"He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath," said Shakespeare in King Lear; and Samuel Johnson, a couple of centuries later, was even more unequivocal: "The woman's a whore, and there's an end on't." But with all due respect to the artistry of these distinguished gentlemen, the question-like most questions of human morality-is not really that simple.
Prostitution, in fact, may even be a necessity for the survival of the human race. Such a view has been presented by James H. Tasker, in an article in Answers magazine in which the author calls for the legalization of pornography. The article is entitled "Why Not Prostitution?" and begins:
"The oldest profession-prostitution-is the cause of the oldest hypocrisy. It makes sense to believe that if man, the male animal, did not want and need prostitution, it would not exist.
"It is man, or men, who pay the freight. It is men, for the greater part, who make the laws, enforce the laws, administer the courts of law. How then, can prostitution be a problem? The answer is simple: men want prostitution, no matter what form it takes or what the play-for-pay gals call themselves, from 'B-Girls' to call girls to whores.
"We hypocrites make criminals of prostitutes, by merely calling prostitution criminal. Yet it is men, and only men, who support this 'criminal activity.' And by shoving the prostitute by law into the underworld, we offer the underworld vice lords control of the girls, then turn around and patronize them, thus pouring millions of dollars into the racketeers' pockets."
Mr. Tasker goes on to develop his thesis at greater length and with convincing documentation, but his main point has already been established in these paragraphs. And whether or not we agree with all of his ideas or endorse his proposal for legalizing prostitution, it is difficult indeed to argue with his underlying premise: that if anyone is to blame for the existence of prostitution, it is not women but men.
It is safe to say that very few women choose whoredom as a career in preference to all others they can possibly imagine. Almost any woman, for example, would undoubtedly opt for being a housewife or a movie star, to name two imaginable extremes. But not every career is open to every woman. It's painfully obvious that not every beautiful and talented young girl can realistically hope to attain film stardom. It's just as true, although it may not be quite so obvious, that not every girl can hope to become a satisfied housewife, either. All sorts of combinations of circumstances can combine to prevent a perfectly normal female from ever marrying. . . and to force her to become a prostitute.
But a good illustration can prove this point much more forcefully than any number of words of purportedly objective argument. And the publishers of Brandon Books believe that Hot-mouthed Hooker by Wayne Sherman is an excellent argument indeed. For Mr. Sherman is an artist as well as a top-notch researcher, and in his latest novel he has taken facts from the unpublished biographies of several prostitutes and ex-prostitutes and woven them into a story that will stun you with its depth of characterization, subtlety of insight, and sheer power of driving suspense.
We meet the heroine of Hot-mouthed Hooker, Myra, at a point in her life when she has two serious strikes against her. The first is that her mother was a prostitute; the second is that her mother is now dead and she is alone in the world. Some readers may feel that the third strike has already been called as the story opens: Myra is largely ignorant of the world as it is and totally unprepared for live alone in it. However, being what she is, Myra is far from out. Her outward beauty cloaks but cannot completely conceal an inner toughness and determination-toughness to survive and determination to make her own life, if not better than her mother's, at least different.
Myra is like her mother in one important way. Her mother always had an "escape hatch" that would eventually free her from her life of degradation. Or, at least, she always said she did-Myra can never know for sure. And Myra has her own "escape hatch"-the money she always saves to enable her to find a new path to travel someday. What happens to Myra and to her "escape hatch" is the story. Read it, and you may never think of prostitutes with contempt again. We are certain you will admire Myra, and the probability is that you will find your views on life in general a little bit changed.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
Myra shivered in the dark. It was incredible! She couldn't believe it. People didn't live like this even if Mommie had told her what it was like, had warned her, had showed her so often the little book they called The Escape Hatch.
"That's to buy cleanliness and God's fresh air. So we won't ever have to go back to that sort of living ... to filth and dirt and stink and men. No more men..." It wasn't quite dark enough. Myra could see the ugly reality of it, smell the stench of unwashed bodies, of urine, probably where Sissie had peed in the covers. And hear the noises, the ugly noises across the room, of Uncle Ben and Aunt Louisa in the big double bed. The creaking of the old, tired springs, the regular thump and bump of the short leg, the tinny tinkle of brass knobs loose and pinging.
Only that wasn't Uncle Ben and Aunt Louisa in there. That was Uncle Ben with Connie, the fat, sloppy fourteen-year-old. Humping and heaving and grunting. And Connie's occasional "yip" as if she liked it. With her own daddy!
Myra could hear Lem's chuckle and his hoarse whisper. Lem was almost sixteen and he'd been smoking since he was eight, so his whisper was a kind of rasp.
"The old man and Connie are having their-selves a ball. How 'bout it, huh ? Let's you'n me screw." And Lem had laid a hand on Myra's breast. "Hey, for a twelve-year-old you really got 'em, ain't you?"
Myra writhed around in the squalid heap of old quilts and ragged bits of bedspreads, trying to squirm away from Lem's hands, and bumped into the flabby, slack body of Sissie, the "simple" one, lying sprawled, taking up more of the squalid corner of quilts and blankets than was her rightful share. Sissie was naked except for a sleazy pair of tattered boy's jockey shorts, her flabby breasts falling into flaccid, jelly-like mounds that rose and fell like a vast pink tide with her breathing.
Myra felt Lem coming, his approach telegraphed through the matted pile of covers. She rolled away from Sissie and the foulness of her body, stale, unwashed, irritated and odorous from casual peeing in the tattered drawers, and bumped into the twins, Jim and Jessica, inspecting each other's privates as if unsure of quite what to do with them.
Jessica had the remnants of a tee-shirt hiked up above her nubbin breasts, which she pushed with the assiduous energy of a man playing the keys of a cornet. While pulling at Jim's pecker with a regular but absent-minded rhythm. And Jim was running his fingers over Jessica's pee-hole, occasionally running a finger in it and then holding it up to inspect it and sniff at it.
Myra, her shortie gown now well above her waist and caught in its own folds, scurried away from the twins. Suddenly she felt Lem's hand on her ankle. He yanked and she came down, burying her face in the foul-smelling covers.
Lem hauled himself toward her, using her legs, sliding his hand up and grasping, then coming closer, his hand going still farther up her leg until it almost reached her little pee-hole.
Myra struggled frantically with the gown to untangle it from its own folds, and tried to twist away. She felt hot and ashamed that her body was being touched ... and ashamed also of the way her body felt because it was being touched.
As Lem's hands went up her leg, then touched the lips of her pee-hole, Myra shivered. She was actually excited and, inside her, new heat generated and spread. She tried to wrench free and found herself in the corner with rough plaster and old, tired crumbling wall paper at her back.
Lem crawled up beside her, facing her, his pecker at salute, jabbing toward her. He grinned at her. "Don't fight it, kid. You're gonna like it. Hell, any little doll built like you at twelve is bound to like a little fucking. Bound to. Why, them titties was just made for bitin'..."
Lem leaned over and chewed lightly but enough for her to feel it deep inside on one of her breasts.
Lem sniggered. "The old man? Hell, he's occupied with Connie. They can screw for an hour. Of course, it don't do. the old man no good. He can't fuck worth a damn. She has to sit on it to hold it up any more but it keeps him occupied. While you and me have fun over here. Savvy?" Lem chuckled, leaning down to suck on her breast. He looked up. "Right tasty. Anyway, Paw's jess waiting his turn at you. like I say, he can't fuck worth a damn now, so he don't go for cherries no more. But I like cherry. Eat it up, hair an' all!"
Lem wriggled around, sliding his tongue along one breast and then down, past her belly-button, to the crease between her leg and her pelvis, and then along that to her pee-hole. His mouth fastened on her pee-hole and his tongue slid between the lips.
Myra pounded her fists at his head, pushing and thrusting, trying to get this creature away from her privates. But he clung to her, his arms wrapped around her little rump, pulling her closer, closer. Her blows grew feebler.
Myra whimpered. She didn't want Lem's mouth on her pee-hole, but it was doing things inside her that made her weak as it seemed to grow, to expand. His hand slid up, playing with one of her breasts, his fingers grabbing and lightly pinching her nipple.
Her legs were getting weak. She had locked them tight, holding them together against Lem's mouth. Now they betrayed her, falling treacherously open.
He wormed his chin in, between her legs and thrust his tongue into her little pee-hole, shocking her into a half scream. She clamped her mouth on that and fought against a rising tide of nausea, half praying, half talking to Mommie. "Please! Please don't let him do this! Oh, Mommie! Mommie! Can't you stop him? Can't you tell him to leave me alone the way you did that fat man ? Mommie! Mommie!"
Only Mommie would never answer. Myra knew she was gone dead but she couldn't hold back the cry. Mommie had always been there, always. A wonderfully safe retreat, a healing for bruises of reality and ego, arms and breast that could comfort a little girl in a bewildering world. And this was the most bewildering.
Lem was sucking on her little pee-hole and for some reason it was answering, contracting and opening up as his mouth worked. And flooding Myra with strange burning wants, wants she had never known existed. Wants she didn't really want and wasn't prepared to handle.
Ideas, wild and terrifying, ballooning in her head made her dizzy, feeling faint and unable to resist the push of Lem's tongue, the hunger of his mouth and the demands of his hands on her breasts and nipples. She wanted to lay there, open up her legs and let him have what he would of her. She had vague, confused ideas of what it was he wanted but he could have it. And she would enjoy it. Something deep inside her kept repeating the treacherous formula she would enjoy it.
Lem himself kept repeating it. "You're gonna love it, kid. Love it. Any kid with titties like yourn is bound to love it. Bound to. Just open your legs a little more ... more ... I'm coming in!"
The last was almost a triumphant shout as Lem drove his pecker at Myra's little pee-hole. In the dull light, reflected from a street lamp that had miraculously escaped destruction by the local vandals, she could see it; big, a shaft that waggled in the light, with a huge bulb on the end. And he was trying to push that into her little pee-hole. Oh, Mommie! Mommie! It'll kill me! It'll hurt so!
It was already hurting, stretching her little pee-hole, but, surprisingly, not as much as she had anticipated. There was something slippery down there something out of herself and out of Lem. Her pee-hole was opening up to meet the head of Lem's pecker. Myra could feel the lips fold back, opening to him.
Now he was going in. With short, heavy jabs of his pelvis, he was stabbing his pecker into her. She felt the lips of her pee-hole give, gulping down a small portion of his pecker. And inside her pee-hole it burned, really hurting.
Myra whimpered. Lem squeezed down on one breast, gasping with his own excitement. "Just for a minute. It'll hurt ... just for a minute. And then, boy, will it feel good! like nothing you ain't ever felt."
Her very flesh seemed to stretch to take his pecker. She could feel that bulb burning its way up her pee-hole ... way up ... and up. Oh, Mommie! Please, Mommie! Don't let him hurt me! He's tearing me up. His pecker was going too deep! Way too deep. It would ram right through her!
Lem was still driving, still sliding that big shaft of his into her. He rested a minute, propping himself on his elbows to look down at her. "You're a sweet kid, Myra. I like you. And your cunt is nice and tight."
Vaguely Myra heard the words, but they were drowned in the noises within herself, the tensions, the need to scream yet not scream, the hurt and the very odd, wonderful feeling that flooded her, evening out the hurt. During that brief respite, she caught her breath, gulpily, nearly sobbing.
"Lem, please! Don't do whatever you're doing. Please. It hurts. It's ugly."
Lem bent down, bruising her mouth with his. "Shut up, kid. You're getting screwed by an expert. And you're gonna love it."
His pecker was moving in and out, in a slow rhythm that built up excitement inside Myra, excitement that, momentarily, covered the hurt and started her little pelvis to working, to move her pee-hole in counterpoint with Lem.
Without her being conscious of it, she was responding and his pecker slid up and down through her pee-hole in gradually increasing tempo that brought low squeals from Myra, that had her clawing at Lem's back, trying to get more of that delicious ache.
Lem drew back, almost pulling his pecker out of her, and held it there. "Here it comes, kid. Here comes the old jizm. Full load ... on ... it's ... way..." He rammed his pecker deep into Myra's pee-hole, deeper than ever ... and held it there.
All along her pee-hole, as far up as Lem had gone, she felt the pulsing and rhythmic swelling of his shaft and then the explosion of his bulb, ramming hot juices way up her. Way past her bellybutton it seemed. Myra writhed, moaning, because something was happening up there to her. Something let go; as if she might unravel. A wonderful release and a gush of hot juices. She could feel them, feel the silent "boom" that went off in her.
She wiggled her pelvis, just a little, to try again for more of that excitement. A little came, but the big excitement was over. Lem drooped and sagged over her, letting his pecker slide out of her little pee-hole.
In spite of being sweaty and wet between her legs, Myra felt wonderful, as if some great experiment had gone well, as if her body had expanded, taken on a new dimension.
She lay back, almost exulting in this new power in her body. All at once she became aware of the twins sitting there, naked, grinning at her. And that brought back the smells and the filth and Lem's hot, sweaty body smelling horribly beside her. And the fact that now her body, too, was sweaty and smelly.
How had it happened ? It seemed impossible. Only a little over a week ago she and Mommie had shared a bright, gay apartment that was airy and always smelled of flowers Mommie was constantly bringing home.
Now Myra lay naked on a pile of filthy quilts, her body aching from the assault on it. Lem was beside her, grinning wisely up at her. "Told you, you'd love it, kid. I can always tell.
When they got bubbies like yourn at twelve they're gonna like it. Love it!"
But how had it happened ? What had thrown her into this horror that had one blinding moment of excitement amid this squalor? Myra tried to remember.
CHAPTER TWO
Myra huddled in the chair, feeling the prickles of rough velour through her brief panties and all along the backs of her legs, as she hugged her small breasts in child-slender arms, trying not to cry. It was hard not to cry when you were barely twelve and you had everything taken away from you, including Mommie.
Mommie was gone. Dead. Though Myra couldn't understand what death was, she knew Mommie was dead. Gone. Taken away in a very long, very black car.
She could remember sitting all that horrible night beside Mommie's bed, holding Mommie's clutching, hot hand, bathing away the beads of sweat on her forehead, wiping at the stuff Mommie coughed up. Then that one, final paroxysm, when Mommie had called out, "No! No! No!" as if in protest, then had fallen back on the pillow, very still, very quiet.
Myra had sat there, beside the bed, holding Mommie's hand long after the doctor had given up trying to shoo her away as he packed his bag and made phone calls. Myra had a momentary panic. Who would pay for those phone calls? And then she knew it wouldn't matter. Mommie wouldn't have to worry about bills any more or how to spend what little money there was all so that the extra pennies and dimes and quarters could go into the book Mommie called The Escape Hatch.
Well, Mommie had found an escape hatch. She was gone. And Myra was here, looking up at the two men who frowned at each other and at her. One of them had Mommie's book, looking at it.
It was the fat one, the one with legs that didn't quite measure up to the rest of him. He poked at his nose with his fist. "Well, she almost made it. Another thousand and she and the kid..." He looked up at the thin one. "Where was she escaping to?"
Myra knew. There was a small farm with a tiny house and a little apple orchard and a vegetable garden, 'way back in the country. "Off the beaten path, Myra. That's why it's cheap. And that's why we want it. Off the beaten path. Oh, God! Away from men. So we can live clean. So you can stay clean like I never was. Men!"
That was funny. Mommie hated men when she talked to Myra, but she was always having men up for a visit, always careful to shoo Myra out to her cot in what they called the "futility room," mostly because the hot water heater and the refrigerator-freezer and the rusty old spigots were always breaking down.
It was a great joke with Mommie, though Myra never quite understood it. "Don't worry your head, spriggings. It won't always be like this. When we get "The Escape Hatch...." And Mommie would get that far-away look.
Myra knew what Mommie did with the men that came to visit. She had peeped. A couple of times. She even knew what it was called. Mommie fucked the men. She had lain on her bed, her legs spread out sometimes naked, sometimes right in her shift hiked up around her bubbies. Mommie had beautiful bubbies, round and firm and tipped with little amber-pink nipples.
Myra slid her eyes from the two policemen and glanced down at her own small breasts huddled inside her best dress. They weren't nearly as large as Mommie's, and the nipples were tiny. Just little pimples, really.
The men had straddled Mommie and driven their peckers into her, right between Mommie's legs. And then both of them had squirmed and moaned and jerked and heaved and got all sweaty.
Myra frowned down her front, recalling her own legs and her little pee-hole. How could a man get his pecker in there? And why would he pay Mommie for letting him get all hot and sweaty and red in the face? But he had. That was how Mommie had paid the bills and put something aside for The Escape Hatch.
The thin policeman leaned over and studied Mommie's book, shaking his head. "And what do we do about the kid ? You know what's going to happen if you send her back to that mill town, don't you?"
The one with the short legs nodded. "Sure. Some bastard of an uncle or cousin will screw her inside of three days and right there's the makings of another like the one we carted away." The stout one looked up suddenly, shaking his head. "Not me, buster. Not me. I got sympathy running out of my ears. But I've also got a wife who'd take one look at that jail-bait and head for a lawyer."
The thin one nodded. "Yeah. And I got three teen-age boys. Can you see me introducing that little number in my house? She's too cute and too developed. Hell, even I'm tempted. Right here. Right now."
Myra lowered her eyes, looking at her long, slim legs. They were talking about her, about her body, as if it were something apart from her, as if it tempted these men right here, right now, even when she was doing nothing with it. Not even wiggling in the big chair.
It wasn't like that time when Mommie had one of her "gentleman friends" in the living room they hadn't gone to Mommie's bedroom yet-when Myra had to go. Simply had. to. She couldn't hold it in a minute longer, so she had scuttled from the "futility room" to the bathroom, passing the open arch to the living room.
On the way back, things weren't so urgent so she didn't run. Not deliberately sauntering, but not dashing past the opening, either, because sometimes Mommie's gentlemen friends were interesting to look at, lean and a little rakish.
Not this one. He was fat and porky, with little squinched-up eyes that spotted Myra, nailing her right in the archway, along with the overhearty bellow of his voice.
"Didn't know you had a kid sister, girlie. That there one's right cute. I could take a piece of that myself. Even if she is a mite young."
Mommie had flown at him then, yelling at Myra to get back into bed. Mommie had hurried the porky man out, protesting, as she flung his money after him, saying, "And don't come back."
Right after that Mommie had warned Myra to never come past the archway when any of her "gentlemen friends" were there. And she consulted The Escape Hatch book more and more frequently and cried over it a bit, shaking it at the ceiling and talking to somebody up there. "Soon! Soon now! And she'll be free of all this!"
Myra hugged herself closer, feeling the pressure on her bubbies and squeezed her legs together, so that her little thing, that little pee-hole, was pressed tight together, scratching against the stiff velour of the chair. What were the two policemen going to do with The Escape Hatch? That was Mommie's special secret.
The fat one slapped the book into one hand. "You know what we gotta do, don't you? This goes to the State for probate and the money somehow gets used up, except for a little bit that will go to some slob of an uncle."
"And the kid?" The thin one looked unhappy.
"To the county. Till they ship her back to relatives. And from what we seen here, I know just the kind. Hell, I got out'n one o' them mill towns myself. Just in time to stay honest." He grinned. "If you call being a cop honest."
So Myra passed from social worker to social worker some baffled by her lack of interest in what would happen to her. Why care? The Escape Hatch was gone. Mommie was gone. There was nothing but aches left behind aches in her stomach, where tons of lead seemed to have settled, and in her heart that still somehow beat in the vacuum of her chest. And aches behind her eyes, from trying not to cry, and in her throat, from swallowing sobs before they came out.
Now she was on the bus, in a seat all by herself, headed for those unknown relatives where the social worker, the prim one, had assured her she would be happy. Not that Myra had believed her. There wasn't any happiness left. Just misery enclosed in a young, lush body.
She wasn't even surprised when the man sat down beside her, laughing at her and saying, "Hello, beautiful. This seat taken?"
Her whole body felt so miserable that she barely noticed the man's hand on her knee, and then only as a little area of warmth in the whole chill of her body. His hand moved up her leg, sliding inside her thigh, pushing up her dress as the man pretended to lean across her, looking out the bus window, as if it was something exciting to see a brown, barren field.
His shoulder brushed her breasts and she tried to shrink back from him, but he leaned against her, pressing her breasts, and down below his hand was moving up her thigh. It was exciting, disturbing. Nobody had ever touched her before. Except Mommie, rubbing her down after a shower.
The man's hand slid over her little pee-hole, starting funny, wiggly feelings all up inside her. And his shoulder kept pressing against her breast, making sudden, hot flashes inside. And when one finger slid into her pee-hole and sort of tickled, Myra gasped, feeling hot sparks run all up her insides.
Then there was the bus driver looming over the man, picking him up by the collar of his coat.
"I seen the whole thing, buster. In my mirror. I'm keeping an eye on the little lady."
"I bet you are." The man tried for a sneer but it didn't quite come off. "Leave me alone. If the little lady has a complaint, let her make it. We were doing all right until..."
The bus driver held the man upright in one beefy hand. "The little lady, may not look it, but she's just twelve years old. And doesn't need to complain ... I'm doing it for her."
Passengers were turning around to stare at the man and the bus driver and Myra, who was ducking her head and huddling down so no one would notice her breasts.
"Now, look here, driver." The man was trying bluster. "I'm a paying passenger. You can't assault me like this and..."
The bus driver shook the man and marched him on tiptoe to the front of the bus. "You may have paid, but you're not a passenger. Not anymore. Out!" And shoved the man down the steps, to the roadside.
