's sister. He's bringing her over here. She'll spend the day with you while Tom and I go to a motel down the coast. Tom could have brought either his wife or his sister-in-law for you but I picked the one you said you liked. You're not going to chicken-out on me now, are you, Honey?"
I shook my head. I was relieved to know that she and Tom were going to make love but this talk about his wife and his sister-in-law was a little too fast for me. She had to spell it out. I'd heard of wife swappers, of course, but they weren't real. They weren't people you knew. They were shadow figures in magazine stories and newspaper articles. When I finally got the picture, I wanted to know how Paula managed to be so much more hip than I concerning what went on among our friends. But she had to get dressed, and put her face on too, so she didn't have time to tell me.
The next thing I knew, she was speeding off in Tom's green convertible and I was standing in the living room looking at Jill Bexel. She was something to look at. She was tiny and blonde and not over twenty-one. She was wearing an aqua-colored sheath, low cut enough for her tits to bulge out over the edge of the material.
"Is that all you're going to do, just stare at me?" she asked with a teasing smile that curled her red lips and made her greenish eyes dance.
"No," I said, "that's not all I'm going to do." I took her in my arms and, when I felt her soft, firm, girl's body pressed against mine, the smell of her perfume and the taste of her lips excitingly different than Paula's I knew that Paula had been right. Being married didn't turn off either your body or your mind. The thrill of someone new was just as real as it had ever been. When I kissed Jill, I had a sudden vision of Paula's lips hungrily seeking Tom's and my cock leaped to attention, prodding Jill in the belly.
She put her hand on it and squeezed me through the cloth of my trousers. "I'm so glad you like me," she murmured.
I offered her a drink. When she sat on the couch, she crossed her legs so that the hem of her dress rode high above her knees. I gulped at the sight of the expanse of smooth, lightly tanned flesh.
Jill smiled. "I love knowing I'm turning a man on," she said, "and I can see you practically panting. I wonder how much of it's me and how much is thinking about your wife and Tom. Don't worry. Your prick will be just as hard no matter what the cause. Paula says you're new at this. It's always this way. The biggest part of the thrill is in thinking about what your better half is doing. It's a thrill that never wears out or gets stale."
"Where's your husband?" I asked her.
"He has a colored girl who lives on Central Avenue. Right at this moment, I expect he's got his tongue as deep as it'll go in her cunt."
"Do you do it with colored guys?"
"Whenever I get the chance. They're fabulous. You ever have a black girl?"
"Not since college. She was great but her parents found out she was dating a white guy and raised hell with her. You can't blame them. We don't bring them anything but trouble."
She had finished her drink. I reached behind her and pulled down the zipper of her dress. I also unsnapped her brassiere. Her breasts tumbled free, available to my lips. I put a hand under her skirt, slid it up the length of her velvety legs and began to pull her panties off.
"Shouldn't we go in the bedroom?"
"Later."
I had her undressed. Her body was beautiful and there was something about it that made me think she might have been even less than twenty-one. She was golden brown from the sun except for the dazzling white of her loins and breasts. I dropped to my knees in front of her, spreading her legs. I began kissing the perfumed skin of those gorgeous thighs, hard, sucking kisses that would leave little bruises. She was so damned delicious I could have eaten her like a candy bar. I found her crotch and buried my nose in the short, curly hair as my tongue opened her vulva and licked at the glutinous deposit that forms on the pink-toned, membraneous flesh.
"Go to it, Baby," she sighed. "God! how I love to be sucked! My husband left without fucking me this morning and, when Tom came over, he wouldn't do it either. He was saving it for Paula. The bastard! I don't give a damn now. I've got you for all day and we're going to have a ball, aren't we, Baby?"
She was the first girl I'd ever known who talked all the time while I was making love to her. Some of them curse and scream or moan and groan. Jill talked.
I mouthed her and stuck my tongue into her, sucked at her in a perfect frenzy of greedy delight. I rolled the hard, little marble of her clitoris to make the honeyed juices flow from her as her passion increased and the rank, musk-smell went to my head like brandy. All the time, I was thinking half about her and half about Paula and Tom. I was seeing Tom's hands on Paula's big tits and on her thighs. I was watching her lovingly stroke his cock or put her sweet lips over it. I could visualize her on her hands and knees, her pretty ass turned up to him so he could do it to her dog fashion. In my imaginative fantasy, I witnessed the contortions of her face as wave after wave of animal lust twisted it. I knew she'd come home with little bite-marks all over her. She'd make him do that because she loved it that way.
Jill suddenly came, her hips jerking and her whole body shaking as though she was experiencing a massive chill. She gripped me by the hair and held my head still while she rotated her crotch all over my mouth, my forehead, my eyes and my nose, washing my face with it as she rubbed herself on me.
When I stood up and dropped down onto her, she groaned. "Yes! Oh, yes! Fuck me! For God's sake fuck me, Baby!"
I drove into her as hard as I could, making her grunt and I did it to her while propped up as high as I could get to as to see her beautiful, young body while I was fucking her. Those milk-white boobies, contrasted against the warm brown of her torso, fascinated me.
I figured Paula and Tom had reached the motel by now and were doing this too, his cock slushing in and out of her while she wrapped her long, lovely legs around him and dug her fingernails convulsively into his back and the cheeks of his ass. I wished I could watch them. The thought triggered me off and I came like an erupting volcano, making her cunt slippery and loose with the pulsing flow of my semen. She came too and, in her excitement, bit me on the shoulder so hard I felt her teeth pierce the skin. I loved it and I shifted my body so that her mouth could find a new place and bite me again.
"God Almighty!" she breathed, sagging as though every bone in her body had given up. "I can't wait to introduce my husband to Paula. Then you and I can do this a lot. Baby, you're terrific!"
"So are you. I want you as often as possible. You bring your husband over for Paula as soon as you can."
* * *
Tom and Paula came in just before daybreak the following morning. She made coffee for all of us, then she and Tom had to do it one more time before he left, so they took the bedroom and Jill and I went back to the couch in the living room. It had been great before, but with Paula and Tom right there in the same house with us, it was out of this world.
After they had gone, I called the job and reported sick. Paula and I took turns telling each other everything we'd done and, every time we'd tell it, we'd get hotter than hell and have to make love again. We kept that up almost all day and I knew I had never loved her so truly and deeply as I did right then.
* * *
With Paula and me, Jill and her husband, and Tom and his wife, we made a three-family group. We had some wonderful times together until I got caught in a big lay-off at Lockheed and we came here to take this job with the Space Administration. We lost no time getting another group started. This one. It was really Paula who did all the recruiting. She can correctly be said to be the founder of this group.
A. FENTIS
Chapter Two
THE PAULA FENTIS STORY
Arny read his letter before the group this evening. I guess we were all waiting to see what he would write before we started ours. I hope that people won't think, from our letters, we don't take ourselves, or this project, at all seriously. We really do. It's just that we're a happy, carefree bunch. If we sometimes sound flip and casual, it's only a reflection of our constant and truly bubbling sense of great joy at being so fortunate as to be who and what we are. Not one of us would trade our lives for those of any others in the world.
I was born in Kansas. Like Arny, I had a good home when I was a kid. Mom and Pop both worked and there was never any shortage of money. Mom was a devout Catholic but Pop took a dim view of the church. If this caused any friction between them, I was never aware of it. Mom saw to it that my brothers and sisters and I were hustled off to Sunday School quite regularly, and to mass whenever she could catch us, but I honestly don't think it made any great impression on any of us.
I matured late. Until I was sixteen, I was the funniest looking kid in town. I was skinny, wore braces on my teeth and was so flat-chested I could have passed for a very homely boy. As a result, I was shy and withdrawn. Then, quite suddenly, things began to happen. I filled out. I grew breasts. The braces came off my teeth. I began to take an interest in boys. What's more, they noticed me too and asked me to go to dances or to go swimming with them. It was wonderful. I knew exactly how a caterpillar must feel when it bursts from its cocoon and emerges as a butterfly.
During that period, I must have been a terribly frustrating girl for the boys to date. I was even frustrating to myself. They all tried to make out with me and I wouldn't let them, although that was what I wanted more than anything else in the world. I had a hang-up about my virginity. I had, somehow, conceived the imbecilic notion that my miraculous blossoming was a fragile and transitory thing and that, if I allowed a boy to make love to me, it would all disappear. Freud would probably have explained it as a subconscious identification with the double-entendre inherent in the word "deflowering."
It took a man named Bill Eaton to sweep this ridiculous, cobwebby idea out of my head. I was seventeen when Bill came to our town. He was the son of an old friend of the family's and had just been discharged from the navy. Pop invited him to stay with us while he looked for a job. Bill was so handsome it made my sphincter tighten like a drawstring just to look at him. When he asked me for a date, I gave the matter careful consideration for about a millionth of a second before I agreed.
I tried to treat Bill the same as I had the boys I'd been going with, only Bill wasn't a boy. He was a man. A fact I soon discovered for myself. When I went for my first ride with him in the moonlight, and he parked the car at an isolated spot along the shore of the lake, I tensed up, ready to fight for my honor. Bill fooled me. He didn't even try to put his arm around me. He just lit a cigarette and talked.
He was a clever rascal. He sensed my fear and he also sensed that I was the type to be aroused on the verbal level. He artfully steered the conversation from innocuous subjects to more inflammatory ones and we were soon having a very frank discussion about sex. I thought it was exciting but harmless, especially as long as he stayed on his own side of the car. I just didn't realize what it was doing to me until, to my great embarrassment, I became aware that I had been sitting there squirming on the seat like I had ants in my pants, my hips moving and my thighs rubbing hard against each other under my skirt. I knew that my crotch was soaking wet and that my breasts felt oddly full and tight against my brassiere.
Bill smiled knowingly and slid over next to me. He kissed me, his lips sweet and warm on mine and I just melted. I mean I came so completely unwound I had no will to resist when he put his hand under the hem of my skirt and began ardently petting my legs. I was in a daze, lost, gone over the edge into some delightfully alien world of pure passion, where existence narrowed down to nothing but eager lips and hands prowling my body. All thought was submerged in the raging flood of lust that washed over me in great, delicious torrents.
Before I knew it, he'd very expertly removed my blouse, my brassiere and my panties and had my skirt gathered around my waist. His hands were everywhere and it seemed he had a hundred of them. When his hot, sucking mouth closed over one of my nipples. I damn near came right then. Of course I'd been experimenting with masturbation for some time, so what he was doing in my crotch with his fingers seemed natural and familiar.
Exercising the same expertise, he unbuckled and dropped his slacks and shorts and guided my hand to his cock. I gripped it fiercely. I'm going to use the same words that Arny used in his letter. That's how we talk among ourselves in the group and I like those words.
As Bill said later, the front seat of a car was a hell of a place to try to pop a cherry, but he was too wise to suggest we do it out on the grass. He didn't want to give me time to think, or to start to cool down. He pulled my hips around until I was half-sitting on his lap, one leg thrown over him. Then he began working it into me. It hurt like the devil but I didn't care. I wanted it so damn bad I wouldn't have minded if it had torn me wide open.
He got it all the way in at last and then it didn't hurt so much, but my God how I loved the feel of it there inside me! He was working his hips, plunging it slowly in and out, and he had his fingers on my clitoris, masturbating me at the same time. He kept me from coming until he was ready and then he let us both go at once.
I could feel his hot sperm squirting into me and I went wild with my own orgasm, nearly fainting from a poignantly piercing excess of sensation as he bit at one of my breasts, sharp, little nibbles that doubled my passion.
When it was over, he continued to kiss and pet me. I felt neither shame nor regret nor fear. I was simply and sublimely happy. If my crotch turned into a pumpkin tomorrow, that was tough but, right then, all I knew or cared about was that I'd been gloriously and wonderfully fucked and I wanted Bill to do it to me over and over again, forever and ever.
We were married a month later. We had to be. I was very pregnant.
Bill had been offered a job in California, so we moved out here and then, to my utter dismay and sorrow, I miscarried and, as hard as we tried, I couldn't get stuck again. The doctors assured me it wasn't a permanent condition, so that was something I still had to look forward to.
Bill and I fought a lot but it was mostly about money. He had absolutely no sense of responsibility. We were pretty happy though, and then Babe Summers came into our lives. She was a cute, little blonde with wiggly hips and teasing eyes. She moved into the next-door apartment. That Bill was becoming increasingly aware of her was obvious and Babe could no more keep from being a flirt than a cat can keep from meowing when it's petted. I should have been furious with both of them, and I was pretty mad at Bill, but the trouble with Babe was that I couldn't help liking her myself. She was a happy little creature and there was something so innocent about her, even about the way she shook her tail at him. She was always bubbling with good humor, disarmingly frank and so honestly and sincerely sweet and kind that I couldn't stay mad at her no matter what she did. We became the best of friends.
"I suppose you've noticed that I've got a terrible crush on your Bill," she said one day as we were having coffee in my breakfast nook.
"I've noticed," I commented drily. "I haven't missed the fact that he gets a hard-on whenever you walk by either."
"Gee, Paula," she exclaimed, "I wouldn't hurt you for anything, so I better find another apartment. I'm afraid of what might happen if I stay here. I don't have much will power. I'll miss you, Honey."
If I'd been in my right mind, I'd have agreed with her but, sitting there looking at her blue eyes brimming with tears, I just couldn't. Telling her to go away would have been like kicking a puppy dog.
"No. I don't want you to leave." I patted her hand. "You stay here and I'll see that Bill behaves himself."
I was kidding myself that I could actually control the stinker. I went downtown one Saturday afternoon and then came right back home because I'd forgotten my money. Bill had Babe down on our living-room floor. They were both naked and he was pouring it to her. They weren't aware of me standing in the door, so I quietly backed out and went to sit in the park for a while. I just didn't know what to do. I could have killed the bastard and yet, even then, I was finding excuses for Babe.
I'd been there about twenty minutes when a man parked his car at the curb near my bench and came over to sit by me. He started talking about the weather and the cost of living, but he wasn't fooling me. I knew by the look in his eye that he was nerving himself to try to pick me up. He was neither young nor good-looking but he was clean and well-dressed. I grew impatient with the way he was stalling around.
"You want me to go to a room with you?" I asked him bluntly.
He was startled but quickly nodded. "Yes. Yes, I want you. I want to make love to you. We can go to my house. My wife is away and I'm alone there."
"All right," I said, "let's go."
I'd show that damned Bill!
We drove to a house in the suburbs and we went directly to his bedroom. I had no intention of enjoying myself with him. I was simply after revenge.
For a man his age, he had a nice body and he was very considerate and gentle with me. To my surprise, I really liked his kisses and I loved the compliments he showered on me as he told me how beautiful my breasts and my legs were. I could tell he was extremely excited about having me there and he was very ardent. Some of his enthusiasm began to rub off on me and there was also the thrill of knowing I was a married woman having her first extra-marital affair. I put my hand on his cock. It was like Bill's and yet it wasn't. The difference made it strangely desirable.
When he began kissing my belly and my thighs, I was too dumb to know what he wanted until he spread my legs and suddenly thrust his tongue into me. Bill had never done that. I was amazed to find that anyone actually would. I was also highly delighted as it was a marvelous sensation. He was lying with his hips near my face and I still had my hand on his cock. He edged closer, straining toward me and I knew what he wanted. Bill had begged and begged me to do that to him and I had steadfastly refused. I had thought it a nasty thing to do. It occurred to me that there could be no greater revenge than to do it with this man whose name I didn't even know. I would go home and tell Bill what I had done just to see the look on his face.
I bent my head and opened my mouth, guiding his erection between my lips. I meant to just gingerly nibble at the head of it but I grew so excited I soon had as much of it as I could get into my mouth and was sucking eagerly on it.
His expert tongue quickly had me jerking and twitching in the throes of a powerful orgasm. A few minutes later, I had started to have another when I felt his cock swell in my mouth and begin to throb. The warm semen flooded me and I was forced to swallow rapidly to keep from choking. I loved the way it made his whole body shake and tremble and I kept on sucking him, wishing I could cause him to have another orgasm right away but, of course, I couldn't.
We stayed there the rest of the day and all that night. I didn't go home until the following morning. I hated leaving then and didn't go until I was sure he had my phone number and address and he had promised to call me whenever there would be a chance for us to get together. What had started out as revenge had become something quite different. I meant to become that man's mistress and, if Bill didn't like it, he could go to hell.
That was the mood I was in when I went home. Bill and Babe were sitting on the couch in our living room. Babe's pretty face was all puffy and her eyes were red from crying. I suspected that she'd cried most of the night. Bill looked scared and angry and he wanted to know where in the hell I'd been.
I told him and I told him exactly what I'd been doing too. I made him listen to the graphic details. I also told him why I'd done it but, that from then on, I meant to continue to do it for another reason ... because I liked it.
He started blustering and swearing at me. It was Babe who shut him up. I was amazed to learn that she had a temper. "Don't you dare talk to her like that!" she blazed at him. "It's your own damned fault she did what she did, you bastard! You don't deserve a good kid like Paula. And I don't deserve her for a friend."
I went over and put my arms round her. I told her it was all right and that she had my permission for her and Bill to shack-up, or whatever they wanted to do, because I certainly meant to have a good time myself from now on.
"I wouldn't let him touch me again with a ten-foot pole!" she cried, burying her face in my lap and crying. Of course she got over that and, before long, Bill was spending most of his nights in her apartment. I couldn't have cared less. I saw my middle-aged Romeo whenever it was possible for him to get away from his wife. On other occasions, I'd go to one of the local cocktail lounges just to get myself picked up and I met some very interesting men that way. In short, I was having a ball.
When Bill had to change jobs, and we moved away from there, I hated saying goodbye to all my new friends and I was really sick about leaving Babe. I loved her a lot more than I had ever loved any of my own sisters.
We hadn't been in the new town more than a week when, through a chance acquaintance, we were invited to a mate-swapping party. It wasn't long before we were regular members of a group. I could see the advantages of communal sex over promiscuity. There was no danger of disease, there were plenty of men available, I didn't have to worry about getting shot by a jealous wife and there was my friendship with the other women. No one who has not been a part of a group can possibly understand or appreciate the closeness and the feeling of family that's generated among us. It's an intensely emotional and sweetly sentimental thing and yet it's wondrously happy and gay. My only regret is that our children can't share in all this richness and goodness of the spirit, not until they marry and, if they're lucky, find groups of their own.
If the scientists are puzzled about us and what makes us tick, then there is their answer. It isn't sex, although sex sparks the drive that brings us together in the first place and it does continue to make our love for each other exciting and meaningful. It's togetherness. Togetherness is the last, the final, fatal and triumphant blow that exercises the hated specter of loneliness, banishing it from our lives forever.
We'd been married three years when Bill died. It was an industrial accident. In a way, I had never ceased to love him, the rascal, for he had been my first.
I moved to Los Angeles and took the job I had when I met Arny. I'd had plenty of chances to marry during the intervening years but I'd been very reluctant to do so. Frankly, I was afraid I'd get stuck with the kind of man who wouldn't be able to understand that marital fidelity was just not my dish of tea. That was why I gave Arny such a bad time at first, but I finally fell so much in love with him I couldn't hold out any longer.
Of course Arny knew I'd been married and widowed but I hadn't told him about the kind of life I'd led with Bill, so it's no wonder the poor guy was confused when I proposed that I go to a motel with Tom Meadows while he spent the day with Tom's sister-in-law, Jill.
Once, when I was doing some recruiting to get the group started, a young bride confessed that she just couldn't grasp the idea of polyandrous sex, if you loved your own husband. She expressed the opinion that, doing it with other men under those circumstances, would be nothing but naked, animal lust. Sex, to her, had to incorporate the finer feelings, or it simply wasn't worth bothering with.
I agree with her a hundred percent. Not that I haven't had experiences that were nothing more than unadulterated lust, but they can't even begin to compare with sex that is inspired by love. What the young bride didn't know, although she later learned, is that the old crap we were taught as youngsters, about only being able to love one man at a time, is just exactly that ... crap. I have a very special feeling for Arny. He's my husband and the father of our two children. (The doctors were right.) He is also a fabulous lover. But I also love every other man in this group. I don't mean I like them. I mean I love them, truly, deeply, romantically and with all the devotion of which my heart is capable. There isn't one of my guys I wouldn't fight for. Just let somebody start picking on them and he'll damned soon find out!
What is equally important, I love the women too. Not as lovers, of course, but as sisters. I love them for sharing the men I love and for being kind and good to them.
It's the mealy-mouthed, holier-than-thou Christians who are down us, but what is more Christian than loving and sharing?
PAULA FENTIS
Chapter Three
THE SAM GREEN STORY
The best and kindest thing that can be said for my childhood is that I survived it. I was born Samuel Greenburg. When I was discharged from the navy, I had my name legally changed to Sam Green. It wasn't that I was ashamed of being Jewish but just that I figured I'd started life with enough handicaps to entitle me to take advantage of the one, small break. There was nothing the court could have done about my appearance but the neighborhood kids, bless 'em, had taken care of that little detail with their fists. By the time I was sixteen, I no longer had a long nose. I had a flat one.
You want to know what makes Sammy run? Ask me. If you're a Hebe on New York's East Side, you run like hell and, when they corner you, you fight your way clear so you can run like hell again.
When I asked my father to sign the papers for my enlistment in the navy, he nodded wisely while he fumbled for his pen. "Better you should get out of this now, Sammy, before they turn you mean like that Franchesi boy."
When you consider that Tony Franchesi is now doing life in Sing Sing, it appears that Papa had a point there.
The navy wasn't bad. They took a skinny, ghetto kid, put forty pounds of mostly muscle on him and taught him to be a machinist. The drinking and the whoring around I learned by myself, aided and abetted by similarly inclined shipmates. But the drive, the compulsion to excel, the running, if you will, are forged into a Yid kid from the day of his birth and, good as the navy was, I could see it was a dead end for me. I took my discharge in San Francisco and began looking for the kind of job that would give me the time and the opportunity to finish my education. I found it in a newspaper ad.
"YOUNG MAN wanted to work part time cataloguing
private library. Student preferred. No experience
necessary. Room, board and good salary."
The address was on Fell Street. I grabbed a bus and went out there but I darn near turned back when I found the place, one of those magnificent, old mansions that have been there since the town rebuilt after the earthquake and fire of 1906. I assumed that the young guy coming down the steps was another applicant for the job. He was the college egghead type; pale, with horn-rimmed glasses, the whole bit. He didn't look to me like someone who had just been hired and I thought, what the hell? If he didn't make it, with his appearance of being a literary type and an intellectual, what chance did I, with my battered face and a lot of muscles, have? I went on up anyway and rang the bell.
The ornate door opened and there, in a maid's uniform, was as cute a little job as I'd ever seen. She was about half white but all of her was pure, exotic, pulse-pounding, female excitement. She had warm, brown skin, with plenty of it showing above the low-cut top and below the shorty skirt. Her dark, dreamy eyes took in all six feet of me and her full, red lips parted in a smile that dimpled her pretty cheeks.
"Please come in if you're here about the job," she said in a throaty voice. "The missus will see you in the parlor."
"Is the job still open?" I asked anxiously but with only half my mind on employment. I was standing close to her. If heaven smells as good as that girl did, the angels could bottle it and sell it on earth for perfume.
"Yes, Sir," she replied, her dimples deepening, "but I got a notion it's about to be filled. This way, please."
I followed the slender, gorgeous legs and the smoothly rotating rump. It was a pleasure. She led me in through an open door to a room that might have been an exhibit in a museum dedicated to the Barbary Coast days. There was high-backed, gilded furniture upholstered in wine-colored velvet. There was a crystal chandelier and a monstrous fireplace. There were pottery figurines, old, dark wood that gleamed softly in the half light and I was standing nearly ankle deep in an Oriental rug that probably cost as much as the average house and lot.
"Welcome to the beloved, long-dead past," a musical voice said lightly and I turned to face the world's most beautiful bitch. There, in the dimly lit room, I figured Valdy Fontaine to be in her early thirties. I was later to be astonished when Penny, the maid, was to tell me that the old girl was nearer fifty than thirty. It always seemed a kind of minor miracle to me but, I guess, if you've got all the money in the world to devote to the cause, it can be done. Valdy had done it. She had auburn hair, long, slanted, green eyes and a face of wicked, heart-breaking beauty. She wore a blue hostess gown, belted by a tasseled cord at the waist. Voluptuous, creamy breasts pushed the filmy material apart in a long V that ran clear to her navel and, as she came forward to greet me, her thighs separated the lower half to give me a tantalizing glimpse of rounded, seductively tapered legs. I told her my name but I got the impression she wasn't really listening. Neither was I. Those evil, entrancing eyes were prowling over my body and her lovely lips were curled into a hungry smile of approval.
"You're hired," she breathed languidly. "I suppose you can read and write."
"A little," I admitted. It didn't seem important. Dimly, I was wondering if the fact that I had a hell of an erection was showing. First Penny and then Valdy ... just too much for a red-blooded, ail-American, Jewish boy like me.
She laughed and it was like the tinkle of wind chimes. "Come with me, Sam. I'll show you where you work." She brushed by me, her hip rubbing against the head of my cock through the cloth of my slacks. She stopped right there, still touching me. "I see you've already had a raise," she said, laughing again. "Good. If it's a really big raise I may have to double your salary."
I think I actually blushed.
I went with her into a room across the hallway. It was a mess and it was about half the size of Carnegie Hall, the walls bare except for empty shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. At one end of the room was a desk and typewriter, nearly hidden by a mountain of books. I never saw so God damn many books in my life; they were stacked everywhere, huge pile after huge pile of them. In addition, there were a dozen large, wooden crates containing, I was sure, more books.
"All you have to do, Sam," Valdy Fontaine said, "is to look through these, catalogue them by title, author, subject and date of publication and write a brief synopsis on each one. Then you number them by the Dewey Decimal System, just like in the public library, put them on the shelves and file the card."
I gulped. "Am I expected to read all of them?"
"If you wish. That might be a good idea. It would make the job last longer. I hope you won't be in a hurry to leave us. You won't, will you?"
She was facing me, standing very close. Deliberately she moved her hips and swayed forward so that her crotch was lightly touching my erection and she smiled at me provocatively. I may not be overly bright but, about some things, I catch on fairly fast. "No," I said, "I won't be in a hurry to leave," and I put my hands on her slim waist, drawing her tightly against me. She sighed as I bent to her lips, her mouth like honeyed wine, her tongue a darting sword-point of sweet flesh. I unfastened the tasseled cord and pushed back the hostess gown; then I had all that creamy, soft, scented body available to my hands, those impossibly beautiful breasts revealed to my lips and my teeth. I ducked my head and bit one of her nipples while I ground my hips at her, trying to fuck her right through the cloth of my pants. I was so damned wild for her I couldn't take time out to half-mast my trousers, or even look around for a couch or something to lay her on. I was out of my head with lust.
She had her fingers locked in my hair, pulling my face even harder into the perfumed softness of her breasts. She was making a funny kind of sobbing noise. "Sammy! Sammy!" she gasped. "Take me upstairs, Sammy!"
We went upstairs then and I had my arm around her all the way, kissing her neck and the delicious slope of her shoulders with every step. Penny was plying a feather duster in the upstairs hall and that was the way we passed her, trying to walk and neck at the same time, but Penny pretended not to notice us. Strangely, I knew an odd nicker of regret that she'd seen us together like that but then I forgot it in the excitement of entering a bedroom and kicking the door shut behind us as I finished stripping the gown from Valdy's body.
"Take your clothes off too," she murmured and began helping me. She ran her hands over my bare chest and down my arms. "God how I love muscles!" she whispered intently, then she unbuckled my belt and knelt to pull my slacks and shorts to the floor. "Oh beautiful, beautiful!" she exclaimed. She cupped my balls in her hands and kissed the head of my cock, cuddling it against the side of her cheek. She rose to her feet and we fell across the bed together. We were both ready, just as we had been from the instant we'd first met. I mounted her and jammed it into her cunt with one, savage lunge. She yelped. I'm pretty big that way and I'll be damned if she wasn't as tight as some young stuff I've had. It must have hurt like hell but she loved it. She dug her claws into my back and lifted her hips to meet mine. Our mouths were locked together and she was chewing at my lips. Suddenly she pulled away from me and I got a good look at her face. The eyes that stared wildly at me weren't human; they were glassy, green marbles filmed with lust and with something worse, something wholly vicious and predatory. Her features were contorted out of all semblance of beauty.