The man glared up. "Look, I got as much right on that bus as any other passenger."
"Sure." The bus driver leaned out and grinned down at the man. "Get back on ... and meet her three brothers each bigger'n me at the terminal. And what's left the sheriff can have." He pulled back, offering space. "Step aboard."
The man looked pale..."At least give me my bag."
The bus driver swaggered back down the aisle, grinning down at Myra and patting her on the shoulder with an enormous but oddly gentle hand. "I got a kid sister just your age. So I watch 'em. You're okay for now." He reached up and snatched the man's single bag from the rack above and swaggered back down the aisle. At the door the man reached for it but the bus driver swung the bag behind him, then forward and let go. It tumbled through the air, across the ditch and into brambles.
The man was still scrambling up the far side of the ditch, frantically reaching for his bag when the bus pulled out. The passengers strained around to watch him, then turned to look at Myra, curiosity and outrage mingled.
One stout, smiling lady came over and sat down beside Myra. "I'll just rest here a mite. My George, he'll be asleep in three minutes. Always sleeps on buses." The stout lady chuckled. "Come to think of it, he also sleeps in easy chairs, or in front of television, or..." She signed. "I reckon he sleeps most of the time. Except when he should. Which is why I got thirteen children." She chuckled again. "Which ain't no way to talk before a twelve-year-old, even if you do look a mite..." she coughed, "mature."
Myra was a little baffled but grateful. She didn't really know what the stout lady was saying, nor take it in, but it was comforting. And gave her time to get herself together, to quiet the excitement that seemed to emanate from her little pee-hole and under her breasts. It was very interesting excitement, something she had never experienced before and wasn't quite sure whether she liked it or not.
CHAPTER THREE
Uncle Ben met her at the bus station, scooping up her bag in one ham-like hand and starting out. He hesitated when the bus driver beckoned him and then came over to join them, telling him about the man who had been trying "stunts" with Myra.
Uncle Ben laughed heavily, his head back, his big, pendulous belly shaking. But his eyes were suddenly small, squinty, looking at Myra, looking at where her breasts were respectably covered in the navy blouse and white collar, and then down her legs and back again, to her skirt and then through her skirt, as if he could see her little pee-hole.
He licked his fat lips, gulping air. "Yeah, driver. See what you mean. She's got ... Well, her aunt can fix things up so's ... You know women. They got ways. And thanks for taking care o' that scoundrel. Don't think we'll sic the sheriff on him. It could get the kid all involved and shook up. An' seein' as nothing really happened well. You know." And Uncle Ben kind of herded Myra out to a dull old pick-up that had, some time in a hectic past, been blue.
"Just got this yere truck. Mighty fine little truck. Got it so's I could go in business for myself. Hauling. Good money in hauling." Uncle Ben was talking to cover something else. Myra could tell.
It wasn't that he was saying things kind of odd, it was just as he was saying them like his mind was on something else. like his eyes were on her, sliding over her and then away, as if they didn't want to get caught looking.
They made her feel ... squishy. And he helped her up into the truck, putting a hand way under her arm and pressing on one of her breasts. And then he boosted her into the cab with a hand under her little butt, one finger stuck sharply up, so that it very nearly went in her pee-hole.
That didn't make her feel hot just awkward and uncomfortable. But the way he looked at her in the truck, like he was trying to look down her blouse and see her breasts, or eye her legs when the wind whipped her skirt that started those funny feelings up again, down at her pee-hole and beneath her breasts, making breathing kind of heavy.
While he was driving and not paying too much attention to it, in Myra's estimation he suddenly reached out and hugged her, his arm going clear around and digging into one of her breasts. "Ain't properly welcomed my little niece. That's just a hug for greeting."
Only he kept his hand there, grasping at her breast. "Gotta hang on to my girl. This yere truck's rough riding..." And he laughed, nervous and high. And licked his lips.
The house was like Mommie had described the houses of the mill town from which she had come. A dog-trot house. But uglier, dingier, dirtier than Mommie had ever made it sound. Myra shut her eyes, hoping maybe it would go away and by some miracle Mommie's clean little garage apartment would be there. And Mommie.
But it didn't happen. When she opened them again, staring over the door of the truck, a thin wavery-looking woman came out and leaned against the post of the porch as if too weary to come farther and take that long walk back.
Kids tumbled out, shouting and buffeting one another and swirling around the truck, shouting up at her. There seemed a dozen or two but when they simmered down there was actually only six. There was Lem, sixteen or so, big and awkward, grinning at her and showing a jaggedly broken tooth; and Connie, a very stout but oddly loose-looking girl, maybe fourteen but, because of her size, looking older; and Sissie, whose slack mouth and lack-luster eyes and general shambling, disoriented walk said "simple."
There was a boy of about ten or eleven who climbed on the fender of the truck, and yelled, "Watch this!" then jumped off, flopping in pretended agony. "I fell ten thousand feet and my parachute didn't open!"
A girl, thin and in a dress washed so often you could see her nubbin breasts and little triangle of her pee-hole through it, came over and shyly patted the truck, looking up at Myra. "It's new. We ain't never had a car before." She was somewhere near the parachutist's age. They could even be twins.
Peering from behind the woman's thin, patched skirt was another child, only a shock of unruly hair and two enormous eyes showing.
The woman gave Myra a tired smile and beckoned, calling in a voice that barely reached her. "Come here, child. Myra? That's right, ain't it? Myra? Thought I was right. Sometimes I ain't. Sometimes I don't remember so good."
Myra climbed down from the truck, walking toward the woman, avoiding the kids, standing just below the stoop, looking up at the woman, a scrawny body with dirty arms and a grimy neck.
The woman tried a smile, but it flickered out. "Looking at me, ain't yuh, kid? Wouldn't think I was just two years older'n your maw, would you? Oh, don't deny it. I'm an old hag." She waved away the denial Myra couldn't have made.
The woman nodded toward the parachutist.
"That there's your cousin Jim and the kid next to him is his twin, Jessica. Had a hard time with them two. Damn near died. Jess got hung up, cross-wise. Took an awful lot out'n me, them two did. Didn't never really get back on my feet."
Myra glanced down at the feet. They were bare, splayed, and black to the ankles. They sported a curious variety of lumps and bunions. Mommie's feet had been trim and neat and very pink.
The woman flapped a hand at the tousled head and big eyes. "This here's Elsa. She's the youngest, seeing as I kain't have no more. Doctors had to take part of me out." The woman pressed a hand to her stomach, wincing, as if the operation was fresh and not some eight or so years back.
The woman sagged against the porch, looking out over the dusty yard littered with a broken bicycle, a toy wagon with no wheels, the intimate parts of what had probably once been a car, innumerable tin cans, and a chipped and broken toilet bowl.
"Ain't never really got my stren'th back. Wish now I had took off with your maw when she went to the city. On'y I already had Lem..." The woman nodded toward the grinning sixteen-year-old. "Him. And Connie ... That's Connie." She indicated the fat girl with a sideways nod. "The rest come later."
Lem was staring at her and grinning, his eyes roving from the neck of her dress across her breasts and down to linger on her skirt and scowl at where her pee-hole was, making Myra wriggle with embarrassment.
The woman continued to look out past the yard, to distant blue-green hills. "Yup, shore do wisht I'd 'a had the courage to take off with your maw."
"Now, Weezy." Uncle Ben had come up behind Myra and was resting one arm on her shoulder, his hand drooping carelessly to touch her breast, his fingers beating a ragged tattoo. "Don't you go saying things like that. You know Cass went off whoring. You wouldn't 'a wanted that. And look what it got her. Dead, ain't she?"
For an instant the woman showed fire, glaring at Uncle Ben. "Maybe being dead ain't so bad. Release, kind of ... And take your frigging fingers off'n the kid's tittie." The woman glared down at Myra and then her face softened. "Welcome, kid. To what there is. And God knows it ain't much." She laughed, a short, harsh bark: "Wait'll you see." She turned abruptly and went into the house.
Uncle Ben gave Myra's breast a final, caressing pat and then almost goosed her up the two shallow, rickety steps.
Lem laughed, following her, getting between her and Uncle Ben and putting an arm around her waist. "Hi, Myra. I'm Lem. You'n me, we're gonna be friends. Real good friends, huh ? ' And he flung an arm around her, reaching for one of Myra's breast.
She managed to stumble at the door and pulled away. It wasn't really a door, just the opening into the dog-trot, open at both ends, a rough clapboarded room on either side.
Even new it must have been ugly. Now, crusty with curling paint, flabby-looking with loose boards, it made Myra shudder. Maybe inside ... But inside was worse. And the smells welled up around her, nauseating her. The long dead odors of old, uninteresting malodorous ghosts that wouldn't lie down and be buried-mingled with fetid odors of people and the smell of dog, though she didn't see one.
The furniture was packing cases around a big table almost completely covered with dirty dishes. Something was bubbling on the back of a black iron stove in a large, battered pot.
Jessica sidled up, her hand reaching to finger the lace of Myra's collar. "It's pot roast. On account of you're company." She ran the tips of her fingers over the lace. "Paw don't hold with pretties, so I ain't never had lace."
Myra nodded, almost gagging on the odors from the pot; tired odors of meat cooked far too long and vegetables done long before their time.
Supper was a nightmare, a horror that Myra had to endure. Uncle Ben slurped up his meat and mush of overdone vegetables, catching the drippings with his tongue absently, while his piggy eyes fastened on Myra's breasts just above the table.
Lem kept glancing at them, too, and then grinning at his father, as if he knew a secret that nobody could guess. Jim and Jessica discussed her, eyeing her lace collar, in whispers that became giggles.
Aunt Louise fed Sissie with a spoon and then turned her over to Connie, the two spelling each other. And the youngest, standing at the table Myra guessed she had usurped the child's packing case seat eating with absent-minded gluttony, as if this horrible mishmash were a treat.
That was bad enough, horrible. Incredible after the careful, dainty meals Mommie had served, always with a white table cloth and a candle, with flowers to one side. Mommie wouldn't put flowers in the middle because you couldn't see each other and have long fascinating conversations about The Escape Hatch. Maybe they only had weenies and beans which Myra privately considered a treat with store-bought rolls, but there was always a candle and flowers.
So supper at Uncle Ben's was a nightmare.
But bedtime was worse. The bedroom was the other side of the dog-trot, one room where everybody slept. Uncle Ben and Aunt Louise shared an iron bedstead with brass knobs that rattled and a grossly sagging mattress bumped in the middle with gray sheets and some blankets.
And the kids from Lem on down, shared a corner spread with two mattresses of such age and decrepitude they were more like tired mats. Over these was spread a confused mass of old quilts and tattered blankets.
Myra had held her breath against the fetid human odors, against the smell of dirt accumulated over the years and urine. Sissie's, Jessica explained. "She ain't got no control, on account she's simple."
Myra tried for a little privacy, undressing in the far corner with her back to the room and ducking into her shortie gown as quickly as possible to avoid the eyes that she could feel sliding over her. Once the shortie had seemed adequate a little private joke between Mommie and her. Now it didn't cover enough and the sheer blue showed her breasts and the little amber-pink nipples.
The one light, an unshaded bulb swinging from the center of the room, was out by the time she fumbled her way to the pile of covers and sat gingerly on the edge, letting the semi-darkness there was a street light outside open up, so that she could move without stepping on one of the kids.
Then began that incredible night, with Lem cornering her and ramming his pecker into her. She huddled back ashamed and yet thrilled by the things that had happened to her body. So that was being fucked? She had to whisper the phrase to herself to make herself believe it. So that was being fucked?
Even though there was still pain down in her little pee-hole, she no, correct that her body felt good enriched, expanded, and anxious for more but not right now, she qualified.
Then Uncle Ben was calling her. "Come here, Myra. Come to your old uncle."
And for the first time she noticed the quiet from that corner of the room. Connie was no longer there screwing the old man.
Myra shivered deeper into the covers, finding their filth even more desirable than going to her Uncle Ben. Lem leaned over, whispering, "Better go when he calls. Be rougher if'n you don't."
There was impatience in his next call. Impatience and a hint of anger. "Myra, you ain't refusing to come talk to your Uncle Ben, are you?"
Reluctantly Myra got to her feet, pulling down the shortie, and made her way across the darkened room to stand beside the big bed.
Uncle Ben reached out, wrapping an arm around her, his big hand cupping her buttocks and rubbing. "Reckon this yere little girl is right tuckered out after her long day. Traveling is kinda wearisome. Reckon old Uncle Ben better share this yere big bed with a poor tired little girl, 'stead o' lettin' her sleep on a mattress on the floor."
"Ben..." It was Aunt Louisa's tired, breathy voice. "Ain't you screwed that kid enough for one day, stealing her money to buy yourself a truck?"
Uncle Ben let go of Myra's buttocks and crashed over in the bed, making the brass knobs tinkle and the sagging springs groan.
"Ain't no such thing. Ain't stealin'. I'm fixing to go into business with that there truck and improve our economic position. Might someday git me a fleet and be rich..." Uncle Ben went off into heavy breathing and a rattling of the springs. "Real rich ... and have me a shiny car with real vinyl top and four cigarette lighters. Seen me one oncet had four cigarette lighters."
Aunt Louisa's voice came wearily out of the dark. "Go on back to bed, kid. You done had two fuckings today one you ain't felt yet."
Uncle Ben thrashed back, grabbing at Myra. "No you don't. I heard you and Lem over there, screwin' up a storm. And you kin really make the batter fly."
Uncle Ben's arm closed around her buttocks again and drew her closer to the bed, while his other hand fumbled at the neck of her shortie, then ducked down and came up under it, to grab at one of her breasts. "You'n me gonna have fun, kid. Now."
CHAPTER FOUR
Myra stood there, miserable, her small body trembling, her stomach churning in revulsion, as Uncle Ben's hand kneaded cruelly at her breast. She fought the treachery of her own emotions, emotions that made her shiver and feel hot at the same time.
Uncle Ben was reaching around her with his other hand, grabbing at her buttocks, pulling her closer against the bed, lifting, until she could feel herself toppling toward him and hear his exultant grunt as she fell against his flabby stomach, a gross mound of flesh sagging toward her, quivering with the efforts of his muscles to lift her across him.
.The very contact with his loose, obscene flesh sent waves of nausea wracking across her stomach. Yet, at the same time his hand on her breast, squeezing and kneading and the one clawing at her small behind wrought a renewal of excitement, a recreation of the heat and moisture in her little box.
Across Uncle Ben's gross mound of flesh she could hear Aunt Louisa's voice whining out of the dark corner, hear her restless movements of protest. "Leave the kid be, Ben. For tonight, anyhow. You done had Connie. Ain't oncet enough for you?"
"T'aint an' never was, could you remember," and Uncle Ben's hands shoved Myra around, hauling roughly at her body. "Set straddle, kid."
Aunt Louisa whined out of the dark, "Ain't give me nothing to remember by in so long I lost count."
Uncle Ben grunted with effort and the weight of Myra's body astraddle his stomach. He grasped her slim hips and slid her down on his huge legs. "Set there, kid. Jess set there a minute. Gotta get my breath." A deep heave of his stomach rippled the obscene flesh. His husky chuckle rasped on Myra's ears, frightening her more than the lifting which had scraped her legs, more than the roughness of his hands on her body. "Gotta git up some steam. Connie done took a bit out'n me."
Myra sat across the hairy expanse of his legs, her own stretched wide to straddle him. The very pull of her stretched legs made her little pee-hole ache, a new reminder of Lem's treatment of her body, of his pecker thrusting into her pee-hole, of the pain and the treacherous excitement.
The heat of Ben's body, despite the waves of stale sweat and unwashed flesh, was rekindling that excitement, starting again those unwanted wants of her body. She shivered violently, and
Uncle Ben chuckled nastily. "Gittin' up some steam y'self? You gonna like this, kid. like nothin' you never had before. Fuckin' is good like this. Gonna tell you how we do it."
He breathed deeply several times, as if he hadn't quite enough breath for the effort. He half sat up, folding the mass of his stomach into great rippling pinkish tires of flesh. His fetid breath blew at her, stale and odorous. "Jess kneel there. Stand up a little, then kneel. Sorta opens things up real good, that does. Go ahead. Squat. That's right, kid."
He dropped back, winded by the effort and wheezed into the semi-dark. "Lotta trouble, kid, jess to show you how to fuck good."
His hands reached out for her, grabbing her arms and shoving her around. And then rasped across her breasts. "Lotta nice bubbie there. Sure is. Wislit I could lay on 'em, feel 'em mashin' into me. That's awful good. Cain't do it no more only mostly it's on account I'd squish you if'n I did. This here way is better, anyhow. I can look at your bubbies and feel 'em. Feeling makes you het up, don't it? Don't say it don't, kid, 'cause I can feel your cunt heatin' up."
Myra sat straddling his legs, her own doubled under her in a half squat, nauseated yet feeling the excitement of something trembling against her little pee-hole. Just a tip. Just a tremble of motion. But it shook her with the betrayal of feelings deep inside.
"Now, kid, slide toward me. Come on. I got my pecker up against your cunt and I kin feel the hot juices. You're ready, kid, I know. Yes-siree, you sure are ready for old Uncle Ben to throw it into you. Now, kid, don't you wiggle or I kain't stick my pecker in you and that's when it really gets good. When there's a real, man-size pecker sticking up your cunt. An' when I let go my load, you gonna know you been screwed. Slide up me, kid. Easy does it. Easy." He was breathing in great, uneasy gulps.
Uncle Ben had one hand down by her pee-hole but he wasn't playing with it. He was doing something with his own privates, moving it so that his pecker was tight up against the lips of her pee-hole. He was moving his hips massively, wriggling to get his bulb right up against her pee-hole.
It was frightening and exciting at the same time, and Myra was breathing in quick, short takes, trying to still the tremors in her breast, the shivers that rippled across her stomach, the trembling of her legs.
Uncle Ben was pulling at the bottom of his flabby belly, lifting the massive flesh away from his privates, shoving and thrusting and grunting in an effort to thrust his bulb into her pee-hole. One massive hand was wrapped around her buttocks, pulling her up on him.
She stifled a scream as she felt his pecker thrust past the lips of her pee-hole, sliding into her. Then, for a moment, she forgot the horror, the fetid odors, the ammoniac smell, the grimy sheets. It was exciting! Even while it hurt it was exciting. Her heart raced, her blood pulsed with the feel of that shaft sliding up her what was it he called it? her cunt. Yes, it was no longer just a pee-hole, private and inviolate. It was a cunt. A cunt with a pecker thrust up it.
His hands on her little rump kept pulling her toward him, moving that shaft farther and farther up her body. Despite her disgust, she was liking it. And the strange and frightening things it was doing to her. Without willing it, she found herself thrusting too, moving her pelvis in and out, driving his shaft into her.
It was way up her insides, expanding her tunnel to new proportions, with hurt, with an unbelievable excitement. She could feel the great roll of his belly lying against her stomach, hot and moist. And he was heaving his vast body to move that shaft along the path of her tunnel, stirring up ferment as it went. In out a little then farther up.
Her nipples were stiff, hardened and erect. She could touch them and add to the excitement within her. Uncle Ben must have noticed because he brushed her hands away from her breasts and poked at her nipples with blunt fingers. Then pinched them, rolling his fingers so that she couldn't tell pain from thrill.
And all the time his pecker was moving, sliding like a great piston within her. She shook her head in denial of the thrills, the excitement that surged through her stomach, heated her pelvis and cunt to excruciating delight. And then couldn't stop its shaking or the whispered, pleading, "No! No! No!" that was as much directed, at herself, at her body for its betrayal, as at Uncle Ben for the vicious, horrible thing he was doing to her.
She could feel his shaft swelling within her tunnel, feel the pulse and surge of something. And Uncle Ben was heaving now and grunting, almost bouncing her off his great, hairy legs.
"It's coming! It's coming!" It was a hoarse chant, half surprise, half exultation, as he heaved at her, one great heave that he held, a high arching of his buttocks and pelvis. He groaned as if in intolerable pain and gave one final thrust, holding that.
Great gobs of something exploded into her belly, flooding her with heat, bringing on a wild, uncontrollable writhing of her own that seemed to make her little pee-hole convulse around his shaft, milking it of those hot, thrilling juices. And her own answered. Without knowing how she knew, she was aware that her own juices were flowing, that nerves twanged and zinged inside, and silent rockets sparked up her belly. Then it was over. Uncle Ben dropped back, his pelvis falling away from her, his legs slack. He drew a sharp, shuddering breath, his head far back, the whiter creases between his several chins showing in the semi-dark. His stomach heaved, rippling the vast mound of flesh and then he lay still. So still it frightened her, until she made out the slight movement of his chest.
His pecker was softening, dwindling, sliding out of her pee-hole. But even then it brought excitement, a dwindling series of shudders that wracked her small body. Slowly Myra folded forward, her flat little stomach resting against the flabby mound of his belly.
She ignored the odors that came up in waves from his body, the odd, acrid odors that emanated from their privates. She could ignore the slow, obscene ripples of his belly. Just to rest. To recuperate from the vast upheaval that had shaken her body, that still lived in receding excitement along her tunnel, in the small cavern of her pee-hole. Myra had had a double initiation into sex, hating it, fearing it and yet there had been excitement.
Uncle Ben poked at her. "You can git up now, kid. I'm kinda pooped. Cain't give you no more. Slide off easy. Easy, kid."
Myra scrambled off his legs, her own aching from the stretching across Uncle Ben's bulk.
She stood uncertainly beside the bed, tugging at her shortie nightgown, trying to get it down to cover some of her nakedness.
"Ain't no point in standin' there, kid. I done shot my wad. Twicet!" He said it with a kind of awe, as if he didn't really believe it. "Done shot my wad twicet."
Out of the dark came Aunt Louisa's voice, weary, scornful. "Yeah. Your own daughter and a kid that ain't never had none before. Big deal! Big man! Ain't taking on no full-grown woman. Jess kids."
"Shut up, woman." It was said wearily, as if he were truly drained. "Shut up and leave me sleep."
Myra turned and stumbled across the room to fall on the pile of filthy blankets-and weep.
CHAPTER FIVE
The cruelties of the night were emphasized by the bleakness of the day. Myra awoke to pain. Her groin ached with the brutal misuse of her virginity. The ache spread upward, through her stomach, and downward, through her legs. The muscles of her back felt bruised and drawn. She rolled over, wincing with the pains that shot through her, and tried to sit up. For a moment muscles refused to obey, and she moaned.
Lem laughed, ugly and high. Myra opened her eyes and saw him, dressed, squatting on his heels by the pile of grimy blankets. He whinnied again with nasty laughter. "Know you been screwed, doncha? You'll git over it. And beg for more. 'At's the way it is with girls. Think they don't want it, pertend they don't and alia time itchin' for it. But once they has it, ain't no stoppin' 'em. Look at Connie. Didn't want it, no how. But now? She'll fuck at the drop of a hat. An' if a guy ain't got a hat, that's all right, too. She'll fuck. Loves it. like you're gonna. After a few more times." He grinned, what he probably imagined was aningratiating grin. "You'n me, we gonna do jess fine. Jess fine."
Myra stared at him, feeling revulsion churn at her insides. "We're not. You hurt me. You and Uncle Ben. I hate you. Both of you. And I never, never want to do that again. Never."
Lem sprang up, laughing. "Oh, you'll fuck again. Lotsa times. You're built for fucking." He flipped an insolent hand at her and trotted out of the room.
Myra sat up, staring around the dilapidated room, the cracked and peeling walls, the gray, unwashed windows, her eyes carefully avoiding the huge sagging old bed and the gross figure of Uncle Ben slumped at the edge, his hairy legs splayed out.
Sissie, the simple one, was seated on the pile of blankets near Myra, staring with blank, lack-luster eyes at nothing.
"Maw!" Jessica was whining and pointing. "Sissie's peein' in bed again."
"Well, whyn't you take her outside? I kain't be responsible fer that chile alia time."
"It's Connie's turn." Jessica said it peevishly grabbing Sissie's limp wrist, hauling the unresisting body to a crouching, shambling waddle. Yellow liquid dribbled from gray, sodden panties and ran down the child's fat, whitish legs.
Aunt Louisa slumped in the doorway, scratching absently under her ribs, so that her dress, filthy and sleazy, hiked up rhythmically, exposing swollen, blue-veined knees. As the two girls shuffled around her, she gave each an impartial swat on the rump, sighing, "That chile." She swung around and followed them at a tired shuffle. "Gonna fix brekfuss."
"Where can I take a bath?" Myra called to her, feeling the stickiness of her legs, smelling the sharp, ammoniac odor of her own body.
Aunt Louisa stopped, turning to stare at Myra. "A bath?" As if it were something she had heard tell of but never quite believed in. She paused, eyes filming, as if she were trying to recall hearing of such a request before and where it could possibly be satisfied. "Paw was aiming to fix up a tub in the lean-to but he ain't never got around to it."
"You know I been busy. Ain't had the time." Uncle Ben made it a martyr's statement. "Been busy."
"For sixteen years?" Aunt Louisa managed weary scorn before she started her shambling walk across the dog-trot toward the kitchen. Over her shoulder she flung at Myra. "They's a wash tub in the outhouse. Ask your Uncle Ben to fetch it."
"You know I kain't. Ain't got the time. Gotta git me downtown in my truck and git me some business. Gotta support this yere family, ain't I?"
"Be the first time. Wasn't for Jed's pension, we'd starve." Over a slumped shoulder she explained to Myra. "Jed was my first husband.
Got hisself kilt in Korea." As if briefly cheered by the prospect of telling this grievance to new ears, Aunt Louisa turned back, leaning in the doorway. "On'y reason Ben married up with me. That and Lem was coming. Wislit I'd 'a took the lump sum and gone off with your maw."
"I done the right thing by you, didn't I?" Uncle Ben spoke with lofty disdain. "Didn't have to, did I? Seein' as it warn't certain Lem was mine."
"He's yourn, all right. Looks and mean disposition they's yourn, all right." Cheered by what she obviously considered a fitting retort, Aunt Louisa turned and shuffled off.
Uncle Ben glared after her and then turned to fasten his bleary eyes on Myra, twisting his heavy face into a grin. "Hi, kid. You'n me we had us a high ole time last night, didn't we? Gonna do it again. Gonna really learn you how to screw, real good. Yessiree!" He licked fat, petulant lips, his eyes squinted, staring at her legs, traveling up her, to fasten on her breasts. "Yeah, you got 'em. Nice titties."
For a moment he seemed to forget her, struggling into faded, torn overalls, pushing his pendulous belly and tucking it in, as he wrestled into the shoulder straps, working them over the grimy remains of an undershirt.
Myra backed up, working her aching legs to push her back to the wall, pulling futilely at her shortie to cover herself, miserable with the drying, sticky reminders of last night's foulness. "Please, could I have a bath?"
"Now I been studyin' that. Jess that. The kids generally goes down to the crick ... But I mought jess mought fix up that ole waslitub. An' help you." He licked his lips, grinning. "An' scrub your back ... and them titties."
Breakfast was another misery for Myra, eating cereal lumpy oatmeal that almost gagged her out of a bowl that still had remnants of past breakfasts welded to it. And feeling all the time the eyes of Uncle Ben and Lem coursing over her breast as they shoveled food greedily, chomping heavy jaws and swallowing with great swelling gulps.
Uncle Ben aimed his spoon at Connie. "You take Myra down to the crick. She wants to bathe." As if this were a peculiar and not necessarily commendable ritual.
"I'll go. To show you the way." Lem smirked. "The way to bathe. In the crick. It's tricky."
"You ain't goin' to no crick this day, Lem." Uncle Ben said it with angry belligerence. "Gotta have a helper on my truck, don't I? Else how'm I gonna make me some money, now we got an extra mouth to feed."
Jim and Jessica broke into a chant, apparently simultaneously inspired. "We're goin' to the crick! We're goin' to the crick! We're goin' to the crick."
Aunt Louisa looked up from pecking at her food. "Better take Sissie. She's gettin' kinda ripe."
"Aw, Mom!" Connie whined a protest. "Us'ns kain't have no fun with Sissie along. You gotta watcher alia time, else she'll walk in over her head. An' she ain't got sense enough to come up."
Aunt Louisa sighed wearily. "Ain't goin' for fun. Myra wants to bathe." She looked vaguely around. "Might even find some soap."
"Soap!" Connie regarded this amenity with scorn and then looked at Myra with awe, as a person who actually used soap. "Us'ns scrub down with sand." And then added with truthfulness, "Sometimes."
Myra was too miserable, too uncomfortable with the stickiness on her legs and around her privates to protest this mass expedition for a bath. She just wanted to be clean, as if, with water she could wash away some of the ugly memories of the night before. Just to be clean again! And forget the two men who had used her body, the body that had so treacherously betrayed her by wanting the very thing she hated.
The expedition was halted for a moment as Connie, giggling, told them to wait. She had to speak to someone. And she ran into a house down the lane.
Sissie came to a shambling halt as soon as Connie's leading hand was gone and simply stood, staring at nothing, her mouth working as if she still chewed on some of the lumpy oatmeal.
Jim and Jessica flopped on the side of the path, limp, seemingly boneless. Jim looked up at Myra, at the edge of her skirt and then on up, stopping at her breasts. "I'm gonna be a submarine and go 'way down deep and blow everybody up with bombs."
Jessica rolled her eyes in mock coquetry. "Connie's gone to see her boyfriend. So's he'll come down. Reckon they'll screw behind the laurels. Thinks we don't know. I watched 'em plenty times. Joe's got a big pecker and makes her squeal."
"Aw, he ain't so much!" Jim disparaged the absent Joe. "It ain't no bigger'n Lem's if as big."
Jessica defended the absentee. "He couldn't get it in me. It's big!"
Jim rolled over and hit his sister alongside the head. "You ain't supposed to screw yet. Ain't I tole you? Except me."
Jessica pounded her brother's chest with puny fists. "He ast me, didn't he? And was gonna gimme a dime."
Jim sat up, scowling. "Wacher do with the dime? I ain't never seen you spending no dime."
Jessica shrugged. "Well, he couldn't, so he didn't give me it."
Jim nodded at this display of wisdom and canniness. "On'y he shoulda give you something, jess for tryin'. "
Myra, in her brief existence, had not known many children, except at school where behavior, if not exemplary, was at least supervised by adults who wouldn't have stood for such behavior. Outside of school she had lived with and for Mommie. They had been a complete and satisfactory unit. So she didn't know if other children dealt this casually with sex. She didn't think so. Such casual concupiscence would certainly have been surreptitiously whispered around the playgrounds. And yet ... maybe that was why Mommie hadn't wanted her out playing with other children, so she wouldn't learn these things.
It never occurred to Myra that her mother was trying to protect her from the truth about herself, the knowledge that she was a whore. Children seemed to learn those things and were thoughtlessly cruel in taunting another child.
But these children seemed to regard sex as some kind of game, an integral part of their lives. And now, at twelve, Myra had been forced to learn to know more than she ever wanted to know about sex, the meanness and ugliness of it. And she didn't intend to learn more.
Connie came bouncing back, her flabby bosom shaking as she moved. She was smirking, a very private, very smug smirk. "Let's go." And hauled the flaccid, dull Sissie to her feet.
As they approached the swimming hole Jim ran ahead, shedding his shirt as he went, shouting, "Last one in is a mother-fucking dog!" and disappeared behind a clump of bushes. Almost immediately there was a splash and shout.
Jessica, a little late because she was studying the dress Myra wore, ran after him screaming, "Wait up! Wait up for me!" when it was obviously too late.
Connie led the placid Sissie around the clump of bushes and Myra followed, to discover the cleanest place she had seen yet in this new, grimy environment into which she had been thrown.
Here the stream widened into a pool of clear water where Jim was cavorting in midstream, waving his arms in a great pretense of drowning. Then, with horrible gurglings, he surface dived, showing his skinny bare rump.
Jessica was already peeling out of her dress and wading out, naked, to scream at Jim to wait up for her.
Connie led Sissie to the water's edge and shoved her down. The girl sat placidly, her legs extended into the water, her hands patting the surface in aimless pleasure. Connie herself hauled her dress over her head and stood on the little beach, naked, peering around expectantly.
She glanced over at Myra who was still silently admiring the beauty of the little cove. "Aincha gonna bathe? Then git undressed." She turned around, perring back at the bushes, preening her heavy flabby body and lifting her arms so that the flabby breasts tightened. "Go on. Git undressed."
Jim had surfaced and was watching her intently, as if awaiting a moment of revelation. He added his shrill voice to Connie's. "Go ahead: Git naked! The water's swell."
The water, she decided, would be some protection from the basilisk stare. She stripped, stepping out of her panties with difficulty, trying to balance on one leg in the loose sand. She paused a moment at the water's edge, testing it with her toe. It was cold. With a shiver she stepped forward. And stopped, turning as Connie hailed someone. It was a boy, towheaded, stocky, grinning around the bush.
Connie clumped playfully up the strip of sand, twisting and turning her body in massive coyness. "I tole you she was cute, din't I? Din'tl?"
"Yeah." The boy came around the bush, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. At least they were clean. He was shorter than Lem and wider across the shoulders. And brown where Lem was a fish-belly white. "Yeah! She's cute, all right." He ignored Connie's display of charm and passed her, walking toward Myra. "I'll give you a quarter for a screw."
"Hey!" Connie was indignant. "You ain't never give me nothin'. "
With brutal indifference he passed her, his eyes on Myra. "Who needs to?" He grinned at Myra. "Hows about it? Two bits, cash money, for a fuck."
It was Myra's first experience with the commercialism of sex. But it was to be far from the last.
CHAPTER SIX
Joe moved toward her, wriggling his shorts down, exposing his privates, in the firm assurance that he had made a highly acceptable if not generous offer. And been accepted.
Myra stared aghast at his pecker, hanging and swinging, and then fled into deeper water, squatting to cover herself. "No! Go away! Please! Go away! I won't! I won't!"
Joe took his eyes off her breasts and swung around to glower at Connie. "You said she fucked."
Connie was pouting peevishly. "You ain't never gimme nothing but sodas. And on'y oncet in a while."
"So who needs to? But you said..."
"She lost her cherry to Lem last night. Ain't that fucking? And Paw had her afterwards. So she fucks." Connie was defending herself, grievance forgotten.
He turned back to Myra, plainly bewildered. "I said I'd give you two bits. 'At's all I got. And two bits is right smart money when it ain't cherry no more."
Myra squatted in the water, too horrified to do more than shake her head, muttering, "No! No! No! in "a hopeless ritual of pleading.
Jim came up behind her, goosing her with his finger and laughing raucously as she straightened, stifling a scream. "Go on! Screw him an' we'll watch." Jim shoved at her small pink rump, so that she stumbled forward, almost to the edge of the stream.
Joe waded out and caught her arm, propelling her toward the strip of sand. "Nice place back o' them bushes. Kinda private and soft."
Jim hooted with laughter. "Soft like the time you laid Connie in the poison ivy and got her ass in an uproar? Couldn't screw for a week."
Jessica joined Jim and together they shoved the bewildered Myra toward shore while Joe guided her with curious solicitude, as if he suddenly appreciated her worth. He even apologized. "Two bits is all I got."
"I don't want..." Myra began, struggling against the three of them.
"I said two bits and I'll pay two bits. Ain't no skin off'n my prick if'n you screwed a coupla relatives. It's perty near like being cherry."
Connie, over her initial annoyance with Joe, joined the others in shoving Myra up the bank and toward a spot behind a clump of bushes. She wrestled, struggling, and turned inadvertently to face Joe. He caught her in his arms, pulling her up against him, breathing heavily and moving his pelvis, so that his pecker, now hard, rubbed against her stomach.
And she felt the now familiar warmth surge through her crotch, heating her stomach, setting her nipples erect. Her body was betraying her again. She whimpered in misery and writhed to free herself. It only set other fires going as his pecker rubbed against her pee-hole.
With Jim and Jessica tugging at her sides and Connie hauling on an arm, she moved backward in a curious lock-step with Jim. Then Connie tripped her and she started to fall. Joe fell awkwardly with her, one leg sliding between hers. Connie and others, mostly through accident, cushioned her fall.
Myra lay there, half stunned, bewildered and miserable, unable to fight against these odds and the betrayal of her own body as the fires ran through her pee-hole, weakening her legs, making her breathe with open mouth in panting desire. She stared up at the overhanging leaves and ragged patch of blue sky, breathing her familiar appeal..."Mommie! Mommie ! Please! Don't let them..."
Joe slid his other leg between hers, spreading her wide, his pecker ramming at her pee-hole as he humped and grunted. And her pee-hole answered with convulsive twitches, with heat and wetness as the lips opened. She closed her eyes at the pain of it, then opened them wide in horrified surprise as she realized he had gone in, humping and swearing. He drove his shaft roughly up her, hurting yet at the same time causing excitement in her, far up her insides, so that she writhed to meet him.
She gulped, fighting nausea, and looked up to see Connie standing hunched a few feet away, gloating in malicious, childish triumph. Jim and Jessica were watching with avid interest. Despite the indignity of an audience Myra went on reacting to Joe's humping and thrusting as he tried to drive that delicious misery farther up her tunnel.
It was over quickly. Joe was not an adroit lover nor was he interested in the satisfaction of his partner. It was screw and have an orgasm for his own entertainment, which he seemed to feel he was buying at a generous price.
He gave one last heave, a deep thrust, and held it as his pecker pulsed and shot off in her. And it triggered response in her, so that, with a moan, she thrust up her little pelvis to meet his come and came herself in an explosion of light and soundless convulsions deep inside.
Joe collapsed on top of her and then rolled off as his pecker slid out of her hole. He lay beside her for a moment, breathing heavily, puffing out his lips and blowing blubbery noises.
Myra lay there, spread-eagled on the grass, her body shivering, her mind a turmoil, eyes squeezed shut in misery. She felt Joe leave her side but didn't see him go for his pants and dig deep for the quarter he had promised.
He came back and put it in her limp hand, closing her fingers over the coin. "You sure do screw good. Yessiree. And it was worth every cent of it." He stood up, looking down at her hesitantly. "You all right, kid?"
Without opening her eyes, Myra nodded, moving her body slowly, contracting it into a ball of aching misery and shame, the coin clutched spasmodically in her small fist.
"You sure you all right, kid?" There was a note of insipient panic in his voice, the vague beginnings of a worry that he had injured her and there would be consequences.
"I'm all right. Just leave me alone." Myra spoke, her voice muffled by the arm thrown across her face. "Just go away."
Joe let out a bray of laughter, half relief, half cockiness of the male conqueror. "You sure do fuck good, kid, I'll tell the boys. They been looking for fresh tail. And even at a quarter, they'll like it. Yeah, kid. You're good. And you can tell anybody Joe Butler says so." It was a magnanimous offer.
Myra nodded, not quite comprehending, but waiting for them to go away. She heard the voices receding; Connie arguing that she screwed a good dime's worth, anyhow, and what about right now?
They were gone. Slowly Myra pulled herself up, sitting, then rising painfully. She put out her hand to steady herself against a tree and realized she still clutched Joe's quarter. She opened her hand and looked at it stupidly, wondering why she held it so fiercely. On unsteady legs that ached with the punishment she had been subjected to, Myra made her way back to the creek, wading out and sinking gratefully into the water, chilly against her own feverish heat. She looked down once more at the shiny disc of the quarter and then flung it into the pool, shuddering.
She didn't know it, but although she threw it away, that quarter had established her local price. Which, if she could only appreciate it, was very good for that area and her future customers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Hey!" Jim screamed from the bank. "That there was a whole quarter..." He ran into the pool, taking the water in a flat dive, heading for the shiny disc visible on the sandy bottom. Twice he had to surface dive, his skinny rump humped up and then disappearing before he came up, shouting in triumph, "I got it. She throwed it away, so it's mine. It's mine." He appealed to Myra, "It's mine, ain't it?" As if someone had disputed his claim.
Myra nodded wearily. "It's yours. Keep it."
Now that he was the legitimate owner of a whole quarter, Jim squealed with delight, half swimming, half wading ashore. "I'm gonna buy me five lickery sticks and some gum bubble gum and the chew kind and a soda and..."
He raced up the bank, headed for town and a candy shop before some disaster overtook that quarter, like his father learning he had it. He turned back and grabbed up his jeans, struggling into them and attempting to run at the same time. It ended in his sprawling, feet in the air, an advantageous position for scrambling into jeans. He thrust flailing legs into them, leapt to his feet, clutching the grimy shirt and scooted off toward town, yelping excitedly, adding to an already improbable list of things he was going to buy.
Myra sank back in the water, floating, enjoying the comfort of its swish and support, the only comfort she had known since she came to this horrible place. Until Connie came back to stand on the bank, pudgy hands on fat hips, bawling across the water. "He didn't wanna screw again. Ain't you through bathing? Seems like you been there forever. Come on. Let's go spend that there quarter. I oughta git some-thin', seein' as I brang him here."
Myra turned lazily in the water. "I gave it to Jim."
"You what?" Connie stood open-mouthed in astonishment for a moment and then whirled, scrambling into her dress. "Gotta catch me that boy 'fore he spends it all. Gotta get my fair share, seein' as I brang Joe down here. By rights the whole quarter oughta be mine, seems like." Making last adjustments to her dress she sped off down the path. "Kain't let that boy eat hisself sick," she added virtuously.
The nights that followed were a continous nightmare to Myra. Lem used her whenever he felt like it, which was far too often to suit either Myra or Connie, who resented his neglect of her flabby body in favor of Myra's slender, developing figure. And yet, if Myra tried to avoid Lem's attentions, Connie would side with her brother and hold Myra until, in weariness and constant betrayal of her body with its own physical response, she yielded, letting him ram his shaft up her.
She no longer suffered the surging pangs of shame. Shame was forgotten, swamped in the miseries of trying to live, just live in this house of rapacious horror, of not enough food and that sloppily prepared of callous indifference to normal human response.
There were no more long, sweet night talks, with Mommie seated on the side of her clean, narrow bed, talking about The Escape Hatch and how they would live in sunshine and cleanliness and flowers. Mommie had loved flowers, and dreamed of them surrounding this "Escape Hatch" from the cruel realities of her life.
Instead, every now and then Uncle Ben called her to his bed, feeling roughly across her breasts, ramming a horny finger up her little cunt. She thought of it now as a cUnt instead of her childish word for it, pee-hole, that had somehow been clean and, the way Mommie said it, faintly funny. She resented the way her body responded to Uncle Ben's coarse, crude seductions, hands coursing over her little rump, along her inner thighs, the finger corkscrewing into her cunt, a hand pinching her titties she had come to that word too from the sweeter, truer word, breasts, that Mommie had used.