"Hit me!" she hissed, lips pulled back from long, pointed teeth. "Hit me hard!"
It seemed right to do it. I wanted to. I slapped that evil, vampire face hard enough to snap her head to one side and then I backhanded her on the other cheek. She screamed and she screamed again when I bent my head to bite one of her tits hard enough to get the salty taste of her blood in my mouth. She screamed and she came. She bucked and tossed all over the bed, throwing me around, big and heavy as I am, as if I was a midget. She kept on screaming and clawing at my back as I was shooting my wad into her too, filling her cunt with my come, so infected by her craziness and so insane with passion I didn't give a damn about her screaming, or if the whole, fucking city of San Francisco heard her.
It was the wildest piece of ass I'd ever had.
When we lay, panting and exhausted, she cuddled close to me for a while, then slid down on the bed and took my soft, floppy cock in her mouth, not seeming to mind that it was all covered with slimy stuff from both of us. She sucked it gently and lovingly, her auburn hair touching my flesh like the ghostly caress of angel's fingers. It wasn't long before I could feel myself swelling and hardening in her mouth. She raised her head. "If I turn around, will you do this to me too?" she asked.
I knew what she meant, although I'd never done that with anyone. I hadn't thought I'd want to either but now I did. I wanted anything that had to do with sex with her, or that involved contact with her body. I think that if she'd wanted to piss in my mouth I'd have welcomed it. I was her slave and we both knew it. I wouldn't have had it any other way and there was nothing she could have done to have degraded me, no vile or filthy things I wouldn't have been delighted to do with her, or for her, because, just being with her, just having that magnificent body and that cruel, terrible, beautiful face within reach of my hands and my mouth was all I wanted or cared about.
She flopped herself around on the bed and I plunged my head between her soft thighs, her gaping cunt with its pink, raw flesh throbbing right in front of my nose, the musky stench of it making me drunk. Her vulva was spread wide and the opening to her vagina was like a small, darkly mysterious tunnel, oozing a thick, whitish goo. My tongue was as hard as my cock when I thrust it into that hole and then began licking and sucking, filing my mouth time and again with her body fluids and swallowing as greedily as a man dying of thirst. I found her clitoris and rolled it with my tongue while my fingers dug deeply into the soft flesh of her butt.
She began squirming and moving her hips in a jerky, convulsive dance and she reached behind her, taking my hand in hers and guiding my fingers to the rubbery puckery spot that was her asshole. She indicated by motions what she wanted so I pushed as hard as I could and, abruptly, the tight muscle of her sphincter gave way and I had entered her. I shoved my finger in as deep as it would go, wondering if my fingernail was tearing her up inside and not really giving a damn if it was. She uttered a muffled screech and bit the head of my cock. That was all right; anything was all right with me.
I kept on finger-fucking her in the ass and sucking her cunt while she sucked my cock and then I forced a second finger into her beside the first one. She really took off then and, once more, we were having a wild, crazy, mutual orgasm.
You might think that, just as a sort of introduction to each other, we'd have had enough. Hah! We took time out to smoke a cigarette and have a couple of nips from a bottle she kept in her room and then I had to fuck her in the ass and, after that, I went down on her again. When I thought we were surely through at last, she took a beautiful, white whip from the closet and handed it to me, her green eyes gleaming eagerly. I wouldn't have believed that I could have enjoyed beating a woman but I put a crisscross of welts on the pale skin of her ass and I loved every second of it. When she was ready to be screwed again, I didn't want to stop beating her. She had to roll over, catch my wrist and pull me down on top of her. It was the best time of all.
The truth was that I hated Valdy's God damned guts then, and I always did. There was something so rotten and ... well, alien about her that what I really wanted was to destroy her and yet, at the same time, I'd have killed any man who had tried to take her away from me. She was mine; mine to beat and to fuck and to hate.
I met her husband, Doctor Howard Fontaine, at dinner that evening. He seemed like a pleasant enough old guy but he wasn't the kind I could see myself getting chummy with. I mean that he was soft and pulpy, his white, long-fingered hands as delicate as the hands of a woman. His face was jowly and saggy but as pink and clean as though he had a daily facial and slept in a mud pack every night. For all I know, he probably did. I'd been prepared to hate the son of a bitch for being Valdy's husband but, after one look at him, I dismissed him from my mind. I couldn't imagine that sloppy, old bag of jelly turning her on. No wonder she went for young guys with muscles.
There was another guy who was apparently a permanent guest. His name was Tom Franklin and he was introduced to me as a medical student and prot�g� of Doc Fontaine's. He was a good-looking young fellow but very quiet, hardly having a word to say. I wondered if he was humping Valdy. If he was, and I found it out, I'd cut his damned cock off and feed it to him.
After dinner, Valdy took me upstairs again to show me my room. It was like the rest of the house, antiquated but luxurious. There was a full-length mirror fastened to the wall right by the bed so, of course, we had to get a little right then while we watched ourselves in the mirror. She pointed out that a connecting door led conveniently to her room. Her husband's room was on the other side of mine.
That night, when we turned in, she went to her room and came right on through the door into mine, stripping and dropping her clothes behind her on the floor as she walked.
"You scream like you did today," I warned her, "and Doc is sure going to hear you."
She shook her head. "No he won't. Not that it makes any difference anyway but I had this room sound-proofed. You could murder me in here and no one would know it. I think you'd like to do that, wouldn't you?"
"Maybe. And maybe that's what you really want."
She just laughed.
* * *
A week went by. I got a few books catalogued and onto the shelves but I'd made no discernible dent in the mountains of them that remained. Valdy slept until noon every day but, from lunch time on, we were apt to be at each other as often as I could get up a hard. The doc was retired from practice so he was around the house most of the time. It was obvious that he knew what was going on and didn't care, so we ignored him.
One morning I went to the kitchen to talk Cook out of a cup of coffee and Penny was there. I filled my cup and joined her at a little table in the corner.
"How do you like your job?" she asked me innocently.
"That's a silly question," I replied. "You know I like it and you know why too. Let's don't play word games with each other."
She grinned but I thought her eyes were sad. "I know. She sure is something, isn't she?"
I nodded. "There's only one thing that would be better," I said.
"What's that?"
"If it was you in my room at night instead of her."
Her dark eyes went wide with astonishment. "Me? You've got her and you'd rather have me?"
"I'd rather have you than a dozen like her. I'm hooked on her, like a damned junky, but I don't like her. I'd get away from her if I could and to hell with the five-hundred a month and the fancy room and board. You understand? I could enjoy being with you because you're sweet and nice and pretty and I wouldn't have to feel filthy every time I touched you. I wish to Christ I'd met you without ever meeting her."
She regarded me steadily and seriously. "If I was white," she said slowly, "I'd try to take you away from her. I'd want to marry you and keep you all for myself."
"What the hell was being white or not got to do with it? Balls! I'm a damned Yid, Penny. Maybe you think that people on the East Side tip their hats to us and call us 'mister'."
She didn't say anything. She just reached across the table and patted my hand but, a few nights later when Valdy and Doc had to go to some kind of a society affair, Penny came to my room. She was shy and sweet and hardly wanted me to watch her undress but, when she slipped under the covers, she was all affection. We kissed and petted and then we made love and it wasn't the wild, crazy, lustful kind of depravity I'd known with Valdy. It was like honeysuckle in the moonlight. It was like bird song at the gates of dawn. Her brown, lovely body, her hard, pointed breasts and her sweet, sweet, sweet lips were poetry, the gentle, heart-tugging kind that makes a lump in your throat and a mist in your eyes.
I fell in love with her, of course, and I would have left Valdy for her. I wanted us to go away together, to marry and raise a lot of brown little kids but she wouldn't do it. She had this lousy, damned hang-up about me being white and she being black and, well, she just wouldn't do it. I think she was wrong. I think we'd have made it real big but I couldn't get by her fear. Because it all seemed so monstrously unfair, we kissed and clung tightly together and we cried a little for all the years we'd never have and for all the children she'd never bear for me. And if God up there in His plush, gold-paved heaven hadn't been as dead as they say He is, He'd have heard us and have cried with us and He'd have done something to have made it possible for us to have more than a few stolen hours.
* * *
I can't say that Valdy wasn't generous. I not only drew my pay but, whenever she thought of it, she'd slip me an extra two or three-hundred. She bought me a Caddy convertible for my birthday and I had more suits, cuff links and all that crap than Macy's. I finally gave up the pretense of working in the library and Valdy hired some bookish, little guy to finish the job. She even sent me to college.
I stayed on there with her until Penny quit to marry a colored fellow; then I got drunk and remained that way for a week. When I came back, sick, hungover and meaner than hell, I found out what it was all about. Tom Franklin had graduated at last and had gone to an eastern hospital to do his internship. Right away, Doc started paying a lot of attention to me and it finally dawned on me that the old bastard was as queer as a three-dollar bill. When I discovered that the big mirror on my wall was a one-way glass, I really flipped. Valdy admitted that Doc and Tom had been watching us night after night and day after day, getting themselves turned on and then sucking each other's cocks. I wanted to kill the rotten bitch and her fairy husband but they weren't worth the trouble. I just walked out.
I found another job, one that would keep me going until I could finish college.
* * *
It was during the last year of school that I met Delia. She was nineteen, little and cute. She had black hair and dark eyes and I think I went for her because she reminded me of Penny. She was also the darnedest flirt I'd ever met and she turned me on something fierce. I thought she'd be an easy lay but soon discovered she was nothing but a cock teaser. We'd go on a date and she'd let me kiss her. If I begged a little, she'd let me touch her titties ... through her dress and brassiere. I could even put my hand on her leg but only six inches above the knee. She'd get me so damned hot I was about to come in my pants and then she'd slip away from me over to the far side of the seat and casually suggest we go get a Coke.
I put up with it for a few dates and then, one night, she let it go too far. When she tried to duck out of my arms I held her and deliberately ripped her dress down the front and tore her brassiere off. She was crying and cursing and pleading with me, threatening to scream for help or have me arrested but, by then, I didn't give a damn. I lifted her skirt far above the allowed six inches, jerked her panties off and rolled over on top of her. She was trying to fight me but I outweighed her by quite a few pounds. I fumbled around until I found her pussy, started my cock into it and then proceeded to fuck hell out of her. I wasn't rougher than necessary but I wasn't going out of my way to make it easy for her either. I figured she had a little pain coming to her after all she'd caused me. I'll even admit I was getting a charge out of the fact that she was a virgin and that I was raping her.
I came once, hoping the little bitch was bleeding like a stuck pig and that I was knocking her up higher than a kite. I stayed on top of her then and waited for it to get hard again. She'd finally given up struggling and was lying there, crying and too exhausted to fight. I sucked on her pretty little titties and, when I was ready, I began banging her again.
I took my time, figuring I'd never have another chance at her anyway and that she'd probably have me in jail by morning so I might as well enjoy it while I could. I was drawing near the big moment when I became aware that she had wrapped her arms and legs around me and was squirming her ass in an effort to help me. I kissed her and she hugged me tighter. I was amazed when she suddenly got her gun off, coming like mad as she cried and laughed and kissed me frantically. I came too then and it was fabulous, almost like it had been with Penny.
I was sorry then that I'd hurt her and I wanted to do something nice for her, so I slipped down and put my tongue in her cunt and began sucking and licking her clitoris. She seemed to really go for that and, in a little while, she had another orgasm. She didn't want me to stop and that was okay with me. It was after midnight when I took her home to my apartment and spent the rest of the night making love to her. She had to stay with me the next day until the stores opened so I could buy her a dress. I'd ripped the one she'd been wearing all to hell.
We were married a month later. Delia quit school and took a job to help me finish. It was tough going but we made it all right and, when I got a job with the Space Administration, we were off to a good start.
When our marriage started to go on the rocks, I put all the blame on Delia but, looking back on it, I realize that it was at least as much my fault as hers. I still had a lot of hostility in those days. I hated the whole, fucking world for having people like the Fontaines in it, for denying me my first real love, Penny, and I hated it most of all because I was still, at heart, Samuel Greenburg, a slum kid and a "dirty, little Kike." I felt inferior. I know I took a lot of my meanness out on Delia and I was jealous, too. I kept expecting her to step out on me. I was pushing her closer to it every day and ready to turn my rage loose on her the minute she slipped.
There was another girl in the neighborhood, a young bride named Carol whom Delia took up with. Carol was no good and I knew it because, although she was supposed to be Delia's best friend, she had already made a couple of pretty broad passes at me. I could have told Delia but I didn't. I felt guilty about Carol. I hadn't risen to the juicy bait she'd dangled under my nose but I sure as hell had wanted to, and that kept me from saying anything about her even when Delia got in the habit of spending a lot of her time at Carol's house and I knew the bitch would eventually lead her astray.
The day came when I received an unexpected afternoon off. Delia wasn't home when I got there and I knew damn well where she'd be. I wasn't even surprised when I saw the two cars parked in Carol's driveway, Delia's foreign compact and another. I didn't bother knocking but went up the porch steps and into the living room of her house, knowing what I was going to find and already in a killing rage. I wasn't disappointed. One guy had Carol on the floor. They were both naked. He was in my way and he sure looked surprised when I kicked him in the face. The other one had Delia on the couch and they were naked too. He had his cock in her up to his balls. He jumped up and just stood there looking stupid, his cock dripping like a faucet with a bad gasket. I hit him so hard he went clear over the couch and through the window behind it, curtain, glass, screen and all.
The two girls were screaming in terror. I doubled my fist and took a step toward Delia and then, suddenly, all the anger went out of me and I was just sick. I had to get out of there and find a place where I could puke. I went back to the apartment, packed my things in the car and drove to a motel on the edge of town.
That night I got drunk and picked up a Mexican whore in a beer joint. She was fat and dark and good-natured. I gave her the damndest screwing she'd ever had in her life and, when I found another apartment, I kept her with me until she got drunk one night, wandered off and never did come back. Delia didn't try to contact me but I heard through friends that she had gone back to work.
I had one woman after another for a while and finally shacked up with an Italian girl named Angie. She was a pretty bitch and she was easy to keep happy. As long as I gave her plenty of cock she was perfectly contented. She was as stupid as a cow but a marvelous housekeeper. If I got mad and abused her she didn't mind. She'd cry a little but as soon as I screwed her she'd be happy again.
But I wasn't happy. I wanted my own, two-timing, beautiful slut of a wife back but I wasn't man enough to go to her and beg her forgiveness. Somehow I'd managed to go and fall in love with her and, now that we were separated, I realized that the fact she'd screwed another guy, maybe a lot of other guys, wasn't the important thing. The important thing was that I'd been going through life like a big-assed baby, throwing tantrums whenever I couldn't have my own way; feeling sorry for myself because I had a persecution complex a mile long.
I went to see Delia that evening, told her I loved her and wanted her back.
"I love you too, Sam," she said, smiling at me tenderly, "but I think we'd be better off divorced. We're no good for each other. You're too jealous and I'm too much of a tramp. I'd rather be married to you than anyone but, now that I've had a taste of freewheeling sex, I'd never be true to you. Sorry, Sammy, but that's just the way it is."
I thought about it. I had to give her credit for being honest and I was sick with longing for her. "Maybe that wouldn't be so bad," I said hesitantly. "I've been thinking about it. I guess I'd rather share you than not have you at all. I'm no saint myself. The thing I had against Carol was that I wanted her and I hated myself for it, only I turned the hate on her because I didn't like being made to feel guilty."
She came over to sit on the floor and put her head on my knee while she looked at me searchingly. "Our marriage could work on that basis, honey," she said. "There's a group of wife-swappers here. The husbands all work at the base with you. One of the wives propositioned me just the day before you and I broke up. I'd like to join and I'll give our marriage another chance if you'll give the way I want to live a chance too."
It was that or nothing, so we gave it a try and it worked out fine. We're more in love with each other now than we ever were and, for the first time, the memory of my lovely, lost Penny began to dim in my mind.
I'm so contented and happy now that people even think of me as being good-natured. Me? Can you beat that?
SAM GREEN
Chapter Four
THE DELLA GREEN STORY
I was born in Chicago. My parents, like Sam's, were Jewish but they were not orthodox. My father died when I was seven. Mama married again when I was ten and her new husband brought us to California. Joe was a small, very good-looking man and I've always thought that he and Mama make an odd couple. She's a big woman and, after her second marriage, she put on a lot more weight.
I liked Joe. Lord knows he was certainly good to me; so good he spoiled me terribly. But I had no respect for him. Even as a kid, I was conscious of the fact that he was a weakling, the typical, mousy, little Mr. Milktoast with the big, overbearing wife.
I was an early bloomer. By the time I was nine I had begun to sprout little boobies and develop pubic hair. At ten I could have passed for thirteen. I had dark hair, dark, almost black eyes and the olive skin typical of my race. I was aware that I was prettier and had a better shape than most girls my age and I became very vain. I knew that the girls in my class at school hated me and I didn't care because all the adults raved about what a little beauty I was and I lapped that up like a cat would lap a saucer of cream.
Boys, especially the older ones, already in junior or senior high school, couldn't stay away from me. Their admiration fanned my already blazing ego but I kept them all at arm's length, for Mama had explained to me that I had a priceless treasure tucked up inside my little pussy and that I must guard it with my very life, particularly against boys. The impression I got from her was that boys carried a tool, something like a burglar's jimmy, between their legs and the nasty, little crooks were all intent on opening my vault and stealing my treasure.
It was all very vague and mysterious but intriguing. I spent hours locked in my bedroom in Yoga-like poses with a hand mirror, trying to locate this marvelous and incredibly valuable part of my body but all I could see was a not very attractive hole with a lot of moist, pink, raw-looking flesh around it. I even felt around inside in an attempt to locate it with my finger. The result was not entirely disappointing. In the process of conducting such experiments I discovered the ability to generate certain, pleasant sensations. I had learned to masturbate! Having a lively imagination and being, by nature, as amoral as an alley cat, I made the most of the delightful vice. This, I was sure, was the perfect love affair ... perfect at least for a little girl already madly in love with herself.
Shortly after we moved to California, Mama and Joe were invited out for the evening, a rare occurrence in the lives of two people who had very few friends. A babysitter was arranged for, despite the tantrum I threw in my resentment of the implication that I wasn't old enough to take care of myself. Barbara, the high school girl who came to sit with me, was apparently neither impressed nor perturbed by my studied display of bad temper. She was very matter-of-fact and very efficient, obviously an experienced babysitter and used to snotty, little monsters.
"Nine o'clock," she announced promptly on the hour. "Your mother said you were to take your shower and go to bed by nine, so hop to it, Delia."
"I won't do it," I replied defiantly, "and you can't make me."
"An interesting challenge," she observed. "Want to bet?" Paying no attention to my struggles, she strong-armed me into the bathroom and began undressing me. When I saw that neither tears nor threats were going to be of any avail, I sullenly removed the rest of my clothes.
"That's better," Barbara said. "Cripes! What a shape! You've got a beautiful body, Doll. I'll bet you drive the boys wild, don't you?"
She'd just said the magic words. With me, flattery would get you almost anywhere you wanted to go. I smiled at her, proudly thrusting my titties out for further inspection and approval. I decided that maybe I did like Barbara after all. As I was showering, she made a big deal out of seeing that I had soap and that the water was adjusted exactly right. When she could think of no other excuses for watching me bathe, she abandoned pretense and just stood there with the curtain pulled back, her hungry eyes on my body. She insisted on drying me with the towel. I luxuriated in all the attention and the service I was getting, experiencing a strange thrill when she let her fingers, seemingly by accident, touch my breasts and even linger lightly in my crotch.
"If you promise not to tell your mother," she said, her voice a husky, choked whisper, "I'll let you sit up with me a while. We can watch television."
I got into my pajamas and joined her on the couch in the living room where it was darkly cozy and intimate, the TV giving the only light.
"Let's be friends," Barbara suggested, putting her arm around me.
"Do you really think I'm pretty?" I demanded, fishing eagerly for more compliments.
"You're gorgeous!" Barbara declared. "I wish I was as beautiful as you and had such sexy breasts. I'll bet yours are as big as mine. Let's see if they are." I watched with interest as she removed her sweater and unsnapped her brassiere. She had perky, up-tilted boobs and she was right, they were no larger than mine; only the nipples were better defined and more womanly. I let her open the top of my pajamas. "See. They are alike, aren't they? Shall we let them get acquainted?" She didn't wait for an answer but thrust her chest against mine so that our breasts were touching, the nipples kissing as she rubbed herself on me. It was an exciting performance and it was creating a heavenly warmth all through my body, especially in my crotch. She kissed me and I loved the taste of her lipstick and the way her hands were caressing me, shoving the elastic band of my pajama bottom down so that she could stroke my thighs. Instinct told me that her hovering hand was seeking my pussy and I spread my legs for her, gasping with a thrill of delight when she found my clitoris.
"Don't you like me a little better now, Delia?" she murmured.
I nodded, too overcome with growing passion to speak. She removed my pajamas entirely and quickly stripped out of her slacks and underwear. Naked, we lay together on the couch, kissing and petting frantically. I adored it when she mouthed my breasts, sucking them and teasing the nipples with the tip of her tongue and, when she desisted for a moment, I went after hers, loving the silken firmness of them and the perfumed taste.
I wasn't at all afraid or reluctant. I knew that she, as a girl, presented no threat to my precious virginity and she was giving me greater pleasure than I had ever known. I knew that we doing something technically bad and forbidden but I felt no guilt. I had a simple code of ethics. Bad was getting caught. Good was getting away with something. I knew that we were completely safe with no possible chance of being discovered. Anything we wanted to do with each other was, therefore, right and proper.
Barbara moved down on the couch, kissing my tummy and my hips, her velvety lips making me feel like a Fourth of July sparkler all over. She parted my thighs and her darting tongue found me, teaching me the exquisite pleasure of having my pussy sucked. She was very expert and I soared with passion, arching up like a Roman candle to burst in all the glory and splendor of an overpoweringly beautiful orgasm.
I was spent, helpless, utterly drained and completely happy. She sat up and kissed my lips, her mouth wet and wonderfully fragrant with the musk scent from my own body. I held her tightly, not wanting her to take her tongue from my mouth, loving the feeling of her breasts crushed against mine and of the hands that caressed me.
"Do the same thing to me," she urged. "Please, Delia!"
She didn't need to beg. I eagerly put my head between her thighs and kissed her moistly brimming pussy. She taught me how to roll her clitoris with my tongue and she was soon tossing her hips in wild abandon, sobbing and moaning with delight. She came much too quickly and I didn't want to stop but it was all right; as long as I continued to suck her, she could keep right on having a new orgasm every few minutes. She finally turned around on the couch and instructed me in the lovely game of sixty-nine. We didn't quit until it was nearly time for Mama and Joe to come home.
Barbara and I kept our affair going for three blissful, beautiful years. Mama was sure I was being a very good girl because it was plain to see that I took no interest at all in boys. Who needed them? Then Barbara, the traitor, got married to, of all things, a man. I cried for days and I considered dramatic ways of committing suicide but I was much too fond of myself for that.
It was shortly after Barbara's defection that I became aware of my step-father's increasing interest in me. He'd always been good and kind but I began to notice a different look in his eyes, a kind of dumb, agonized yearning whenever I was around. I once caught him spying on me through the crack in the door jamb while I was changing clothes. Being immensely flattered, I gave him a good show that time, making a production out of applying deodorant and powder and very slowly and lingeringly getting dressed. I wondered if he would try to make love to me. I wasn't sure I wanted him to succeed but I did want him to make the effort. What I really desired was to find another girl like Barbara but I simply didn't know how to go about letting them know I was available.
I discovered a practical use for Joe's lust when Mama refused to buy me a Cashmere sweater I wanted.
"Cashmere!" she yelled in horror. "Two good sweaters you got already and now it's Cashmere you gotta have yet."
Joe was in the living room with the Sunday paper. I perched on the arm of his chair, artfully arranging for my short skirt to slide nearly to my hips as I did so. I leaned across him, one breast almost brushing his cheek.
"Mama says I can't have a new sweater," I whined. "It's only twelve dollars. Will you talk to her about it ... for me? Please, Daddy." I was watching his face, amused by the way his eyes bulged at the sight of my naked thigh so close to his hand.
"Please?" I repeated, moving my leg until it was lightly touching the knuckles of his hand. He licked his lips and I was delighted to see that he was trembling a little. It gave me a sense of power that left me giddy and a sudden wave of sexual desire for him swept over me. If the fool had only been man enough then to have touched my legs and pressed his face against my straining breast, I know I would have done it with him. He just didn't have the guts.
"I ... I ... I'll speak to your mother," he said lamely, "but you know how she is about money."
I stood up, my feeling of triumph outweighed by my disappointment.
I got the sweater. I heard them arguing in their bedroom that night for hours. It was the first time I'd ever known him to stand up to her. After that, I worked him for everything I could get and, having discovered his weakness, I took much pleasure in tormenting him. I began going around the house without a brassiere, only being careful not to bounce when Mama was looking. When I wanted to sit, I would pick a chair directly across the room from Joe and amuse myself by slowly crossing and uncrossing my legs. I even went to the extreme of putting on my act sans panties. I'd pretend to be reading and carelessly hook one leg over the arm of the chair so that my pussy was staring at him like a red, winking eye. It's a wonder the poor guy didn't have a heart attack. I would steal glimpses to watch the bulge at the front of his pants as it grew and stiffened. I did everything but rape him. I might have rejected him if he'd actually made a pass at me but I don't think so. Damnit! I wanted him to at least try. I knew he wasn't that moral. He just didn't have the nerve.
In high school and in college I began going on dates. All the fellows wanted to take me out and most of them tried to get into my pants but none of them made it. I had learned exactly how far I could go with a man and still control him and the result was not only great fun but profitable as well. They spent their allowances on me lavishly, taking me to the best places and buying me expensive presents. In short, I had become an expert cock teaser who took all she could get and gave nothing in return.
It wasn't always easy for me either. I was often aroused by their kissing and pawing but I had an ace in the hole. I could always go home and masturbate myself to sleep. What I really wanted was another affair with a girl but I was beginning to believe that Barbara was the only lesbian I would ever know. There were undoubtedly many of them in the school but I was too green to know the signals and I had an unconscious air of being stuck up that kept them away from me. It was probably a good thing for, with just a little more help, I certainly would have become a full-fledged lesbian.
It took Sam Green to storm the walls of my fortress and banish all thoughts of girls from my mind. I knew, from the moment I met him, that he was a lot more man than any I had previously encountered. He was big, rough and tough. There was a surly hardness and hostility about him that both fascinated and frightened me. I dated him and worked my usual bag of tricks on him but, with Sam, they were effective only up to a point. And then they backfired.
My point of no return came one night when he took me in his Caddy convertible to the shore of the reservoir. I'd established the rules of the game and he stayed within bounds for a while. But I was getting scared; not scared of Sam so much as of myself. His kisses and his ardent, demanding hands were setting me aflame in a way that hadn't happened since my last experience with Barbara.
"Time to cool it, Sam," I said, trying to squirm out of his arms.
"Cool it hell!" he growled. "You've held out on me long enough, you cock teasing little bitch. This is the night when you get the shit fucked out of you."
"No! Please don't, Sam! I'm a virgin!"
"So what?" He laughed harshly. "Say arrivederci to your cherry, Baby. It's about to go bye-bye." With that, he hooked his hand into the neck of my dress and ripped it all the way to the hem. With two more savage jerks I was divested of brassiere and panties. I started to scream for help but he slapped my face so hard I saw colored lights in front of my eyes. I cried and I tried to fight him but he was too strong for me. He held my head back by a painful grip on my hair as he flung himself on top of me, his big cock hammering at the portal of my vagina. Then I felt the hot thrust of the alien flesh as it battered its way into mine and I shrieked with agony, only to feel the thud of his fist on my jaw and to slip into a semi-conscious daze of immobility but one that, unfortunately, didn't shut out the pain.