She'd had to repeat the seemingly endless ritual of sitting astraddle Uncle Ben's gross, hairy legs and letting him pull her, none too gently, up on his shaft, sliding it into her cunt lubricated with juices she despised herself for creating. And hated herself more for the rich excitement she experienced each time he shot his load into her as she sat, writhing and moaning.
So she welcomed Connie's suggestion that they go down and hang around the soda shop where the boys congregated, surveying the crop of females with cynical appraisal of their potentials as screwing partners. The whispered, giggly conversations with other girls was a relief from the whining contentions of Aunt Louisa's kitchen, even though the subject matter was neither girlish nor gay. They eyed the boys and whispered and giggled over the sizes of peckers and ability to keep going, to "hold back" on shooting their come, or the roughness or suavity of their preliminaries. Joe Butler brought Myra her first real commercial customer, the first she actually accepted on monetary terms. Joe had carefully briefed his prospect, Eddie Wanger. "She's practically cherry. Feels like cherry, honest. With a real hot little box. And all the wiggling and humping you could ask for. A real hot screw. And only a quarter."
"Two bits!" Eddie had been mildly shocked. "Mostly I get it for maybe a soda. Lotsa times for free. Or a ride in my dad's car, when I can sneak it out. Girls around here put out easy."
"Not Myra." Jim was stout in defending Myra's standing. "Not her. She don't wanta put out, but puttin' out is sorta built in, like. like she can't help it once she's got started. But it takes a quarter to get her started." That was the way Joe saw it, only vaguely aware of Myra's revulsion and her constant battle with her own body aganist its strange demands.
So Joe swaggered up to Myra and Connie huddled with two other girls, giggling. "Hi, Myra! Want you to meet a friend, Eddie. Eddie, this here is Myra. Eddie wants to talk to you."
Myra nodded, keeping her eyes down, aware of the surreptitious study of her body, of the glances of the other girls. And, off a little way, a huddle of boys appraising Myra and watching Eddie's approach.
"Wanta go for a walk? We can go by the cemetery." He palmed a coin and showed it to her secretively. "I got a quarter."
Myra had been coached by Connie on "the cemetery," an old, abandoned graveyard hidden by trees and bushes, where the flat slabs made hard but acceptable couches for screwing. It was the customary rendezvous for couples set upon fucking.
She understood the gambit. Eddie was being by his standards courteous. And cautious. The soda fountain operator, a bald, paunchy man in a dingy apron, was aware of the assignations made in front of his shop but if he didn't know, specifically, that such-and-such a boy had laid a certain girl, he couldn't talk.
He knew, all right. And cynically waited until the couples straggled back, straightening clothes, looking flushed and flustered, to buy sodas. In this little community, business was bad enough without chasing away his longtime customers by being too aware of their secret assignations.
Besides, he was able to keep tabs on the girls, noting the-likely and desirable ones who might be persuaded to share, briefly, the cot in his back room. He also had another source of income, sporadic but pleasantly large, from a group of young men who came down occasionally to spot new talent for what he was sure a chain of whorehouses up North.
He didn't let himself know for sure that was their purpose, for he was a squeamish man. And he didn't like to think of himself as a recruiting station for prostitutes. He sometimes clucked dolefully over the girls, so young! To know so young the delights and dangers of screwing. They had oughta wait. But since they obviously hadn't, he saw no reason in not making a little side money introducing the best and most-likely candidates to the boys from up north. What happened after that was no affair of his.
He knew Myra as a new girl in town and saw her at his shop with Connie, who was well established as a willing lay, if not exactly to his taste. Now that Myra, slim, just developing bubbies, with a cute, round little ass that waggled when she walked, that was a girl to keep an eye on. Did she or didn't she screw? He'd soon know. So he watched surreptitiously as Eddie made his approach, noting the secretive display of the coin. If Myra went off with him, that clinched it. She'd screw. And so she was a candidate for the couch in the back room. After that, he'd see. A possibility for the boys from the north?
Myra glanced aside at the secretively-displayed coin and back to Eddie Wanger's suddenly eager face. It was a clean face, not like the grimy masks Jim and Uncle Ben wore. His shirt was clean, too, and his trousers ... Myra's eyes shied away from looking at his crotch. She half turned away and saw Connie there, avidly watching, making shooing motions with one fat hand, whispering hoarsely, "Joe and I will go along."
Connie linked arms with a surprised Joe and all but swept Myra ahead to walk with Eddie.
Myra could scarcely believe she was deliberately setting out to be screwed, knowingly, willingly. But it didn't really make any difference now. Lem had had her many nights, repeatedly. And Uncle Ben whenever he felt the urge. And Joe Butler for that quarter she had thrown away. Her little pee-hole was no longer clean and unsullied. It had been used. Used so often now there was no pain the stabbing of a pecker up her insides. And there was the memory of the excitement that stirred in her, excitement that alleviated somewhat the drabness of living at Uncle Ben's.
The very idea of what happened inside when a pecker rammed up her started new excitement in her, and a fire was already kindling down in her little cunt. She thought she could already feel the moisture there, lubricating her, making even her walk a little easier, as if her legs slid over one another on wetness she created.
Eddie wasn't bad-looking. A little pimply, maybe, but he had nice eyes that cut toward her, reminding her of a spaniel she had known who begged outrageousy. He caught her hand, dropped it, then caught it again as they swung down the road, making an attractive picture, though she didn't know it. And Connie and Joe plodded on behind, talking in husky whispers, arguing price. Connie wanted a quarter, same as Myra, and Joe was holding out for a free ride such as he had often had, with, he promised, a soda at the end. Well, all right, a fifteen-cent soda with a scoop of ice cream.
Having boosted her price simply by association with Myra, Connie was satisfied. She would have gone on by the old standards if Joe had insisted. She wasn't about to miss a good screw outside the family. It was a point of pride. But the new status, assurance of a soda with a scoop of ice cream, was much more satisfactory. She didn't even begrudge Myra the quarter, confident she'd share it later.
In that she was mistaken. Myra was already planning to hoard it, saving toward that "Escape Hatch" Mommie had struggled for so valiantly.
Myra was embarrassed at the blatancy of the rendezvous. The ancient stone slabs seemed a row of cots arranged for just such activities as fucking. And around them lay evidence of past assignations, condums withered, dirty handkerchiefs, and even a mildewed bra.
She stood there, looking down, seeing the gravel of the old path and desiccated leaves ground into it and Eddie's shoes twisting in acute misery of indecision. She looked up, sliding her eyes quickly past his crotch, to his face. A smile wavered and she dropped her eyes. "What do we do now? I mean ... how?"
For answer Eddie motioned to the granite slab. Her knees were suddenly, unaccountably weak, and Myra sat, bracing her hands against the gritty slab. She had no particular feeling of desecrating this ground. The body beneath the slab had long since crumbled to dust, gone as surely and forever as Mommie was gone.
The pose into which she had unconsciously dropped accentuated her breasts and stretched her slim legs into entrancing view. Eddie stood above her, gulping uneasily as he lowered himself beside her. He slid an arm tentatively around her, laying a hand on one breast. "I ain't never had no girl as pretty as you. Most ain't."
Myra understood it as a compliment but nevertheless shivered at his touch. His arm turned her toward him, one breast brushing his shirt. And they kissed awkwardly, shyly. Then Eddie pressed her close, fastening his mouth on hers. This was new. Lem had never kissed her. He didn't bother with preliminaries. Nor had Uncle Ben. It was a refinement Myra wasn't sure she liked. Yet she savored it and found she did enjoy the act. Kissing was interesting. It sent delicious shivers down her front, knotting her stomach, warming her groin. His hand still held her breast pumping rhythmically. And his free hand slid along her leg, up the inner side of her thigh, to her cunt. The kiss grew warmer, more exciting. Eddie thrust his tongue into her mouth. For a moment she wanted to reject it and then found herself liking, it. She explored his mouth with her tongue.
Her cunt was opening. She could feel it heat and swell, getting wetter. Her legs were weakening, slowly falling apart, giving his hand freer range, letting his finger slide into her cunt. Myra moaned with the excitement it created and slowly lay back on the slab, her legs dangling over the edge, so that stomach and thigh muscles were tautened and sensation heightened.
She felt Eddie's hand tugging at her panties and humped up to free them. They slid off and were discarded. Now Eddie could play with her little cunt. He did, with both hands spreading the lips, exploring the hole with exciting fingers.
Now he was between her legs, his trousers and shorts dropped, his pecker, hard and long, poked at her cunt, sending new, exciting shivers up through her, quivering the muscles of thighs and stomach. He spread her weakened legs farther apart, stretching her cunt, pulling at her muscles.
She could see his pecker and the mound of cunt and the top edge of her little slit. His pecker had a huge bulb on it, shiny with his own juices, and it was rubbing up and down along her slit, knocking at her little knob, that curious little knob where so much of the excitement lay.
Then he was in, pumping hard to drive far up her tunnel. Myra moaned with the wild titillation that surged through her, moving her little pelvis so that feeling was intensified, emotions heightened. And they worked in a frenzied rhythm until his pecker swelled and pulsed. He rammed hard, driving for the last tiny bit of space up her tunnel, and she drove with her pelvis, helping him.
Once more it happened. His pecker exploded warm, creamy juices far up her and something within her answered, in a screaming silence, bright with unseen lights. Then they both went limp. Eddie bowed over her, bracing himself with both hands, his head hanging slackly as he heaved for breath.
Myra lay back, exhausted, her nerves twanging with the ebbing excitement. She closed her eyes, to intensify the sensation of his pecker sliding out of her hole, seeking one last iota of emotion from the moment.
With an effort, Eddie moved away and retrieved his trousers, donning them in sudden, odd modesty. He dug down in a pocket and came up with a quarter, pressing it into one of Myra's hands, a little baffled when she murmured, "Escape Hatch," clutching the quarter tight in her small fist. Myra lay there a moment longer, her dress hiked above her navel, her whole bottom exposed.
Joe, who had finished with Connie long since, strode over, standing above her. "Hey, I want a piece of that!"
Myra opened her eyes, focusing slowly on his flushed, greedy face and then slid down to glance at his pecker, wet and gleaming but limp, though it was quivering into a second erection. "Can you? It'll cost you a quarter."
Myra was learning the rudiments of her game.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Joe's demand for a screw from Myra and her almost casual demand became a minor classic among the soda-shop group. It also established her as the girl who only fucked for money and at the highest going rate among the crowd. Joe's defense, circulated among the boys primarily, for paying a whole quarter for a second go at her after Eddie had paid, set her up as being highly desirable, a commodity to be sought after.
It resulted in an inordinate amount of local lawns being mowed along with an intensified drive among those with paper routes to add new customers, so that the generally thin pockets of soda-shop habitues jingled with extra quarters, with which they hoped to purchase "some of that quail tail."
Myra was unaware of the havoc she wrought in local economics. It was a very simple thing to her. If she was going to endure being fucked, she was going to get paid so that she could build up her "Escape Hatch" fund and find cleanliness without males.
Her objective was vague a lot of money
but she had no idea how much. So she simply hoarded. That irked Connie who had expected to share liberally in Myra's take. Yet she couldn't object. She had become a sort of adjunct to Myra. They had to take her along in order to get a piece from Myra. That was Myra's dictum for reasons obscure even to her. And her price had risen from an occasional dime when a boy was flush to a regular ten-cents fee each time. But it boosted Connie's ego and her intake of sodas. Also her poundage.
Now a typical day for Myra was a stroll down to the soda shop, swishing her small rump and thrusting out her other visible assets, her bubbies. She was learning to merchandise the product. About two weeks after the new regimen had been established, she and Connie came down to the soda shop, to stand around awaiting Myra's customers with the overflow for Connie.
Joe had now taken a proprietary pride in Myra as having established her as desirable piece and acted as her unofficial pimp. He introduced the boys to Myra. And, oddly enough, demanded no concessions. If he wanted to fuck and had the essential loot, he paid. He had tried for a free ride once and been coldly turned down. So he paid.
Joe brought up Cullen Winters, a gangling youth nearly six feet tall whose voice embarrassingly shifted gears, often in mid-sentence. "Cull, this here is Myra I tole you about."
Cullen flushed, murmuring something indistinguishable, and scraped his feet on the sidewalk in a sort of shuffling walk that took him nowhere. He finally got his voice going, fortunately all in one key. "Could you and me go up by the cemetery?"
Myra looked him over, smiling slowly. "Have you got a quarter?" At his nod, she agreed and held out her hand. This was an innovation, being paid in advance, and Cullen was startled but he handed over his quarter.
Joe brought up another boy, Jeff Salter, a would-be lady killer who smirked at Myra. "We'll have a ball. Yeah. Outa this world, kid."
Joe offered hesitantly, "Bill Jennings. Myra. Bill's got quite a reputation around town."
Myra glanced at the insolent, bold eyes and then turned to Joe. "Has he got a quarter?"
"Sure, sure. I got plenty o' money. Just so's you an' me..." His bluster faltered before Myra's placid stare.
Myra held out her hand, waiting.
Bill turned to Joe, scowling. "You mean I gotta pay first?"
Joe shrugged, disclaiming any responsibility for this idiosyncrasy, and Bill reluctantly dug in his pocket, fetching up a quarter. He put it in Myra's hand, starting another bluster. "This better be good or..."
"You're second," Myra informed him, demoralizing him completely. He slunk off muttering, to join Cullen.
Three more came up, two of whom, Chuck Bently and Boyd Simmons, had been with Myra before and paid with a degree of eagerness; the third, Sandy Stone, surrendered his quarter with considerable dubiety, studying Myra's breasts with interest, but finally paying.
Myra turned and marched into the soda shop, handing the five quarters to Sep (for Septimus) French, the proprietor. "On my account," she said, and strolled out, waggling her small hips.
Connie had asked her why she turned her money over to Mister French and Myra had given a bland answer, "Did you ever try screwing with a handful of quarters?" Since this good fortune had never befallen Connie nor was-likely to, she accepted the explanation.
Myra did not give the other reason, which was that, no matter how carefully she secreted her hoard around Uncle Ben's house, someone always found it and appropriated a quarter or two. With Mister French as her banker, she felt her hoard was safe. And growing. There was now $7.75 in her "Escape Hatch" fund, which represented thirty-two screwings she had generously treated Connie to a two-bit sundae on one occasion, which accounted for the missing quarter.
Sep French was meticulous in his handling of this odd account, feeling obscurely that something very unpleasant would happen if he did not such as Myra might run to the police. The ensuing investigation of Mister French and the soda-shop rendezvous could be disastrous. Especially since he was about due for a visit from the boys up North. They, in turn, would resent any interference with their local pick-up station. And their resentment, he was certain, would be unpleasant for Mister Septimus French. like a very thorough beating, probably with tire chains. So, for reasons unknown to Myra, her hoard was safe.
Myra strolled off with an eager but uncertain Cullen Winters who kept shooting avid glances at Myra's swaying bubbies as she switched provocatively along. Behind trailed her next prospects, two by two, eyeing, her provocative little rump and making low-voiced, sniggering comments. Behind them came Joe and Connie, who was anticipating some action from Myra's overflow, as well as one assured fucking from Joe, who was temporarily broke and therefore out of Myra's league.
Gang fucking was not new to Connie. She had been known, on one memorable occasion, to take on ten in succession, which she privately considered some sore of local record. She had induced Myra to try it, first with two Eddie Wanger, Myra's first commercial customer, and
Joe. Later, seeing the financial potential, Myra had taken on four boys. This time, five was her most ambitious effort, and would add to her hoard. That was all that counted now, the "Escape Hatch" hoard.
She didn't mind the physical discomfort of lying on hard stone, legs stretched wide, or the weariness of her small body when it was over. She just let her treacherous body take over, allowing it to respond wildly to the prick rammed up her cunt, matching automatically, the rhythm of sex and exploding with silent fireworks far up inside. Almost the whole time her mind was given to her endless prayer to Mommie..."This is for the 'Escape Hatch,' Mommie. I'll find it somehow, clean, with fresh air and flowers. And I'll never look at a boy again. Not ever."
Cullen watched her with hungry eyes as they sat side by side on the slab, his face red, his mouth gulping air and his ham-like hands clutching spasmodically between his knees, his pecker already swollen, pushing out the crotch of his pants.
Myra hitched herself up, sliding out of her panties. She had not yet made up her mind to use Connie's simpler approach of not wearing any. Panties were her last barricade. With them on when she went to the soda shop she could tell herself she didn't really mean to fuck. If anything "happened," it was something unplanned, something the Fates had thrust onto her. Her thinking wasn't that clear, but panties were an essential part of her emotional security. In them she was temporarily inviolate.
She set them carefully aside and hiked up her dress to her bellybutton and lay back on the slab, already feeling the insidious weakness in her knees, the heat emanating from her cunt, the hardening of her nipples.
Cullen looked down at her, wetting his lips. "Could I see your titties?"
Myra nodded and hiked the dress higher, exposing her breasts and the amber-pink of her nipples. Cullen reached out and touched them. Myra felt the touch and the growing excitement within her and sighed.
Cullen drew back his hand hurriedly and began a frantic fumbling with his pants. A moment later he was on top of her, moaning with frustration as he tried to stab his prick into her cunt.
Myra felt the inexpert jabbings at her cunt and wriggled to help, feeling the heat and moisture in her pussy, knowing she was ready.
Suddenly Cullen gave a frantic heave at her. She felt the heat and wetness of his come and the trickle of it down her crack.
Cullen had shot off before he could get his prick in her. He fell to one side, whimpering, tears streaming down his face, "Please don't tell! Please don't tell!"
Myra her body frustrated and eager, gulped. Her body demanded completion yet she herself was relieved. Not that it mattered. One less didn't really make any difference. Yet she felt relief. She patted his arm. "I won't tell. Just stay a few minutes longer. They won't ever know."
She had realized, with feminine intuition, that he feared ridicule. And even though her body was tense with its own expectations, she smiled at him. "Want to kiss my titties?"
Cullen sat up, nodding as he gulped for control. His own body was satisfied. It had reached climax and release of tension. Only bruised male ego remained. "Can I?" At Myra's nod, he leaned over and kissed first one and then the other of her titties, sighing deeply as he straightened up. "It was worth a quarter!"
"Better get Bill now."
Cullen scrambled to his feet, struggling to fasten his pants. "Sure. And you won't tell?" When Myra shook her head, smiling at him, he grinned and swaggered off, a veiy good imitation of the conquering male. And Myra smoothed down her dress to modest length.
Bill Jennings came in, undoing his fly, intent on the process so that he didn't really look at her. And Myra knew then that much of his male bluster was pretense, that he had to nerve himself to each new encounter. And he was building up to one now.
He looked up, scowling at her. "I figured you'd be nekkid. I like my women nekkid. So I can see what I'm gettin'. "
Myra shrugged. Nakedness, after the sessions with Lem and Uncle Ben, was nothing new. She caught the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head, laying it aside, displaying the slim perfection of her body, leaning back on her arms to thrust out her breasts. "So now you can see."
Bill stopped in the act of stepping out of his trousers to stare at her, whistling softly between his teeth. "Gosh! You really built! Wow-eee! What titties! I could eat 'em up!"
He dropped his trousers and underpants in one motion, coming dazedly toward her, his pecker standing sharply erect. It was big, bigger maybe than Lem's or Joe's, and for a moment Myra felt panic. Could she take it? All that shaft, that gleaming, purplish bulb?
Then the mechanics of her body took over, wetting her cunt, bringing heat and excitement. Her little cunt was opening up even before her legs were spread. She lay back slowly, her eyes on his dong.
He leaned over her, one hand touching her breast, for a moment curiously gentle. Then he flung himself on her fumbling to ram his prick into her. She wriggled, moving her hips and pelvis and felt it slide in.
He drove it in all in one long tearing motion that made her squeal. And then, as he reached far up her, his pelvis clamped against hers and began his hurried pumping motions, her body responded, moving with his, feeling the fire and heat and excitement deep inside.
His hands played with her titties, massaging them a shade roughly but stirring up even more excitement. They pumped together in a fast, urgent rhythm and in a moment it was over.
Climax! She felt her body explode into white-hot fires, juices flowing, her own release from intolerable tensions a special excitement of its own. Then she lay limp, waiting as Bill slowly folded, breathing in great shuddering gulps. And his prick slid out, a tingling excitement of its own.
He rolled over and lay beside her, shivering. "Jeee-zusss! You sure do know how to screw! I ain't never had no woman could screw like you."
Her own body was shaking with the release of tensions, with the remnants of titillations that still ran through it. She wanted to lie there, her body exposed to the dappled sunlight through the trees, and rest. Rest. But there was that money for the "Escape Hatch." She sighed, shuddering. "Better fetch Chuck. He's next."
CHAPTER NINE
They strolled back to the soda shop. Myra's body was aching from five screwings, but she felt exultant that she had completed that much of her self-appointed task of building up the "Escape Hatch" fund. Connie looked smug. She had fucked Joe twice he had really been horny and Cullen had paid her a dime to use her body; a cheap reassurance of his manhood.
Sep French saw them coming but he had eyes only for the slim, provocative figure of Myra swaying along beside Bill Jennings, now her committed squire.
Bill was already calculating his assets with an eye toward future assignations, and envisioning a possible private session. Maybe even in a bed somewhere. The elements hadn't yet worked out but he was confident it could be arranged. He swaggered with the grandeur of his plans. A whole afternoon in bed with Myra! That would be something. Really something !
And Sep French had his plans. He already had cash available and a bed in the back room. And that kid! Cripes! Took on five louts in one afternoon and looked as fresh and unspoiled as if she had been picking daisies. What a kid! And what a screw she must be! He determined to make his play this very afternoon. While she was hot from those five screwings.
Myra waved good-bye to her escorts and went into the soda shop so Connie could spend her unexpected dime. She felt no resentment that Connie should spend it all on a soda for herself. She could have had a soda, many sodas. Instead she preferred the more filling, more satisfying knowledge that she had added to her "Escape Hatch" hoard.
While Connie was noisily slurping up the soda, Sep French beckoned Myra to the back of the store. Fearful that some disaster had befallen her hoard, she sidled back into the darker corner where Sep French lurked.
Sep's approach was so circuitous she almost missed it, what with worrying over the hoard, but she soon put together his references to a bed, a dollar, and a bonus, which he added hurriedly, of a double-dip chocolate ice cream soda.
She pondered his proposition, gnawing at her lower lip. She was tired. Four screwings and one partial in an afternoon were wearying, but then a whole dollar to go into her hoard! The soda was no particular temptation. She could wangle sodas from her various escorts as she needed them. But a whole dollar!
While she was considering, Sep French nervously upped his ante. "A dollar and a half."
Myra paused again, considering. That was the equivalent of six screwings. And Sep French, though plump, was not so gross as Uncle Ben and probably has no larger dong. She looked up, daring all for the sake of the hoard. "Two dollars."
Sep winced. That was the price of the woman who came to see him at irregular intervals. A grown woman. But this child had something a lovely calm face, a slim body carried elegantly, and a local reputation as being a remarkably adroit and satisfactory lay. He nodded. "Two dollars."
"Now?"
Sep gulped. He hadn't really hoped for her compliance. These little floozies were all too often oddly loyal to their small coteries of friends. Again he nodded. "Now."
He motioned her back of the curtain that screened his living quarters from the shop.
Myra surveyed Sep's quarters. They weren't as neat and bright as Mommie's little apartment, but neither were they as grim and sordid as Uncle Ben's house. And the bed was smooth and neat. She sighed. It had been a long time since she had been in a bed ... a neat, clean bed. She was standing before Sep's collection of calendar art, nudes mostly of lush proportions, comparing their attributes with her own, when Sep returned.
Sep stood in the doorway a moment, surveying her small, trim little figure and licking his lips. Myra turned, her small breasts thrust out, her little pelvis tucked in, her stomach flat, smiling at him. Sep gulped and came forward, reaching for her.
She came into his arms willingly and let him fold her close against him, feeling the heat of his body, the swell of his crotch against her. And the strange alchemy of her own body reacted.
She moved her little hips sideways, stirring desire within herself and kindling Sep to wild excitement. He humped at her and still himself, running his hands over her slim little back, down to her little rump. He caught up the hem of her dress and hauled it up, running his hands over bare flesh, sliding them around until he touched her breasts. His breath whistled in his throat as he lifted her dress, thrusting her a little away from him so he could see those perfect little titties.
"You want me nekkid?" And Sep's inarticulate gurgle and nod, she raised her arms. Sep slid her out of her dress as she wriggled her panties and let them drop, standing before him, her soft pink flesh glowing, her amber-pink nipples already hard and erect.
Sep stared at her breasts and let his eyes drift down to her little cunt, hairless and already swelling with her unconscious response.
"Lord, you're beautiful!" he gasped.
He stood for so long, just drinking in her slender loveliness, that Myra grew uncomfortable, wanting to hide her breasts, cover her little cunt. But she stood rigid, arms at her sides, letting him look.
Then he moved slowly forward, reaching out and cupping her breasts in each hand, fondling them, his eyes glazed with desire. Myra's body was answering these moves, exciting itself into receptiveness. And because he was gentle, almost in awe of her slim beauty, the excitement was more intense and Myra moaned.
He kissed each breast and ran his tongue around each stiffened nipple, setting new fires going within her. She writhed and twisted herself until her body was plastered against his, her pelvis moving to rub her cunt against the bulge of his pecker.
He reached down, cupping one hand under her small rump and lifted her, raking her nipples against the cloth of his shirt, so that she sighed with the fresh excitation. He carried her to a big lounge chair and sat, draping her legs over an arm, resting her shoulders against the other, gloating over her small perfection.
One hand played with her breasts and the other ran slowly over her stomach, down to her pelvis, tracing the little creases between leg and stomach, and finally down to cup over her hot little cunt. These were refinements Myra had never known and they thrilled her body into slow, rhythmic churning, so that she rubbed her small bottom against the bulge of his pecker.
Sep moaned and slid an arm around her shoulders, pulling her up for a long, hot kiss. Myra wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled herself tighter, her breasts crushing against his chest, her mouth pressed tight on his. Her legs were sliding open, letting his hand explore deeper in her cunt, one finger starting a gentle tattoo against the moist, hot lips. Myra's body moved and twisted with this new excitation, writhing as if she could drive that finger far up her cunt.
Sep released her shoulders and laid her back across his lap, bending down to slide his tongue from her bellybutton on down, teasing along that sensitive crease, down along the inner side of her thigh and then back, slipping down into the slit of her cunt, teasing her clitoris.
This was all so new that Myra's body was reacting violently, already pouring juices, heating to improbable degree inside. A moan escaped her as she thrust her pelvis up to meet this strange new instrument of pleasure.
Sep picked her up, one breast crushed against him, and carried her to the bed. He laid her on the bed, and she looked up at him pleadingly, silently begging for kindness, gentleness. He stood a moment, just viewing this miniature perfection and then slowly began to unbutton his shirt.
He lay down beside her, his prick at stiff salute, and rolled slowly toward her so that his prick tapped against her leg. With a soft, whimpering cry she turned toward him, letting the prick slide between her legs. She could feel it there, big, stiff, throbbing. And she could feel one small breast pressed tightly against his chest.
He kissed her once, gently, then fiercely before he rolled her onto her back, her legs falling willingly open. He knelt between her legs, an arm braced on either side of her and started his approach on her cunt. She could see his pecker, long and hard, with a blueish-red bulb like a cap. It was big. Very big. And she felt a moment of panic, praying to Mommie, asking her not to let her be hurt and promising the hoard would grow.
His bulb touched her slit, moved tentatively, then punched into her, sliding over the moistened lips and inside. It stirred the inevitable excitement in her body as it moved up and up in slow, short thrusts, with Myra's pelvis moving to meet each one. Until it was buried to his pelvis in her, and the bulb was farther up her than any of the boys or even Uncle Ben had gone. It didn't seem possible but she could feel it exploring new and highly exciting areas far up her.
For a long moment Sep stayed like that, his prick buried deep in her, only a slight quiver of his pelvis, a bare movement that thrilled and excited her body. She thrust her little pelvis up, trying for one last bit more of that delicious prick.
He started a slow, rhythmic series of withdrawals and thrusts. And Myra's body answered with thrusts of her pelvis, with small sideway movements that made his prick touch new areas of flesh far up her, bringing intensified delight and excruciatingly wonderful tensions. She could scarcely breathe, catching gulps of air as he pounded at her.
There was that moment when he suddenly stopped, holding all motion while his pecker swelled and throbbed inside her and then that final thrust as they exploded together in wild delight, writhing and moaning, as hot semen flooded her and her own juices spurted in hot response.
Then it was over. Sep sagged above her, his head drooping as. he breathed heavily, chest heaving. Very slowly he moved off her and fell at her side, murmuring vague endearments. Myra shuddered, pulling her body into a tight ball, whimpering. She had been fucked. But she had added two dollars to the "Escape Hatch" hoard.
CHAPTER TEN
Connie was indignant. "You got a soda with two scoops! And what did you do with Sep back there for half an hour? Screw him?" It was intended as an improbable jest and Connie was astounded when Myra nodded. "You did? With a grown man ? "
Myra finished her soda with one gurgling suck on the straw. "Uncle Ben's a grown man."
Connie was confused. "But he's family! You can't screw grown men."
Myra shrugged. "I did." She thought that over. "And I liked it. Better'n with boys, anyhow. They're more careful. And they know more. About fucking."
Thus started another phase of Myra's career, screwing grown men, for Sep knew other men who would pay well for the privilege of throwing a dong into a young, nubile girl with a slim, exciting figure.
And Myra's "Escape Hatch" hoard grew. But this phase didn't last long. Within two weeks the boys from the North were down at Sep's, asking about new recruits, good potentials.
Curly, the bald-headed one, read off the names. "Don't see this Myra's name on your list. We hear around that she's good. Maybe the best." He stabbed Sep with dark, penetrating eyes. "Wasn't nothing personal in leaving her off?"
Sep swallowed uneasily. "No, Curly. She's just thirteen. Kinda young for your crowd."
Curly shrugged. "We like 'em young. They train easier."
Sardi, the one who constantly cleaned his nails with a knife, spoke without looking up. "Wouldn't be you was doin' a little pimping on the side? We wouldn't like that. Recruitin's one thing, competition is another."
Sep sweated. "Nothing like that, Sardi. Honest. It's just she is so young, I figured you wouldn't..."
"Let us do the figgerin', Sep. We'll get along better." Curly stood up. "Skibo will do the scoutin', like usual. He looks more their age and can talk to 'em. What about, I ain't got a friggin' idea." He turned to a younger man, almost handsome. "What do kids talk about?"
Skibo frowned. "Things. Jess things."
Curly nodded. "The usual. Skibo takes a room at the motel and hangs around here. He makes the contacts, lays those he thinks are possibles, and puts the proposition to 'em." Curly glanced once more at the list. "Now there ain't gonna be squawks about none of these?"
Sep shook his head. "Kids like them is always running away. Mostly they come back with a baby and they ain't so welcome. The ones I give you, the families'll mostly be happy to be shed of 'em. Little troublemakers in that special way and-likely any time to turn up pregnant."
"And about this Myra? What about her folks?"
Now that Sep had purged himself, he was happy to cooperate. He sniggered. "She ain't got a family, except an uncle that did her out'n her maw's insurance money. He'll be happy she don't come back. He's a louse. A ass."
"Sometimes them kind scream the loudest."
"Not him. He's been screwing her himself. He ain't gonna ask for trouble. He'll figger maybe she skipped 'cause he got her pregnant." Sep nodded at his own wisdom. "Him or that free-wheeling six-cylindered lout of a son."
"Okay. And jess so you didn't knock her up. Kids with a bellyful of baby we don't need."
Because Sep had introduced her to a number of older men, Myra was not in the least surprised when he suggested that he had a friend he wanted her to meet, one who would pay as much as five dollars for her favors. The five-dollar figure seemed, in her economy, slightly excessive but if it would add to the "Escape Hatch" hoard now nearly thirty dollars, an improbable sum she was interested.
Skibo was presented and looked her over with a professional air. She was just a kid, all right, but pretty. Very pretty. And she had a nice little figure. Nice, firm titties. He even found himself looking forward to his special task of screwing her. It would be more than a test of her ability. It would be a real pleasure.
Myra saw Skibo as a young man, a little older, maybe, than the usual soda shop crowd but not as old as some of the more recent of her customers to whom Sep had introduced her. These had ranged up to an old man of seventy who only wanted to look and to feel, but still paid his two dollars. The looking and feeling had made Myra uncomfortable without bringing any excitement or satisfaction, but two dollars for the "Escape Hatch" hoard had made it endurable. She had gone out later with Joe, for a regular two-bit fuck that had eased the tensions created by the look-feel codger.
Now she listened to Skibo's smoothly professional approach, nodding thoughtfully. "Have you got five dollars?" This sum was almost out of Myra's economic range, a not very-likely amount for anyone she knew to possess. Startled by such directness, Skibo produced a wad of bills and, with still greater surprise, found himself handing her a five dollar bill. She took it gravely and handed it to Sep. "For the account."
Skibo scowled at Sep, who folded the bill nervously under such scrutiny. "I keep her money for her. Those cousins of hers would steal her blind. Bunch of mean bastards. Her uncle especial." Sep realized he was talking too much, explaining too much, and shut up, with a mumbled, "I take care of things for her."
"I bet you do. Skibo looked down at Myra. She was a pretty little thing. With nice firm titties, such as he liked. He nodded suddenly, jerking his head sideways. "I got a car outside."
That, in Myra's experience, usually meant a pick-up truck or a battered jalopy that wheezed and sputtered, with seats you had to squirm around in to avoid broken springs. This was a shiny convertible, nearly new, with real leather seats, shiny and smooth. The leather was hot against her bare bottom along with Connie she had long since given up the refinement of panties when she went to the soda shop. They were only an extra complication. So now she tucked her dress under her, still feeling the heat on her little rump and another heat that was already starting to build in her cunt.
Skibo dropped a hand in her lap, moving it slowly, deliberately, so that it hiked up the front of her dress. His hand slid along the inner side of her thigh and on up to her cunt, warming her body with its now familiar treachery. When his hand encountered no panties, Skibo took his eyes off the road to glance down. A real pretty little pussy, clearly visible, with no hair. And not shaved, either. The genuine article, young and fresh! Skibo licked thin lips and speed up, hurrying toward the motel.
Skibo shot the car under the shed and leaped out, even opening the door for Myra, feeling an obscure and unaccountable urge toward gallantry. He ushered her in the side door, passing his hand up her skirt to touch that cute, pert little fanny. Yep, this kid was a real doll. Curly would be pleased. As a business deal only, of course. Curly preferred young boys. Privately Skibo considered this a bit odd in a man whose job was pimping, but he was philosophical about it. Curly was boss and entitled to his peculiarities, so long as he didn't make any demands of Skibo. That was why Sardi was along, though Sardi was double-gaited and could be counted on to entertain some of the girls on the way back.
Myra regarded the motel room approvingly. It was a step up from Sep's back room and a vast improvement over Uncle Ben's place. It even smelled clean and faintly antiseptic. The bed was large and looked firm, and the sheets and pillow cases were fresh. With her recent experiences with Sep's older men friends she had become almost a connoisseur of bedrooms.
She turned around slowly and smiled at Skibo. "You want me nekkid?"
Skibo was a trifle disconcerted by such directness. Most of his previous customers had played it coy, but this kid..."Yeah! Yeah. Sure. I wanta see the merchandise. Natch."
Myra skinned out of her dress and stood before him, her soft flesh glowing in the shaded light of the motel room. Even in the awkward business of stripping off her dress, she was graceful; a nymph, a child-women with innocent charm, smiling nervously, shyly up at him, seeming to ask for approval of her slim, pink body.
It wasn't coquetry. Even Skibo, who was by profession a screwer of young girls, seemed to recognize this. It was just Myra's way of seeking assurance that her body was desirable, was worth the price she was asking which would go toward the "Escape Hatch" hoard. If her body ever failed her Myra suddered there would be no escape, ever, from the intolerable conditions at Uncle Ben's. And this was her highest paying customer to date a whole five dollars.
Skibo paused in slipping out of his shirt and beckoned her to him. She came, a trifle nervously, still with that shy, little-girl smile. He took her in his arms, running his hands over her slim perfection, breathing heavily.
Myra shivered at the touch of his hands and then, feeling the now familiar glow within, pushed her little pelvis against the bulge of his pants, undulating slowly, her eyes closing dreamily, seeing not Skibo but that private fantasy world of the "Escape Hatch."
Her body took over, responding to the caress of his hands moving down her back, under her little rump and then back, to caress her breasts, starting once again the urgent fires. Her nipples stiffened against the rubbing of his chest and her little cunt grew hot mashed against the bulge of his pants.
Skibo picked her up, feeling the light slenderness of her body, her tits against his chest, her warmth against the hand grasping her small bottom. He carried her to the bed and laid her on it, standing back just to enjoy the slim perfection of her. Then he hastily dropped his pants and crawled in beside her.
His actions were calculated, the result of long experience. One of his buddies had once said that Skibo could arouse a store window dummy to screwing pitch. Now he played on Myra's responsive body, caressing her breasts, fingering her nipples, running his hands lightly but firmly over her stomach, down her thighs, and back to her little cunt.
Myra moaned, writhing with excited anticipation, humping up to meet his finger in her little box, whimpering with eagerness for a prick thrust far up her. And all the time she was saying her silent ritual, "Mommie, Mommie! It's for the 'Escape Hatch.' So I won't have to, ever again."
She felt his dong slide over her leg and rolled to meet it, her pelvis churning, her legs falling open for his entrance. She glanced down her body and saw his prick, hard, erect, a purplish bulb throbbing right by her cunt. She thrust at him, feeling it slide against her slit, hot now and wet with her juices. She clawed at his shoulders, trying to pull him over on her, her whole body afire, wanting that prick deep inside.
Skibo knew all the moves from long practice. He kissed her breasts, sucking at her nipples so that she arched her chest to meet this. And his prick played almost indolently with the lips of her cunt until her whimper became a "Please ... Please ... Please!"
He rolled her back and slid between her legs, his prick tight against her cunt but not penetrating while he pumped it rhythmically against her.
She rammed her pelvis against him, forcing the bulb inside, taking it in one gulp, and sank back, awaiting more of that delicious rod that would ram into her, go far up her and create exciting tensions and eventually release them, in a surge that would leave her limp, exhausted but satisfied.
She felt the shaft slide in, already pulsing, riding in short, quick takes far up her tunnel, stirring wild response. She writhed, moving her pelvis, humping to get more and more. It rode far up her, deep into her belly, starting her own juices to flowing, bringing added excitement, added tension, until she was moving in rhythm with his thrusts. Her breasts ached delightfully, rubbing against his chest and her whole body responded in a wave of heat that seemed to engulf her.
Then there was the feeling of his shaft pulsing and throbbing with his come all the way up her tunnel. She flung her pelvis tight against him, holding it, and he thrust one single time deep in her. And held it. Far up her tunnel, hot liquids discharged into her. And her body gave him back juices in wild profusion.
Finale! Climax!
They lay pressed tight against one another for a long moment and then, with a sigh, Myra dropped back, her body shivering with the release.
Skibo held her tight a moment longer and then, with a shuddering breath, rolled off her, dragging his limp, deflated pecker from her cunt.
Myra shivered and huddled against him to hold the draining warmth, and Skibo cuddled her, caressing her, easing the last of the tensions. Gradually her shivering stopped and she lay quietly, realizing that something important had happened to her. Something new, different, and exciting.
She had been fucked by an expert.
And she was about to get a proposition that would change her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Fifty dollars a week!" Myra paused while sliding into her dress, her breasts and flat little stomach and trim hips exposed, then shook herself into the dress, shutting out the entrancing vision. "You're kidding! And my own room? And a real bath? With hot water?"
"Right down the hall."
"And clean sheets?" She shook her head in amazement at such a possibility. "Who'd pay that much?"
"Men." That was Skibo's simple explanation.
Myra was still skeptical. "And you'd take me there? In that snazzy car? Away from here?" She meant Uncle Ben's and the grime and filth.
"Sure. And plenty of screwing. Good stuff."
That, Myra knew, would be part of the bargain. She expected that. But fifty dollars a week! Toward the "Escape Hatch" hoard. It seemed impossible, "Can we take Connie? She really-likes to fuck. Just for fun."
"Connie?" Skibo was cautious. There was no Connie on his list. Which could be all right
or very bad, if Sep were trying to hold out on another one. "Does she work for Sep?"
In spite of her weary young body, Myra laughed. "He can't stand her. She's too fat. But she drinks a lot of sodas, so he lets her hang around. Lots of boys like her. She's easy. And most of the time she does it for free."
"Round heels, huh?" Skibo tightened his tie, studying Myra in the mirror, considering her now as merchandise, remembering with an ache in his groin the wonderful screw he had just had. Even if she was a little young thirteen? she'd fit in the stable. Fit? She'd be a real bonus. There were plenty of guys who'd pay high for her youth and that air of innocence, as long as it lasted.
So, three nights later, after a glum inspection by Curly that had left Myra feeling creepy
although he only looked, didn't even try for a feel like the old man Myra and four girls slipped out of town. They went in two cars, Myra and Connie and a third girl who called herself Wendy but probably wasn't that community didn't run to imagine names rode with Skibo and a grinning youth Skibo called Wimpy because of his capacity for hamburgers.
Wendy alternately snuffled she was already homesick and bragged about the kinds of dresses she would buy with that fabulous fifty dollars a week. Connie was dazed by the prospect of unlimited fucking several times nightly she had been promised and was almost unconcerned about the prospect of fifty dollars a week. She just couldn't comprehend that vast sum. Myra sat quietly, hugging her "Escape Hatch" hoard she had retrieved from Sep, and dreaming of how quickly she could build it up.
At the motel where they stopped for the night, Skibo offered Wendy bus fare home and was refused indignantly. Wendy had just finished describing a red silk dress with ermine trim she would buy and was feeling euphoric. The fact that such a dress existed only in Wendy's imagination did not alter the situation. She wasn't going back to that drab, grimy dog-trot house and seven other kids, not with a red silk dress in the offing.
The girls shared half a double cabin and Skibo and Wimpy the other half. Connie was frankly amazed at the amenities, especially the indoor plumbing, which she flushed an inordinate number of times. Wendy was not letting herself be impressed though she regarded the intricacies of the shower with considerable alarm until Myra showed her how it worked, luxuriating in a liberally lathered bath, her first in a long time. Both Wendy and Connie then tried it out, squealing and giggling, splashing each other delightedly.