He had all of it in me, the damned thing feeling as big as a baseball bat and he was jamming it in and out with no regard for how he was torturing me. He came quickly but he didn't get off of me. He just lay there, letting the weight of his body pin me in place while he kissed me and sucked at my titties. When I felt him begin to swell and grow within me, I knew he meant to do it again. He began to slowly move his hips and, this time, there was hardly any pain, just the strange sensation of having something huge and foreign probing the inside of my body.
I discovered that laying under him like that was not particularly uncomfortable after all and, once I got used to the idea that I was being screwed and that there was nothing I could do about it, it was kind of exciting to have my dress ripped off me and my body exposed to this big brute's assault. I became aware that his mouth on my breasts had become gentle, seeking, almost begging for response from me. I remembered Barbara and how her lips had been like that, hungry and demanding, but loving too. Thinking of her, I felt the old, familiar tingle of pleasure in my crotch and then I was suddenly liking Sam's cock in me.
"Ye gods?" I thought. "Here I've been beaten and raped and am now being fucked for the second time and I'm actually beginning to enjoy it!"
Experimentally, I moved my hips in time to the rhythm of Sam's gyrations and it increased the feeling of warmth and the electric shock of sexual response. I put my arms around him and drew him closer, returning his kisses. I was fiercely glad that I was finally being fucked and especially glad it was Sam who was doing it. I was even glad I'd been raped and glad he had slapped me and hit me. I knew then that that was what I'd wanted from Joe. If he'd grabbed me and raped me I would have loved him madly.
When I came, it was like nothing I'd ever experienced. Masturbation, lesbian love ... those were child's play compared to the crashing, roaring thunder of the storm of passion I now knew. I surged upward, wanting more of Sam's cock, longing for it to dig deeper. I didn't give a damn if it tore my guts out and, when I felt the hot shower of his semen released in me, I went a little crazy with joy.
Afterward, when Sam dropped to his knees on the floor of the car and began sucking my cunt, that was when I fell in love with him. It seemed to me that I was there like that for hours, cramped into the front seat as he licked and rolled my clitoris. I came again and again and it was heaven.
Marriage to Sam was wonderful for the first year. It wasn't until he graduated and went to work that I became restless. Sam takes all of the blame for our break-up, but it wasn't his fault at all. Sure, he was mean at times but I understood his moodiness better than he did. In those days, I was as I'd always been, entirely amoral. I loved Sam but I began thinking about extra-marital sex and, with ma, to want something was to believe I had a right to have it. I began masturbating again and letting my erotic fancy wander as it had when I was a kid. I wanted lesbian love and I wanted other men. Life as a housewife seemed dull and boring and I rationalized that I surely wasn't designed to spend my life being denied the thrills and the kicks I needed to make it bearable.
When I met Carol, I thought she might be the answer. She was just my age and had also been married only a year. She was a sexy dish and I let myself go, indulging in wild daydreams of fondling her lush boobies and kissing her musky, drippy cunt. Would she? Did I dare suggest such a thing? She gave the impression of being not overly moral but did that include homosexuality? I lacked the courage to make the first pass so I waited, growing increasingly frustrated and desperate, for her to give me a clue. One day she did but it was the wrong kind.
"Have you ever stepped out on Sam?" she asked me bluntly.
"No. Do you cheat on Cliff?" Was this it? I leaned forward eagerly.
She grinned. "Sometimes. Once in a while I just have to get myself screwed by another man. I love Cliff but, God damn it, marriage is too monotonous for me."
I laughed nervously, sick with secret longing and disappointment. "That just proves you're human. For a moment, I thought you were going to tell me you wanted another woman."
She regarded me shrewdly. "You mean that's what you hoped I was going to tell you. I've sensed that about you from the first. I tried it when I was a kid and it was terrific but, since I've grown up, I prefer men."
I looked down at my coffee cup, unable to meet her eyes. "You wouldn't consider trying it again?" My voice was a whisper.
"Gosh, you really need it, don't you? The idea doesn't particularly turn me on, Delia, but I don't mind it. If it'll make you happy, let's go in the bedroom and do it. It's at least something to pass the time."
I could hardly wait to get my clothes off, and kissing and petting with Carol was like coming home, like having Barbara step back out of the past to rub her breasts on mine again and stroke my quivering, lustful thighs. I was trembling as we began sucking each other; then, before we came, I felt the let-down and my orgasm was weak, a pale, lifeless thing. I wished we hadn't even bothered to do it in the first place.
"Pretty much of a flop, wasn't it?" Carol said wisely. "That's kid stuff, Delia. Trying to go back to being a kid again never works. What you need is to get yourself fucked. A boy friend of mine is coming over here tomorrow morning. He's got a buddy, a Mexican cat named Juan. The four of us could make a party of it. What say?"
"Okay," I agreed.
I was at Carol's house before the men arrived and I could see that she was excited too. When they did get there, I was glad Carol was helping me get myself screwed because the Mexican man, Juan, turned me on like crazy. He was ugly and he looked tough and mean.
"I'm not sure I want to go through with this after all," I told him when we were alone in the bedroom. "I'm a married woman and I've never done anything like this before."
It worked perfectly. "You ain't gonna cop out on me now," he warned me, scowling darkly. "Carol said you'd fuck or I wouldn'ta come here." I pretended to resist him and he did just what I wanted him to do. He hit me and knocked me down onto the bed, pulled my skirt up and was onto me like a wild stud. I screamed a little, just to get him to hit me some more and I fought enough to force him to rape me. It was simply wonderful!
Afterward, I told him what I'd done and why. "But I'm going to make you fight for it every time. I love it that way."
He laughed. "So do I. Get me another hard and I'll make it even more interesting for you. If you like gettin' hurt, you come to the right place, baby."
His brown cock was soft and slippery with come and with my own body juices. I put my mouth on it, enjoying the way it finally hardened and stiffened between my lips. I wondered what he was going to do to me that could possibly be better than the first time. I soon found out. He pushed my head away, flipped me over onto my belly, lifted my hips and began trying to force the big, wide head of his cock into my asshole.
"No!" I protested in real horror. "Don't, Juan! You're too big. I've tried it with my husband and it hurts too much."
"Shut up," he snarled.
Suddenly he was into me, the pain devastating. I screamed but the sound was muffled by the pillow into which my face was pressed. He plunged ruthlessly in and out of me and, although the pain lessened somewhat, it was still too intense to be bearable. I cried and sobbed during the million years of total agony it took him to reach an orgasm. Even after he withdrew, I could still feel the burning hurt of tortured flesh and cruelly stretched muscles.
"I hate you!" I sobbed. "You're an animal."
"Aw, for Christ's sake shut up," he growled. "Go take a shit and you'll be all right. Then come back here so I can fuck you again."
I did go to the bathroom. I washed myself and put some ointment in me that I found in Carol's medicine cabinet. I wasn't going to have anything more to do with Juan, I thought bitterly. I'd lock myself in the bathroom and stay there until he went away. Then I remembered his husky, hairy, brown body and his big cock as ugly and as fascinating as the rest of him. Oh, well, I thought, it hadn't really been that bad. I went back to the bedroom and snuggled my body against his. We kissed and I played with his cock until it got hard again.
"You gonna make me fight for it?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Not this time." I turned over and pushed the cheeks of my ass against him, wiggling invitingly.
Juan laughed. "Kinda went for that, after all, didn't you? Okay. Nothing I like better than getting a little shit on the head of my dick."
I did it often with Juan after that and with others who came to Carol's house. It was just bad luck that Sam came home unexpectedly and caught us the way he did. I knew something about Sam that he was hardly aware of himself and I knew that catching me screwing another man was just an excuse for him to leave me; a good excuse, I'll admit. He'd told me about Penny and I knew he'd never gotten over losing her. I wished he'd go back to her. Maybe her marriage had gone sour too and they could have made it together after all. I loved him but I wasn't making him happy and I guess that being willing to give him back to Penny was the first unselfish thought I'd ever had in my life.
I slept around a lot while Sam and I were separated, but I couldn't get over loving him. Still, I wouldn't have taken him back if he hadn't agreed to join the group and if he hadn't convinced me that he was over his jealousy and beginning, at least, to get over the little, brown gal who had cast such a spell of enchantment over him for so long.
As far as I'm concerned, mate swapping, and the group, have given my marriage a new lease on life and that's why I voted for us to write these letters and have them published. It isn't right for people to knock something they don't know anything about.
DELLA GREEN
Chapter Five
THE JACK MARTIN STORY
An earnest, young hopeful once asked me how to become an officer in the United States Navy. I replied that the only positive method I could recommend was to arrange to be born the son of Rear Admiral Thomas Martin, U.S.N. Retired. You could rely on the admiral to insist on his son going to Annapolis, even though the kid would have preferred becoming either a cowboy, an Indian or a pro ball player. At least that is what happened to me.
Annapolis is a great school, even though it is short on student demonstrations, frat houses and pot parties. Its only real drawback is that it's not coeducational. In spite of numerous demerits, I graduated and was sent to duty with the Pacific Fleet as an ensign. An ensign, in case you don't know, is a gentleman. It says so right in Navy Regs. He is a gentleman who is regarded by all senior officers as a kind of hair shirt inflicted upon them by a Machiavellian and sadistic high command. Excuse me while I bow three times in the direction of the Navy Department, Washington, D.C.
At a combination farewell and graduation party, given by my fond parents at their home in Boston, another retired admiral made an unfortunately accurate prediction regarding my naval career. "I can only hope," he said, "that, like your illustrious father, your service as a junior officer will take place mostly in war time. War might keep you so busy you wouldn't have time to let your big fists and your long cock get you into trouble." He sighed reminiscently. "I well remember the time when your father and I got drunk and wrecked Om Fat's brothel in Singapore. Took damn near a platoon of marines to get us under control," he added proudly.
I proceeded to California and reported aboard my ship for duty at San Pedro. She was the U.S.S. Tompkins, a D.E. Coming events were already casting long, black shadows when I presented my orders to Commander Scott, the exec. We took an immediate, wholehearted and entirely mutual dislike to each other on sight. He was a pompous bastard. Close-cropped, grey hair, close-cropped, grey moustache and a bearing that made you think he had a ramrod running from his ass to his rigid neck.
The Tompkins was tied up to the pier in Pedro and, as soon as the day's work was done, I donned my brand-new dress uniform. In the company of Ensign Burt Tolliver and Lieutenant, j.g. Mike Donovan, I set out in quest of the flesh pots and dives of San Pedro. We were sauntering shoreward along the dock when a Lincoln Continental, about the size and length of a mine sweeper, came cruising slowly toward us. I stopped like I had been hit right between the eyes. I had been. I had also been dealt fatal blows in the heart and the crotch. Behind the wheel of the Lincoln was the most. That describes her. She was just the ever-loving, living most. There was ash-blonde hair that framed a face of angel beauty and sweet innocence. There were eyes of sparkling blue, a cute little nose and lips as softly and sweetly curved as a baby's. She wore a white, sleeveless dress that contrasted with the golden tan of beautifully rounded arms.
"Sorry, my new chums," I said to my two companions, "but you will have to conduct the night's festivities without me. I feel that I'm about to be borne to paradise on the stubby wings of a Lincoln Continental."
"Hey, for Christ's sake don't get mixed up with that broad," Mike Donovan implored.
"Come back here, you idiot," Burt Tolliver hissed. "She's the ... "
I wasn't listening. I stepped in front of the Lincoln, my thumb out like a hitchhiker. She had to stop or run over me. "I was going to take a taxi," I said as I opened the door and slid in beside her, "but now I won't need to. It's so thoughtful of you to come to pick me up, darling, and it does save the cab fare. We have to watch our pennies now, what with the baby coming and all."
She went along with it like she'd been rehearsing the part for weeks. "It is a bit of a drag trying to scrape by on an ensign's pay," she said, with only the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of her delicious mouth. "But I'm not complaining, honey. Next week, when you get your promotion to admiral, we can make the back payments on the yacht, the town house and my diamonds."
While she was talking, she was swinging the car into a U turn. As we passed my two erstwhile playmates. I reached over and tapped the horn ring to give them a derisive salute. I then turned my attention to more important matters, both of which were her exquisitely lovely legs. Bless all mini-skirts, especially when they appear on girls with shapes like hers. No, that's not right either. There are no other girls with shapes like hers. God must have been in a sexy mood the day he designed her. I longed to caress those silken, golden legs of hers but decided I'd best forbear a while. Like maybe for three minutes?
"Speaking of the baby," I said, "I don't wish to appear overly conventional but do you suppose we ought to get married before the blessed event?"
"I hear that that is a tribal custom among the local natives," she replied, "but, as you can see, there is one, small hitch." She lifted her left hand from the steering wheel and waggled her third finger at me. A gold band gleamed disgustingly in the California sunshine. "If you were to impregnate me at an early date, like say along about this evening some time, it would still take more than nine months to obtain a degree of divorcement. Incidentally, I am Susan Scott, wife of your (sob) beloved executive officer, Commander Scott."
"You mean Captain Bligh?" It was incredible.
"That's not what the enlisted men call him," she said. "He is known to the crew as 'Old Scrotum'."
"I could kill him," I suggested hopefully. "That would speed things up. It's bad enough for you to be married to a bastard. I don't want our son to be one too."
She shook her head, her blonde hair rippling like in a TV commercial for shampoo. "He's indestructible. It's been tried."
The three minutes were up. I slid closer and placed my hand on her cool, sensuous thigh. "Should we stop for a drink?" I asked her, moving my hand up to touch slightly moist nylon. "Or should we go immediately to a hotel room and begin the creation of our first offspring, bastard or not? By the way, I'm Jack Martin."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Martin, and kindly remove your hand, temporarily that is, from my crotch before I lose control of both myself and this Detroit behemoth."
We rain-checked the drink and went to a motel. The moment we were inside the door, I took her in my arms and kissed her. Merging Susan's lips with mine was like stepping from fifty below weather into the heart of a blast furnace. She was instant sex.
"Sir," she said huskily, "I hope your intentions are strictly dishonorable."
"Have no fear," I assured her. "All I want is to remove your clothing, deposit your lovely body on your bed, fuck you until your pussy is sore and then kiss it to make it well so that I can fuck you again."
"Oh, my, what a relief!" she murmured. "I had feared you might have evil intentions."
"Oh shut up," I commanded her gently as I reached behind her to pull down the zipper of her dress. Susan wore no brassiere.
I've said that she was the most. Trying to describe her with such cruddy devices as adjectives is like attempting to bring down enemy bombers with a long-handled fly swatter. She was a golden goddess. Her breasts were pink-nippled mounds of delirious delight, her tiny waist and rounded hips designed to fit the curvature of a man's hands and her thighs were mouthwatering columns of sculptured rapture.
She reciprocated by undressing me, exclaiming with sweet, childish delight at the upward arching shaft of my cock, with its already dripping, ravenous, little mouth and my balls, tensely gathered in their nest of furred skin in anticipation of impending action. I was, in brief, at battle stations, ready to do my bit in the finest tradition of the United States Navy.
There were neither radio nor TV in the room but I'll swear that, as I lowered her to the bed, there was music, a thin piping as from a reed instrument blown by a merry fellow with pointed ears and the hooves of a goat.
I buried my face between the perfumed hills of her breasts, luxuriating in the contact of her golden, gossamer flesh with mine. Her gorgeous legs were spread on either side of me and she lifted them straight into the air so that my eager, throbbing cock nuzzled first her twitching asshole and then her spasmodically palpitating pussy. Once I had found the target, she brought her legs down, wrapping them around me and gigging me in the butt with her heels as she drew me into her.
Oh, hopes of heaven and dreams of paradise! As it slid slowly into her velured vagina, my cock was being caressed, licked by a thousand, tiny, membraneous tongues!
"Now just hold still," she whispered when I had navigated her channel and was snugly berthed in the harbor of her crotch. "Don't move, darling, and I'll show you something."
Something indeed! Never before had I had my cock sucked by a pussy. Hardly moving her hips, she began alternately contracting and relaxing the muscles of her vagina in such a cunning way that the result was like an expert blow job, only much better.
I pity you mere mortals who read this if you have never experienced an orgasm brought about by Susan's miraculous technique. I pity you even more if it was not Susan herself who guided you on that trip to paradise. Imagine, if you can, an orgasm of triple strength. Now try to visualize that poignantly agonizing moment of terrible and wonderful truth being prolonged so that its torturous tensions last twice as long as normal. If just thinking about it staggers your imagination, what do you suppose having it actually happen did to one shiny, brand-new ensign? Right. I died a little. Who says death can't be beautiful? I went right out of this world into another one, a world you'll never find with pot or LSD. It was a place of transcendental enchantment, an abstract artist's mad dream of purest sensation, painted in tinted semen on a canvas of quivering flesh as vast as the universe. There I floated through a swirling mist of passion, every nerve in my body screaming with the delight of unbearable, unnameable pleasures. After a century or so, and just before my reason broke, I drifted back over the edge and was reborn. But never to be quite the same again.
I opened my eyes. I was on the bed beside her, her lovely face only inches from mine. I diminished the distance and we kissed. Her lips were jasmine on a hot, summer night. Her fingertips began moving in a slow dance over my body. They waltzed over my nipples, traced my ribs and my loins, lingered on my thighs and took up their rhythm on my flaccid cock and my poor, exhausted balls. I was sure that I was drained, finished, done for. Another erection just couldn't happen again. Not for hours. Then why was the damned thing standing to attention like a midshipman at quarters inspection? And why were my guts churning with reawakened desire? Definitely not according to regulations at all.
"I think it may be sore enough to rate a healing kiss," she suggested shyly.
I agreed with the diagnosis and bent to kiss her darling cunt. She spread her legs for me, bending them at the knees and lifting her crotch to my face. I rubbed my cheeks on the velvety softness of her inner thighs and lowered my head to the perfumed gates of heaven. There is an old navy saying that all pussy is good. Like Sears products, it is to be classified only as good, better and best. But Susan's vulva was superlative, the membraneous flesh succulent and eminently suckable. She was one of the juicy ones, her chalice overflowing with that nectar of the gods, attar of pussy. I drank it, I washed my face in it and wallowed in it. I located her well-defined clit, taking it between my lips to titillate and tantalize it with my tongue while my hands prowled her golden, sun-gilded thighs. I made it last until she was whimpering for mercy, her hips dancing and her fists pounding the bed. Then, having led her to the brink a dozen times, I took pity on her and let her go over the edge.
"Oh, Jack!" she cried through a sob-muffled scream. "Oh, Jack, you lovely, cunt-lapping darling, I love you!"
When she had recovered, she turned her back to me and I slid it into her pussy from the rear. Again she did the strange, amazing stunt of sucking me off with her cunt while I played with her breasts and kissed the sweet flesh of her neck and shoulders.
"By the way," I said later, "how soon do you intend to file suit for divorce?"
"He'll never divorce me," she replied bitterly.
"In that case, I'd better make plans to knock him off."
"I won't let you take that risk but don't think it isn't a tempting offer. I would be nice if the son of a bitch would only get himself captured by the Chinese commies. There is the death of a thousand cuts, for instance. Charming."
Susan told me that her father was a lieutenant, a mustang, as they call officers who have risen from the ranks. Rarely, very rarely, are mustang officers promoted above the rank of full lieutenant. He had served under Commander Scott on a base at Seattle. Scott had desired Susan, who was eighteen at the time, and had convinced her father that, if Susan would marry him, he, Scott, would exercise his big pull with the Navy Department to get the other half-stripe for Daddy's cuff. Daddy, in turn, had convinced Susan who, being a good kid and a dutiful daughter, had gone to the sacrificial marriage bed with the sneaky bastard. But Old Scrotum had not made good his promise. Susan's father was still a lieutenant, grimly hanging on and awaiting retirement. She had begged for a divorce but Old Scrotum had refused. Not that she was any good to him in bed. He was impotent but kept her around for an ornament and out of sheer cussedness.
"And what happens now that you didn't show up to give the fink a ride home?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "I'll make up a story but I better hoist anchor and sail with the tide right now or I'll have even more explaining to do when I do show up."
"All right," I agreed reluctantly, "but don't forget that, from this moment forward, and 'til death do part you from Old Scrotum, you're my girl."
She took my face in her hands and kissed me sweetly. "I won't forget, but we do have to be careful. You have a career to think of and he's not only your executive officer but he isn't just birdturding when he brags about his pull with the top brass."
Glumly I watched her dress, a thing that, in her case, should be strictly prohibited. In any right-thinking society, covering Susan's body would constitute criminal concealment, punishable by castration.
I've no reason to suppose that the mother-jumping, old bastard suspected Susan and me, at least not for the first six months. Of course my wardroom pals all knew the score and it goes without saying that the enlisted men did. If you can't remember how many times you humped your wife last night, ask any man on your ship. He'll know. But I didn't have to worry about them. They were all my friends. My fellow officers didn't even kid me about Susan, however, and that was disturbing because it was very un-navy. All I got from them were covert glances of concern and pity. Hah! I thought, they just don't know what a treasure I have all to myself. So I was running the risk of being ventilated by a .45 or cashiered out of the service. But, ah, the sweet reward of danger!
Old Scrotum didn't need to know I was screwing his wife to hate my guts. Just the fact that I was a junior officer was enough but there wasn't much he could do to me. I handled my job as expertly as could be expected of an ensign. I didn't get drunk and disgrace the uniform by getting caught in any whorehouse raids and I was smart enough to stay the hell out of his way as much as possible. Things might have gone on like that indefinitely if the son of a bitch hadn't been queer for searchlights.
Maybe it's the pressure. All I know is that every senior officer has got some part of navy regs or some part of the ship that he's balmy about. Old Scrotum had a thing about searchlights. He bugged the deck division officer and he bugged the bo's'n. He bugged everyone who might be held even remotely responsible for seeing to it that all searchlights were in working order and polished to mirror brightness. It was his practice to spot check them at odd, unexpected times.
We'd been at sea for two weeks and I was going around with a permanent hard from thinking about Susan and, as luck would have it, I got stuck with the duty the first night in port. For some reason known only to himself, Old Scrotum remained on board as well.
At twenty-two-hundred hours that night, the gangway watch went onto the dock to answer the phone. He reported back that the call was for me. I took it and, of course, it was Susan.
"Don't tell me, darling," she said, "you drew O.D. duty. Well, that's the damned navy for you. Listen, I'm calling from a place near there. I can borrow a car from a friend and drive out on the pier. If I park in a dark spot near the warehouse, can you get away for a minute to see me? I wouldn't dare use my own car. I know Old Scrotum's on board and he'd recognize it."
"God, yes! Hurry, honey. It's been two, mothering, damned weeks!"
I waited until I saw a beat-up convertible with the top down go by the ship and fade into the gloom of the warehouse.
"Humm," I muttered profoundly to the gangway watch, "looks like an unauthorized vehicle on the pier. Hold the fort while I check it out."
"Yes, Sir," he replied, "but if I should happen to give a toot on my bo's'n's pipe, it would mean that Old Scro ... I mean the exec was on deck."
I thanked him and crossed into the darkness where I had last seen the convertible.
"Jack!" Susan cried. "Oh, darling!" She wrapped her lovely, slender arms around me and gave me one of her million-volt kisses.
"Let's don't waste time," I whispered, unzipping myself. "Pull your panties off."
"I didn't wear any. Hurry, Jack!"
I was on her quicker than Old Scrotum could say general court-martial. She hooked one leg over the back of the seat and I crowded in under the steering wheel to ram it home in her eager cunt. We soon had the jalopy bouncing like it was doing sixty over a rough road as I punched in and out of her, probing desperately for that good, tight feeling that lies in the depths of a hot, creamy cunt.
Susan had just gotten her cookies off and I was right behind her, coming like a volcano, when the car and the whole area was suddenly lit up like Times Square. I knew what it was. It was Old Scrotum and his damned searchlight! I heard the shrilling of the bo's'n's pipe but too late. And the hell of it was that I couldn't stop. If you've ever started to come and then tried to change your mind, you know what I mean. I just had to finish it. I heard a bellow of rage from the bridge of the ship as the light went out. As I learned later, the gangway watch had pulled the main switch.
"I don't think he saw you," I told Susan as I pulled out of her and stuffed my dripping cock back into my trousers. "Hurry and get this wreck out of here. I'll see you tomorrow."
She had the engine started and the car underway almost before I could leap clear. Everything would have been fine if she hadn't forgotten to turn on the headlights. I had nearly reached the gangway when I heard the crash. At the same time, the searchlight came back on and I could see that Susan had driven the car into a huge crate that held a diesel engine. She wasn't hurt, just stunned, but it rattled her so badly she climbed out and stood there, revealed in the glare of the light.
Old Scrotum ran past me, yelling bloody murder and calling her every kind of a whore as he waved something over his head that looked like a short length pipe. I sprinted after him, caught him just as he was about to swing on her, spun him around and hit him with all of my strength and weight as well as my hate and fury. He executed a dandy loop-the-loop and lay very quietly on the dock.
The rest is naval history. With my father exerting all of his pull, and Old Scrotum matching it with influence of his own, it was nearly, but not quite, a Mexican stand-off. There was no court-martial but I was requested to resign from the service. The scandal being out in the open the way it was, Old Scrotum had no choice but to divorce Susan. We beat it across the border for a quick, semi-legal marriage and I began looking for a job.
I won't pretend I was very happy about becoming a civilian. I'd shot nearly five years of my life all to hell and, well, the truth is that I had liked the navy. On the other hand, I had Susan. What the hell! Look what the king of England once gave up his crown for.
We loved each other but, somehow, we didn't get along as well married as we had when playing hide and seek with Old Scrotum. I resented losing my commission and it made me a bit touchy.
I landed a job with Space Administration but I was restless and moody and I suppose it was only natural for me to choose friends among my co-workers who were ex-navy. One of them was Bucky Brandt, retired Chief Machinist's Mate. Bucky and I often stopped on the way home for a beer and to talk over old times.
"I guess you've heard of Splatterass, haven't you?" he asked one evening as he wiped some foam from his upper lip.
I shook my head. "I don't think so. Tell me about him." I loved to listen to Bucky's stories.
"Splatterass wasn't a 'him'," Bucky replied. "She was a 'her' and the best-looking chick I've ever seen. First time I met her was when I was stationed at Pearl. She was just a kid, only fifteen. I know I've given you some snow jobs but this one is no bullshit, Jack. That little girl took on the whole damned base and, for all I know, the ships in port as well. She was an officer's daughter but she took a sort of part-time job in a whorehouse, helping a Kanaka chick named Lani, although I understand she was just doing it for the fun of it. Night after night, she lay up there in the sack alongside of Lani and out-fucked her both ways from the middle. I later heard that she married some old fart of a commander but that didn't slow her down. She kept right on trying to screw the whole navy. Her husband was the exec on a D.E. and she fucked every man on his ship and all the officers. Damndest thing I ever heard of."
I felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice cubes down the back of my shirt but there was a slow fire beginning to rage inside of me, a blaze no ice could put out.
"Maybe I did hear of her, come to think of it," I said as casually as I could. "You ever screw her? I heard she had some kind of a special way of ..."
"Yeah, that's the one," Bucky interrupted cheerfully. "Sure, I banged her plenty of times. She had this trick of working her cunt like a mouth. It was ... Hey, what's the matter, Jack? You look sick."
"I am. I'm going home."
By the time I got to the house, I was tied up inside. My guts were in bowlines and half-hitches and I didn't know whether I wanted to puke or just lie down and die.
Susan met me at the door.
"Hello, Splatterass," I greeted her.
She turned pale and then her blue eyes sparked fire. "So you heard. What's that got to do with us? I've never splattered my ass around since I met you."
"This is what it's got to do with you and me," I told her. "I threw away a career for the biggest whore the Pacific Fleet has ever known."
That was the way the evening started. It ended with me walking out on her. I went to a hotel and tried to get drunk but I was missing her already. When I got back to the house, she was gone. She hadn't even left a note. She'd just split out on me, bag and baggage.
I tried getting drunk and I tried women. The liquor made me sick and the women made me even sicker. They were like a diet of dishwater after you've been living on champagne.
Weeks went by and I finally put one of those silly, pitiful, come-home-all-is-forgiven ads in the personal column but there was no answer. I wanted to find her and tell her that I loved her and I didn't care about her past but I didn't know where to even start looking for her.