While Myra was still toweling herself, sensuously enjoying the warmth from the shower and the rough texture of the towel over her flesh, Skibo stuck his head in the door, calling to her. Myra sighed. She had been expecting such a summons but had hoped that this first night she could sleep alone. She had willingly surrendered the big bed to the other girls, preferring the solitude of the couch.
"Okay." With only a small sigh she went with him, still rubbing herself dry. "But it'll be five dollars."
Skibo scowled and then laughed, "Kid, you sure learn fast. Five bucks it is," though normally he considered screwing the girls one of his special privileges, once the initial pitch was made and accepted. "Wimpy is gonna take Wendy.'
Connie stepped out of the shower, indignant. "What about me?'
"You?" Skibo scowled at the flabby body, the softly pendulous breasts. "You, he'll save for dessert."
So Connie watched Wimpy and Wendy through a series of gigglings and gruntings as they screwed with more enthusiasm than finesse. Eventually, after masturbating to climax, Connie fell asleep.
Myra held the towel, partially concealing her breasts and pelvis. "I was hoping..." she sighed, casting the towel aside, standing before him, her breasts held high, her little pelvis tucked in. Her slim body, glowing from her recent bath, was a small bit of pink perfection, her nipples, amber-pink, were already trembling toward erection as her body responded to Skibo's hungry glance.
Skibo scooped her up, surprised at his own instantaneous response to her body, at his feeling that he had to be gentle with this fragile girl. Normally he was a rough and ready lover, with little thought for the girl he was about to screw. He shrugged out of his robe as he carried her to a chair, sitting with her across his lap, his prick springing erect at the feel of her warmth.
Myra felt his prick touching her and surrendered her body to its animal responses, laying her head against his shoulder, pressing one breast against his chest. Waves of heated desire swept over her, engulfing her belly, her little cunt, heating her breasts. Her legs already felt weak, ready to open at his demand as his hands roamed over her breasts, teasing her nipples, tracing excitement down her fiat stomach to her pelvis. One hand slid between her legs, playing across the lips of her cunt.
Myra sighed and opened her legs, giving his hand free play, her body treacherously answering the quest of his fingers on the lips of her cunt, diving in to caress her little knob. That started anew the fires of desire in her, fires running far up her tunnel, spreading through her stomach, reaching her breasts. With a small, whimpering cry she kissed him and sagged in his arms.
"Ever done it sitting up?" Skibo asked huskily.
Myra opened her eyes wide, staring up at him. "Can you?"
For answer Skibo swung her across his legs, spreading hers so that they fell on either side of hers, his prick stabbing toward her cunt. Wide-eyed, she watched this new curiosity. His hands held her hips, moving her slowly, inexorably on to his bulb, wet and shiny, until it parted the pink lips of her cunt and slid in, the lips closing over his shaft.
Myra moaned as her body accepted this ecstasy and moved her pelvis closer, ramming his prick deeper, feeling the shaft slide over the velvet flesh of her tunnel, stirring up new intensities, new demands within her body.
She drove farther upon his prick, writhing with excitement as he took his hands from her hips and played with her breasts, caressing and teasing her nipples. And farther still she drove onto his prick until her pelvis was up against the hairy mound, his penis rammed far up her.
They moved together in frenzied rhythm until she could feel his come pulsing up his shaft, a special, delicious excitement. He grabbed at her hips, stilled her motions and pulled her tight against him, moving with short, quick stabs and one final one that held them both immobile, gasping as hot semen shot into her belly and her juices answered in a surge of ecstasy.
She sat for a long moment, head thrown back, gulping for air, her body savoring the exquisite warmth within her. Then she sagged forward, resting her head on his chest, exhausted.
Skibo held her close, murmuring foolish endearments he thought he had forgotten.
Slowly his pecker subsided, sliding out of her cunt, stirring brief excitement in her body, so that she shivered. Skibo soothed her, running his hands over her back, patting her in comforting gestures rather than those of a hungry lover.
Strength came back to her legs and she moved them tentatively, sliding one over his and sitting across his lap again, glancing up at him shyly. "Please. May I have my five dollars now?"
Skibo lay back in the chair, his eyes half closed, savoring these last few minutes. Now they flew open in astonishment. He stared at her for a moment, not comprehending. And then he laughed, "Sure, kid. Five bucks. And worth it. Yeah, worth every frigging cent of it." He patted her small rump affectionately, curiously moved by her wide-eyed plea. "Worth every goddamn frigging cent of it."
Satisfied that she had added to her "Escape Hatch" hoard, Myra leaned against him, yawning sleepily.
"Want to spend the night here with me?"
Myra looked up, remembering the horror of nights in the grimy covers with Lem. "And just sleep?"
Skibo raised one hand in mock solemnity. "Scout's honor. Just sleep."
"Okay." Myra murmured it sleepily, drooping against him.
He carried her to the big bed and laid her on it, drawing a sheet over her, then lay down beside her. With a sigh Myra snuggled up against him and was almost instantly asleep, to dream of the "Escape Hatch" and how the sum was growing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Uncle Ben raged at Myra for her desertion he could spare Connie who had been only a convenience, but Myra was something else. "Ungrateful girl! Took her in, didn't I, when she didn't have anywhere to lay her head! Ungrateful child! Oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth..." He lost track of the half-remembered quotation. "Gonna set the po-leece on her, drag her back."
"The po-leece?" Aunt Louisa asked in her tired voice, privately gloating. The child was well out of this hell-hole, wherever she was. "Want 'em askin' questions? like why she run away when she had money? And what become of the money? Po-leece ask them sort of questions? Awful curious, the po-leece. Especial about runaways. You gonna tell 'em how you screwed her both ways? Out'n her body and out'n her money."
Uncle Ben blustered. "I was aimin' to pay it back. Just borrowed it, like. For the truck. So's I could make me some money and feed this yere family.
"Made two whole dollars last week, hauling a refrigerator.
"Takes time gittin' a business started, don't it? Kain't expect nothin' overnight. Gotta build up gradual. Gotta look for customers, don't I?
"like treatin' to beer them bums you know. Lotta customers they are. And outa what's left of Myra's money, too. 'Cause you ain't got any other."
Uncle Ben paused, considering. "Mebbe I better not git the po-leece. Where you reckon them kids 'ud be?"
Aunt Louisa sighed. "Out screwing some-wheres. Onliest thing they knows."
Uncle Ben swallowed bitter gall, visualizing Myra screwing some man and liking it. He growled again, "Ungrateful kid."
And the incessant wrangle went on and would continue.
Myra did well in her new profession as nymphet prostitute, partly because Skibo did a good recruiting job on prospects for her but largely because of her youth and freshness, a freshness she retained because she could turn herself off and let her slim, treacherous body take over, while she counted up the additions to her hoard and dreamed of her "Escape Hatch."
The regimen was too much for Connie and she slipped away, offering her overblown charms on the street. Her first takers were her last, a carload of boys high on dope. On a mountain curve the car spun out and crashed, a flaming wreck. There wasn't enough left of her to identify, and the county buried the charred remains.
So Myra didn't know. Nor did she grieve at her going, though she missed her cheerful casualness for a while. Skibo screwed Myra occasionally and paid his five dollars scrupulously though her price, to the house, had risen to twenty as a sort of ironic jest, since he wasn't required to pay at all. He rather liked Myra's solemn acceptance of his money and the feeling that he had bought that slim, developing body. Even so he sensed that he had not really touched Myra at all.
That almost complete withdrawal was the secret of Myra's increasing success as a whore. Myra was not aware of how little of herself she gave, immersing herself each time in endless silent prayer to Mommie, hiding herself in that dream of the "Escape Hatch." Her slim, eager little body took over, giving each man full measure of excitement, of sexual thrills, participating with him completely, even devising, out of unconscious female knowledge built into her exciting little body, new yet age-old methods of providing sexual gratification. For the man and for her own body.
Myra was not for everybody. Even the
Madam, accustomed to the casual assignment of men to her different girls, recognized Myra's special quality and was acutely aware of her youth. So Myra's lovers were carefully picked. She did not parade with the other girls before the customers. Only those screened by Skibo and later by the Madam when she learned about Myra's special quality were assigned to her. This had a practical side, too. Myra was too young, too perceptibly young, to be offered indiscriminately, where casual comments or male braggadocio might get to official ears and lead to a raid, though, of course, the house paid ample protection for its normal business.
Myra's tenth, or perhaps eleventh, customer she had lost track somewhere was an astonishment to her, a complete innovation. Madam had come to her, saying she really didn't have to take this guy on. "He's an old duck, sweetie, but he pays well. Very well. And he's heard of you. So he'll pay extra. You'll get an extra five dollars if you want to take him on. He-likes it sixty-nine," assuming Myra understood.
Myra was bewildered. Fucking was fucking, wasn't it? Skibo had taught her the interesting oddity of screwing in a chair. There were other ways? It didn't matter. And that would be five dollars more toward the "Escape Hatch." So she nodded.
To Myra her new customer seemed incredibly old, though John Smathers was just over fifty, a dapper little man who eyed Myra appreciatively when he came into her room. He was a neat, precise man with a small nervous tic that was scarcely noticeable since a quick, flashing smile covered it well.
"You're quite lovely, my dear. And very young. Deliciously young." He rubbed at his smile, licking very pink lips behind his hand. "You do know soixante-neufV
Myra smiled nervously, started to nod and then shook her head. "It's something special?"
For a moment he looked disconcerted and then nodded. "Very special. Very. I'll teach it to you." He smiled nervously at her. "You don't mind sucking?"
Myra was completely bewildered. "Sucking? Is that fucking?"
"In a way, my dear. In a very delightful way. At least, I find it so. I think you will."
Myra lowered her head, nodding. "Okay. If you say so." She raised long-lashed eyes to his, her mouth trembling just slightly. "How?" She wouldn't mind. She could withdraw from her body, contemplating the future and the "Escape Hatch," and mentally adding five dollars to the hoard. "You want me nekkid?"
Breathing deeply, as if he had made a plunging dive and come up, John Smathers nodded. "Oh, assuredly. Assuredly." As Myra peeled out of her dress and stood naked before him he caught his breath. "Lovely! Lovely!" He fumbled with his tie, yanking it down. "In a moment. A moment."
He was meticulous, laying out his trousers, hanging tie, coat, and shirt on the rack, stepping out of his underpants with his back to her. He turned to face her, and Myra saw his pecker. It wasn't as big as Joe's. Not really big at all, though it was already trembling into erection.
Myra could feel the treachery in her body, heat rising in response to just looking just knowing that it would soon be answering the thrust of that pecker, reacting in its own special way within itself. She moved toward him slowly, a trifle uncertain.
He caught her and held her off, his eyes roving over her body, making her hot, her body already preparing itself. For what? Something different.
"God, you're a beautiful little thing! Beautiful! Pure nymph! A youthful Aphrodite! A young, slim Venus!" He sighed, sliding his hands down her slender arms, drawing her toward a chair. "So unsullied! I had no idea! Even though I was told..." He sat up abruptly, pulling her across his lap.
She lay against him, one fresh young breast pressed against him. Slowly her head went down, resting against his shoulder. Young eyes looked up at him. "I know how to do it in a chair. Is that what you said?"
"Not quite, my dear. Not quite. Let's just play for a moment. You're so lovely. Your breasts..." He reached out and cupped one in his hand, sending the familiar tingle through her, starting the fires that would build to delightful tensions and release. One hand wandered delicately down her back, reaching her small, pink rump and playing there, sliding over the small buttocks as if smoothing them for the moment to come. And she breathed deeply, expanding her chest, making her titties stand up. Already the nipples were coming erect, stiff, their amber-pink knobs quivering.
His other hand touched her nipples, caressing them, moving a flat palm over them, rotary fashion, until they stood stiff and firm.
He bent and kissed one, sucking it in and out with his lips, and Myra moaned, writhing with the excitement it engentlered in her body. And all the while one hand cupped her little cunt, a finger tapping against its lips, feeling and caressing. Occasionally it wandered off to stroke the inner sides of her thighs until her legs fell weakly open, giving him free range of her little cunt.
Myra was just beginning her familiar ritual of a prayer to Mommie, a promise for the
"Escape Hatch," when she caught his words, jerking her head up.
"Darling, do you think you could suck me off? Take my thing in your mouth? And I will go into your little box with my tongue. It's very, very exciting. More even than fucking in many ways."
Myra slid her small rump cautiously side and stared down as his pecker, stiff, shivering with desire. "I never..." She looked up at him, wide-eyed, curious. "Is that good?"
"Very. And very exciting, my child. Very exciting." He licked excessively pink lips, staring down at her box. "Very exciting, I assure you."
Myra stared down at his bulb and shaft, shaking her head. And then back, her eyes searching his face. "How? Just bend down and suck?" It was a completely new concept to Myra, as new as sex had been to her only months before, when Lem had taken her. "Will it hurt?"
"Not a bit. Just like sucking on a stick of candy. Only more delicious. Far more delicious. And my tongue in your box, lapping up your juices." He wiped at the sudden sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. "Pure ecstasy. Pure, unadulterated ecstasy."
Myra saw refusal would snatch away the ten dollars already earmarked for the "Escape
Hatch" and probably bring down the scorn of the Madam, who had a whiplash tongue. But take that big shaft in her mouth? Even with her body already triggered to response, waiting for climax, she hesitated, troubled, and then nodded. "But how?"
"I'll show you." He scooped her up eagerly and carried her to the bed, laying her crosswise, her head almost hanging off the edge. "I'll start, darling. And when you make up your mind, take my thing and put it in your mouth. And suck on it. Just like a stick of candy."
He bent over her, spreading her legs, and slid his mouth down over her cunt, licking its moistened lips, thrusting with his tongue.
Myra shivered, feeling the new heat running through her loins, spreading down her legs and up into her belly, and under her breasts. Her body writhed with the excitement churning in it, and she whimpered. Skibo had touched his mouth and tongue to her cunt, but only briefly, only as a preliminary to some-thin gelse. This was deep, full, rich. Without her even knowing, her body was giving the man new flows of juices, rich and creamy. And her body ached for something else, for something additional that would complete the excitement, fulfill the demands of her body.
John Smathers raised his small, elegant head, speaking hoarsely, urgently. "Stick it in your mouth. Hurry..."
Myra opened her eyes and saw his pecker hanging just above her. It looked enormous. And the bulb was gleaming with juices, one clear, glistening tear of juice on the tip trembling, ready to drop. After Uncle Ben's obscenities this was not shocking, this shaft hanging and vibrating above her. It was just unusual. She reached one hand for it tentatively, opening her mouth, sticking out her tongue to touch that dangling drop.
It tasted funny. Salty, faintly ammoniac. But good. As she held his prick, guiding it into her mouth, he rammed down, crowding the bulb and half the shaft into her. She gulped frantically and it slid down her throat, moving in and partly out as he worked his pelvis. And her pelvis, without conscious volition, tilted up, giving him freer access to her cunt, where juices were flowing. And her body could feel him suck far up that tunnel where usually a prick got rammed, causing the wild excitement her body had known so often.
Her throat was responding, gulping at his prick, giving it an unconscious massage, even though she seemed to be choking, desperate for air. She pushed both hands at his hips and he slid out, letting her gulp air, and then rammed it back, deeper this time, working it in and out along the gulping sides of her throat.
Her body was ready, tension at its peak and it exploded in a flood of juices far up her tunnel. His bulb pulsed and throbbed and then shot a great load of creamy stuff into her throat. Her throat constricted, taking it, swallowing it, hot and salty. His prick deflated, sliding slowly out of her mouth, crammed now with his juice. She swallowed, tasting it again, her throat savoring it.
For a long moment he continued to lap at her juices, running his tongue far up her cunt, licking at the lips. Her small body shivered with the excitement it generated, prolonging the final explosion.
Then it was over. With a sigh he rolled to one side, gulping air, trembling with his own excitement. He seemed to speak to the ceiling, as if he were unable to raise his head. "You were marvelous, my dear. Simply marvelous. That was perfect. Absolute perfection."
She lay there, her body weak, her head dangling from the edge of the bed, still tasting his come, swallowing and licking her smeared lips. She hadn't even had time for her usual prayer to Mommie. She spoke silently now. "Mommie, it was for the 'Escape Hatch' and I didn't mind. It was five dollars more toward the 'Escape Hatch.' And I didn't really mind."
He stood up, moving wearily, holding onto the bed post. "I'll get a wash rag..." and wavered to her wash basin. He came back in a moment, steadier, jauntier, a wet rag in his hand. He raised her head and wiped gently around her mouth. "You are a beautiful child. And so wonderful to be with. So unique. So fresh."
His eyes caressed her body which responded with faint shivers. He touched her breasts, passing a cupped hand over them. "I wish I could have you always. With me all the time. All the time."
Myra smiled shyly at him, not trying to cover her nakedness, not pushing his hands from her breasts. "You're nice. I like you."
He drew a deep breath, inflating a narrow chest. "May I come back? And we'll do this again."
Myra frowned slightly. "Sure. But it costs more. Wouldn't you just like to screw?"
John Smathers shook his head, smiling a little crookedly. "No, child. I like this way best. And I don't mind the expense. It was worth it. Well worth it."
Several times he interrupted his dressing to come back and put an arm around her as she sat, still naked, still a little dazed. "You are perfection, child. A woman, yet still a child, beautiful, young, vibrant. Would God you could always remain like this."
Then he went away, leaving the taste of him in her throat as she sat pondering' this curious new form of sex, thinking that if he did come back often the "Escape Hatch" hoard would grow faster.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
John Smathers did come back, but not often enough to swell the "Escape Hatch" hoard appreciably. Others came, too, and Myra's young, slim body was busy, screwing a long list of men who, like Smathers, had become regular clients. She sometimes had as many as four and five customers a night working on her slender body until she fell asleep exhausted.
Once a group of eight had made an offer for her to come to a private stag party and screw each one in front of the others. That was a hundred dollars toward the "Escape Hatch" fund and she hadn't really minded. After screwing before an audience of kids at Uncle Ben's and out in the cemetery, this didn't seem much different. More comfortable by far. And cleaner. And her audience was more appreciative. They were all older men, gloating over her perfect little body, richly enjoying the moments they had with her.
But even Mr. Smathers' extra fives and he sometimes slipped her another and the hundred dollars for the stag party didn't build the "Escape Hatch" fund fast enough. The "Escape Hatch" wasn't to be bought quickly, as she had once naively imagined. Nor would selling her body night after night accomplish it. She needed more. And for that she needed an education.
For nearly a year now she had been out of school, ever since Mommie had died. Uncle Ben hadn't considered education necessary. "Look at me. Did I ever go to school? No. So why should the kids?"
The idea was slow in developing but once she had made up her mind she went directly to the Madam, arbiter in all affairs of the house.
Madam was astonished. "Schoolin'? What you need with schoolin' to lay on your back and open your crack? Screwin's good business, and don't need no learnin'. Plus you got years ahead. You're young. Younger'n any of my girls."
But Myra displayed an unexpected stubbornness and got her way. She had to spend some of her precious hoard for clothes but that was all right since it was what she thought of as an "investment." And the Madam, once committed to the idea, was a cooperative partner. She went with Myra to select the proper school clothes. Her tastes were a bit odd, deeply conservative in the matter of clothes for Myra, though her own costumes were flamboyant.
Myra appeared at the school in an almost overly demure outfit, accounting for that intervening year on the Madam's advice as a result of illness, which was accepted, though she looked the picture of glowing health. Just a very pretty girl resuming her education.
Mr. John Smathers got her transcript for her and even falsified an address one of the apartment houses he owned. It seemed to tickle his imagine that he was getting sucked off fairly regularly by a schoolgirl, for that was still his favorite means of sex, for which he was paying liberally.
School was a delight to Myra, though it was difficult to get back into the routine remembered from Mommie's time. And after Uncle Ben's troupe and the soda shop crowd, these kids seemed clean and fresh, almost unaware of sex except for occasional snickering references. And the Madam in her few spare moments there was a lot of work to running a house heard Myra's lessons, not comprehending more than half of them.
Mr. Smathers, if Myra had no more customers the evening he came, helped her with her lessons. Afterward, of course, he and Myra had what he called "a good session." It was a curious relationship for her, sex and school were quite separate though Myra saw nothing odd in it working with her shoulder sometimes pressed against Smathers, chewing her pencil and figuring sums. And John Smathers held the lessons strictly to avuncular standards, though more than once he glanced at her, sighing. He made Myra put on her school dress when they worked, though she would have been quite content to work naked, but he found that too distracting.
School was fine until the day Myra was called to the principal's office really the assistant principal. Ron Jackson was a nervous little man with a habit of running his finger around his collar and then inspecting it, as if to assure himself his throat hadn't been cut and was bleeding into his collar.
He met her at the door, staring owlishly down at her, and locking the door behind her. "So we won't be disturbed. This is a serious matter," he explained. He went back to his chair and sat there, pursing his lips in and out, staring at her, studying her. "You are doing remarkably well, Myra considering your evening er occupation."
Myra's heart sank. She hadn't expected this. School and her "work" were so far removed. She started a protest and realized it was useless. She would be expelled, if not worse. Possibly sent to some "home" or even thrown into jail
Jackson held up a small pink hand against her protest. "You were seen there." He didn't mention he had seen her when on his weekly visit to the Madam's house. "And I have since verified it. You function as a prostitute." He coughed pedantically. "We can't have our youngsters, sweet, innocent children, contaminated by such a person." He tented his fingers. "I'm sure you'll agree."