She'd been gone for two months when a guy I hardly knew invited me to a party. It was one of those wild, psuedo-hippy affairs that no real hippy would be caught dead at. The only thing about it that wasn't phony was the grass they were all smoking. You could hardly push your way through the fog in the room.
I did push through it and there she was, on her back on the dining room table. Her skirt was around her waist and her blouse was open down the front. She was puffing a joint of grass while one guy was mauling her tits and another was trying to crawl up on the table to get between her legs. She gave me a drunken grin. "Hi, Jack," she said. "Well, don't look so stupid, lover. You called me 'Splatterass', remember? I'm just living up to your expectations."
"Get up from there," I growled. When the guy who was trying to mount her said something to me, I backhanded him so hard he went ass over teakettle across the room. The other one, the one who'd been fondling her boobs, got my fist in his mouth.
"Duck, Jack!" Susan yelled and I bent down just in time to keep from being brained by a flying chair.
It was a fairly good fight while it lasted. They tried to rush me but they were high on pot and they got in each other's way. It wasn't long before I had run out of contestants. Some had copped-out through the door and some had gotten too close to my fists and had gone bye-bye. Then, when it was over and I looked for Susan, I realized that I'd had some help. Susan, her blouse ripped off the rest of the way and the light of battle blazing in her eyes, gripped a fireplace poker with both hands. She grinned at me. "These punks wouldn't last long in a navy-type brawl, would they?" she asked.
"Come on," I told her, "let's split the hell out of here before they bring up reinforcements."
It was three o'clock in the morning and drizzling rain. I had no car because I'd ridden with someone else. "It's a long walk," I said. "We better get started."
"Where?"
"Home."
She gripped my upper arm with both of her hands and leaned her weight on me. Her shoulders were shaking and I wasn't sure whether she was laughing or crying but I took my coat off and put it around her and then I kissed her and we started home.
I'll let her tell you the rest of it.
JACK MARTIN
Chapter Six
THE SUSAN MARTIN STORY
As Jack has told you, I was a navy brat too. I was born on the base at Pearl Harbor. Pop once told me that, just as the doctor was turning me upside down and spanking my little bottom, a navy bugler was sounding reveille.
I suppose, to some people, the life of a military dependent seems wonderfully glamorous but, when you're born and raised to it, it can be as ordinary and prosaic as being the daughter of a bank teller or a cop. By the time I was a teen-ager, being shuffled around from one part of the world to another, living in places like Okinawa, Spain or England, and having school interrupted while being transferred, seemed a perfectly natural way of life. It doesn't, as you might think, give you a feeling of being a displaced person. No matter where you are, you're still navy and you have the solid, comfortable awareness of belonging to something, if not to somewhere.
I was thirteen when my mother died. Pop took it pretty hard. He had always been a remote, detached sort of man as far as I was concerned. Duty, the service, they came first. Perhaps mustang officers feel that they have to try harder than the academy grads. After my mother's death he became even more withdrawn, more dedicated to the single purpose of his life ... his career. Not that Pop didn't love me. He did and he sometimes surprised me by remembering things like my birthday, or that I liked a certain kind of candy but, mostly, he was a lot more Lieutenant William Hiller, U.S.N., than he was the father of a leggy, pig-tailed brat of a kid. He left me pretty much to my own devices. If I was home at chow time, okay. If I wasn't, he assumed I was running around with some of the other officer's kids or having my dinner at their house. I doubt if it ever occurred to the innocent, absent-minded darling that I could get into trouble on a navy base. Trouble was contrary to navy regulations and, furthermore, who would dare have the effrontery to molest the daughter of a naval officer?
I'm going to some length to make our relationship clear because it was due to our lack of closeness that I was able to start my own little career right under his nose. Bless him.
I doubt if he more than barely noticed when I began to grow up. Lovely, exciting things were happening to me. I developed boobies, I lost my leggy, coltish clumsiness, I began wearing more sophisticated clothes and I began experimenting with interesting ways to do my hair. I also began having some wildly pornographic dreams and developing an erotic, daytime preoccupation with sex. Some of the other girls my age were going through the same stages and we compared notes on our progress, or lack of it. We formed what we called "The Nasty Club," the purpose of which was to tell dirty stories, discuss sex, learn all the four-letter words and puzzle our little heads over THE BIG QUESTION ... how to get ourselves screwed without suffering any of the dire consequences such as scandal, pregnancy or venereal disease. There were available boys among the junior set on the base but there is something about the male offspring of naval officers that makes them just terribly icky. We girls were in unanimous agreement that enlisted men were the sexiest dolls on earth and we drooled gallons while speculating about this one or that one.
I endured my virginity until I was fifteen. Masturbation helped in a way, yet, in another way, it also acted as a stimulant. It was a time of much suffering and frustration.
We were doing another tour of duty at Pearl Harbor. Having a dependent daughter, Pop rated a house on the base. Sailors were detailed to the job of keeping up the yard so, during the days, there were usually three or four of them mowing the lawn, trimming the hedge or working in the flower beds. I spent lonely, hot-pantsed hours watching them, studying their dungaree-clad figures and mentally raping every one of them. I could saunter across the lawn in the very briefest shorts available, tennis racket under my arm, and be conscious of their lovely, lascivious stares. I could go to or from the beach in a bikini that was practically non-existent, or I could sit on the front porch, pretending to read but with the maximum of my charms on calculated display, and they would look, slyly and furtively, but nothing happened. Between us was the impenetrable, glass wall of the gulf between enlisted man and officer's daughter. To smash through that wall became my ambition and obsession. Opportunity and desperation finally combined to make it possible.
I was on the couch in the living room, reading a beautiful, thrilling, bootleg book called Candy, when I became aware of voices outside the open window.
"Isn't this Lieutenant Hiller's quarters?" voice number one asked. "I saw that blonde, chick of a daughter of his the other day. Christ! I God damn near came in my pants! Man, would I like to bang her."
"You and a few hundred other swab jockeys on the base," voice number two replied drily. "Forget it, Tony. That is strictly wardroom stuff. I'll admit she's table pussy. Putting a dirty, old dick in her would be a violation of the pure food law but, old buddy, you make a pass at her and the navy'll hang you by your balls from the nearest yard-arm."
Thrilled to my toes, I peeked over the window sill. Tony was dark, curly-haired and handsome. I determined right then that he was going to be my first lover. I took up my post just outside the main gate but several evenings went by before I saw him come out on liberty, resplendent in his whites, his tight-assed pants showing the bulge of his genitals. He was alone and, dizzy-headed from eagerness, I followed him to a place well out of sight of the base and then I called him by name. He stopped, turned around, regarding me with both interest and apprehension.
"Your name is Tony, isn't it?" I asked as I caught up with him.
"Yes, Miss," he admitted nervously.
"I'm Susan Hiller," I announced. "You were working in the yard at our quarters the other day with another sailor and I overheard your conversation."
He blushed and looked really scared. "Gee, I'm sorry Miss Susan," he blurted. "You don't want to pay any attention to sailor talk. I didn't mean anything disrespectful. I ... "
"Oh, that's all right," I assured him, "but I just don't understand. You said you'd like to bang me but were afraid to try. How could you get in trouble, unless we were stupid enough to let someone catch us?"
"You mean you really want to?"
"Yes. I've never done it and I want to learn. Please, Tony. I promise never to tell anyone. Please?"
He gulped. "Gosh! I sure never thought ... Come on, let's get a cab and split the hell away from here before some officer sees us together. I know a hotel down Palama way that's run by a Jap, a friend of mine."
We found a taxi and headed for the old tenement district of Honolulu. I was tremendously excited and so was Tony. He kissed me and put his hand under my skirt to feel my legs and when his fingers touched my wet, nylon-covered pussy, I nearly came right then. Our room was a crummy dump with a sagging mattress and a musty smell but it looked like heaven to me. I was drunk with emotion and over-stimulation and I kept saying over and over to myself as we went up the stairs that at last I was really going to get it, really going to get fucked and I couldn't make myself believe it was actually about to happen.
Girls are supposed to be shy about stripping in front of their first lovers but I was too eager to be shy and I couldn't get out of my clothes fast enough. Tony had a fine, dark, muscular body and a cock that stood out from it as hard as the broom handle I had once thrust into myself in a desperate attempt to simulate intercourse. We rolled on the bed like two people in mortal agony, clinging to each other with all of our strength, kissing and petting in a frenzy of passionate haste to merge our bodies as quickly as possible. I urged him to hurry and do it, that I couldn't stand more waiting. He warned me it would hurt and then began working it into me. If it hurt at all I didn't notice but I nearly fainted from sheer ecstasy as I felt his cock plunge into my body. It wasn't small either. It filled me with a marvelous, tight feeling of completion as though I'd been going around half-finished and now I was a whole person.
I knew I was supposed to come when he did and I wanted to so desperately that I cried when I couldn't. He explained that young girls didn't usually have an orgasm when they first started doing it. But he wouldn't let me suffer. He sucked me off, making me come so hard I thought I was going to explode.
His liberty was up at midnight but he fucked me five times before he had to leave and he went down on me so many times I couldn't keep track. We agreed to meet every time he rated liberty. We decided it was too risky for us to return to the base together so I waited until he was gone and then caught another cab.
"You might as well sit up front," the driver invited me. He was a short, heavy-set Japanese with an ugly, good-natured face and wise, knowing eyes. "You look like you been having a good time tonight," he said, leering at me. I hadn't realized that it would show on my flushed face and in my sleepy eyes, undoubtedly still glazed with residual lust. "Some guy was pretty lucky to get you," the driver went on. "Maybe you'd like some more, hunh?" He reached over with his right hand and pushed my skirt up to stroke my bare thighs. "You want me to drive out to the beach for awhile?"
I nodded, too full of sudden desire for him to be able to speak. It was as though all Tony had succeeded in doing was to start a fire in me that couldn't be put out. He drove to a deserted section of the beach and parked the cab under the dark, concealing branches of a kukui tree. We moved to the back seat. When he kissed me and put his hand inside the neck of my dress to squeeze my boobies, I felt for the zipper of his pants, anxious to get his cock out, to feel its silky hardness swell and throb in my hand. It was a monster and was nearly twice the size of Tony's.
"Hurry!" I begged. "I want that in me."
There was pain that time but I didn't give a damn. I didn't care if it split me from navel to asshole. He was good. He made it last a long time and, wonder of wonders, he made me come! There was the velvety night, the sound of the surf and the soft trade wind to cool our perspiring bodies. It was a magical night of fulfillment for me and the end of my hated virginity ... with a vengeance!
"You're a plenty, damn, good fuck," he announced when he was through. "I better take you home now."
"No," I pleaded. "Please! I want it again. Let's take our clothes off this time."
"Okay. You sure got hot pants." We stripped and I rubbed my naked body all over his, stroking his smooth hide with my hands and showering kisses on his muscular chest and belly. "You wanta suck it?" he asked me.
"I don't know. I've never done that."
"You try it a little. When you get it hard I'll fuck you again. Okay?"
"All right." I put my mouth over the head of it, not sure what I was supposed to do but loving the taste and the feel of it and thrilled by the way it began immediately to stiffen and swell. He helped me by working his hips. Then, when it was hard, he mounted me and again I felt the lovely sensation of having that big thing inside of me. I came quickly and then twice more before he did, filling my cunt with his hot, sticky semen.
He was worried about keeping me out too late, afraid he was getting me into trouble but I assured him it was all right as long as I got in before daylight. I had my own key and Pop slept like a log. We ran naked down to the sea and plunged into the breakers to wash off, then emerged to lie on the hard-packed sand at the water's edge. He sucked my breasts and fingered my clitoris before he turned and pushed his big cock in my face. I knew what he wanted and I wanted it too. As soon as I started, he began doing it to me with his tongue and I wouldn't let him stop to do it the other way. I made him stay the way he was, kneeling over me, until I had come and he had squirted a king-sized load of the hot, salty-sweet stuff down my throat. It was only after that that I finally let him drive me back to the base but I had his cock out of his pants and was playing with it all the way. I had his phone number and I agreed to call him whenever I wanted a cab ... and a good fucking.
After that, I divided my time between Tony and my cab driver. I just adored both of them. I'd known Tony a month when he told me about Lani, a Hawaiian prostitute who had a room in the same hotel that Tony and I always used.
"She's fat and not very pretty," he told me, "but she's got the damndest trick I ever heard of. She sort of sucks a guy's cock with her pussy and I'll bet that chick is getting rich at it. The swabbies are fined up clear to the end of the hall on payday nights."
I wanted him to teach me how Lani accomplished her specialty but he couldn't explain it. "All right then," I declared, "I'm going to meet her and learn it for myself."
He was shocked. "You can't meet her, Susan! You're an officer's daughter and she's a whore!"
I laughed at him. "Tony, when are you going to get that shit out of your head about me being untouchable and holy because I'm an officer's daughter? I want to meet your Lani and I'm going to do it, with or without your help."
He gave in and agreed to take me up to her room. Lani was a plump, dark girl with a sweet face who was as horrified as Tony had been. "You ain't got no business being in a whorehouse," she scolded me. "Why you ain't no more than a kid. Besides, you think I wanta ruin my professional standing by teaching an amateur? I got some ethics."
"Suppose I pay you? I don't imagine it would be very ethical for a pro to turn down money, would it?"
She admitted I had a point there so she reclined on the bed for a reluctant and confused Tony to mount her. Stretched across the mattress on my belly, my nose only inches away from the scene of action, I watched in fascination.
"Gee!" I exclaimed, "that sure is great, Lani. Don't make him come. I want him to do it to me now and so you can watch and tell whether I'm doing it right or not."
Lani watched us a while and made some suggestions, then she admitted that I sure did learn fast. "All you need now is lots of practice," she declared. "Honey, you ain't going in business and be competition for me, are you?"
"No. I just wanted to learn for the fun of it."
But I got into the habit of going to the hotel early in the day and visiting with Lani. She was a wonderful person, sweet, generous and, oddly, highly moral in her own way.
"This is payday," she told me one afternoon. "Before this night's over I'm gonna wish I had four cunts, two assholes and six mouths. I hate to turn boys away but I can't handle more'n just so many in one night."
I had an inspiration. "How about letting me help you on paydays? I don't want the money. I just want the kicks and, like you told me, I need lots of practice."
She refused at first but I had found that I could talk her into almost anything, so she agreed I was to share her mattress and take on the overflow.
The boys sure got a surprise when they began arriving. We'd let six or eight of them in the room at once while they waited their turns. It was what you might call a continuous gang bang and I loved every second of it. The word went back to the base that Lt. Hitler's daughter was putting out and it became the biggest night Lani had ever had. She counted the money at four in the morning when the last of the boys had been taken care of. Over two hundred dollars. "You know what that means?" she asked me, her voice low with awe. "It means we each took on more than fifty guys at two bucks apiece. Lordy! The most I ever done by myself was thirty-seven. Here, half of this is yours."
I refused, reminding her that I'd been helping her for the fun of it.
I spent a lot of nights with Lani after that. And don't ever let anyone tell you that enlisted men can't keep a secret. No slightest hint of my activities ever reached the officers.
But the inevitable happened. I noticed a discharge and a burning sensation when I urinated. "Honey," Lani said sadly, "you got yourself a dose of the clap. You better get it treated."
It was a low blow, although I wasn't so much worried about the gonorrhea as I was about my father finding out. Then I remembered Doc Helm or, more properly, Commander Dr. Helm. He was an old geezer, almost ready to retire and he was the typically jolly, fat man. I was sure he was the one person I could trust with my secret.
"Tsk, tsk," Doc muttered. "Well, I'm glad you came to me, Susan. It would be terrible to let a thing like this be known on the base. I'll treat you privately and we'll have it cleared up in no time."
We arranged that I was to come to his quarters at night. His wife, fortunately, was on an extended visit with relatives in Maryland. The treatments weren't much fun for me but they seemed to be for Doc. I caught on when he directed me to strip bare. Even I know you don't have to show your titties to have your pussy examined. His eyes were gleaming as he went over me very thoroughly indeed. I wondered what it was all about. Surely the old rascal was beyond the stage of being able to do anything but maybe he still had it in his mind and was getting his jollies. I was grateful for his help and I didn't mind that he was enjoying his work. Then I looked down at the front of his trousers and saw that he was either carrying a big iron bar in his pants pocket or he had a hell of an erection.
When the examination and treatment was over, I put my arms around him, kissing him and grinding my hips against his hard. "Thank you, Doc," I told him. "When I'm well, maybe I can think of a better way of paying you."
"That's very sweet of you, Susan," he said hoarsely, holding me tightly against his fat belly and reaching behind me to cup the cheeks of my bare ass with trembling hands. "You'll soon be beyond the infectious stage. I'll look forward to collecting my 'pay'."
I was looking forward to it too. It was partly curiosity concerning his age. I couldn't believe a man of sixty-four could put on much of a show.
When the time came, he took me to his bedroom, lowered his trousers and gave me the surprise of my life. What a root! Why the damn thing must have been nine inches long and as big around as my wrist! It stood out from his crotch, stiff, quivering and already dripping. Who the hell cared that he was fat and sloppy otherwise? I'd taken some fairly big ones but we still had a heck of a time getting that ponderous pecker into me. When it was snugly bedded in my body, I demonstrated the trick I had learned from Lani. To my amazement, he came like a fire hose. Since that night with Doc, I've never turned down a man just because of his age. In fact, come to think about it, I've never turned another man down anyway.
Later, we played sixty-nine, although I had a hard time stretching my lips over the big, bulbous head of his cock, and I damn near choked to death on the massive quantity of semen he shot into me. We did it an incredible three times and then we just played. I sat astraddle of him, bouncing on his big, fat gut while he fondled my titties. I finally coaxed another hard by giving him an "around the world" with the tip of my tongue.
"I doubt if I can do it again," he said, "but come to the bathroom and I'll show you something you may enjoy."
He had me lie down on the tiled floor, worked his cock into me and began to piss! He had a bladder full he'd been saving for that purpose and it was a fabulous sensation as well as an effective douche. The hot urine filled me and overflowed onto the floor, turning me on like crazy. Then he had me stand over him and piss on him too. While we were both stinking up a storm from urine, he went down on me, sucking my cunt and licking my thighs and belly.
It was weird but wonderful. He had another kooky stunt. I knelt astraddle of him, facing his feet and sucking his cock. Just as he was about to come, I was supposed to fart in his face, only something went wrong and, instead of farting, I shit all over him. The old devil loved it!
We took a shower then because we sort of needed one.
I was seventeen when Pop was transferred to the Naval Air Station, Sand Point, Seattle. I hated to leave Lani, Tony, Doc and my cab driver but, when the navy says "go," you don't argue. It didn't take me long to make new contacts in Seattle.
It was at Sand Point that Commander Scott, the bastard, talked Pop into talking me into marrying him. Luck hadn't turned her back on me entirely, however, for Old Scrotum drew sea duty on the Tompkins and I had the whole town of San Pedro to myself most of the time.
Jack was the first and only man I ever really fell in love with. I didn't tell him about my past and it was just a bad break when Bucky Brandt spilled the beans but I was still hurt at Jack's reaction. After all, I'd been true to him from the moment I first met him and honestly hadn't wanted any other men ... well, at least not very often.
When I left that night, I went to Pedro and took a room in a cheap hotel and, for the first time, went into the whoring business for money. It wasn't as much fun as I remembered it but it was something to do to pass the time and to keep lots of wolves at my door.
Frank Lieder worked at Space Administration and Jack and I had known him slightly before the big bust-up. I met him in the course of business and it was his suggestion that he throw the party that was supposed to bring Jack and me together.
It was daylight before Jack and I got home from that brawl. He wasn't saying much. He just took me into the bedroom and gave me a screwing that was better than any I'd had since leaving him. "Now," he said, sitting up and wiping his cock on my leg, "let's talk this thing out. I want you back and I don't give a damn about the past. How about it?"
"If you're really reconciled to the fact that you did marry a splatterass, it's a deal. I love you too but, this time, let's play it a little smarter. Let's don't demand so much of each other. If I slip out and get a little on the side now and then, can you understand that it doesn't mean I don't love you?"
"I'll take you back on any terms, Susan. Life without you just isn't worth the trouble. As for me, though, I don't need any other woman."
He changed his mind when he met Betty Hunt and Paula Fentis, so now we are part of the group and, for us, it's the best deal in the world. We hardly ever even talk about the navy anymore.
SUSAN MARTIN
Chapter Seven
THE RAY KNOWLES STORY
Having heard some of the others read their letters before the group, I'm frankly envious. The one thing their lives all have in common is a basic sweetness and innocence and their approach to sex has been that of children, full of wonder and delight at a shiny, new toy. I can't say as much for myself. For me, sex was a sickness, a dark, secret thing of shame and horror. Only now, through the influence of the group, am I learning that sex has both a fun side and a deeper meaning.
My most lasting memory of the small, Pennsylvania town where I was born is of the tall, grim spire of the church that dominated the village and cast its black shadow over the lives of us all. It was supposed to be God's temple but there surely can be no decent God who would tolerate such a foul abomination in His name. From the pulpit rolled a continuous thunder of hate and fear, of threatening damnation and wrathful vengeance that gripped our lives in a paralysis of soul-torturing fright.
My parents were typical victims of this monstrous thing, so twisted, warped and perverted by its terrible power that they bore little resemblance to members of a human race that had produced poets, artists and doers of glorious deeds.
Something there was in me that caused me to rebel, to fight this oppressive tyranny of the spirit. But I was a sly one. I learned early in life to keep my counterattack a secret and to avoid open conflict by the stratagem of appearing to be the most subservient and devout of all. I think that a rather nice way of saying that I was a moral coward and a nasty little sneak.
I had certain natural advantages. I looked the part of the fine, clean-minded, upstanding, God-fearing, young man. I was handsome almost to the point of being pretty. I could stare steadily at you with my clear, blue eyes and make you believe I was an angelically pure and innocent lad. While smiling sweetly at you, I was, in my secret heart, hating your God damned, fucking guts and wishing I had the nerve to kill you, poison your dog or rape your seven-year-old daughter.
I sang in the choir, I was the perfect student at school, I became an Eagle Scout, loaded with merit badges, and people trusted me to escort their teen-age daughters to picnics, church socials and all such nauseating functions, for I was the Little Lord Fauntleroy, the young gentleman.
Why? Why did I never utter a suggestive word to any of them or let an eager hand slide under the hem of a dress to grope for a virginal vagina? Because, as I've said, I was an errant coward and had to get my jollies from knowing how completely I was fooling all the nice, stupid cretins who considered me a model youth and a paragon of virtue.
The only overt expression of my hatred took, appropriately enough, the sneaky form of becoming a night prowler and a Peeping Tom. My bedroom was on the ground floor of the house in which I lived with my parents and a low window provided a means of egress and ingress when, like a werewolf or a vampire, I chose to slip out into the night and make my rounds of the town.
Soundless in sneakers and nearly invisible in dark clothing, I went like a cat burglar over fences and rooftops. I had favored stops to make on my route. For instance, from the vantage point of the roof of Svenson's garage, I could look directly into the bedroom window of Olga Svenson, a snooty young bitch of fourteen who had a face like a pink pig, large breasts and blonde hair at her crotch. She left her window shade up and invariably undressed for bed with the light on. Through countless nighttime vigils, I learned every detail of her plump, overripe body as I watched her strut and preen before her mirror, fondling her own breasts or fingered her silly, little cunt as she indulged in God knows what erotic fantasies? On several occasions, I watched her fuck herself with the handle of a hairbrush. Once, inspired by a brilliant impulse, I dropped lightly to the ground, removed a pair of her nylon panties from the clothesline and masturbated into the crotch of them. I then dropped them into the dirty-clothes hamper on the Svenson's back porch.
Olga was not seen about town for several days. When she did put in an appearance, it was with downcast eyes still red from much crying. Her mother had found the garment, correctly ascertained the nature of the yellowish, crusty deposit in the crotch and had accused Olga of having been with a boy. I gloated for weeks at the success of my plot.
One of my favorite stops was at the home of Bob and Martha Rheimer, a young, newly married couple. Unlike Olga, they pulled their window shade down at night but it was an old shade with a small tear in it. By standing on an apple box, I was able to place my eye to the hole in the shade and see the interior of their bedroom. They made love with the light on. I frequently joined them, masturbating in rhythm with their plunging hips as Bob's cock slushed in and out of Martha's ample cunt. Vicariously, I sucked her breasts with him and petted her lumpy thighs.
I conceived the idea of calling her on the phone when I was sure her husband would be home. When he answered, I would ask for her in a disguised voice, then hang up when he demanded to know who was calling. One day, when he was at work and Martha had gone shopping, I entered their house and masturbated several times onto a towel that I then hid under her pillow. Their divorce caused quite a scandal.
Oh but they were a jolly crew, my fellow townspeople. Like me, they were all sweetness and piety on the surface and all filth and rottenness underneath. I knew. I knew, for instance, that our chief of police was a homosexual and that his lover was Max Geiger, husband of Betty Geiger. I watched them suck each other off. I knew that Thomas Blaine and his twelve-year-old daughter were lovers. His wife was aware of his incestuous conduct, allowing him that privilege in return for his noninterference with her affair with Bo Smith, the colored janitor at the high school. I played my little pranks on them all.
By the time I was ready to go away to college, my sex life had settled into an established pattern of voyeurism and masturbation. It remained in that groove until I met Laura Varney. She was so typical of the hypocritical, psalm-singing, secret sensualists of my home town that I detested her on sight. I was certain that her appearance of being almost too ethereal and spiritual for this world was surely a pose, so I dated her but made no passes, waiting for her true, inner nature to reveal itself. When it didn't, I decided to help matters along by kissing her, although bodily contact with her revolted me. To my astonishment, she took the caress as a declaration of love and assumed that I was proposing to her.
The thought of marriage had not occurred to me. I was repulsed by the idea of actually living with another person but, that night, as I contemplatively masturbated while indulging myself in the fantasy of Laura being fucked by a donkey in public, I had to consider the advantages of having her as my wife. I had always wanted someone, preferably a young girl, entirely at my mercy, someone to represent the hated, human race, a person whom I could safely hurt with no fear of reprisal. I would, I decided, be clever about it but not subtle. I considered Laura too stupid to require much subtlety on my part. Bit by bit I would destroy her, just as I had always longed to destroy the people of my home town.
We were married and, to my amazement, I found that she was, in fact, as innocent, as virginal and as spiritual as she pretended. What a stroke of luck! I would degrade her, drag her down from her lofty pedestal, make her wallow in her own filth and learn to adore it.
As you will see, our wedding night was a master stroke of imaginative genius but I can't take full credit for the success of the plot. I was being constantly advised and guided by the voices. I had been hearing them for some time, a whispering, chuckling babble inside my head that urged me on to even greater deeds of capricious cruelty and directed my efforts with skillful and diabolic cunning.
Laura was so stupid, and so madly and idiotically in love with me, that she questioned nothing I said or did. She was very shy that night, the typical, blushing bride. She even trembled as she came in bed in her shorty nightgown, her delicately shaped thighs pressed tightly together, as though to preserve, for a few last moments, her precious maidenhead, her shoulders hunched forward in an effort to conceal her small, quivering breasts. She was really very pretty, with light brown hair, gray eyes and a body that was slender to the point of being fragile. What a pleasure it was going to be to smash all that beauty and turn that elfin loveliness into a shambles of depraved lust and perversion!
"Here," I said, "smoke this. It'll relax you."
"What is it?"
"A special kind of cigarette that has a tranquillizing effect. Don't worry about it. Just do as I tell you." It was, of course, a joint of pot with a dash of hasheesh to increase its potency. I lit it for her and showed her how to hold it to lose none of the benefit. It hit her hard and, by the time she had inhaled the whole thing, I had no trouble inducing her to take a second one.
"Feel more relaxed now?" I asked her.
"Whee!" she replied happily.
"That's good. Now we can have sex. Open your mouth."
"Hunh?"
"That's right. Don't bite it. Suck it."
She was too befuddled to know what I was doing to her, but some dim section of her mind must have been still functioning enough to tell her, remotely, that this was bad. She was crying as she sucked my cock but, even though she did a sloppy job of it, and got sick when I filled her mouth with semen, I was surprised to find that it was actually superior to masturbation. I gave her another joint of pot and, with that one, she passed out completely.
I quickly dressed and went to a nearby beer parlor where some of the city's rougher elements held forth. I selected a man in his early thirties, rough-looking, in need of a shave and dressed in dirty working clothes. I bought him a beer and talked to him for a few minutes. "You want to have a girl tonight?" I asked him. "I know a young chick who's hot to trot. I've already had her but she wants more. In fact, she's looking for a gang bang. You know any of these other guys in here?"
"Sure, I know a lot of 'em. This on the level? You ain't pimping for her, are you?"
"It's on the level. Won't cost you a cent. I'm just doing her a favor, now that I'm through with her."
Five of them followed me to the apartment. "She's out right now because she's tripping on pot," I told them, "but don't let that stop you, just climb right on. Oh yes, she likes it rough so, if she makes a fuss, what she wants is for you to knock her around a little and hurt her more."
She came awake when the first man thrust his cock into her, making her bleed onto the bed sheet. She started to scream and, to my delight, he slugged her so hard on the jaw that she passed out again for awhile. When she awoke again I had a little drink prepared for her. It contained a very carefully measured dose of Spanish Fly that I had obtained from a fellow student whose father owned a stud farm.
That was when the fun started. When the powerful aphrodisiac hit her, she turned into a sex-crazed nympho who couldn't get enough.
"I've had her three times and I've got another hard," one of the men told me, "but her cunt's getting so damned sloppy it's not much good."
"Turn her over and use her asshole," I suggested. "She'll scream and raise hell but she really loves it. I'm going out for reinforcements."
I waited to watch Laura get corn-holed, delighting in her cries of agony, then went out to the beer joint and passed the word. Soon there were more men in the room with fresh erections and eager to have a crack at her. There was even a sadist in the bunch who bit her body in a hundred places. Perfect!
It was daylight before she had satisfied all of them several times apiece and the effects of the drugs were beginning to wear off. She lay snoring on the bed after the last one had gone, her legs outspread, one arm hanging limply over the side. Her breasts, her thighs and her belly were spotted with blood and with teeth marks. The sheet under her was soaked with a gelatinous mess of blood and semen. She looked like the great-great-grandmother of all whores.
I joined the voices in my head in roaring laughter and glee.
It was late afternoon when I awoke, having been disturbed by Laura's crying.
"What happened?" she sobbed. "I had a terrible dream. It must have been a dream!"
"No dream," I told her. "You sure surprised me and here I was thinking you were a nice girl. We smoked a cigarette and then you wanted to suck my cock. After that, you said you wanted a lot of men to fuck you. You threatened to go out on the street and give it to everyone who came along unless I furnished more men for you. I did, and you must have done it thirty or forty times before you were satisfied."
Laura shrieked, grabbing her hair with both hands as though trying to pull it out by the roots. "No! No, no, no, no!" she screamed. "I couldn't! I didn't!"
"Look at yourself in the mirror."
She did and she screamed again. I thought perhaps she was going to go insane so I watched with interest, never having seen anyone go crazy before. But she was apparently made of stronger stuff than I had supposed. She went to the bathroom and threw up but, when she came back, although she was weak and shaking, she had herself under control.
"Why did you let me do it, Raymond?" she demanded. "I thought you loved me."
"And I thought you were a nice girl. Well, you never know how people will react to sex. It probably surprises you too to learn that you're a slut and a sex maniac. No use pretending you didn't enjoy it. I was here and saw it. You did like it, didn't you?"
She hid her face in her hands and sobbed. "I seem to remember that I did but I'll never do anything like that again."
"Suit yourself. You don't even want to suck me off anymore?"
She shook her head violently. "I'm so ashamed."
"That's too bad. I was looking forward to more of that but perhaps you don't even want to stay married to me. That's too bad also because I can't imagine what other man would have you now."
She thought about that for a minute and then she turned to stare at me, her face ghastly pale and her eyes seeing something horrible. I wondered if she heard voices too. "No!" she cried, "don't leave me, darling. I'll do that again if you want. I'll do anything you want but don't leave me!"
"Okay," I agreed generously. "You can suck it now then, only try not to be so damned sloppy about it and don't bite me."
She was crying again as she bent to take it into her mouth. She bobbed her head up and down, her tongue sliding back and forth on the underside of the head of my cock. It really was better than masturbation. Amazing! When my semen filled her mouth and squished back out through her lips to run down her chin, I saw that she was going to get sick again, so I put my foot against her breast and shoved her off onto the floor where she lay retching. "Go get yourself cleaned up and fix our breakfast," I told her.
It was amazing what I could do with Laura after that. Some people give up so easily. She became my slave. I guess she figured she was so deep in depravity that no one else would ever have her so she was determined to hang onto me at all costs. She was even sickeningly grateful to me for not tossing her out into the street.
I gave her another jolt of Spanish Fly from time to time and provided her with plenty of men until I tired of that game. I kept her on pot, giving her an occasional shot of LSD or speed for variety. When I was in the mood, I amused myself by beating her. After I'd knocked her nearly senseless, I would let her crawl to me and suck my cock if she begged hard enough for it. When I thought she was ready, I told her she was going to have to hustle for me. She was, as usual, eager to please and had reached the point where she was sex crazy without the aphrodisiac anyway. I made a deal with some of the cab drivers to bring her customers. They were of all nationalities and colors and were usually drunk. If they screwed her, corn-holed her or did it in her mouth, it was all the same to Laura. I could have demanded thirty dollars for the use of her body but it pleased me to only charge three. I didn't want her to get the idea that she was high-class stuff or that she was important to me in any way.
At my insistence, she wore extra-short mini-skirts, tight sweaters with no brassiere and did a gaudy job of making up her face. It amused me to have her look exactly like the cheap, tough whore she had become.
Just when I thought everything was fine and that I really had her hooked, I came home one night to find the house empty. She had copped out on me, leaving a note saying that she had signed on with a pony circuit and was being shipped to a whorehouse in Mexico City.
I sat down and cried because she had been such an ungrateful bitch as to run out on me after all I'd done for her and all the plans I'd had for her. I'd meant to kill her eventually, of course, but not for a long time yet. I'd even thoughtfully considered methods of disposing of her body. Now she had cheated me of the last, biggest and wildest kick of all. I'd find her and bring her back, that was what I'd do.
* * *
They say they found me on the corner of 4th and Broadway. I was masturbating and screaming that I was God and that I'd come to punish the world for its sins. I don't remember any of that. Schizophrenia is the most unpredictable of the mental illnesses. They determined that I'd been sick since childhood and, normally, even a partial recovery would have taken years. In my case, however, I responded beautifully to treatment and was in the hospital less than a year. I returned to college to finish my degree but I was still considered an out-patient and continued to report twice a week to Dr. Skyles. I'm sure he did me a lot of good and, under his guidance, I slowly began the difficult process of rejoining the human race. I learned to understand that it was the environment of my home town that had unbalanced my mind and that, while my actions had been truly dreadful, I had been in no way responsible for them. I still harbored much guilt concerning Laura but I was learning to live with it. But I think Cindy was better therapy than anything the doctor was doing for me.
Cindy worked as his receptionist but was also a patient. We began going together, spending some of our nights in my apartment. I found that I could actually enjoy her company, that I liked kissing her and having normal intercourse with her. Doc was aware of our arrangement and gave it his joyful approval. To him, it was a sign that we were both getting well.
Cindy was hung up on her brother Jim. She'd been having sex relations with him since she was a kid and had never been able to sever the tie that bound her to him and I knew that she was still seeing him one or two nights a week. I honestly didn't mind. When Laura obtained a Mexican divorce, Cindy and I decided to marry. We were sure Doc would give us his blessing.
"I don't know," he told us doubtfully. "As an affair, this has been good for you two but I don't think you're quite ready for marriage. Ray, you're nearly well but what you apparently don't realize, or don't want to face, is that part of Cindy's attraction for you is that she still has frequent intercourse with her brother and I'll bet you two have agreed she should continue this after your marriage. Right?"
We nodded our heads guiltily.
"Don't you see that this is a hangover from your voyeurism, Ray? You're getting the same sexual thrill out of Cindy's relationship with her brother that you received from Laura's enforced promiscuity. And you, Cindy, can hardly be unaware of the fact that Ray looks and talks a lot like Jim. You're only substituting. Until you can make a clean break with Jim, and until Ray honestly wants you to do that, you kids aren't ready for marriage."
"But Jim's threatened to kill himself if I do," Cindy protested.
"What a capital excuse for you," Doc applauded in open sarcasm. "Let him. He's dominated your life long enough. But I'll lay you ten to one he's bluffing."
We got married anyway and we agreed that Cindy would continue to sleep with Jim at least once a week. We told ourselves that it was to avoid having his death on our consciences, but we knew better. The nights when she was gone were more exciting to me than when she was there. I would lie there masturbating and visualizing the two of them together and knowing that she was getting her deepest, most stirring, sexual satisfaction while with him.
When I was offered a job with Space Administration near Los Angeles, I wouldn't have taken it if Jim had not been able to go with us. He sold his car and rode with us and I had the pleasure of watching him feel Cindy up while I was driving. We took turns with her in the motels at night, all three of us in the same bed and sometimes managing a sort of three-way sex orgy.
We took a house together when we got to California. In the evenings, Cindy and Jim would strip and make love on the deep rug in front of the fireplace while I pretended to read a book or magazine. She slept with me at night but Jim often joined us and he always came into our bedroom to screw her one more time while I was starting breakfast.
It seemed to me an ideal arrangement and I knew Cindy wanted it that way too. Then Sam and Delia Green came into our lives. Cindy fell hard for Sam and I went completely overboard for Delia's dark beauty. We went to their house to play swap, even though Jim knew what we were doing and it made him turn sullen and mean. They invited us to meet the rest of the group and it was like turning a sudden corner to find yourself in heaven.
When we told Jim what we were going to do, he flipped and again threatened self-destruction. Cindy, to my surprise, said she was sorry but, if that was what he was going to do, he'd just have to go ahead and do it. He was drunk when she and I moved to another house that Arnold had found for us in the subdivision where the group lived. Jim stayed drunk for two weeks and finally landed in jail. I managed to get him released and gave him the money for his fare to Wyoming where he and Cindy had been born and raised. He's married now and happy.
I wrote to Dr. Skyles. In reply, he said, among other things: "Officially, I deplore mate swapping. Unofficially, I'm very happy for you and Cindy that you have broken with her brother and have found a congenial group of 'friends' to help you adjust."
RAY KNOWLES
Chapter Eight
THE CINDY KNOWLES STORY
I was born and raised in one of the last strongholds of the old west, a Wyoming town that adheres stubbornly to its heritage as a frontier outpost. My father was a cattle buyer, his job keeping him away from home most of the time, but Mother and I, and my brother Jim, staged in the old, frame house with its picket fence, roses and geraniums around the front porch and the small barn and corral at the back of the property.
I suppose my childhood was a rather ordinary one. There was school in the bitter, icy winters and there were the usual, small-town amusements in the long, golden summers.
At twelve, I was physically mature and pleasantly aware that my slender body had developed certain interesting but perplexing aspects. Posing nude in front of the big, bathroom mirror, I was pleased with my nicely shaped breasts but would have liked them bigger. A well-shaped torso, rounded hips and rather sexy-looking (I thought) thighs, compensated for any deficiency in the mammary gland department. I even regarded my miniature crop of pubic hair with approval, combing and brushing it faithfully.
I thoroughly enjoyed those moments of intense narcissism and I suspect that every little girl's first love affair is with herself. But those sessions with my reflection were arousing feelings that were laden with guilt as well as excitement. They baffled and even frightened me a bit. I had discovered that rubbing my thighs with my hands produced a tingle of something almost like electric shock in my loins and, if continued, brought my whole body to a high pitch of delightful tension. I was on the verge of learning to masturbate. Had I felt less guilt concerning my lonely activity, I would have taken the natural step of fingering my clitoris, and, from that, to inserting my fingers and other objects into my vagina. I wasn't unaware of the several possibilities this fascinating orifice presented but I had the vague notion that there was something nasty about that part of my body and I hesitated to touch it.
Mother kept a strict eye on me, so my encounters with boys were usually too well chaperoned for me to learn in the way I'm sure many of them would have been only too happy to have taught me.
My brother was two years older than I. Jim was tall and so handsome that I once heard Mother say he had gotten all the looks in the family. As a girl, I should have resented that but I was so crazy about Jim, so utterly and completely worshipful, that I didn't mind about him being better looking than I. Of course he was. As children, we had played together constantly but, as we grew older, he seemed to draw away from me, erecting a barrier of reserve between us that I cried myself to sleep over on many nights, but which I lacked the temerity to assault. I adored Jim, as I always had, but bowed to his masculine right to consider me a lesser creature, a thing now beneath the dignity of a boy who was nearly a man.
It didn't occur to me that Jim might be undergoing the same awakening of sexual desire, the same torments and frustrations that troubled my dreams at night and tantalized my waking hours. I took it for granted that his masculine, and therefore more exalted, thoughts were only on such innocent items of interest as horses, baseball and the chemical set he kept in what he called his "laboratory," a former storage room for grain. Dad had turned that part of the barn over to him, probably as a security measure to keep him from blowing up the house. Jim kept the door to this room padlocked and my girlish curiosity as to what went on in there was boundless.
It was June, a week after school had let out for the summer. I was restless and lonely. I was too old to play with dolls and I was tired of reading, so I wandered disconsolately around the yard and finally turned toward the dim coolness of the barn. Its interior was a place of soft shadows, golden bars of sunlight that held the rare beauty of dancing dust motes and of a heavenly fragrance compounded of animal scent and hay.
I was sure that Jim had left earlier that morning to play baseball. There was the remote possibility that he might, just this once, have forgotten to lock his precious laboratory. I was not above taking a stolen peek at the wonders inside. I approached the door and saw, with a little thrill of guilty excitement, that the padlock was hanging unsnapped in the hasp. I opened the door and stepped inside. It was a small room with a bench, shelves, a rather impressive array of bottles, some test tubes and a Bunsen burner. It had a distinct aroma, quite unlike that of the rest of the barn.
Those things I noted in the fleeting second before I became aware that I was not alone in the room. In a dark shadow by one wall, Jim sat on a stool. He was bare from the waist down, his trousers and shorts crumpled around his ankles. He desperately gripped something in his lap, trying to cover it with both hands to conceal it from me.
"What you doing in here?" he snarled at me, his face a deep crimson. "Get out of here, you little spy!"
I adored Jim and, being an overly sensitive female anyway, I was deeply hurt. Instead of leaving the room, I burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Jimmy," I whimpered. "I didn't know you were here. I just wanted to look at your laboratory. You don't like me any more at all, do you?" This last was accompanied by a wail of broken-hearted anguish.
"Aw, for Christ's sake don't bawl," he growled but there was contrition in his voice. "I'm sorry, Cindy. Okay, so you caught me at it. What the hell? I suppose you don't jack-off too?"
I didn't know what he meant at first and then I saw that the object he had been trying to hide with his hands was his penis. I understood. My tears vanished and I blushed with a violence that matched his own. I still didn't leave. I couldn't. It was all too fascinating.
"Don't tell me you don't do it too," he insisted. "I've seen you playing with yourself in the bathroom."
I gasped with shock. "How could you ... with the door locked?"
"The keyhole, silly. I've watched you lots of times, only you usually had your back turned."
"I don't do that ... that thing you mean," I denied. "I just sort of rub my legs. I wouldn't do that other. It's nasty."
"Isn't either. It's fun. Come here and I'll show you."
Before I realized what he intended, he had reached out and grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me to him, holding me with one arm around my waist. He released his penis then and put his free hand under my skirt, caressing my thighs. I struggled a little but not much. I knew that what he was doing was very bad but there were two things that, even had he not held me, would have kept me as firmly in place as though my feet had been embedded in cement. One was the fact of his erection, sprouting so tall and arrogantly from the triangle of hair. It was my first view of the male organ and I couldn't have torn my eyes away from it no matter what. The other reason was that his hand was on my thighs, rubbing, squeezing and petting them as he worked up toward my crotch. All girls love having their legs toyed with but mine are supersensitive. I have even experienced an orgasm from no greater stimulus than having my inner thighs kissed or petted. The moment Jim touched me I became entirely helpless, all strength draining from my body to be replaced by a delicious feeling of warmth and lassitude. I surrendered completely to the mounting tide of passion.
Seeing I had no intention of escaping, he relaxed his grip on my waist and began undressing me, removing my dress, my brassiere and my panties. He was panting and trembling with desire as he lavished frantic kisses on my lips and my breasts while his hands still fumbled with my legs and my crotch.
Dimly, a distant squeak of sound, was the voice of my conscience, telling me that this was very, very wrong, that Jim was my brother and that I had no business being naked there in the barn with him, no right allowing him to kiss and touch me while I ardently returned his caresses. But it was a very small, distant voice. When he pulled me down to his lap so that I sat astraddle of his penis, the roar of my pounding blood drowned out the last, pleading whisper.
He didn't try to enter me but simply held the head of his penis against my clitoris and moved his hips in such a way that it rubbed on me, leaving his hands free to fondle my breasts and stroke my thighs as he kissed me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth and then drawing mine into his.
I responded with every singing nerve and with every muscle and atom of my body. I seemed to lose all sense of individuality as I melted and fused with him. Being there like that with him no longer seemed strange. The whole thing had a dream-like quality to it anyhow and there had been many nights when I had awakened from a dream of being naked with Jim and him kissing me.
"I wasn't going to fuck you, Cindy," he whispered, his voice low with emotion, "but I can't help it. I've just got to! It might hurt a little."
I didn't know what he meant by "fuck" and I didn't care. Nor did I care whether it hurt or not. I just wanted more and more and more of him. I wanted this unbelievably lovely moment to endure forever, this cc 'tact with his naked limbs, his avid hands and his hot, hungry mouth to go on and on. I was hardly aware when he spread my legs and started the head of it into me. There was, as he had said there would be, the pain and a tearing, rending sensation but those were remote, unreal things compared to the fact of his body and of my own delirious desire.
When it was in, he slumped to the floor, still holding me, and then he was on top of me and I was more conscious of the fact that part of his body was inside of mine, plunging slowly in and out. I could feel it working away, like a burrowing worm, at the job of fashioning a nest that would fit it. I loved what he was doing to me. I loved the weight of his body on mine, the pounding of his hips and the soft thud, thud of his bag against my crotch.
The tempo of his movements increased and he began uttering sobbing cries, calling my name over and over, almost as though he was in agony as he pounded at me furiously. Then there was a new sensation, the pleasant feeling of something hot and liquid gushing into me and Jim groaned with a deep sigh of relief and relaxed, lying with his full weight on me as he kissed me tenderly.
"I'm sorry you couldn't do it too," he murmured. "It takes longer for a girl to learn how. I'll bet I can do it for you with my fingers." He rolled partly off me and put his hand on my crotch, touching my clitoris and gently massaging it. I wasn't sure what was supposed to happen but I knew that what he was doing felt marvelous and that the kisses that accompanied it were like the beating of angel wings on my lips.
It took a long time but Jim was patient and determined and the gathering tension in my nerves reached a point beyond which they could no longer endure. My first orgasm was as though all the delights I had ever known had been forced on me at once. It was the first spoonful of ice cream on a hot, summer day; it was the soul-thrilling song of a meadow lark at dawn and it was the Christmas-tree gleaming warmth of a happy home in December. It was all of those things and yet it was more and better, oh infinitely better! "Did you like it?" Jim asked anxiously. I nodded, too full of emotion to speak. Now that my passion had ebbed, conscience was pounding louder and more demandingly at the door of my mind but I refused to listen. To fortify myself against the dark intruder, I pulled Jim's face down to mine and made him kiss me again. I clung to him fiercely, afraid to let him go for even an instant.
"You're the greatest!" he whispered fiercely. "I've been doing it with some of the other girls but they're like nothing compared to you. I've been hot for you for so damn long, Cindy. I've been spying on you every chance I've had. I've even been in your room at night while you were asleep and pulled the covers down to look at your boobies. They're beautiful. Just now, when I was sitting there jacking-off, I was thinking about you, pretending I had you in here with me ... naked. For a long time now, I've wanted to kiss you and touch you, to take your clothes off and fuck you, but I was afraid you'd tell on me."
"I love you, Jimmy," I told him. "I love you more than anyone in the whole world. I know it's wrong for us ... brother and sister ... but I don't care if it is. I want you to a ... er ... intercourse me again whenever you want to. I'll never tell! Never!"
Jim snickered. "You don't say 'intercourse me,' Cindy. You say 'fuck me.' I guess I'll have to teach you all the words like 'cock' and 'cunt' and 'fuck.' I love you too, Cindy honey. I don't give a damn if you are my sister. You're the prettiest girl in town and I'd rather fuck you than anyone. I won't do it with the others after this. Mom sleeps like a log and she's downstairs anyway. If I sneak into your bedroom tonight, will you let me fuck you again?"
"Of course. Every night. Jim, what is it like to touch it? Can I put my hand on it? Look, it's getting hard again like it was at first."
"Sure," he said, "take hold of it. Having you play with it is swell. Beats hell out of doing it to myself. I like to play with yours too. Let's do that until we're both ready and then I'll fuck you again. You want to, Cindy?"
"Oh, yes! Please!"
I loved handling it. It was like a coiled spring sheathed in velvet. It was white, like the parts of Jim's body that weren't suntanned but the round head was a pinkish color with a faint tinge of purple. The little slit he peed through fascinated me. I bent closer to examine it and watched a drop of white, thick fluid ooze out.
When Jim mounted me again, I could hardly wait for him to put it inside, to return it to its nest. He took his time, showing me how to put my legs around him and how to rotate my hips, using the muscles and flesh of my butt as a pivot. He explained about keeping my clitoris in contact with the bony protuberance just above his cock and I could tell it was hard for him to be calm and patient with me when he was so excited because of what we were doing. It was even difficult for me to listen. My body was so aware of his body, of his tense muscles and of how his chest flattened my breasts, of the smooth flesh of his hips clamped firmly between my thighs.
I nearly came when he did and I was filled with joy to know that, with just a little more practice, I'd be able to have an orgasm very easily. He had hardly finished, and only started to touch me there with his fingers, when I began jerking convulsively and biting at the side of his neck in the madness of my delight.
We did it three times that morning, the long hours drifting sweetly and dreamily by, their passing unmarked by us in our own, private world of love and passion. When we heard Mom calling us to lunch, it was like being startled out of deep sleep, the thought of life and routine things going on as usual outside the laboratory somehow alien and frightening. We dressed hurriedly. I was almost afraid to go to the house for fear she'd see the difference in me, the fulfillment and the sudden womanhood.
"My," she exclaimed as we sat down to eat, "your face sure is red, Cindy. You must have been playing too hard, dear."
I know I turned even redder but I managed to murmur something about running a lot.
"Cindy wants to see my laboratory," Jim said casually, "so I'm going to show it to her this afternoon."
Mom laughed. "Well, it's about time. You great scientists sure keep your experiments a closely guarded secret. I'm glad to see you two being more friendly. You used to play together so nice when you were little."
I felt like a dirty stinker to be doing something behind her back but, at the same time, I could hardly repress an hysterical giggle. I wanted to blurt out that we played together nicer now. Oh, much nicer!
We spent the afternoon in the laboratory with the door latched from the inside. We kissed and petted and he finger-fucked me but he wouldn't do any more than that.
"It's different with girls," he told me. "You can get your cookies off a hundred times a day but a guy can only do it just so much and then he craps out. I could fuck you again now but I'd rather save it for tonight. Being in bed with you will be swell."
As soon as Mom was asleep that night, Jim came to my bedroom. As he had predicted, it was swell. We lay cuddled and naked beneath the covers, wrapped around each other like snakes. I petted his smooth, boy's body, kissing his chest and his belly and then pulling his face down to my aching breasts, glorying in the sucking greediness of his hot mouth and the feel of his teeth on my hard, straining nipples.
We did it twice before we fell asleep. Sometime during the night, I dreamed that we were doing it again and awoke to find that we really were and that was when I had the orgasm I'd been praying for. Jim had to hold his hand over my mouth to still my cry of ecstasy.
* * *
Looking back on it all, I shudder now to think of the risks we ran and I marvel that, year after year, we got away with it with no one discovering that we were lovers. As I grew older, I had my moments of doubt, wavering back and forth between being deeply shamed and being fiercely glad and proud that Jim was mine and mine alone.
When I was eighteen and Jim was twenty, we were orphaned. Our parents had been to a cattlemen's convention at Denver. The plane in which they were returning to Wyoming crashed and burned. After we had somewhat recovered from our grief, the question arose as to what we were going to do. We decided against selling the house and property, except as a last resort but renting it wouldn't provide enough money to support both of us so it was obvious that we were going to have to go to work.
"This is our chance, Cindy," Jim said with determination. "We don't have relatives to snoop into our lives, so let's go somewhere away from here, say back east, and live together as man and wife."
It seemed wrong. I'd known for a long time that we would eventually have to give each other up. I wanted to marry and have children. I argued with Jim until he took me in his arms, his lips hushing me while he lifted my skirt and let his hands work their old magic on my squirming, eager thighs. That was the end of the argument and we moved to Pittsburgh, where Jim got a job in a factory and I went to work in an import-export office.
It has always been a mystery to me why a woman will turn on more for one man than another. Newton Klein, my new boss, was fat, fortyish and wore thick-lensed glasses, but just being in the same room with him sometimes made me sick and weak with desire. He was the first man, other than Jim, to affect me that way, and I couldn't understand it. Then, one afternoon, we were alone in the office. I was at the filing cabinet and I knew that he was standing directly behind me. I'd reached and passed my breaking point. I turned suddenly and put my arms around him, rubbing my breasts on his chest and kissing him.
"Take me if you want me," I begged him, "If you don't, then say so and let me leave here. I can't stand anymore of this. Fuck me, Newt. Please fuck me!"
"I want to," he admitted. "The door is locked. We can do it right here on the floor."
We sank down together and he lifted my skirt to pull my panties off. I was so eager I was trembling. I unzipped his trousers and let his cock spring out, white and strong. I guided it to my cunt, sobbing with passion as he thrust its long, fat length into me. We did it quickly, frantically, both of us coming with tremendous force and devastating shock to our nervous systems. He would have stopped then but I wouldn't let him. I wanted us to undress and play together naked until we were ready again.
"I doubt if I can so soon," he admitted. "It might get hard if you suck it. Do you do that, Cindy?"
I knew about the more erotic practices, of course, but Jim and I hadn't experimented with them. I was still terribly hot, however, and was willing to do anything to keep him there with me, so I bent to take the head of his cock in my mouth. It was lovely! I almost choked myself in my greed to get as much of it in my mouth as possible. I nearly fainted with joy when he turned around on the floor and parted my legs to suck on my clitoris. Once I had started to suck him, I didn't want to do it the other way, so we kept on with our mutual, oral-genital love making until we each had experienced another orgasm.
That night, I told Jim what I had done. I expected him to be angry but he shamefacedly admitted he'd been having an affair on the side with a Mexican girl who worked as a waitress in the plant cafeteria.
"I don't mind you doing it with your boss," he told me. "It makes me hot when you talk about it."
"And hearing about your waitress turns me on too. Hurry, Jim, fuck me now. I'm burning up."
"Should we suck each other instead?"
"Yes! Good Lord, yes! Turn around, darling and let me get your cock in my mouth. Oh!"
As time went by, I found others besides Newt. Sex is like pot, it may not be habit forming but the more you do it the more you want and I think I began to verge on nymphomania in my eagerness to flit from bed to bed and man to man.
It was awakening to the fact that it had become a compulsion with me that frightened me enough to cause me to go to Dr. Skyles. He was kind and he resisted my not very subtle efforts to seduce him. He suggested I go to work in his office to keep me occupied and away from temptation, although he knew that Jim was my brother and that I was living with him. He wanted Jim to undergo analysis too but Jim refused.
It was while working for Dr. Skyles that I met Ray Knowles. He was, I'll admit, a lot like Jim. I began living with him most of the time, only seeing Jim occasionally. I knew that it was true, as the doctor said, that Ray was getting his kicks from my affair with Jim.