Myra couldn't. She now knew of at least five girls who were consistently screwing a small coterie of boys. And they weren't contaminating anyone so far as she could see.
"The usual custom in cases where a young female of the school is caught in adultery, is immediate expulsion. Only fitting." His eyes drifted to her breasts and roved on down to the slender, perfect legs.
Myra sighed. "Okay. I'll leave," and started for the door, forgetting it was locked.
"Not so hasty, my dear. Not so hasty." He half rose, beckoning her back. "As I was saying, that is the usual custom. However, in your case..." He coughed hiding it behind his hand..."In your case, there may be other considerations. You are an orphan, I believe, perhaps compelled to support yourself by this infamous trade."
Myra saw nothing infamous in it. Once you had been screwed by a lout of a cousin and a flabby, obscene monster of an uncle, her "trade" looked clean, but she said nothing, standing there, a drooping little figure, head bowed.
"Extenuating circumstances, shall we say? Now, ahem..." He went into a fit of coughing and inspected his finger again..."I have it in my power to expel you or worse. Or ahem pass over the er incident. Wipe it out. Expunge it, as it were. I might do so if you ahem would agree to ... well, I have certain physical needs and no means of gratifying them."
The language baffled Myra but the hungry look in his eyes was familiar. "You want to screw me."
Jackson sagged in his chair, gulping. "That's putting it crudely. But, essentially, that is it. You are an extremely attractive youngster I have watched you. And ... yes, that's it. Will you?"
"Now? Right now?" Myra laid aside her books, sighing. This spoiled school for her. She had considered it something exalted, above such things. Now it was just like the rest of the world, the men in it ready to screw.
For an instant Jackson looked startled, as if he hadn't really expected such easy compliance. Then he looked at her breasts and the edge of her skirt. "Yes. Why not now? School is over, closed. We will be private here. Yes, yes."
"You want it in the chair? With me nekkid?"
"Naked? Yes, yes. In the chair? I had thought of that couch but ... yes, yes. In the chair. Novel. A really novel experience. I have never..."
He gasped as Myra peeled out of her dress, revealing the small pink perfection of her breasts, and watched with fascination when she wriggled her panties down and kicked them off. She straightened to stand before him, hands behind her back, a naked youthful nymph, oddly demure in spite of her nudity.
Jackson was breathing noisily, his mouth open, eyes darting over her body and then away and swinging back instantly, as if to reassure himself this vision hadn't vanished. "I had no idea you were so . , . . developed. Your breasts..."
He groped for her, sliding forward in the chair, as she came to his side, letting his hands wander across her back, over her breasts, knowing her body was once again beginning its subtle treachery. Her body was aching with desire, her small hips moving rhythmically, her breasts swelling, nipples stiffening, little amber-pink huds at which Jackson, stared, touching them lightly.
He ran one hand down her stomach, setting it quivering, and touched her mound, starting juices. His finger explored her cunt, bringing a moan and a sagging at the knees. He leaned forward and kissed her breasts, sucking at her nipples.
Myra began her familiar, silent prayer to Mommie, except that she knew there would be no addition to the "Escape Hatch" hoard. Jackson would not pay, though he would pay off in the now almost sacred obligation of getting' her an education. It was worth enduring his small, questing hands and what, was to come.
He ran his hands over her little rump, but his hungry eyes stayed fixed on her little cunt, on her mound and the slit between her legs. Every now and then he ran one hand over her mound and down an inner thigh, seeming to gloat over the soft quivering of her flesh.
"Aren't you going to take off your pants?"
His eyes, glittering now with excitement, peered at her. "Eager, huh? That's the way I like 'em. Eager ... Oh, pants! Of course. Certainly. Yes." His hands left her for a moment and he fumbled with belt and zipper, humping himself to slide out of his trousers, hitching down his shorts which, surprisingly, were a gaudy array of colors.
His pecker stood up, quivering. It had an odd little crook in it, as if it had never got quite straight. He stared at it for a moment as if hypnotized by it and then lifted his eyes to Myra's breasts. "Lovely! Lovely!" he gasped and reached for her.
She came on to his lap, straddling his legs, sliding her own along the sides of the chair, feeling the quick additional rise of his pecker against her cunt, tapping an urgent message.
Jackson stared down at her mound, at his pecker so conveniently placed, breathing heavily. "Why didn't I think of this?" And humped his pelvis at her. His pecker slid to one side and he reached down with a trembling hand to guide it in, sighing as his bulb sank between the lips of her vulva.
She could feel it go in, look down her front, between her breasts and see it sinking into her. And felt the rising excitement within her. She humped her pelvis forward, driving that odd little crook deep within her. She slid farther forward, since Jackson didn't seem to know enough to grasp her buttocks and pull her. Instead, he lay back in his chair, his face flushed, hands working spasmodically as if ready to grasp something but what?
Her body was completing its treachery, urging her pelvis back and forth, moving it closer and closer onto him until his pecker was buried in her. As if that were the triggering mechanism, Jackson sat forward, clutching at her, muttering incoherently, pawing at her breasts, leaning forward to press his mouth against them, to gnaw at them with rabbity teeth, groaning and muttering, his pelvis pumping wildly, ramming that curiously crooked pecker up Myra's cunt in quick, short stabs.
She could feel it, oddly off center, rubbing the walls of her tunnel, stimulating her juices, exciting her body, bringing with it a sort of breathless tightness under her breasts, a quivering tension in the muscles of her stomach.
She knew he was coming. The sudden stillness before his final drive up her tunnel and the throbbing of that crooked pecker gave her body notice, and started her juices flowing, beginning the quick build-up to the ultimate tension.
Jackson tugged inexpertly at her small rump, gasping, pulling her toward him to ram his pecker that last exciting bit up her cunt, and held her, suddenly pumping wildly as his come exploded far up in her. And her body answered, ramming her pelvis to meet him, writhing to extract the last morsel of delight from that bulb.
He pawed at her, digging his fingers into her flesh and then fell back in his chair, his usually pale face flushed and hectic, his hands pawing at his collar as if it were suddenly too tight.
Myra sighed deeply, her little cunt moist with juices, tensions within eased. She sat on his lap for a moment longer, just letting the juices flow, letting his little crooked prick slide out of her hole. Her head sagged forward and she swayed.
Finally she sat up straight, pulling herself backward off his lap, and stood up, hands clasped behind her once more, head slightly bowed, her young, nubile breasts held erect. She didn't really look at Jackson but she could see him. "Is that all?"
Jackson squeaked, "Is that all ? Oh, my God! I have betrayed a trust. I have ruined a young girl. I have committed an unpardonable sin. And she says, 'Is that all?' Oh, my God."
He continued to sit there, without his pants, looking faintly ludicrous, berating himself for his many misdeeds.
Myra slipped into her panties and dress, wishing she could wash her privates but not knowing quite how to interrupt Jackson's self-castigation. Somewhere down in the school corridors would be a bathroom. She gathered up her books. "I'll be going. Would you unlock the door?"
"What? Unlock the door? Of course, my dear. Of course. I never meant to keep you against your will. I hope you know that. This was entirely voluntary..." Jackson ceased pawing at his face and scrambled into his pants, muttering about his sacred duty.
He hobbled to the door and unlocked it, opening it cautiously to peer down the corridor and then flinging it wide for Myra. He stared at her breasts as she passed him, licking thin lips. "Monstrous! I have been monstrous! A creature beneath contempt." As her breast accidentally brushed his shoulder when Myra sidled out, he gasped, his face turning red, "Next Friday?"
Myra turned back, looking at him out of grave, soot-ringed eyes. "Friday," and moved down the corridor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Those Friday sessions lasted through the school year and would have continued through the brief summer session, except that Jackson was dragooned into a beach holiday by an overbearing sister and became the built-in babysitter for four girls.
Myra was relieved when he went. Not that she really minded getting fucked. That was now the major part of her life. But she did resent not being paid, not adding to the "Escape Hatch" fund. And it embarrassed her to listen to Jackson's sanctimonious mumblings about violating his sacred trust, even as he undid his pants, and his self-righteous whimperings as he did them up afterwards.
Sex, started for her by the unfeeling lout, Lem, and obscene Uncle Ben and carried on by the soda-shop crowd, had become a way of life. But, at least with most of her customers, a frankly hedonistic, even joyous incident, in which Myra's body cooperated enthusiastically, even though her mind was on the "Escape Hatch" and the hoard that would make it possible to get away from this constant use of her body and its strangely eager response.
Skibo came regularly to see her, screw, and pay, still only the five dollars, though her price was constantly rising. She knew by now that Skibo was not expected to pay any of the girls he screwed but she accepted his five dollars gravely. She did not know that Skibo and the Madam were screening her customers, turning aside the half drunk and the nasty, each with an obscure and rather uneasy feeling that they were protecting something especially precious.
John Smathers had become a fixture in her life, a very agreeable fixture in spite of his rather odd to Myra demands. His particular variation of the "sixty-nine," as she had come to know it, rather intrigued her. She had had no idea her throat could give such response or that the male taste of him could be so desirable. In addition he often heard her lessons, expanding her horizons immeasurably.
She learned to lean on him, an odd father-substitute, this lover with his special needs. She confided in him her dream of the "Escape Hatch" and of the hoard that had, by now, reached respectable proportions. Nearly two thousand dollars, since she spent almost nothing of her earnings. She didn't use cosmetics and her clothes were simple. She had no use for a car, since she wasn't yet old enough to drive. Perfumes didn't interest her, though several of her customers brought her flacons of it in appreciation. Of what none seemed quite to know. It was just a dim, ambiguous feeling that they had been especially privileged.
She was learning. By now she knew that even that prodigious sum, two thousand dollars, would not buy the escape she sought. And there were years ahead of fucking men, of being taken and used and responding.
Madam was scrupulously guarding Myra's "Escape Hatch" hoard, tucking it deep among her flowered and sacheted nighties which had, for her, much the same significance. Someday she would quit this business and wear them with elegance and pride. That they were far too youthful and frivolous and probably far too small for her expanding figure made no difference. They were there, a tangible aspect of her dream.
John Smathers had become a privileged character around the house both because of his regular and expensive use of Myra and of his personal charm and elegance. Once in a while he was even allowed to take Myra on a picnic provided, of course, that he pay the regular fee of the house.
Myra loved these outings, even when she knew he would expect his usual "sixty-nine" up at a cabin he owned in the mountains. She liked Smathers and even enjoyed being naked before him, lying across the bed and letting him play with her breasts and cunt, sucking deep of her, while she took his prick in her mouth, coming to an exciting climax with him.
She liked even better the picnic part, sitting out under the trees, smelling the deep piney woods, and eating sandwiches and cucumbers and hard-boiled eggs. Sometimes that came first and she coquetted with him, building him up to that exciting climax across the bed. Or, if it was afterward, she liked being languidly at ease, nibbling, laughing at something he said, while letting her body ease out its tensions.
After each session they bathed together, standing under the shower, laughing, soaping each other's body in a curiously idyllic state, half sex, half play. Once in a while sex would take over and she would stare at him wide-eyed, as he carried her back to the bed. Most of the time she liked these second sessions best, because the desperate urgency was eased and they could play longer with each other's body and climax was longer in coming, a slow but exciting moment. And then another shower together.
John Smathers always paid her price for these extra sessions, insisting it was her right. Myra wasn't so sure because she was aware that occasionally she had teased him into excitation, coquettishly, half deliberately.
It was after one of these prolonged double sessions that they were driving back to town, Myra with her head back against the seat, luxuriating in the smoothness of Smather's big car, dimly regretting that it was over and she would go back to the house, expecting more customers, more screwing in the standard manner.
They were almost at the house when Smathers speeded up and went on past, his head bent over the wheel, half concealing his face. Myra sat up, peering back. There were police cars in front of the house. She looked at Smathers in bewilderment. "What's the matter? Why didn't we stop?"
"Raid." He said no more until they were safely out of the district and then he straightened, breathing deeply. "They'd have booked you. And since you're a juvenile, possibly have kept you there. We were lucky."
"But," Myra was bewildered, confused, "but the Madam and Skibo pay protection. They told me we wouldn't be raided. They told me it was perfectly safe."
Smathers barked a short, harsh laugh. "Sure. But sometimes protection doesn't hold. Somebody, demands an example. For the newspapers. And there's a raid."
Myra was already fumbling at the door. "I have to go back. I have to. My 'Escape Hatch' money..."
Smathers clawed her back. "Sit still. It's probably safe. And you'd just stir up a hornet's nest. Child, you're a youngster. Very young..."
"I'm almost fourteen. Next week."
"You'll get everybody in very serious trouble, child. Very serious trouble. For just operating a house there'll be fines and suspended sentences. If the police knew you had been staying there, there would be very serious consequences. Possibly even for me. God, I've been a criminal fool!" He sighed deeply, pondering. "We've got to find a place for you. And a cover story. I have a vacant apartment, furnished. It's pretty bad but it'll do. And let's see. You came on ahead and the family will follow. It's weak, but in that neighborhood it will get by. Until we can fix up something permanent."
He grinned at her suddenly. "I might even discover a sister who died and left a motherless niece who came to live with me."
"I'd like that. Living with you. You're fun."
John Smathers sighed. "Unfortunately too many people know I'm an only child. But we'll think of something."
Myra looked bleakly over her shoulder and sighed. "Will we get my 'Escape Hatch' money back?"
"Oh, I'm sure you will. Certain of it. Things will just have to quiet down for a few days."
He was wrong. Myra's "Escape Hatch" hoard mysteriously disappeared in the raid, probably into the pocket of the very policeman who had promised protection.
Skibo told her about it two days later, when he had traced her through John Smathers. "The bastards. They really closed us down. The frigging police! Those bastards. The slimy rats! Can't trust 'em to stay bought!" And he went on to describe the police in terms Myra had never heard before, not that she cared.
She was too miserable, huddled there in the mangy overstuffed chair, knowing it was all to do over again. How many men would she have to fuck to rebuild that hoard? She couldn't calculate. Just the idea made her sick. She turned her face into the malodorous velvour and wept.
"Don't cry, kid. These things happen. But we'll start up again. Curly's already making arrangements to open up in Norfolk. Lots of sailors there. And soldiers getting ready to go overseas make good customers." He added hastily, "Of course, we save you for the officers. And older men. Guys who can appreciate you."
"I wish I could stay with Smathers. He's nice. Only he can't think of a way."
"Don't worry, kid. You'll like Norfolk. Lotsa money there. Lotsa guys that'll pay well to screw you." He grinned disarmingly. "Even me."
Despite her heartbreak she smiled at him. "You're good to me, Skibo."
And he hadthe grace to wince guiltily.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Norfolk was no different from any other town for Myra. The house was bigger, noisier, and her room slightly larger, with a washbasin and a bidet that baffled her at first, until the Madam, released on bail, explained it to her. Then it seemed an amazing convenience. Sometimes, even when she hadn't been screwing, she used it, just for the stimulus of the warm water flushing up her little cunt.
Her first customer to ask for her specifically was a man who said that Smathers had recommended her. She was afraid at first that he would want Smathers' favorite, the sixty-nine. Somehow she didn't want to suck off anyone but Smathers, who was a very special person in her young life. But this customer, Charles Freeman, preferred what he called the "rocking chair," essentially the same as Skibo had taught her and Jackson had used. Except that Freeman wanted it in a real rocking chair, and sent his own to the house.
Freeman she could never call him "Chuck" as he suggested, saying it made him feel younger was older than Smathers, with the same dapper air and bright, quizzical smile as he stood looking at her that first night.
"You are a lovely child. And quite as beautiful as Jack said. Even in that dress, which is atrocious, my dear. You must let me pick out some clothes for you. Something elfin. A dusty green, I think. With sprigs of lavender. Round collars with lace ruching and..." He laughed softly. "But I'm not here to dress you. Rather the other way 'round, eh?"
In spite of his odd way of saying things, Myra understood what he meant. "You want me naked?" She was losing the old, slurred speech; school had taught that much, though at the moment she was a little too conscious of it and a shade over-elegant.
"That would be delightful, my dear." And he sat in his personal rocking chair, watching her with such bright, inquisitive eyes she felt embarrassed and turned her back to skin out of her dress.
As she turned around, revealing the slim perfection of her body, her high, firm breasts and the little pubic mound that was now getting a fine dusting of hair, he patted his hands softly, like someone at a play. "Beautiful! Exquisite! It is a shame to hide that loveliness under clothing." He sighed. "But society demands it. And perhaps wisely. I'm afraid you would cause riots, nude like that. Come here, child."
She walked slowly toward him, her body reacting once more to the intentness of his look, his reaching hands, starting again those hot flashes up her little cunt, warming her breasts, starting her nipples to a trembling erection.
He caught her shoulders and held her off, his bright eyes skipping from breasts to thighs, to her pubic mound and back. "He didn't do you justice. And the face, so youthful! Such soft, curved lips. That delicious little nose! And those wide, innocent eyes, positively sooty with long lashes. Amazing! And you've been doing this for how long? Three years now?" He clucked, shaking his head. "How do you retain that air of sweet innocence? I'd swear you've never known a man."
Myra didn't know how to explain that she simply turned herself off, sliding into a dream world of the "Escape Hatch" and let her treacherous little body take over, responding to sex with animal eagerness. "I just let go."
And her body was already responding as Freeman ran his hands questingly over her back, her breasts and down her thighs, shivering with eagerness to feel a prick rammed up her cunt, exploding within her.
He cradled her in his arms and lifted her onto his lap, cupping a hand under one breast, devouring it with his eyes. She laid her head on his shoulder and peered up at him from under the sooty lashes, waiting patiently, though her body was already reacting, with juices forming in her cunt, moistening it for the final entry.
He caressed her whole body, running his hands gently over her flesh, stirring once again the frantic urgency, so that she writhed in his arms. He seemed to get immense gratification out of just seeing and touching her, running his hand between her legs, touching her little cunt, prying into it with a gentle, questing finger. He kissed her breasts, running his tongue around her nipple and then poking at it with his tongue, almost as if he were fucking her breast with his tongue.
And her body answered each of his exciting moves, opening her legs, the lips of her cunt wide to his touch. She whimpered softly as he finger-fucked her, very nearly reaching climax.
Suddenly he stiffened, getting red in the face and clasping her close. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" And buried his face against her breast, shaking. "Oh, God. It's happened. It's happened. I thought I could hold it, but it's happened."
Myra came out of her dream of an "Escape Hatch" that had resembled closely Smathers mountain cottage. She was alarmed, startled into sitting up. "What happened?"
He raised a haggard face to hers, trying to smile. "I came. I came without ever knowing the loveliness of you. Forgive an old man his foolish weakness."
She reached up and touched the ravaged face. "Can't you do it again?" In her experience men seemed always ready, eager for seconds, even thirds.
He brightened a little. "Possibly. Just possibly. Could you wait?"
Myra nodded. "But the Madam might want you to pay again."
"That's all right. Quite. I'll pay for your whole evening and we can take our time. If it's all right with you?"
Myra was aghast at this extravagance. Her whole evening was a hundred dollars, out of which she would get forty, to add to the new "Escape Hatch" hoard. "If you want." The aches and desires of her body were subsiding now, but they could be aroused again.
Freemen went out, walking oddly, and came back, smiling. "We have the night before us. Time to learn each other's body and know each one's needs. And this time I'll undress first. In anticipation."
He hung his clothes neatly, keeping his back to her. She was a little astonished at the flaccid buttocks and wrinkles across his back, a network of fine cross-hatchings. He turned, and she saw the patch of iron-gray hair on his chest and the meager bush of gray hair around his small, pendulous pecker. And his small, round little paunch. He must be old, quite a lot older than Smathers, whose body was firm and brown, though the skin was a little dry and papery.
Myra offered him the bidet as a convenience for washing himself but he laughed. "Not for me, child. I'll use the hand basin." And went over to wash his privates, talking to her over his shoulder. "This time I will not overestimate my ability. When I am ready..." He sighed and came back to her, holding out his arms. "You really are too lovely to be real. And yet you are. Delightfully real."
He picked her up once again and sat in the chair with her across his lap, already starting the fondling of her breasts, renewing the heat beneath them, rekindling the fires in her cunt and legs.
She lay in his arms, feeling each move of his hands, feeling him kiss and fondle her breasts and the fires built. Her breasts ached, her little cunt mouthed at his fingers, and her legs were weak, wide open for him long before she felt the quiver of his pecker coming to life again, tapping softly against her little rump.
When finally he turned her to face him, straddling his thin legs, her body was in a ferment of desire, once cheated of fulfillment and now aroused again. She whimpered with eagerness as his pecker slid into her, inching her body forward to ram it far up her. She had scarcely jammed her little cunt down tight against his pelvis, feeling the rub of his shaft far up her cunt, than she exploded into climax, writhing against him, whimpering, working her pelvis to ram it farther up her. And then went limp.
She was astonished a moment later to feel again the rising excitement, the heat and ferment of another climax. They worked together in a gradually increasing tempo until he clutched her, held her tight, moaning, mouthing words she didn't hear. And they came together; a cataclysm of excitement.
She drooped in the chair, resting her head against his chest as he murmured endearments in her ear and stroked her shivering back. His pecker slid out of her cunt, bringing fresh shivers and one long shudder before she subsided in his arms.
"Would you mind, my dear, if I kissed your lovely little sex box? And drank of the wine of our joint endeavor?"