The trip to California with Ray and Jim was wonderful. I sat in the middle and they took turns driving so that one of them was always free to neck and pet with me. In the motels, where we stopped at night, it was even better and, best of all, we figured out how the three of us could do it simultaneously. I would play sixty-nine with one while the other did it to me from behind, either in my cunt or my asshole. Being sandwiched tightly between the two men I loved, every orifice of my body filled and four ardent hands caressing me was almost too much, it was so good.
Ray has told you the rest of it. I hated to leave Jim but it was best for both of us. Once I'd met Sam Green and the other men of the group, I couldn't have stayed away from them, and Ray was the same way about the women. Ray and I visited Jim and his wife in Wyoming last month. As a special favor to me, Ray took Jim's wife on a shopping spree in Laramie so that Jim and I could slip out to the barn and make love in his old laboratory. We did it as we had when we were kids, naked on the dirt floor, letting the sweet, summer hours drift by as we lost ourselves in each other and in sentimental memories dear to our hearts.
I giggled when Ray told me that night that he and Jim's wife had spent most of the day in a motel room and Jim thought it was hilarious when we told him because, all the time, she had thought she was pulling a fast one on him. He told her the truth after we left and she has agreed that they will spend their vacation in California with us next summer. I know it's against the group rules but they've been good enough to make an exception in this case, because it's really all in our own family.
We're looking forward to their visit.
CINDY KNOWLES
Chapter Nine
THE MARK HUNT STORY
Compared to Sam Green's boyhood on the streets of New York, I suppose my early years were truly idyllic. I grew up in an Oregon sawmill town. The economy, the culture and the social life of our village was wholly dependent upon THE MILL. We thought of it like that ... in capital letters, for it was as I once heard a grizzled old sawyer say: "I was twenty before I found out that God didn't get his orders directly from the Balforth Lumber and Forest Products Company."
The divisions of our daily lives were those marked by the woowoo of the mill whistle, and the lullabies that sang the mill kids to sleep were the clanking and groaning of the conveyor chains and the whining screech of the saws as the carriage carried the huge logs into their spinning teeth.
When the lumber market was good we prospered. When it was bad there were layoffs and we lived on the rocking-chair money of unemployment insurance. Our economy was as uncomplicated as that.
For us youngsters, the mill was simply a fact of life ... perhaps the fact of life. It was just there, like the John Day mountains or the sky, a roaring, sawdust-belching but benign monster to which our lives would be inevitably sacrificed. In the meantime, however, there were the turbulent, mountain streams to fish, deer and grouse to hunt, wild strawberries to find on the stump-land hillsides that had once been forests and there was the old swimming hole.
In that environment, I grew as casually as a roadside weed, and as innocently. My lack of worldly wisdom was monumental in its all-encompassing vastness. Even for a backwoods kid, I must have been remarkably dumb. All things being relative, however, my lack of sophistication went unnoticed in a town where hardly anyone troubled to be any brighter than was necessary to pull lumber from a greenchain or grease an edger.
I think I was at least fourteen before I became aware that people were roughly divided into two types ... male and female. Someone must have told me.
By far the most feminine of all the distaff portion of our population was Betty Lawson. At thirteen, Betty was a woman, complete with red hair, eyes as blue as a mountain lake and two very interesting, bouncy bumps under her blouse. We became good friends. At least she was my friend. I, in my secret heart where dwelt the dreams of innocent, idealistic youth, became her champion, her slave and her devoted worshipper. I think I imagined myself a sort of combination of hillbilly Captain Marvel and Sir Galahad. When my baser nature reared its eager head to slyly suggest that it might prove rewarding to kiss her, run a sneaky hand under the hem of her skirt, or experimentally fondle one of her boobies, I sternly put it down, deeply ashamed of the affront I had given my sacrosanct goddess.
This ridiculous state of affairs continued all through junior and senior high school. We were pals, playmates and platonic friends while I shyly adored her in secret. It was shortly after my graduation that I first discovered my idol's feet of human clay.
It was a Sunday night in June. The mill was silent, dark but for the single bulb that burns eternally over the mill pond, and the faint glow from the burner. We walked the path that encircles the black-stained waters of the pond and found a log on which to sit. It was a solemn moment in my life. School, and presumably my boyhood, were now behind me. Ahead of me loomed only the door at the side of the mill, the one where the sign was displayed: "Employment Office." I had no reason to doubt that the mill was my destiny, just as it had been my father's.
We spoke of it, talking about my future as seriously as though the prospect of spending the next thirty years as a mill hand could actually be called a future. But my inner mind was on another subject. This was the night, the magic moment when, if I could only work up the courage, I was going to ask Betty to be my wife.
As though she had devined the trend of my secret thoughts, she shyly asked a question that completely unnerved me and threw me into embarrassed and bewildered confusion.
"Mark, why have you never kissed me?"
I gulped. I spluttered. I made unintelligible noises.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you that girls want to be kissed? We've known each other four years and the most you've ever done is hold my hand at the movies. Sometimes I wonder whether you really like me or not."
"Betty," I managed to barely articulate, "I ... I ... I've always wanted to kiss you but I didn't think that you ... that is I ... well, I respect you ... I didn't know."
She sighed. "Well, isn't it about time you started doing something about it?"
Exercising brilliant logic, I cleverly deduced that Betty wanted me to kiss her. Trembling, awkward, scared out of what few wits I possessed, I put an arm around her and timidly pressed my lips against hers. She giggled. "Not like that, silly. Like this." Her lips parted and her tongue slipped between my teeth. I came apart. I mean to say that all the glue that had held what there was of me together, simply dissolved under the heat generated by her kiss. The world spun out from under me and the stars rocked in the sky.
"That's better," Betty murmured.
Oh, it was better all right; there was no denying that! It was so much better that my cock was standing stiffly erect, trying to force itself out of my trousers. It damn near made it too when she took one of my hands and guided it through an opening she had created by furtively unbuttoning the front of her blouse. She had come prepared ... which is to say that she was wearing no brassiere. As my hand encountered the silky, warm globe of her breast, I was so startled that I probably would have disgraced myself forever by running home, but for the fact that she had an arm tightly around my waist and, with her other hand, was firmly grasping my cock through the cloth of my trousers! At the same time, she had my tongue in her mouth and was keeping it prisoner by means of a formidable display of suction.
It was rape. I was dazed and stunned by her sudden assault and so God damn hot that I was weak and helpless. I don't recall undressing. She probably did that for me. All I remember is that she was on the ground under me, her nude body writhing as she drew me down to her, causing my cock to slide into her gasping, rapacious cunt as easily as though we'd been doing it together for months.
I did fuck her. At least I did the best I could as a novice at the art. Of course I came much too soon for her benefit but she wouldn't let me stop, her lovely, strong arms holding me on top of her and her gyrating hips still urging me to further effort. I felt my tally-whacker grow soft and then, miraculously, begin to harden again.
"Oh, good!" she sobbed. "That's it, darling, just keep fucking me. Drive it right up into my guts. Screw hell out of me, sweetheart! Make me come so hard I shit!"
Dimly I heard the flow of obscenities from her sweet, childish lips but I didn't credit them with reality. They were a dream, part of the insanity that had gripped me, that had turned me into an animal that wanted only to batter and devour her slender, naked, woman's body.
In the rapture of orgasm, she began screaming vulgarities that paled her previous efforts. I came with her, my body and brain seeming to melt and fuse in the furnace of my lust, to turn to a molten stream of liquid fire that gushed in pulsing torrents from the head of my cock to make her cunt slushy and sloppy with the flow of semen.
She was kissing me frantically, hugging me to her and rubbing her beautiful thighs on my hips like a cat that is being petted. "You're wonderful!" she murmured ecstatically. "It's better with you than with any of the others. Why did you let us waste four years? We could have been doing this all the time."
My sanity had returned, or at least I thought it had. I was hearing the words she was saying and now she was making a terrible kind of sense. A cold wind blew from somewhere to chill my perspiring body and touch my mind with the icy finger of total disillusionment. My goddess, my pure, virginal, untouchable goddess was a baggage, a slut!
Well, it had been a night for growing up. Too bad that I wasn't ready for it.
"You ... why you're nothing but a chippy!" I blurted, pulling away from her and standing, reaching for my clothes.
"I'm a what? So that's what you think of me now that I've given you a little. Why you sniveling, snotty-nosed, little shit! What the hell did you think I was doing all this time while I've been playing ring-around-the-rosy with you? Did you suppose I didn't have any sex feelings just because you were too stupid to know your pecker was for something besides peeing through? Of course I've been getting myself fucked ... plenty."
"I was going to ask you to marry me," I declared in righteous indignation. "I thought you were ... were ... "
"I know what you thought I was and I knew you were going to ask me tonight but I had to find out whether you were a man or not. Well, now I know. You're a baby, a shitty-assed cry baby. Go on home and play with your choochoo train."
I had my clothes under my arm and I stumbled along the path, turning only once to look back at her, still naked and beautiful in the starlight. Her face was hidden in her hands and her shoulders were silently shaking. I thought she was laughing at me as I, with burning face, fled from my shame through the mocking dark.
I left before dawn the next morning. I hitchhiked to Portland and enlisted in the marines. After boot camp at San Diego, I was sent to join a division on Okinawa. We were among the first to go to Vietnam as "advisors."
Somewhere among the rice paddies and the stinking jungles, up to my ass in leeches, snakes and murderous little Cong bastards intent on blowing my head off, I began to grow up. Oh, not all at once and not all the way, but bit by bit I learned about life in the midst of death. There were times when I crouched behind the protective trunk of a tapang tree to take from my pocket the snapshot I carried of Betty and study it, understanding her more than I had that terrible night by the mill pond. I still loved her, not as a goddess but as a woman. I remembered how the hard, erectile tissue of her nipples had felt to my tongue and lips, how her lust-glazed eyes had adored me as she had begged me to fuck her more and more. I recalled all the sweetness and the goodness of the years that had gone before but my mind always came back to the gleam of her naked thighs and the hot feel of her cunt engulfing and swallowing my erection.
When I was sure no one was watching, I would take my cock out and jack-off while I thought about her and cried.
I got it during the seventh month of my tour of duty. A grenade filled my left side from ankle to hip with chunks of metal but I lay there, bleeding and half dead, and I helped stop their charge, the Swedish K so hot the barrel burned me before the last of the straw-hatted, black-pajamaed little fiends fell in a crumpled heap, not three feet away from my position.
I was in hospitals at Saigon and on Okinawa for many weeks before I was allowed in town on liberty. A letter from home was burning in my pocket and I was determined to get drunk as fast as I could limp to the nearest bar. My mother had written, in shocked terms, to inform me that Betty Lawson was living a life of sin. She had become the mistress of Shad Hollyman, the town drunk.
I sat at the table in that joint, drunker than a boot swabby on his first liberty and pounded on the floor with my crutch for more gin. One of the three bar girls came over. She was a slender, slitty-eyed little nymph with a pretty smile. "You like come my room make skivvy dohi bang-bang with me?" she asked. "Then you sleep. No make trouble. Okay?"
"Sure, I'll bang-bang you, baby," I agreed. She led me to a crib at the back of the place. Now the rule in those joints is that, as long as you can maintain an erection, you're entitled to keep on trying to get your money's worth. That particular day I had what is known as an "alcoholic hard." I could screw forever without getting my gun off. I got my little Suzie Wong down on the mattress, her tawny limbs and compact breasts exposed and I stuck it into her. An hour later I was still fucking her. She was a game little tart but she finally begged off and sent in one of the other girls as a replacement. Number two was plump and playful and seemed to enjoy the marathon screwing more than the first one had. She lasted two hours. The third one was a sour-faced bitch who tried to give me a bad time so I turned her over and rammed it into her asshole. She screamed bloody murder.
Things got a bit confusing after that. The room was suddenly full of yelling Okinawan's and two very grim M.P.s with clubs. I did my best but I must have gotten sleepy because I woke up in the brig with a hell of a lump on my head.
My medal arrived while I was still in custody. They had to let me out for the presentation and then they just sort of forgot to put me back in the cell but I was restricted to the base until I was flown back to the States for further medical treatment and discharge. The survey board granted me sufficient pension to maintain me while I went to college. One of the things that getting out in the world had taught me was that there was more to life than working my ass off for the Balforth Lumber and Forest Products Company.
After four years of college, I had acquired a vast appetite for college girls and an offer of immediate employment with Aereo Space in Nevada.
I'd stayed away from my home town for five years but my parents were getting old and I figured I'd gotten Betty Lawson out of my system, so I arranged for two weeks vacation before starting my job and headed north. Nothing had changed, except that Dad was grayer and more stooped and Mom looked a little more worn and weary with the years.
I did a silly thing one night. It was June and the rambler roses were in bloom and ... well, I should never have come back in the first place. I walked out along the old, mill pond path and stood in the starlight by a certain log.
"Mark."
I turned and there she was, looking not much older or different than she had at seventeen. I held out my arms and she ran into them. We kissed and we cried and we laughed and we both tried to talk at once. When we finally settled down to making sense, I told her I knew what a stupid kid I'd been and I begged her forgiveness.
"It's all right, Mark," she told me generously. "I should never have shocked you the way I did. If you hadn't run away and joined the marines, I'd have made you understand somehow. Only right then I was hurt and angry. I stayed here that night and cried for hours."
"I thought you were laughing at me," I said miserably. "It's not too late. Marry me now, Betty. I've got a good job to go to in Nevada."
She shook her head. "I can't. I'm sorry, Mark. Shad has been good to me and he needs me. I won't walk out on him."
"That old sot?"
She grinned crookedly and sadly. "You still haven't learned about life, have you? That old sot is a fine man and an intellectual. He was once a great musician and composer. While you were running away and feeling sorry for yourself, he was teaching me and taking care of me, making a better woman of me. I owe him far too much to desert him now, much as I love you, and even though he'd urge me to go if he knew. I'll be your girl again, if you want me, but only while you're home on vacation but, when you go, we have to say goodbye. Try to understand, Mark."
I tried but I couldn't make it. At last we stopped arguing and I helped her undress. Her body, familiar and dear, yet strange in its maturity, was shimmering quicksilver in the starlight. I kissed the lips and the breasts I loved and, because I had learned more in college than business administration, I kissed her gleaming thighs and her beautiful, overflowing vulva. I listened with poignant nostalgia to her sweet, loving, filthy words as I sucked her and thrust my tongue into her and rolled her clitoris until her repressed screams of rapture sobbed out into the night.
We rested and then I fucked her and, that time, it wasn't rape. I made it last, stopping to kiss and pet with the frantic zeal of a condemned man, for that was what I was, a man condemned to a lifetime without her. When our orgasms had come in a burst of sensuous glory and were gone, we lay naked in the night, my back against the log and her head in my lap. She cuddled my cock and balls against her cheek, kissing them gently, her tears wetting my thighs. When it finally began to stiffen, she put her wet mouth over the head of it and I turned again to part her legs and press my face to her crotch. We took an hour to do it, both of us reluctant to finish it and, when we did come, it was stronger, more soul-shattering for both of us than it had ever been before. Even then I didn't want to quit. I stayed where I was, my lips and my tongue loving the soft, delicate, inner flesh of her pussy, my face wet with her discharge and my mouth full of it.
We were there until the first streaks of dawn lit the sky over the mountains of the John Day.
When my vacation ended, I went to Nevada alone.
I married Lily Dunn out of loneliness and desperation. Desperation because marriage was the only key that would unlock the self-imposed chastity belt she wore.
Lily worked in my office at Aereo Space. She had black hair, white skin, a fine set of knockers and legs that could have been wrapped in tinseled foil and sold as candy. She gave the impression of being exactly what every sex maniac wants for Christmas. She was a good sport and lots of fun but she was a very, very determined virgin. When I saw there was no other way of getting into her pants, I proposed to her.
"Okay," she agreed, "although I don't think you love me. I think you're still in love with your childhood sweetheart but I'll take a chance on making you forget her."
Lily was my first virgin. With all that moistly gleaming, white flesh and those beautiful, magenta-nippled cans of hers to spur me on, it was frustrating as hell to find she was so tight it took an hour just to get the head of my cock into her. It was pretty good when I finally made it, although I was too tired to really appreciate it, but it was good only for me. She'd never even masturbated and she knew nothing at all about having an orgasm.
"That's okay, honey," I told her. "Just leave it to Daddy Mark. There are other ways and I won't leave you chewing the corner of your pillow while I go to sleep." I ducked down and started after her pussy with my tongue but she covered her crotch with both hands and looked at me like I was something that had just oozed up out of the sewer. She was horrified to think that I would want to do such a nasty thing. Was I, she asked, a pervert?
Oh, brother! And I thought everyone had read Havelock Ellis.
We argued half the night and I went to sleep without even banging her again.
After a month, we got so we could have intercourse without a jar of vaseline and an argument as to whether it was all right for me to kiss her titty nipples. But that was just what it was ... intercourse. What I wanted was a good, old-fashioned, nasty, no-holds-barred fuck. She never did learn to get her cookies and apparently had some kind of psychological hang-up on the subject. Let this be a warning to any man who thinks he's found a normal, non-neurotic, twenty-four-year-old virgin. There just ain't no such beast.
We'd had six miserable months together when, while stopping off on the way home for a drink, I met this cheap, hard, sexy-looking blonde with a gorgeous body. Her name was Ginger and she was ready. I took her to a motel and we had a blast. We screwed up a storm and then played sixty-nine. She suddenly remembered a girl-friend of hers who was home and probably lonely. She called her and the chick came hot-footing it to the motel and that was when the fun really started. We played a cute game. I sucked off Ginger while Ginger sucked off the girl-friend and the girl-friend gave me a blow job. Very nice. All motel beds should come complete with two bisexual babes.
I could see, though, that I wasn't going to last out the night at that pace, so we sent out for a bottle and for reinforcements. Another guy and another couple answered our distress signal and it became a party, especially when one of them broke out a lid of grass and we all turned on.
I arrived home in barely enough time to shave and have a cup of coffee before going to work. Lily was heartbroken but she was trying to be the brave little wife. I told her I wasn't having any of that martyr stuff and I told her what a flop she was in the sack and, if she couldn't get over her prissy inhibitions, she didn't have a right to expect me to do without sexual satisfaction.
Oh, I was really being the big, rough, tough, ex-marine hero ... and I was killing her. Word by word, I was murdering her heart and soul, destroying her confidence and her belief in herself as a woman. Because I was still just what Betty had once called me, a shitty-assed cry baby, I was going right on wallowing in self-pity instead of loving and honoring and cherishing her as I'd promised.
I didn't come home again that night either. Ginger and I rounded up the same bunch and we had another blast. A new couple had also added themselves to the party. The girl was a chick with straight, brown hair, the face of a child and the body of a teeny bopper. I didn't ask her age and I hate to think how young she probably was but she was already tripping on some kind of dope when she got there and I was turned on too. I got her into the bathroom, locked the door and fucked her on the tile floor. Then I sat her on the edge of the bathtub, knelt in front of her and sucked her pussy until she was limp as a rag, her eyes dazed and glassy from dope and from lust. I tried to get her to take my cock in her mouth.
"I've never done it," she muttered, pushing me away.
"What kind of a husband you got?" I demanded. "Doesn't he teach you anything?"
I bent her face down over the rim of the tub and began trying to force it into her asshole. She cried and screamed and that was when her husband broke the door down and came plunging in. He hit me so God damned hard he knocked me into the bathtub and then he jumped in on top of me. All I remember after that is him slugging me and bouncing my head off the enameled iron with a continuous sound like Chinese gongs.
The maid found me in the morning. She thought I was dead and her screams aroused me. She wasn't far wrong. I staggered up to look in the mirror and knew I'd helped bury guys in Vietnam who had looked much better. I found my clothes. My wallet and my watch were gone but they'd overlooked my car keys. I drove home to an empty house. Lily had left a note on the kitchen table. I laboriously read it with my one good eye and then fell across the bed and didn't awake until late afternoon.
I couldn't go to work in that condition and it didn't make any difference anyway because, as I found out later, the word had gone around and I was fired. I just hung around the house, waiting for my bruises to heal and, sometime during that period, I had my moment of truth. I forced myself to make an honest evaluation of Mark Hunt. It was horrible. I hope I never have to associate with anyone like that. I saw then what I'd done to Lily; when she'd needed my help and understanding, I'd given her my contempt. Goddamnit, it wasn't her fault I'd loused up my chances with Betty when I was a dumb kid, nor had I had the right to take my sickness out on the young girl at the party. I perceived, with great clarity, that her husband, whoever me was, was the best friend I'd ever had in my life. He was exactly what I had always needed ... someone to beat the shit out of me and some sense into my thick head.
I packed my belongings into the car and headed for home.
Just as I had known she would be, she was waiting for me by the mill pond path that night. "I'd hoped you'd come back," she said.
"I'm home to stay," I promised her. "I'll go to the mill office in the morning and ask for a job."
"What happened?" she asked me anxiously, her finger tracing a partly healed cut over my right eye.
"I grew up," I told her. "What Vietnam and college couldn't teach me, I learned from a young guy in Nevada. I think maybe I'm a man now, or at least I can start from here and become one. You don't have to explain now about you and Shad. I had a fine woman too and, if I'd been as much of a man as you are a woman, I'd have stuck with her, like you've stuck with Shad. I can wait now, Betty. Someday, when Shad isn't around anymore, I'll come to you and maybe then I'll have the right to you and to what happiness is left for us."
She nodded. "Yes, I can see the change in you. You won't have to wait long. He's dying and he's glad of it. He's sick of life, of what he is and that he can never be anything else. It isn't anything to be sad about." But I looked at her eyes and they were wet with tears.
I went to work as an offbearer on the edger and, in less than a year, Shad Hollyman was dead. Betty and I and Doc Everest were the only ones to attend his funeral. Small town people can be cruel bastards at times.
The mill shut down right after that and I landed this job with Space Administration. Lily had gotten her divorce, so Betty and I were married.
We'd been in Los Angeles about two months when Paula Fentis came to pay a neighborly visit. It was like Betty said when we talked the proposition over; if we'd started out right as kids, we'd have just been another pair of Oregon hillbilly kids struggling to make a go of it in a sawmill town, but that description didn't fit us now. We'd both been around the horn, so to speak, and we were whatever life had shaped us into; there was no use trying to go back to something that wasn't us anymore. We'd had too much variety in our lives to settle comfortably into the rut of monogamy.
So we joined the group and expanded our lives instead.
We're happy.
MARK HUNT
Chapter Ten
THE BETTY HUNT STORY
I'm sure I have better and fonder memories of our home town than Mark has. I spent more of my life there and, because I matured much earlier than he, it was a fuller, more interesting life.
I have no memory of my father. I know that he worked for the Balforth Lumber and Forest Products Company but not in the mill. He was a top loader with their logging operation which, at that time, was being conducted on the mountain slopes above town. It has since moved many miles back into the hills. I was three when a load of logs slipped and crushed him. The company gave Mom a small pension that enabled her to keep us in reasonable comfort as long as she supplemented that income by doing washing and ironing for the mill hands.
Mom loved me but she was too busy and too tired to pay a lot of attention to me, so I more or less ran wild and was on my own. I liked school. I think Mom took it for granted that, as long as I was doing so well in school, I must be behaving otherwise for she had the vast respect that the illiterate have for the educational system.
At the age of eleven, I was nearly as tall as I am now and my body was well on the way to its full development. Sex feelings began about that time and, for me, they were very intense right from the start, only I had no more than the foggiest notion of what to do about them. I'd watched animals, both domestic and wild, in the act of copulation and I realized that it must be about the same for boy and girl ... a simple matter of having him put his thing inside my thing but exactly what it was that then took place remained a mystery, a mystery I was not at all unwilling to solve. When a bull wanted it, he simply climbed on the cow of his choice and did it but, with humans, it seemed much more complex and involved. I, for instance, was eager and anxious to be climbed on but the rules were that I mustn't be obvious about letting a male know this fact. An even sillier rule was that I was supposed to wait until I was eighteen and any man who defied that rule could be sent to prison.
I exchanged views and speculations concerning this great mystery with other girls my age but largely rejected their conclusions as unrealistic. They at least pretended to moral inhibitions and fear regarding sex, whereas I had only curiosity and desire.
Some of the boys from the junior high school had built a clubhouse down by Mill Creek at the edge of town. They had constructed it from discarded lumber and it was the craziest thing you ever saw but also the most fascinating.
So was Bud Everest, the leader of the clubhouse gang. I mean he was crazy looking and fascinating too. He was thirteen, short, wide and as muscular as a grown man. He was a tow-head with a comical face, all freckles. His big mouth, pug nose and merry eyes marked him as a natural clown.
Like all the excluded and unfavored kids, I was consumed with curiosity concerning the clubhouse and the mysteries that took place within those rakishly slanting walls and under the perilously awry roof. When, on a summer day, Bud came to me where I was playing alone by the creek and hinted that it might just barely be possible that he could induce the other fellows to accept me as a member of their esoteric fraternity, I was thrilled from the roots of my red hair to the muddy soles of my bare feet. Agog with excitement, I followed him to the clubhouse, watching while he gave the secret knock.
It was as spooky and wonderful inside as I had expected. A crude bunk had been built against one wall. A table stood on the dirt floor, its top covered by a black cloth. The centerpiece was a grinning, sun-bleached skull that served as a candle holder. That it was obviously the skull of a sheep detracted not one bit from the eerie effect. Apple boxes served as chairs. There were two other club members present. Hank Johnson and Tom Sloan were there but obviously avoiding my eyes in self-conscious embarrassment. They looked so scared I wondered what it was all about.
"We took a vote," Bud announced solemnly, "and it's the decision of the High Tribunal of the Mystic Order of Beavers that you be admitted to membership, only you got to be initiated first. You wanta join, Betty?"
"Sure I do," I responded eagerly, overwhelmed by the great honor being done me.
"Well," Bud said, "we ain't initiated no girls before so we made up some special rules about it just for you." He was blushing furiously but he plunged on with courageous determination. "You gotta take off all your clothes and let us look at your pussy," he blurted.
"Bud ... I mean Exalted Big Beaver," Tom interposed, "maybe we better not. If Betty was to tell on us ... "
"I'm not sure I want to anyway," I said. It was a lie. I really did want to but, now that the opportunity was at hand, I was as frightened as they were.
"Aw, come on, Betty," Bud pleaded. "We won't hurt you none. If you want, we'll strip too. I'll bet you ain't never seen a boy's pecker up close." He was pale and shaking as he put a trembling arm around me. "Give us a look at your titties anyway. I guess it's okay for that to be all the initiation you get. Please?"
Bud unbuttoned my loose-fitting cotton dress at the back and pulled it down to my waist. From there it simply fell over my slim hips to the floor. I wore no underwear. The way the three boys gasped at the sight of me, I'm sure I was the first girl they'd ever seen in the nude. Bud was standing behind me, gripping my arms as though afraid I was going to run away.
"You gonna let us look at your pussy too?" he asked. He was pressed tightly against me and I could feel his erection probing at my butt.
It was the most thrilling experience of my life. I could hardly believe that it was taking place, that I was standing there completely exposed to the admiring but shocked gaze of three boys. It was my first awakening to the fact that I am an ardent and enthusiastic exhibitionist who loves being seen in the raw.
"You can look at my pussy," I told Bud, "but you have to take your clothes off too, like you promised."
They did, although Tom Sloane turned sissy when he got down to his shorts. There was a brief scuffle as Bud and Hank overpowered him and finished stripping him. My eyes were bulging from their sockets at the sight of so much masculine flesh and three stiff penises. I sat on the edge of the bunk, put my feet on an apple box and spread my legs wide. The three of them crowded around, bending to peer in awe at my gaping vulva and the hole that was the entrance to my vagina. Bud was the boldest. He reached out a freckled hand to stroke the sparse patch of hair above it. It was a dreamy sensation to lie there like that, to feel their hot breath on my legs and the wonderfully stimulating caress of Bud's timid, reverent touch.
"Can I screw you, Betty?" Bud asked. He was shaking as if from a chill and pleading with me, his funny, freckled face as white as his hair, his blue eyes soft and full of longing, like a dogs.
"Will it hurt?" Not that it really mattered. I had a mental picture of lying there with him on top of me and the other two watching and I knew I was going to let him, after the rules of the game had been satisfied by no more than a token reluctance on my part.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I ain't never done it before. If it hurts I'll stop. Can I? Please, Betty?"
"Okay, I guess."
"Maybe you better not," Tom Sloane advised. "We could get in a lot of trouble if ... "
"Aw shut up. If you ain't got the nerve, then go on home. I'll bet Hank ain't chicken. Are you, Hank?"
"Noooo. But you gotta go first."
Bud got onto the bunk with me. Neither of us knew exactly how to go about it but I suppose it was instinct that saved us from making a complete mess of it. Fortunately, his cock was not very large and it was dripping so profusely that it was well lubricated. He fumbled around for awhile before he got the head of it started in. I could feel it pushing aside the tight, membraneous tissue and there was a little pain but it was nothing compared to the thrill of being there like that, both of us naked, his muscular body in contact with mine and the other two watching.
I grew impatient with his slow, careful penetration of me. I put my arms around him and drew him down, lunging upward with my hips. There was a stinging flash of hurt and then he was into me, his weight solidly on me and my breasts crushed against his chest.
"What's it like?" Hank asked anxiously, bending over us.
"Great!" Bud grunted as he began experimentally thrusting himself in and out of me. Oh my God, what a glorious feeling that was! My passion was intense; I was too young and inexperienced to concentrate it properly but I was, nevertheless, loving every moment of it. Just knowing that the bull had finally found his cow and had mounted her, that I was actually being fucked for the first time in my life and realizing, what a fantastically tremendous adventure it all was ... those were the thrills that were coursing through me. The rhythmical motion of his cock in me was both soothing and exciting, as was the feel of his strong, smooth, boy's body on mine.
He came all too quickly, uttering grunts and cries of ecstasy as he shot his little wad into my body. Then he lay still on me, quivering and shaking from the experience.
"Come on, get off her. It's my turn," Hank urged, tugging at Bud's shoulder. Reluctantly, Bud arose from me, his wetly gleaming cock already flaccid.
Hank quickly took his place. His cock was considerably bigger and he was more imaginative than was the Exalted Big Beaver. He had probably paid more attention to love scenes in the movies and had given more thought to how he would go about it when his chance came. Not that he was expert, but he did kiss me and kiss my breasts before he entered me. There was more pain but it was not important. I liked the way his bigness expanded me and the way he kept his lips glued to mine while he was fucking me, even managing to reach between us with one hand to fondle my breasts. With Hank I became more fully aroused than I had with Bud but I still did not experience an orgasm.
Tom was nice but he was a disappointment. His cock was very small and he hardly lasted as long as a buck rabbit. But Bud was sitting on an apple box and playing with himself so he was ready again. "Come on," I urged him. It took him much longer than before and he copied Hank's technique of petting me and kissing me. I was enjoying it more and more every time I did it.
After they had each had three turns with me, they all seemed to be temporarily exhausted, so we just sat around naked and talked. I didn't want to ever leave the clubhouse and I hated the thought of putting my dress on. I stayed there with them all day, playing with their peckers and encouraging them to pet me and put their fingers in me. Whenever one of them would get a hard, we'd do it again.
"You gonna let me be a regular member of the Beavers now?" I asked anxiously.
"You bet," Bud declared firmly. "How about it, fellows? I vote we make Betty Beaver the Exalted High Queen Beaver of the club."
"Maybe the outer members won't want me in it," I suggested.
"If they don't like it, they can resign," Hank said. "Ain't that right, Bud? But I guess if you let them screw you they'll be glad to have you be queen."
There were seven other members of the club and it was agreed that I was to distribute my favors equally among all who wished to participate. Those who didn't would be barred from membership. The club lost no one because of me. In fact, we soon had so many applicants we started erecting an additional wing onto the building. The former ritualistic initiation rites were abandoned in favor of a simpler one and, from my standpoint, a much better one. Membership was confirmed by having sex relations with the Exalted High Queen Beaver, while all the little beavers sat around watching and waiting their turns.
With all the attention, the loving and the sex I was getting, I blossomed, and I'm sure no young girl was ever prouder or happier than I.
The club building fell down under the weight of a heavy fall of snow one winter and we didn't bother to rebuild it. We held our meetings in Sid Coswell's old barn. But we were bound together by stronger ties than that of an old shack anyway. We were an exclusive coterie and I was the hub around which the wheel of our camaraderie revolved. I was still the queen, the mistress, the lover and the girl friend of my beloved gang.
My mother was illiterate but no fool. She regarded me shrewdly one day. "I reckon you been gittin' yorse'f screwed, youngun," she declared. I blushed and hung my head. "It's all right," she reassured me gently. "I'd done it afor I was yor age back in Oklahoma. Git what fun you kin git whilst yor still young. There shor ain't much else fur a woman in this heah world 'ceptin' hard work, heartache an' misery. But you git in the family way you be shor to tell me, you heah? I got a receipt fur a tea made outen roots an' yarbs that'll git you unstuck good as slippery elm bark."
I nodded gratefully. Her "yarb tea" must have been effective because I missed periods quite often and the tea always brought me quickly around. We had a fortune there and didn't realize it.
My first experience with an older man occurred shortly before I began going with Mark. Bill Henley, one of the mill workers, was a bachelor who lived in a cabin at Poker Flat. Coming upon me suddenly one day when I was playing alone in the woods, he grabbed me and tried to rape me. I say "tried" because I really had no objection to doing it with him, even though people said he was a little touched in the head and there were rumors that young girls were not safe in the vicinity of Bill's cabin. I don't think Bill was crazy at all. He was just terribly lonely and so ugly that he was afraid to approach a woman on any basis other than rape.
After my first moment of fright, I ceased struggling as he took me down in the grass and the ferns and pulled my dress up. He was having a hard time trying to hold me while he unzipped his pants.
"Go ahead and take it out, Bill," I told him. "I won't run away. Honest I won't. I don't mind you screwing me."
He was startled and confused and then such a look of great happiness spread over his face that all of his ugliness vanished. "Gosh, that's sure nice of you," he blurted. I took his face in my hands and kissed him on the lips and he was so grateful he almost cried. I'm sure it was the first time he had ever been voluntarily kissed in his life.
"Hurry up and take it out, Bill," I urged him.
It was twice as big as any I'd ever seen and a lot more interesting than the smooth peckers of the little boys in the club. It was rough and sort of warty looking, with large veins ridging the tautly stretched skin. The head of it was really huge, a reddish cast to it except where the ring of darker flesh showed his circumcision. He allowed me to examine it closely, pleased by my interest. He let me play with it while he finished undressing me and gently but hungrily kissed my breasts and sucked at my nipples.
"You been nice to me," he said, "and I'm gonna do something nice for you too."
I watched with curiosity as he began kissing my thighs and then spread my legs to put his bearded face to my crotch. When his tongue suddenly shot into me, I nearly fainted from the sheer, exquisite pleasure it gave me and, as he licked and lapped at my vulva, my hips began doing a little dance in response. But, when he settled on my clitoris, sucking it into his mouth and titillating it with his tongue, I was, in a matter of moments, having my first orgasm. It was the most marvelous thing that had ever happened to me and I went wild with delight as passion roared and surged through my body in thundering waves and I nearly passed out as my screaming nerves gave way and that last, awful, wonderful rapture took over.
"You liked that, didn't you?" Bill said knowingly. "Can I fuck you now?"
At the time, I missed the incongruity of having a man who had started out by trying to rape me now asking for my favors. As if he had to ask when I could hardly wait to have that big, interesting cock of his inside me. It hurt more than it had the first time with Bud but it felt better too and I strained with all my might to take all of it.
For a man who was supposed to be crazy, Bill was certainly an oddly expert lover who knew exactly how to use that big tool of his to the greatest advantage, for my benefit as well as his. In no time at all I was having another orgasm, even stronger than the first and he came with me, his semen filling my cunt and slushing out to make a sticky, lovely mess between our bodies.
We stayed there all afternoon, kissing and petting and playing with each other. Bill fucked me four times and I lost count of the number of orgasms he gave me with his tongue. When he shyly suggested that I might like to kiss his cock, I didn't hesitate at all and, the next thing I knew, it was in my mouth and I was sucking it happily. I became as terribly excited as he did when the sperm started pulsing into my mouth as I petted his strong, hairy thighs and cradled his madly pumping balls in my hand.
"I ain't on shift tonight," Bill said. "Will you come to my cabin after dark?"
"Sure, Bill honey. Will you let me suck it some more?"
I spent many, many hours after that at Bill's cabin but I didn't neglect my duties as Exalted High Queen Beaver.
I was thirteen when Mark and I started going together. I saw right away that he was not like any of the other boys. He was gentle and sweet and very shy, a dreamer. For the first time, I learned the meaning of deep, emotional love and, with Mark, I began to lead a double life. I had to have sex. It was as necessary to me as oxygen but I feared to spoil my relationship with Mark by destroying his idealized conception of me. I played childish, innocent games with him while still frequently visiting Bill's cabin, being Queen Beaver and keeping up with several affairs I had started with some of the married men in town.
I explained the situation to Bud, Hank, Tom and the rest. As fellow beavers, they swore a solemn oath never to tell Mark the truth about me and they kept their word, like the true beavers they were.
If I had only resisted the temptation to seduce Mark that night by the mill pond. Still, perhaps it was for the best. Mark had a lot of growing up to do and our home town just wasn't the place for him to do it.
A few months after Mark ran away, I was walking home from town one evening when I found Shad Hollyman beside the road. He was, as usual, dead drunk. I was afraid to leave him there as it was in the fall and the nights were turning cold but I knew better than to ask for help from any of the townspeople. They didn't mind selling him liquor, or helping him drink up the royalty checks he still received from the songs he had written but, in every other respect, they considered themselves above him.
I knelt beside him, talking to him until my voice finally penetrated the alcoholic haze that shrouded his brain, then I urged him to his feet. Half-carrying him, I walked him to his house and put him to bed.
"You are indeed an angel of mercy," he sighed, talking in his strange, bookish way. "Pray don't leave me, my beautiful child. 'To sleep ... perchance to dream ... ' Your fair hand in mine, the 'pleasant fountains' of your breasts a pillow for my weary head."
I took his ramblings literally. How was I to know he was quoting Shakespeare? I undressed him and then myself and got in bed with him and he did go to sleep with his head on my breast.
Shad was not from our town and why he had picked it as a place to retire, heaven only knows. He had been a very successful composer of popular and semi-classical music and he still tried to write, although his efforts were more pitiable than saleable. He was in his late forties, tall and handsome in the way that an old, ivy-covered ruin is handsome. That was what he was, a ruin. The booze had brought him down to where he was little more than a shadowy wreck of the great man he had once been.
He was quite surprised when he awoke in the morning to find a naked girl in his bed. I explained how it had come about and he was extremely grateful. He kissed me gently but, to my disappointment, showed no inclination to make love to me.
"I'm sorry, my dear," he said, "but I long ago exchanged my manhood for a cup of wine. 'Oh, the sorry trade!' The desire is still there but, though 'the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak.' "
I put my hand on the flesh in question. "Maybe if I ... "
"Bless you, darling, but it is no use."
"May I come to visit you sometimes?" I asked him. "We could be friends."
To my amazement, there were tears in his eyes as he put his head on my tummy and hugged my hips. "Oh, if only you will! Let me feast on your youth and beauty and I will go to my grave chanting your praise."
I returned to his house that evening, half afraid he would again be in town drunk. To my surprise, he was at home, washed and shaved, his cabin spotlessly clean and he was sober. We sat on the couch before his fireplace, holding hands and kissing and watching the pitchy fir logs crackle, sending showers of sparks up the chimney. I don't know how to describe what being there with Shad meant to me but it was actually better than sex. There was a warmth and a companionship such as I had never known and I realized that I loved him as deeply and truly as I did Mark, only in a slightly different way.
He recited poetry to me and talked of ethics and history and religion. We read aloud to each other from Homer, Plato, H. G. Wells and Somerset Maugham.
When he suggested it was time for me to go, I begged to be allowed to stay and sleep with him again. We kissed and petted and, although that was all we could do, I was happy to be there in his arms, feeling loved and protected. It was my idea to move in with him. Not that he didn't want me there but he was concerned for my reputation. I told him I had very little reputation in the town and didn't give a damn for whatever shreds of it remained. He finally consented, but only with the understanding that, as long as he couldn't satisfy me sexually, I was to find it elsewhere. I agreed to the stipulation, but if Shad hadn't insisted, I think I would have been happy just with his kisses and companionship.
With me in his house, Shad sometimes went for weeks without taking a drink. Then the lure of the tavern would prove greater than my influence and he would be sodden drunk for several days. I would take care of him and nurse him back to health and he would swear never to touch another drop ... until next time. That became the pattern of our lives. Drunk or sober, though, he was unfailingly kind and good. No gentler, sweeter man ever lived.
When some of the nosy, old bags in the town began making a fuss about me living in sin with Shad Holly-man, I'll bet they couldn't understand why their efforts to have me run out of the county drew so little support from the mayor, the chief of police or the Methodist minister. I could have told them why. I had discussed the plot to oust me with each of those gentlemen ... in bed.
I suspected that Shad had developed cancer before he knew it and, of course, I couldn't leave him, not for Mark nor for anyone. Nor would I let them take him to a hospital. Doc Everest, Bud's father, upheld me in this. "Man has a right to die in his own bed," he muttered. "He's got the best and the prettiest nurse in Oregon and I'll keep him doped up to kill the pain. They couldn't do more in a hospital."
Ten months after Mark came home and went to work for the mill, Shad passed away, holding my hand, his head pillowed for the last time on the "pleasant fountains" of my breasts.
Mom had died the year before so, after the mill shut down, there was nothing to keep us in the town of our birth. Mark's parents were grimly polite to me so we hardly felt that we wanted to remain around them. When he was offered the job in California, we were glad to get away.
We've been back once, Mark to visit his parents and I to visit the graves of the two people I loved best. After leaving the cemetery, I walked down to Mill Creek to look at the place where the clubhouse had once stood and where I had been Exalted High Queen Beaver. A man driving by saw me there and stopped his car. As he came walking across the field toward me, I saw that he had a comical, freckled face and merry, blue eyes. We stood together silently for a while and then Bud took my hand and led me to a clump of bushes where we made love sweetly, solemnly and just for old-time's sake.
I'm used to city life now but sometimes, at night, I find myself listening for the high-pitched whine of a saw buzzing its way into a fir log. And sometimes I hear, above the crackle of the fireplace, the gentle voice of Shad Hollyman:
"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease has all too short a date.' "
BETTY HUNT
Chapter Eleven
THE MAX VAN HAAGEN STORY
It seems that the people of this country think of wife-swapping as an American invention, a phenomenon peculiar to this particular, geo-political division of the world and the heterogeneous mishmash known as the United States. Sorry to disillusion you but wife-swapping is a European import; possibly the best thing the old world has sent to these shores since P.T. Barnum brought Jenny Lind here from Sweden. It is true, however, that Americans, with their genius for organizing and publicizing, are the originators of the group idea and have given the thing mass appeal. This is not surprising when you consider their predilection for collectivism, as evidenced in their favorite sports (lynching, rioting, etc.) that are always conducted en masse.
As a boy, I was raised in Holland but one of my mother's sisters had married a Swede so, when I was sixteen, my father exported me to Sweden to live with my aunt and uncle while continuing my education at one of the fine schools available at Stockholm. I endured the usual hazing from my new friends, such as having them express pretended surprise that I didn't wear wooden shoes to school, and I suffered the nickname "Dutchy" until they, seeing that I took their banter in good humor, tired of the sport and accepted me.
At sixteen I was very virginal and possibly a bit on the square side, as befitted the son of a stuffy Dutch burgher. Swedish girls, the exciting, perverse, confusing and delightful creatures known as flicka, tormented me far more than did the male students. The flicka is, by American or Dutch standards, a shockingly bold female. She has to be if she wants to gain the attention of the Swedish male who is, by and large, an introspective and somewhat dull specimen in his youth and, in maturity, often inclined to be pretty much of a drunken sot. A Swede would rather sit in a cafe with a group of his male friends and talk lengthily and profoundly about sex than to bestir himself to do anything about it.
The flicka, on the other hand, is an energetic activist and an enthusiastic hedonist.
So there I was in my wide-eyed innocence, dumped suddenly into a country aswarm with predatory and delectable females. I get sick when I think of the lost opportunities that marked my first winter in Sweden, lost because I failed to adjust my slow, Dutch thinking to the fact that most of the busty lovelies who forth-rightly propositioned me after my arrival from Holland, were doing so with the serious intention of seducing me. I was sure they were only teasing. Proper girls simply didn't talk or act that way.
Summer in Scandinavia is a short, very intense affair and Swedes go about the business of enjoying it with a fierce determination that is awe inspiring. Kirsten Mattsson invited me to go as her escort on an excursion boat that runs the Goto Canal to Goteborg on the coast. My aunt and uncle seemed to think nothing of having me join an unchaperoned group of my student friends for the extensive outing and so, with their blessings, I packed my rucksack and sallied forth on the first real adventure of my life.
Kirsten was fifteen. She was nearly as tall as I, her long, willowy body a symphony of grace that revealed itself with her every movement. She was a vivacious creature, intensely alive and vital, greedy even, in her eagerness to drink life, froth and dregs, in one great gulp. She had the not uncommon Swedish features of golden blonde hair and brown eyes and she was the damndest tease I'd ever known. She had plagued me all winter with her sensuous sexuality while her brown eyes merrily mocked me for my Dutch inhibitions and my continual astonishment at her shockingly daring conduct. I, of course, secretly longed to possess her but warily desisted, despite the many signals of willingness that she had hoisted for my benefit.
There were six of us, three couples, who boarded the Goteborg steamer at dawn. The fare of four-hundred-seventy kronor included our meals and we were just in time for morning coffee. We were like any group of excited, jabbering kids off on a holiday. Hand in hand, Kirsten and I explored the ship from bow to stern. It was in the lee of a lifeboat that we first kissed. To be truthful about it, it was she who kissed me and an alarmingly intimate kiss it was. She wound her slender arms around my neck in an excess of exuberance and plastered her slim body as tightly to mine as though intent on grafting herself to me. Her lips were cool, wine-flavored velvet and her exploring tongue a wetly warm taste of honey. I was extremely conscious of her hard little breasts flattened against my chest and of the fact that my erection was probing her crotch through her thin skirt. She was obviously aware of this fact too. She rotated her hips provocatively.
"Someone will see us, Kirsten."
"Don't be such a ninny. This is summer and we're on vacation. Who cares? You just wait until tonight. I'm going to teach you a thing or two."
It occurred to me then, for the first time, to wonder what arrangements had been made for our sleeping accommodations. When twilight descended upon the yellow cornfields through which the waterway passed, Kirsten led me to the room that was to be ours and the sweetly exciting truth dawned on me. It was a small cabin containing one double bed! Quite unselfconsciously she stripped and helped me remove my own clothes.
"I know you've never had a girl before," she told me, "but don't worry about a thing; just leave it all to me. If you don't get a better education tonight than you're getting in school, it won't be my fault. I've been doing this since I was thirteen." She drew me down onto the bed beside her and again we kissed. I didn't have to be instructed to place a slightly trembling hand on the soft, pink-nippled pear that was her breast. She had captured my cock between her silken thighs and she was squirming against me, her long, delicately curved legs rubbing on mine.
"You have a fine piece of equipment there," she said, indicating my throbbing penis. "Shame on you for keeping it to yourself for so long. Come now, roll over on top of me and we will begin. I'm so hot I'm dying for you, Max."
As I mounted her, she took my cock in her hand, guiding the head of it into the moist, eagerly pulsing warmth of her vagina. "Ah!" she sighed, "that's more like it. Push it in now. Push it in where the little babies are made."
I pushed. I was amazed to find that her hot cunt was so much more versatile and delightful than my hand had ever been."
"That's it, darling!" she cried. "Roll your hips and work it in and out a little but keep a constant pressure on me. See, it is like a dance we do lying down. We move together. God but I'm hot! Try to hold back now. Don't come too soon. Think about economics, or geometry ... anything. Even pretend you're screwing your fat, ugly, physics teacher. That should make it last. Now! Now go ahead. Think about me now. I'm starting. Keep fucking me, honey. Oh, Jesus Cocksucking Christ! Oh, God! I'm coming!" The last word was uttered with a thin scream of delighted agony as she went into a fluty of action, her hips gyrating madly.
My own orgasm was touched off by her frenetic undulations and I was consumed by sensation, converted from a young man into a nameless mass of over-sensitized nerves and flesh, with no other existence than as a thing of ravenous passion. The tension was unbearable and I broke; I flew into a million pieces that poured themselves into her body. When I was no more, when the last, quivering, greedy, little atom of me had squirted out through my cock into her spasmodically gasping vagina, I slowly and reluctantly reassembled myself. But not entirely. I think we give a bit of ourselves, along with our sperm, to every woman we love and, by means of some miraculous alchemy, are not diminished thereby but are expanded, added unto and rendered more God-like and less mortal.
"Wasn't that nice?" she asked, kissing me.
"It was beautiful!" I murmured reverently. "Kirsten, I love you."
Her reply was somewhat disconcerting. "Of course you do, darling. I love you too. I always love the men who screw me. That's the nicest part of it and you must learn to love all the girls you will screw. It spoils it a little for both of you if you don't."
I didn't quite understand her but I was content to not let it worry me. It was enough just to be there, resting on top of her, her pretty face handy to my kisses, her lovely body still twitching faintly with the afterglow of passion.
"Now we must clean ourselves," she announced. We took turns using the wash stand provided in the room and we dried each other with the rough towel until we were pink from the friction.
We returned to the bed and again began to pet. She was very expert at drawing the tips of her fingers lightly over my body in such a way that she seemed to be absorbing the fatigue from my body and revitalizing me. She worked me over from head to foot, ending her tour of my limbs at my crotch. She made me spread my legs and she talked as she deftly fingered my cock and balls and my asshole.
"The anus is a sadly neglected erogenous zone," she said, sounding like a teacher lecturing in a class room, "and so are the testicles. I learned that from my father's business partner, a man of fifty who is frequently my lover. Here, let me demonstrate." She bent her head and I felt the wet tip of her tongue describing the outline of my asshole. It tickled and yet it was wonderful. With her fingers, she spread the cheeks of my ass and, distending the hole, forced her tongue a little way inside. I began to quiver with reawakening desire. She next turned her attention to my bag and finally to my cock, her flickering tongue dancing on the underside of the shaft. She gave one last, lingering lick to the already dripping head and then sat up laughing. "No, I'm not going to do what you thought I might. I am leaving that for someone else to teach you as I promised her I would. But I see you are ready again, so now I'll show you how dogs and horses do it."
Many of the things she said, such as her reference to someone who was apparently to have a share in my education, remained mysteries that she didn't explain but she was keeping me in such a perpetual daze of sensuality that I couldn't be bothered with the functioning of my mind.
Kirsten knelt on the bed, her head down against a pillow and the delectably curved half-moons of her ass high in the air. "Have you ever watched animals do it?" she asked. "Good. Then you know that first the stud or the bull sniffs at the mare or cow's cunt to learn if she is in heat. Get on your hands and knees behind me and smell of my cunt."
I did. It gave off a warm, musky aroma that made my head spin.
"Then the male licks it a little ... just to be absolutely sure she's really ready," she prompted me.
I licked it and there could be no doubt that my cow, Kirsten, was ready. She was even drooling.
"No, no! He doesn't eat it, Max honey. He just licks it because that arouses him and, after all, he can't put his hand on it, can he? Then he mounts her. You know how he does. He puts his forelegs around her and rams his cock in as far and as fast as he can."
I was carefully following instructions. I plunged it into her so hard she grunted with satisfaction and then I made like a bull, banging hell out of her and delighting in her low groans of mingled passion and pain. By some strange quirk of the mind, I became so carried away that, when I went into the stage of mild insanity that accompanies an orgasm, I fancied for a moment that I actually was a bull and I let out a bellow such as I'd heard real bulls give vent to in their moments of truth. Kirsten responded with a plaintive, realistic "Mooooooo!" We collapsed on the bed, laughing in near hysteria.
"You do a beautiful bull," she applauded, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. "We'll have to try a torn and pussy cat. They make marvelous noises."
We did. We also tried a boar and sow pig.
* * *
The steamer to Goteborg passes through sixty-five locks on its meandering journey to the coast. At each of them, we had time to disembark for a while and gambol in the fields like lambs at play. We ate prodigious quantities of food and we loafed in the warm sun.
All that long, carefree day, I was dreaming of the coming night, when I would again be transported to the dreamy isle of euphoric bliss on the magic carpet of Kirsten's body. I could hardly wait for sunset and, when it came, I whispered urgently in her ear that it was time to retire.
"You run along," she told me. "I have a surprise for you on the bed."
"A present? How nice of you but don't you want to be there when I open it?"
"No. This is a very special kind of present. It will be better for me not to be there when you open it."
Mystified, I went to the cabin and opened the door. I couldn't see anything at first but, while waiting for my eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, I distinctly heard a girlish giggle. There on the bed was Ulla, a sturdily built girl of fourteen. She was supposedly the sweetheart of one of the boys who were my traveling companions. She was nude, her plump, voluptuous body posed enticingly.
"Why are you here?" I asked stupidly.
She giggled again. "Kirsten and I made a deal. I wanted to sleep with you and she was willing to sleep with my boy friend, so we swapped. You don't mind, do you?"
"I don't know," I muttered. This was all just a little fast for me.
"Well, while you're making up your mind," Ulla said, "come here and kiss me. Then, if you don't want me, I'll leave."
I sat beside her on the bed and leaned over to kiss her. She had enormous boobies, like scented pillows of foam rubber sheathed in satin.
"I know I'm fat and not very pretty," she said, "but I'm very affectionate. If you let me stay with you tonight, you can have Kirsten back tomorrow."
"Kirsten?" I murmured, trying to maintain a huge mouthful of one breast and, at the same time, struggle out of my clothes. "Do I know anyone named Kirsten?"
She laughed happily and hugged me with her sweet, pudgy arms. "Kirsten told me that you and she played bull and cow last night and that you licked her cunt. Did you like it, Max?"
"Unhunh," I mumbled, my blush hidden in her abundance.
"Good. Finish undressing and we'll play another kind of game. Just looking at your cock makes me hungry."
I disrobed quickly and lay flat on my back. She got astride me, her knees on either side of my head, her hands beside my hips. She looked at me, her face upside down between her dangling breasts. "Find my clitoris with your finger first. It's a little button just above my peehole. Yes, that's it. I'm like a radio, I turn on when you touch the right button. Now suck it into your mouth and work it with your tongue."
Her cunt was not the small, delicate thing that Kirsten's was. It was so big it took up most of her crotch, hardly leaving room for her asshole. I was looking right up into the wetly winking eye that was the opening to her vagina. Her large vulva was surrounded by a luxuriant growth of fine, dark hair. As I stared in fascination, a drop of musky moisture oozed from her tunnel to drop onto my upper lip. I licked it off and found that it had the strong, aromatic flavor of a rich Oriental incense. She lowered her crotch until half of my face was covered by her sloppy, sprawling vulva, even my nose being buried in the soft, coral-colored flesh. I began licking like mad as she squirmed about, washing my face with her lovely, gooey cunt. I located her clitoris and did as directed, sucking it and the surrounding flesh into my mouth and wiggling it with my tongue.
I felt Ulla's lips close over the head of my cock and I lifted my hips, wanting more of the heat of her mouth and the suction she was applying to me.
We weren't trying to play pig and sow but I think we did a better job of it than Kirsten and I had done. At least the sound effects were more realistic. I'm sure we could have been taped and used to represent a dozen hogs, all slurping together at a bucket of slop but the noises we were making greatly added to our sexual excitement.
She came very quickly. The books state that women do not have an ejaculation that accompanies orgasm. There may be exceptions to that rule ... or the books are wrong. I know that Ulla flooded me and I had to swallow rapidly to keep from being drowned in her juices. Not that I minded. I only regretted any stray drops of her nectar that escaped me. She came twice again before her sucking lips and ardent tongue caused me to spew upward like a geyser erupting semen and, even then, I didn't want to let her go. I clung to her fat little ass with desperately clenched fingers, holding her in place while I sucked her off a fourth and fifth times.
"Gosh! You must really like that," she exclaimed as she kissed my smeary face. "Well, that's all right with me. You can suck my cunt all night if you want to. I love it."
"And I love you," I told her. "Will you marry me?"
"I wish I could," she replied unhappily, "but my parents have a boy picked out for me. He is studying to be a doctor. But I'll do this with you whenever you want. He won't mind. He's in love with Kirsten but his parents are forcing him to marry me."
I drowned my sorrows in her crotch, taking her at her word that I could spend the night there. I would have been happy to have made my permanent address between her lush, tender thighs and could have spent the rest of my life contentedly licking her big, sloppy, lovely cunt.
We arrived at Goteborg the following evening, stuffed ourselves with pickled salmon and beer and then spent a few hours at the dance pavilion in the Liseberg Amusement Park.
I had been looking forward to another night with Ulla but she informed me sadly that the three girls had arranged another switch of partners and she had to comply to be a good sport. I wasn't sure what the shuffling of the deck had turned up for me until I danced with Mervi Kallas, the third girl in our party. She was the oldest, being seventeen. Mervi was from Finland and, like myself, was a foreign student at Stockholm. She was dark and tiny, looking more like a Spanish dancer than a Scandinavian girl and she was generally acknowledged to be the most beautiful of the three, although rather plain, fat Ulla would have been my choice.
"You are to sleep with me tonight," she announced while we danced. "You are big and strong and Kirsten assures me that your cock is very large. I hope you are brutal and cruel too."
I didn't know what she meant but dancing with her excited me and I was anxious to go to the hotel room with her. We were barely inside the door when she whirled into my arms, her thin, strong body vibrating against mine like a plucked piano wire. "Take me!" she demanded fiercely. "Don't be gentle with me or I will be disgusted with you. You must hit me and hurt me, then take me like you are raping me. Here," she said, pulling her blouse down from one shoulder to expose a brown, taut breast with a chocolate-colored nipple, "bite me. Bite me hard enough to make me bleed and then beat me up. When I am nearly unconscious, tear off my clothes and rape me. If you are not very cruel, I will walk out on you and you can spend the night alone."
I supposed it was merely a new kind of game but there was no doubting the intensity of her seriousness and of her desire. I didn't want to sleep alone, so I bent my head to her breast, biting her hard enough to break the skin while she clawed at my back and uttered a gurgling scream. I wasn't sure what to do next until she brought a small, sharp knee into my crotch and I felt the most agonizing pain I had ever known. That did it. I shoved her away from me and hit her so hard she flew across the floor and slammed the side of her head into the plaster wall. She lay where she had fallen, her skirt high over gleaming, bronzed thighs. She wore no underwear and the black-haired gash that was her cunt stared at me like a massive, mascara-darkened and bloodshot eye.
My cock was so hard it hurt as I took it out and advanced on that ugly, exciting hole. When I drew near, she opened her eyes and kicked viciously at me with a pointed shoe. As I fell on her, she turned into a biting, scratching fury, a demonic fiend that could have given a wildcat first bite and then have turned it into a bloody mess of cat fur and ruptured guts with her gleaming teeth and the daggers of her fingernails. I ignored her flailing claws as I beat hell out of her with my fists. When she was groggy and helpless, I rammed my cock into her raw, red cunt, wishing, in my savage anger and lust, that I could tear her guts up with it. She moaned and groaned in ecstasy, coming repeatedly as I fucked her. My own orgasm was violent but not pleasant. It was an extension of the pain that still throbbed in my balls where she had kneed me.
"Now," I said, when I was through with her, "you can get out. I don't like you and I don't like what you turned me into there for a little while. You're an animal and you have made me one. You're lucky I didn't Ml you."
She flung herself at my feet, groveling and whining as she begged me to let her stay with me. "I love you!" she cried. "Kill me if you wish but don't make me go. I won't ask you to do that to me again. Let me stay and I'll make love with you like you've never even imagined it."
I couldn't have turned her out anyway as there was no place for her to go so I relented and let her stay and she hadn't been lying to me; she taught me wild, wonderful pleasures such as only girls from Arabia or India ordinarily know.
It was quite a night. How that tiny little thing could take so much physical punishment I can't imagine. Her body was a mass of old scars, burns and more recent bruises. She explained the burns to me, a half-smile of remembered delights on her evil face, as she told me about her lover in Helsinki and how he sometimes tied and gagged her and burned her with the glowing coal of his cigar before making love to her. She adored him.
I think Mervi was insane and I've no doubt that she finally found some man willing to do the ultimate thing she so obviously yearned for ... to kill her. One night with her was more than enough for me. On the return trip, I managed to get Ulla into my bed both nights.
I found an apartment in Stockholm and Ulla came to live with me. So did Kirsten. Ulla's fiance paid half the rent so that he could come there to make love to Kirsten. When he wasn't there, I had the two girls to myself, which was wonderful for me, of course, but what I really wanted was to be alone with Ulla. It was a bitter-sweet arrangement and it continued after Ulla and her young doctor married. Although they had a place of their own, they spent nearly every night with Kirsten and me so that she could sleep with Ulla's husband and I with Ulla.
We went on like that for years, but it was not like having a home and a wife of my own, and I knew that unless I got away from Ulla, much as I loved her, I would never find happiness. My decision to come to America was largely based on my discontent with our pointless, going-nowhere, love affair.
I found the United States a disappointing place at first. There were many opportunities for employment and plenty of pretty girls but I considered the women of this country a sham and an illusion. They looked and talked sexy but they were a far cry from the free-wheeling, uninhibited, Nordic nymphs I had known in Europe.
Let's face it, Americans are neurotic. They are like adolescent boys with pimples ... always looking in a mirror and picking at themselves. They are constantly amazed at their own reflections, saying in astonishment: "Is this really me, a typical American? Is it possible that we divorce almost faster than we marry, assassinate our presidents, murder each other by the thousands in race riots and with automobiles, engage in stupid, immoral wars and have the highest rate of crime by violence of any industrial country in the world? Do we really spend a large share of our law-enforcement money trying to control each others' sex habits, or harassing a few poor bastards who wear beards and smoke pot? My goodness! If this is truly me, I must rush right away to the nearest analyst and have him explain myself to me."
And the women are the worst. They can't have sex just for the hell of it. It has to be meaningful ... only they don't know what they mean by that. Any one of them would rather sit up all night in bed, tearfully telling you that the reason she can't have orgasm is because, when she was ten, she caught her mother sucking-off the milkman. She gets more kick out of that than out of trying to have an orgasm.
Let me give you another example of the ridiculously childish attitude of Americans toward sex. You are sitting at a bar. Three stools away is a lonesome chick. The two of you surreptitiously glance at each other, indulging in a game of mutual, mental rape and you know God damn well that what you both want is to have one drink together, then go to a hotel and fuck all night. You do the natural thing, you offer to buy her a drink. She wants the drink and she wants you but she can't accept either one. To do so would be against the rules established by her Puritan ancestors who have been dead two hundred years and probably kicked off in the first place from an excess of religion, frustration and masturbation.
Is anyone in his right mind going to pretend that this is a normal state of affairs?
That was why, after being in this country for a while, I began going to whorehouses and patronizing call girls. I found that whores were the only honest, decent women left in this madhouse. Honey was the best of them all.
It was shortly after I was appointed manager of Production Control Department, here at Space Administration, that they sent me to a convention at San Francisco. Not knowing anyone in town, I slipped the bellboy a ten and he gave me a number to call. It's a neat system and very American ... like dropping a quarter into a machine for everything from ham sandwiches to airline insurance. An hour later, heaven itself knocked on my door.
Let me describe Honey. To begin with, she's not a little girl. Honey is a tall blonde with a body like a Valkyrie and the face of a slightly naughty angel. Her eyes are the same odd shade of violet-blue as Liz Taylor's and Honey is so perfectly stacked that, if she gained a pound you'd say she was fat and, if she lost a pound, you'd start worrying that she wasn't getting enough calories.
Those are the surface details but, despite all the unbelievable beauty of gorgeous breasts, lush thighs and legs that make you stick your tongue out and pant, the thing about Honey that makes all men fall in love with her is her disposition. Those who don't fall for her are sick and beyond hope anyway. Honey is no intellectual. She's barely smart enough to remember whether Mesopotamia is in Canada or in the Bronx. But to hell with all that. What makes Honey tick is that she's so incredibly damned nice! She's a sunny-natured, happy, loving, trusting, sentimental, warm-hearted woman and she was the first one I'd met in America who didn't even know the address of a psychiatrist ... unless he happened to be one of her customers.
It took me thirty seconds to fall in love with Honey. By the time she'd been in the room ten minutes, I would gladly have died for her and then have wanted to know what else I could do to please her.
I reverently helped her undress and I reverently made love to her. I would have fallen on my face to worship her and kiss her feet had she not graciously allowed me to kiss her big, beautiful snatch instead. I only took my head from between her soft, delicious thighs long enough to propose to her.
Gently and sweetly she turned me down. She explained that whores were for the entertainment of gentlemen, not to become their wives and she wouldn't dream of doing a bad thing like that to a nice gentleman like me. You see how even Honey, undoubtedly the sanest woman in America, was not entirely free of the national characteristic of prudishness?
I had to go back to Los Angeles when the convention was over but I flew up to San Francisco every weekend and continued proposing to her. I finally convinced her that I wasn't a gentleman in the first place, that I didn't see anything wrong about a girl being a whore, or any reason why she shouldn't marry any man lucky enough to be loved by her and that, if she didn't marry me immediately, I was going to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
She married me to save my life.
The group sent Susan Martin to recruit us. Susan and Honey naturally had a lot in common and she had no trouble convincing Honey. But I wasn't so easy to sell on the idea. I still have a lot of thick-headed, Dutch stubbornness.
The two girls pulled a sneaky trick on me. They got me loaded on vodka and, when I went to bed, all I knew for sure was that I had something blonde, beautiful and wonderful under the sheet with me. Well, hell, I was used to that so, in my drunken stupor, I thought nothing of it until I sobered up enough to realize that the gorgeous witch who was doing something absolutely amazing to my cock with her pussy, was not Honey at all. Honey was sleeping in the guest room.
Now it wouldn't have been nice of me to have kicked Susan out of bed, would it? Besides, I was sure that Honey needed her sleep.
The girls thought it was a really huge joke on me and I suppose it was but, considering that Susan Martin had been the most interesting part of it, it was the kind of practical joke a man could thoroughly enjoy and I'll be eternally grateful to both of them for recruiting us into the group. As far as I'm concerned, wife-swappers are the only reasonable and sane people in America and the only Christians (with the exception of the hippies) in a supposedly Christian country. We actually believe in loving thy neighbor.
If thy neighbor happens to be Susan, Delia, Cindy, Paula, Betty or Honey, how the hell could any man help it?
MAX VAN HAAGEN
Chapter Twelve
THE HONEY VAN HAAGEN STORY
I've waited until all the others finished their letters and read them to the group before I started mine. I just didn't know how to begin. They all opened their letters by telling their names and places of birth. I can't do that because I don't know my real name, or even if I ever had one, and I don't know where I was born. Maybe there's something to that stork story after all.
The sisters at the orphanage say they found me on the doorstep and that I had been deposited there in a cardboard carton originally designed for the shipment of sage honey. It said so in black letters on the side of the box. Not knowing what else to call me, they named me Honey Sage. It could have been worse ... like a bathroom tissue or sanitary napkin carton. Image being known as "Miss Delsey Doublestrength" or "Miss Tampax Supersize."
It seemed that no one was anxious to adopt a fat girl baby. I probably blew spit bubbles at them or something. So I remained at the orphanage until I was eighteen.
Sister Angelina signed my release papers but she did so with obvious dubiety. "Are you sure you want to try to find work in San Francisco?" she asked for the fourth time.
I nodded vigorously. "Remember the time you took some of us girls there to see the zoo in Golden Gate Park, Sister? I've loved San Francisco ever since."
Sister Angelina sighed. "Yes, I do indeed remember. You were sixteen and I was afraid I was going to have to call the police to keep those two sailors from picking you up. They followed us all day."
I giggled. "They were cute."
Sister sighed even more heavily. "Yes, they sure were," she murmured feelingly and then she looked startled and confused. "Now see here, young lady, that's exactly what I mean. You'd be safer in a small town. You're too ... too friendly for a big city. And entirely too beautiful."
"But, Sister, didn't you teach us to be friendly?"
Sister cleared her throat and busied herself reexamining my release papers. "So I did, so I did," she muttered and put her signature on the line at the bottom of the page.
She drove me into the city in the orphanage station wagon and took a room for me at the Y.W.C.A. "I've arranged with Father Mahoney, from Old Saint Mary's, to look out for you and you're to report to him daily. He's only a Paulist but he'll have to do. There weren't any Dominican fathers available," she told me sternly. "Now try to be a good girl, Honey," she said and then she stopped because she seemed to have gotten something in her eye. "To be on the safe side," she went on, "you'd better say an extra five Hail Marys every morning and an extra five Our Fathers every night. May the Blessed Virgin protect you." As she went out I distinctly heard her mutter: "And, unless I miss my guess, The Virgin will have her hands full with a girl like that in a town full of sailors."
I went to the grimy window of my cell-like cubicle and looked out upon the grimy, beautiful roof tops of San Francisco. I was free! The great adventure of life had begun for me. I was free as a bird! A pigeon lit on the window ledge, gave me a wise, pitying look, took a little crap for himself and, with a flirt of his tail, flew away. Well, I didn't care. What makes pigeons think they're so smart anyway?
It was Sunday. I was sure that Father Mahoney would be too busy with mass to want to be bothered with me on a Sunday and Sister Angelina had surely meant that I was to start reporting to him on Monday. I went downstairs to the lobby, bought a paper and brought it back to my room. After reading the funnies, I looked through the classifieds. My goodness but there certainly were a lot of jobs for girls. Closer examination, however, revealed the catch. They all required experience. Then I found a little, two-liner I had overlooked.
"GIRLS, 18 or over. Attractive. No exper. Mayer Theatrical Agency."
The address was on Broadway. I knew all about Broadway. I had been studying a San Francisco guidebook since the day of the eventful trip to the zoo. I could even remember the wording of the description of Broadway. "A quaint, old-fashioned street of picturesque establishments, Broadway is the dividing line between famous Chinatown and Telegraph Hill. It has accurately been described as embodying and fairly representing the elusive charm of this bay city." The guidebook had been published in 1921.
A theatrical agency! How thrilling! Naturally I would hardly dare presume to represent myself as an actress but I had learned office procedure at the orphanage and perhaps they would need a file clerk. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be busily filing cards and have Paul Newman or even Rex Harrison walk in? I could hardly wait until Monday morning. I would go see Father Mahoney after I'd landed my first job. He would sure be proud of me!
To pass the time, I went for a walk on Market Street and I realized that Sister Angelina, poor, sheltered soul, had vastly overemphasized the dangers of the city. Why, everyone was friendly. Especially the men. They smiled and winked or whistled at me and several of them said nice things like, "Hey, Doll, how about coming up to my pad for a drink?" I declined then-kind invitations because I was somewhat embarrassed about not knowing what a pad was and I didn't happen to be thirsty anyway.
The following morning, I took a bus to Broadway. It didn't really seem very quaint or old-fashioned to me but I could see that it was the logical place for a theatrical agency to be. There were theaters everywhere I looked. They had big, neon signs. "Girls! Girls! Girls! Forty Beautiful Girls! Nude Review! Topless A Go Go!" It was obvious that girls were very much in demand and so I knew I'd come to the right place.
The Mayer Theatrical Agency was a bit disappointing at first. It was two small, dingy rooms on the second floor of a dark, dingy building. A pretty but rather tired looking lady handed me an application blank. When I had filled it out and returned it to her, she read it and then she stared at me, her mouth hanging open, a look of utter disbelief on her face. "Excuse me," she mumbled as she got up to go into the other room. The partition must have been thin because I could hear every word said in there.
"Carl, get a load of this and tell me I'm dreaming. Then you should take a peek out there ... if your heart can stand the shock. Just read that application would you. An orphanage! And she lives at the Y yet! And look down here under 'Position Applied For' ... file clerk or general office. Carl, tell me, am I coming unwound? Maybe my analyst is right ... I should kick the sauce."
I heard a series of grunts that were probably Carl getting up and walking to the door. A little hole opened in the top panel, closed again and there was a long, low whistle.
"Mr. Mayer will see you now," the tired lady said as she came back out of the other office.
Mr. Mayer was a big man. Well, at least he was very wide. Even though indoors, he was wearing a hat. He was also smoking a cigar. He had kind eyes with a lot of saggy wrinkles under them. He began asking questions but I'm afraid I must have been giving all wrong answers because he kept shaking his head and mumbling to himself.
"Tell you what," he said at last, "I can use you at the ... Oh, hell! I just can't do it. It ain't right. Not an innocent kid like you. No. Here's what we'll do, Honey: I'll put you in a cab and send you back to the Y. Now don't go for no more walks around town and don't talk to nobody, especially men. You stay in that room until I come to pick you up ... probably this evening."
"You mean I got the job? Oh, goody! But I have to go see Father Mahoney."
"No, not even Father Mahoney. I've heard about them priests. I didn't say you got a job. I'm just going to find a decent place for you to stay and I'm going to protect you until I can find something safe for you to do."
I didn't understand him but I trusted him. After all, in the orphanage we had been taught to respect our elders and Mr. Mayer was at least fifty.
He came for me that evening and took me, with my one suitcase, to a tall building on Nob Hill. We went up in the elevator to the twelfth floor and he unlocked the door to a place that was so dreamy it wasn't believable. It was just like in magazine advertisements or the movies.
"This is where you're going to live for a while, Honey, so make yourself at home. Only do like I said ... don't go out and don't let nobody wearing pants through that door but me. Get it?"
"But what do I do, Mr. Mayer," I asked, bewildered. "Are you going to bring me office work? I don't even see a typewriter."
He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll explain after dinner." He called someone on the phone and soon there were a lot of men in uniforms bringing in food for us. There was even a kind of drink in bottles that were in a bucket of ice to keep them cold. The food was much better than we'd had at the orphanage and the soft drink in the tall bottles was delicious, although it did tickle my nose.
"Now," Mr. Mayer said, after the men had taken away all the dishes, "I will explain what you should know. I run a booking agency for show girls and waitresses who do their stuff bare from the waist up. The kids make good money but it's a tough racket and they get treated pretty rough. You'd be the hottest property the topless business ever saw but I just can't do it. I ain't that big of a louse. I got you stashed here for your own protection until I can think of something. In the meantime, enjoy yourself. You want anything, all you got to do is ring for it."
"This is certainly wonderful," I told him, "but I don't understand why I need protection. What could possibly happen to me where everyone is so friendly?"
"Come here and sit in my lap," he said, "and I'll try to draw the picture for you."
I thought that nice and fatherly of him, so I curled up in his lap and prepared to listen carefully to what he had to say.
"There's some things they apparently never taught you in the orphanage, Honey, and the main one is about men. Now suppose you was to get friendly like this with some guy who didn't have your best interests at heart like I got. You know what could happen?"
I shook my head.
"Well, the first thing the louse would do would be to kiss you, like this." He pressed his lips to mine. It was my first kiss and I loved it, even though he did taste a bit like old cigars. I put my arms around his neck hoping he wouldn't stop kissing me too soon.
"Then," he said, his voice husky and funny sounding, "he'd put his hand under your skirt ... this way ... and he'd begin feeling of your legs ... like this. He'd keep going higher and higher until he'd reached your panties and then he'd pull them aside and put his hand on you right there and begin rubbing you ... like I'm doing. See what I mean?"
I was getting the idea. Whatever he was doing to me was wonderful. It made me feel warm and tingly all over and I wanted him to keep right on doing it. I could see he was right; it would be very dangerous to let a man do that to me. Why, in no time at all, I'd be so weak and trembly I would have no power to resist if he asked me to do something bad, like smoking a cigarette or using nasty words even.
"Then he'd unsnap your brassiere," Mr. Mayer said, demonstrating as he went along by unzipping my dress and removing my brassiere, "and, when your boobies were exposed, (God! What a set of cans!) the stinker would kiss them and suck on the nipples. His cock would be getting harder all the time and, the first thing you'd know, he'd want to take you into the bedroom and fuck you. You see now why I can't let you run around in this wicked city?"
"Unhunh," I murmured, "but I don't think I know what fuck is. Aren't you going to show me?"
"I sure as hell am!" Mr. Mayer replied emphatically. He took me into the bedroom and finished undressing me. Then he dropped his pants, got on top of me and showed me what fuck was. The demonstration was lovely, even if he did keep his hat on all the time. I felt his big cock enter me and it hurt some but that was a small price to pay for all the valuable things he was teaching me and, to tell you the truth, I just loved having him fill me with all that hard, eager flesh. And all that time he was still kissing me or bending his head to kiss my breasts. He kept it up for a long time but then he was always very thorough about everything he did while teaching me. Finally something happened that seemed to get him excited, then he was bouncing up and down on me real fast and that great tool of his was squishing in and out of me and something hot and sticky was all over my thighs.
"That's what fuck is," Mr. Mayer panted when he stopped at last and lay with his full weight on me. "You think you understand it now?"
"Well ... not exactly," I replied thoughtfully. "Perhaps if you were to do it a few more times ... "
"Who you think I am, Errol Flynn?" he asked. "Give me a little rest, Honey, and I'll try again after a while to get the idea across, although I can see it may take a lot of these kind of lessons. Come to think of it, there's no use you going to work in some crummy dump. Better you should stay here and let me protect you like I'm doing now. Okay?"
"Oh, I'd love that," I told him. "I adore the way you protect me. It's very nice of you but I hate to put you to so much trouble, Mr. Mayer."
"No trouble. No trouble at all," he assured me. "Glad to be of help. Now that we're acquainted, I guess it'd be proper enough for you to call me Carl. Say, there's one other thing I should show you. If you don't know about it, how you going to know what to stop guys from doing?"
Everything he said was so smart and sensible it made me a little ashamed to be so dumb but he was very kind and never mentioned it even once.
He slid down on the bed and, with his hat still on, put his face between my legs and thrust his tongue into me. I'd known right from the start that he was nice and friendly but that was the nicest, friendliest thing he'd done yet. It was beautiful to just lie there and have him give me all those lovely feelings. I tried to hold still but I just couldn't. He didn't seem to mind when I started squirming and, before long, I'm sure I was twisting and writhing like a snake as the warmth became a blast of heat that made my nerves sing with happiness.
I must have gone a little out of my mind, because the bed, the room and everything faded. I was lying on a pink cloud with Mr. Mayer's black hat bobbing up and down between my legs. I thought perhaps I'd died and gone to heaven but I didn't mind. It was so perfect I wanted to stay there forever like that. There was music too, wild, mad and piercingly sweet. It gathered toward a crescendo and then there was the roaring, crashing finale as my pleasure was suddenly multiplied a million times beyond my ability to bear. Someone, somewhere, was screaming with delight. Then the feeling lost its intensity and the cloud faded as I drifted slowly, softly down to the bed and the room swam back into focus.
"Now you be sure you don't never let nobody do that ... except me," Carl warned me, "and you understand I'm just doing it to teach you?"
"I won't," I promised, "but I'm sure I'll need a lot more lessons. Will you teach me often?"
"As often as I can get away from my wife," he agreed. "Now maybe I better show you some more about fucking."
"Oh, yes, please do!" I begged, "only start like you did before ... I mean by showing me about kissing and getting felt up and everything. I enjoyed those lessons so much. They should have interesting courses like these at the orphanage."
I stayed in the apartment for two years of absolute bliss while I let Carl protect me and give me lessons in how to stay out of trouble. He was such a nice man.
I was broken-hearted when he told me that his wife had hired a private detective to follow him and he either had to get rid of me or lose his home and his children. I cried and cried and so did Carl but there was nothing we could do about it. He gave me an awful lot of money he said he'd been saving for me and he put me on a plane for Las Vegas, with a letter to a friend of his there.
Tony Veccino, Carl's friend, ran a big night club and casino. He would have been very happy to have protected me the way Carl had, only he was having trouble with his wife too. He did protect me a few times in a motel way out on The Strip. He couldn't keep me in an apartment though and the best he could do was offer me a job as a dancer.
They're sensible about their dancers in Las Vegas. It's very hot there, you know, so all we ever wore were dancing slippers and a kind a spangly, string-like thing around our hips. It was fun and whenever I'd dance, the men in the audience would clap so hard and so long I'd have to go on stage and do it all over again. When one of the men was nice enough to offer me two hundred dollars to spend the night in his room, I asked Tony if it was all right.
"Yeh, better take it, Kid," he advised me. "This is an expensive town to live in and anyone who likes getting fucked as much as you do, might as well get paid for it."
In no time at all, I was besieged with offers and I took advantage of as many of them as I could. I met some of the most charming and fascinating men that way but, after a while, I realized that dancing was not only strenuous but interfered with my other business. So I gave up the dancing. Fucking was more fun anyway.
I guess it's like Max says, I'm not very bright. I didn't know I was a whore until another girl told me. I wondered what Sister Angelina would say if she knew that I had let fun and business keep me from going to church for nearly three years. On the other hand, I was mindful of what Carl had told me about priests. It was hard to say what one of them might be tempted to do with an innocent girl in a dark church.
I'd been in Las Vegas a year when I suddenly became terribly homesick for San Francisco, so I impulsively packed my things in the trunk of my Cadillac and drove home. As soon as I arrived in the Bay Area I went right to the orphanage. I had a very large donation for them and they seemed delighted to see me. I didn't tell Sister Angelina about not going to church.
"I don't know what you've been doing since you disappeared," Sister Angelina said, "but, from the looks of that mile-long monster parked by the gate, I can make a good guess. Never mind, I don't want to know. I just hope that, whatever you are, you're a good one."
"I think I must be," I replied, blushing modestly. "A lot of men have been kind enough to say that I was the greatest piece of ... "
"That's enough! That's enough!" Sister Angelina cried, throwing up her hands. "I should scold you but, with you, I never could somehow. The one thing I'm sure of is that, regardless of the life you lead, you are still the sweetest, nicest girl we ever graduated. God bless you and thank you for the donation."
I took an apartment on Nob Hill and saw that my phone number got around in the right places and that, of course, was how I met Max.
"You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life," he told me when he answered the door and invited me into his room. "May I kiss you?"
Now men don't ask a whore if they can kiss her, so I knew right away that Max was different and that he was going to be someone very special in my life. He was considerate and thoughtful and very gentle. He only did one thing I thought was a little odd. He spread my legs and looked at my crotch, nodding his head in satisfaction. "I knew it," he said. "I just knew it. You couldn't be as perfect as you are otherwise and not be perfect there too. No little, baby-sized cunt on you. Nosiree. It's a full-grown woman's snatch ... just like Ulla's. Darling, do you play sixty-nine?"
"Oh, I love that game!" I cried.
"It's my favorite," he admitted, but there's another one I like too. Can you moo like a cow?"
"Why, yes I ... I ... guess so."
"Fine. We'll have lots of fun. Let's do it and then I'll propose to you."
I thought he was kidding. All the time while I was kneeling over him and sucking his beautiful, big cock as I rubbed my pussy on his face, I was thinking that he was surely kidding. He wasn't. It took him a long time to get around to it because he didn't want to take his tongue out of me. He just kept holding me and sucking and sucking and sucking and making me come over and over again until I was almost too weak to say no when he finally did ask me to marry him.
Max has told you the rest of it.
We're all so terribly happy in the group and Sister Angelina was just overjoyed to get my letter telling her I was safely married at last. She wrote back right away, mentioning how expensive it was to raise orphans nowadays and about the chapel needing to be redecorated. She went on to say that my getting married only went to show the goodness of God and to prove that he really did answer prayers after all.
Considering how nice everyone has always been to me, like going out of their way to protect me from evil and all, I'm sure she is right.