Odd as he talked, she sensed what he meant. He wanted to suck her cunt. Well, he had paid for the whole evening. She shivered in anticipation, knowing how Smathers had stimulated and excited her. She nodded her head slowly, and he sighed happily. "Stand up, my child. On my legs ... There!"
Standing thus put her little cunt just above his face and as he held her by her hips he tilted upward, easing her cunt with his tongue, lapping at her juices. "Delicious!" Placing his lips over her little box, he sucked greedily.
She gasped, writhing, half squatting to ram her cunt closer on his mouth, whimpering again with eagerness, and reached climax again, spurting more juices into his mouth.
He laid back, sighing, and she slipped down into his laps, cradling against him, already half asleep. He held her close, soothing her body with soft pats and gentle caresses. "And we have the night before us."
He carried her to the bed cradled in his arms, and laid her gently down, standing back to study her slimness, the tapered legs, the soft mounds of breast, the amber-pink nipples, soft and quiescent now and her little cunt that had given him such delight. "And the rest of the night to lie beside you."
He climbed into bed with her and she cuddled sleepily against him, murmuring. He put an arm around her, softly touching one breast, and sighed. And they both slept.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Charles Freeman died that winter, shortly after another of many all night sessions with Myra, of a heart attack. When Myra heard about it, she grieved for the odd little man with the meticulous manners who could bring her to climax two and sometimes three times to his one.
Smathers came down for the funeral and took Myra with him. "Don't grieve for him, child. He had a full life. And I am sure you made his last year very happy. He told me so. He was quite old, you know. And prepared to go. He had so few pleasures left and you were one of them. Perhaps the only real one left."
Smathers came back to the house with Myra and bought her whole evening, though he only used her once, in the familiar sixty-nine.
Her body responded, her throat extracting excitement once more from his prick and her cunt answering his delicious suck, until they both reached climax, in a writhing orgasm that left them both limp, happily exhausted. They lay naked together, just talking, until Myra blinked sleepy, sooty eyes and curled up against him, sleeping in the crook of his arm.
Smathers came back several times during that year, and each time Myra put aside a whole evening for him. Even the Madam agreed he was something special and allowed him the special privileges he had enjoyed before, such as taking Myra out in his rented car for strolls along the beach and a picnic, letting Myra stay the night with him in some motel.
She had her special customers, including a general who barked orders at her and laughed when she stuck out her tongue at him, waggling her naked little rump, until he engulfed her in an oddly gentle bear hug. "My little beauty. Better than anything in Singapore or Bombay." After a session with Myra he liked to talk about the Orient and the girls he had known there. "Beauties. Young, too. Some of them very young. Younger than you. Laughers. Gigglers, really. You're such a solemn little thing, beautiful and remote. I get the feeling a man could be with you a thousand times and not know you." And the general sighed, as if he had missed some essential part of her.
He had. Myra had withdrawn into her prayer to Mommie and dreams of the "Escape Hatch," letting her slim body take over the task of screwing, which it did with exciting facility.
Her routine of catering to older men, mostly because, in the Madam's opinion, they paid better for Myra's special youth and the slim perfection of her body, was broken once that year. A young soldier came to the house, flashing a bankroll, swaggering a little, wanting to buy the best in the house. And he had heard of Myra. He'd pay well for a whole evening with her, since he was being shipped overseas soon. "I want one real good screw. Not with an old bag," That had horrified the Madam who considered all her girls youthful and attractive, and she almost sent him packing. But she rarely sent a bankroll packing. So she brought him in to Myra, who was bent over her school books.
Myra looked up, smiling shyly. "Hello."
"Myra, this is Johnny Cole. He wants to stay with you tonight. But you don't have to. He's not a regular. But he's going overseas soon and..."
Myra grinned at him. He reminded her of some of the boys at the soda shop, only cleaner, neater, his hair carefully plastered down with water, one lock already escaping, to stand erect. A kid, really.
"Hello, Johnny." And nodded to the madam, who withdrew, leaving them together.
Johnny Cole lost some of his swagger, left with her. He edged tentatively to a chair and sat with hands dangling between his knees. "Gosh, you're pretty! What are you studying?"
He craned to look. "Algebra. I had that last year. Tough."
Myra nodded agreement. "I just can't get all those letters straight. Why don't they just use numbers?"
It was a point that had baffled Johnny and he shook his head, commiserating.
They sat there, staring at one another. Johnny tried to keep his eyes on her face but they wandered to her breasts, jumped guiltily away, then moved down to her legs and back up to the edge of her dress. Finally he blurted out, "Do you? Really? I mean, you're such a kid."
Myra smiled slowly, trying to cover her own embarrassment. "I'm nearly seventeen. I graduate in June. With a diploma." She drew a deep breath, nodding. "And if you Want me, I fuck. That's what you meant, isn't it? That's what you wanted."
"Oh, yes!" Johnny said it fervently. "Only I never expected ... Well, you're young. And beautiful. And ... Sure, I want you. More than anything." He gulped nervously. 'What do we do?"
"You want me naked?"
Johnny Cole stared at her breasts, gulping. "If you will. I've never seen a girl all the way naked."
Remembering the cemetery and the casual upward flip of a dress to expose her privates, Myra nodded. "Okay." She stood up, reaching for the hem of her dress, peeling out of it with practiced ease. She rarely wore panties in the house. She stood naked before Johnny, hands clasped behind her back, firm young breasts erect, her stomach flat, pulsing a little with the excitement of his eyes on her. Her little cunt was beginning to heat up, and warmth surged through her legs and stomach. Yet she felt oddly shy standing before this boy.
Johnny gaped at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open, face blank with astonishment. "Jeee-zuss, you're pretty. I never saw such..." He waggled a hand toward her breasts. And he blushed.
"Aren't you going to undress?" Myra asked it softly, fearing he might have some peculiar choice in sex.
"Huh?" Johnny Cole startled. "Yeah. I mean, sure." and grabbed at his tie. He was slow in undressing because he stopped often just to stare at Myra's slim little body, sighing heavily. At last he stood naked, hunched over a little, as if at any minute he might cover his privates, like a male Venus.
Myra let her glance slide over his pecker, just a glance. It was big and swelling to reddish proportions, surrounded by dark hair. He caught her glance and blushed. "I ain't got nothing ... I mean, no VD. Honest." He sighed, standing well away from her. "I ain't had the chance. I mean, this is the first time I ever ... Well, there was a girl back home, only she wouldn't. Not really. Just sort of played around, like. Once I almost got it in her, but she wouldn't."
Myra held out her hand and he took it gingerly, letting her lead him to the bed. Sensing his acute misery, Myra sighed. "We can lie here and just talk. Until you're ready."
"That would be nice." He came almost eagerly and they threw themselves on the bed in childish abandon, suddenly laughing together. He tousled her hair, grinning. "You're fun."
They lay side by side, bodies just touching, heat generating, just looking at one another's body and laughing spontaneously, a trifle nervously, until he reached over and gently touched one breast. She turned to him, pressing a breast against his side.
Johnny groaned and rolled toward her, his distended pecker slapping against her leg, his arms tight around her, pressing her breasts tight against his chest. She opened her legs, letting his pecker slide between them.
Once again her treacherous little body was taking over, savoring the heat of his pecker close against her cunt, vibrating. And the heat of his body pressed tight against hers was creating anew those fires under her breast, her nipples stiffening, brushing in excitement against the faint, downy hair of his chest. He made several futile stabs at her little cunt as they lay side by side.
Myra opened her legs wide and tugged at him so that he rolled over on top of her, half kneeling between her legs, his pecker throbbing against her cunt. It was opening, with juices that would make his entry easy. He looked cross-eyed down his front to see and guided it up tight against her pussy.
"Take it easy. Please."
Johnny gulped and nodded, just halting a wild stab that would have driven his dong up her in one frantic rush. He let his bulb slide in, sighing, his head drooping, then pushed it slowly up her.
Her little pelvis worked with him, moving back and forth to take all that big prick. And far up her tunnel her body was answering, giving forth juices, generating heat. With a final, quick thrust, as if his knees could no longer hold that half crouch, he fell forward on her, ramming his pecker far up her tunnel, murmuring, "Oh, Jeee-zuss! Oh! Jee-zuss!"
His whole weight rested on her, so that she could scarcely breathe. She tapped his shoulder. "Lift yourself a little. You're squishing me."
"Oh!" He placed an arm at each side of her and lifted his torso, driving his pecker another bit up her.
Her pelvis began a slow motion back and forth, sliding her cunt along his shaft. Johnny picked up the rhythm and began pumping, slowly at first and then faster. Far up her tunnel she could feel the movement of his shaft and the pulsing of his bulb. And that one big pulse that meant climax.
He gave a moaning cry and clutched her, pulling her tight against his chest, his whole weight on her again, his pelvis ramming hard into hers and held it, shooting his load far up her tunnel.
Myra's pelvis slammed into his and her body responded to the explosion way up her, giving juices, sending off silent, white hot rockets. She moved her little pelvis, trying to encourage one more bit of juice. But Johnny was finished. He sagged, his head dropping to the pillow beside hers, his body going slack.
And Myra drooped, feeling his pecker slide out of her hole. She touched him again. "You're squishing me."
"Oh!" Johnny spoke from some faraway place, the home of a realized dream. "Yeah. Sorry." And rolled off her, to stare at the ceiling, smiling. "It really happened!" He rolled his head on the pillow, as if not quite believing. "It sure enough happened."
They lay like that a long time, letting the excitement of sex drain away. Finally Myra rolled across his body, kissing him lightly on the cheek. "I've got to wash. If you want to, there's a basin." She went to the bidet a trifle self-consciously, but Johnny wasn't even looking at her. He was staring at some vision of his own, a smile twitching at his lips.
Myra came back, smiling down at his homely, beatific face, hating to disturb the dream, knowing what such dreams meant to her. "You can wash now."
"Huh?" He came to, blinking at her and suddenly grinning "Gosh all hemlock, but you're wonderful! Wash? Oh, sure." He scrambled awkwardly off the bed and loped to the basin, splashing water, flinging over his shoulder, "Is it always that wonderful?"
Myra stood there, considering it gravely. "I think maybe the first time is best. If it's right." Knowing that her first time and many times after had been anything but right.
While he was splashing, humming to himself, Myra drifted back to her study table and the books open there, frowning down at them. Alegebra was hard. And there was no one to explain it to her, outside the classroom, where you never quite got all of it.
Johnny came up beside her, leaning to look. "Oh, I can do that. I guess once you've had it you don't forget." He spoke from the wisdom of one out of the classroom a whole year. He pulled up a chair and sat. Myra dropped into her chair. Both were unconscious of their nakedness, sitting side by side, small pink rumps touching, bending over the obscurity of algebra.
Three problems later Johnny stretched, yawning. "I guess I better be getting back or I'll catch it from Mom." He blinked. "I'm nuts! I'm not..." And then he became aware of Myra's nudity, her pink breasts leaning over the desk, amber-pink nipples soft, barely distinguishable. "Oh, gosh all hemlock!" He smote his forehead. "I went and forgot. I was gonna..." He paused, blushing. "Maybe you didn't want to again?"
Myra didn't remind him that her body was for hire and that wanting had little to do with the matter. Instead she smiled up at him. "We've got all night."
Together they drifted back to the bed, holding hands, then threw themselves across it, suddenly laughing. He was gone in the morning when Myra got up to go to school. Only a small ache in her pelvis and four algebra problems solved reminded her that Johnny had been there.
Between other customers he came back, each time investing enough to stay the night. It was on that fourth night, as they lay together, sex gratified, in somnolent languor, that he asked her to marry him. "I'm going to Vietnam. Soon now. And I'd like to have something to come back to. To remember while I'm there and know I was coming back to it. Will you?"
Myra hesitated. It was the "Escape Hatch" come true! She didn't dare quite believe in it. And then she threw her arms around him, kissing him, crying a little. "Johnny I could love you very much. And I'll always play fair. Always."
It wasn't as simple as that. The Madam argued wildly against it. "You can't, dearie. Girls in our business can't stick with one man. One man just ain't enough."
Skibo had to be placated but he gave in to her plea, sighing, "If I don't you wouldn't be worth a damn anyway. Sure, go ahead and marry the slob." And suddenly grinned at her. "And good luck, baby. I'll even send a silver spoon."
Preparations were hurried. Time was short. There was barely time for a hasty message to Smathers whom, she felt obscurely, should be told. He wired back: "I WON'T COME SINCE I KNOW I WOULD WEEP. I AM TOO OLD FOR TEARS. LUCK AND ALL MY LOVE." He sent a beautiful silver bowl. The girls at the house chipped in on a Rogers silver service, and even the Madam gave her a toaster. And there was a "silver spoon" from Skibo, an enormous ladle that Myra laughed over and cried a little.
She got her "Escape Hatch" hoard from the
Madam and blew it on furniture for the tiny three-room apartment Johnny rented. Her .first purchase was an enormous king-size bed that barely fit the small bedroom. But that was to be their life for the next scant weeks; making love, so Johnny would have a host of exciting memories to take with him. And something to come back to.
The wedding was simple. Down at the courthouse, before a justice who snuffled. With a cold, not sentiment.
And then they were alone together, in the apartment, both a little shy, both embarrassed and not knowing quite why. Finally Johnny blurted, "Hell, we're married!" and caught her up, carrying her to the king-size bed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Making love with Johnny was excitingly different. She didn't have to turn herself off to recite any prayer to Mommie, or to dream and plan for the "Escape Hatch." This was it, a tiny three-room apartment on a side street with a king-size bed. And on it she could give herself to Johnny freely, gladly, happily, joining herself with his body in glorious, exciting lovemaking.
She could feel the trembling excitement in Johnny's arms as he lifted and carried her, and she kissed him on the ear delightedly, glorying in the feel of his hand under her small rump, of one arm around her shoulders, his hand grasping spasmodically at her breast. Heat and excitement surged up in her as he laid her on the bed and then stood back, looking at her, suddenly shy and awkward. "You're so beautiful! I can't believe you're all mine, forever and ever..."
Her skirt was hiked up, revealing the gaudy blue garter the Madam had insisted was as much a part of marriage as the ceremony. Johnny bent over and kissed the gaudy rosette and ran his lips up the inner side of her thigh, bringing a gasp from her and starting fires of excitement in her cunt. She let herself know, now, with Johnny, just how delicious that felt and was amazed. And glad, glad that this newness within her was for Johnny.
She sighed happily and caught his head, pulling it up to hers, and kissed him tenderly. At least she meant it to be a tender little kiss but, as his hand rested on her breast, the kiss became ardent, hot and eager. "I love you, Johnny. With all my heart. With all my body." She laughed shakily. "Let me slip out of this skirt." She sat up, pushing him away.
She slid out of the skirt and pulled down her panties, tossing them to him. Johnny hung them almost reverently on a chair and then hurriedly discarded his dress uniform, wrestling and swearing at the unaccustomed buttons. Finally he stood naked before her.
This was Johnny, tall, a little too thin, wearing a shy, homely grin. His hips were narrow, firm, and his pecker it was already rising, a great shaft surmounted by a purplish bulb, quivering before her. She reached up and touched it, feeling the heat, then sat up, kissing it lightly and rubbing it against her cheek.
Johnny moaned and dived into bed beside her, clutching at her, pulling so that her breasts crushed against his chest. She accepted the momentary pain with delight, nuzzling his neck, tugging at his shoulders, pressing herself tight against him, feeling the throb of his prick against her small, flat belly. The heat of it thrilled her with the promise of feeling it slide deep within her, of explosion and climax to come.
She slid one leg over his and opened her little pulsing cunt for his entry, feeling him awkwardly shift his body and roll them both together, so that he loomed above her, staring hungrily down at her. "God, you're beautiful! I still can't believe it! You're mine. We belong together."
She murmured softly, pulling his head down for a long, sweet kiss. He slid down, letting his prick slide between her legs and began a thrust at her hot, hungry little cunt. "Please, Johnny. Raise yourself a little. I want to see you go in." As if that would reassure her that he was hers and she his.
Obediently he raised himself on strong young arms and she peered down her front, between the soft pink mounds of her breasts, the nipples stiffened, erect, and saw her pubic mound with its faint dusting of hair. His pecker, throbbing, suffused, stood ready to plunge into her. It was wonderful to be able to see, to feel, to know with more than her small body that her lover was going to take her. There were no barriers now. No prayer to Mommie, no turning herself off into a dream of the "Escape Hatch." She had it now, more than she had ever dreamed it could be, for she was sharing it, as a dream should be shared.
Johnny made tentative stabs with his pecker, and then she felt it slide in, the bulb going beyond the lips of her cunt, to begin hot, delicious fires that flared through her. Watching as it penetrated her body gave added thrills to the exquisite feel of him in her. More went in, and more.
She gasped with the sweet wonder of it as she saw how much he rammed up her, wondering amazedly where it all was going. And yet she knew. She could feel it, moving far up inside her, kindling fires that heated her whole being.
He gave her full measure, closing the gap, his pubic mound pressed tight against her own. And then he began the slow pumping that would bring them in wild delight to climax.
She could feel, with new, excited delight, the movement of his bulb, the sliding in and out of his shaft. She pumped her little pelvis with wild abandon as she felt his shaft pulse and throb the whole length of her tunnel.
She moaned, clawing at his shoulders, then slid her hands down to his thin buttocks, grasping, trying for one iota more of that magnificent prick within her.
Lights went out then flared to bright intensity. Throbbing gongs boomed inside her as she felt him explode far up her tunnel in a hot gush of creamy come. He thrust hard at her and held it, crying out in exuberant exultation.
Then he collapsed against her breasts, his head falling beside hers as he half sobbed with immense, complete gratification. She gloried in the weight of him on her, the warmth of his body, feeling his pecker slowly deflated and begin its tender withdrawal, exciting her briefly to more desire.
Then it was over, and they lay side by side, breathing deeply, in shuddering gasps. Holding hands that clutched spasmodically.
"It was beautiful, Johnny. I never knew loving could be so wonderful," and turned to kiss his ear.
He rolled toward her, flinging his arms around her, nuzzling at her neck. "You made it beautiful, darling. And I love you."
"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, Johnny, for loving me! I need your love terribly."
They held each other, happy in spent passion, warmed by each other's body, almost innocent in their nakedness.
Until they stirred, moving their bodies together in renewal of desire. He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, smiling gravely. "Can we? Again?"
She reached up and caught his smiling, homely face, kissing him tenderly. "Always, Johnny. I'm yours, remember. Any time you want me, I'm yours. And happy to be."
Together they watched with almost detached curiosity as his pecker swelled and rose, laughing happily together as it stood erect and quivering. He touched her breast, marveling at the way the amber-pink nipples quivered and came erect. He leaned over and kissed each one, sighing, and then slid between her legs as she watched and waited eagerly for the new excitement begin.
On the fifth time Johnny sighed, too weary to raise himself, in spite of the fact that his prick was quivering and rigid. "Can we do it lying on our sides?"
The fitting of their bodies was awkward at first but they adjusted, wriggling and thrusting, until they lay side by side, his prick rammed well into her little cunt, her breasts tight against his chest. Finally exhausted with love play, they both fell asleep, locked in each other's arms.
Myra awoke first, stretching, glorying in the ache in her loins, sighing and wondering vaguely just what had happened that last time. Johnny lay sprawled, arms and legs flung out in the abandonment of sleep. She smiled down at him, resisted the impulse to kiss him awake, and padded into the kitchenette, clutching around her the lavish peignoir the Madam had insisted was the proper costume for a honeymoon.
Myra made coffee in the shiny new coffee pot and was preparing toast in the equally new electric toaster, when Johnny came in behind her, sliding his arms around her, slipping his hands under the peignoir to cup them over her breasts. "Hello, bride..."
Myra twisted in his arms, mock fighting him, laughing, and then sobered. "That was the nicest thing you could have said."
She bobbed her tousled head toward the kitchen mirror, grinning at the wrecked seven-dollar hair-do. "Hello, you. You are a bride." She frowned at Johnny's reflection. "And you have a very naked husband."
Johnny grinned. "Isn't that convenient?" And picked her up to carry her back to the king-size bed.
It was an idyllic three days before Johnny had to report back to camp and a much-married master sergeant who glared at him. "They call this compassionate leave. For you, it's passionate leave. And I suppose you're gonna ask for overnight liberty. Well, I ain't making out no slips every day." He scribbled hastily on a pad and shoved it at Johnny. "That'll hold you for three weeks. If you can take it." He growled deep in his chest. "And mind you report for duty every morning. We're shaping up to ship out."
So they had not quite three weeks because Johnny's orders came through three days early close to three weeks of frantic lovemaking, happy, lighthearted lovemaking that must last them until Johnny should come home.
He never did. His helicopter was shot down over North Vietnam and he died in the flaming wreck. And all Myra had was a pathetic little medal, his insurance check, and a three-room apartment that had been, so briefly, her "Escape Hatch."
She sat, stunned, amid the wreckage of a dream, not quite comprehending. Smathers sent condolences and Skibo showed up, for once acutely embarrassed. His offer was backhanded. "I don't suppose you want to come back?"
Myra shook her head. "I couldn't, Skibo. Not right now. Not after what I've had. It was good, Skibo. Very good. And for real."
Skibo didn't understand but he nodded, shifting uneasily in the big chair. "Need money, kid?"
"Not now. I have this," and pointed to the check that was all that was left her of Johnny. "I'll think of something. Get a job, maybe. This won't last forever. Maybe I'll buy that farm and just retire."
Skibo shook his head over such a waste. "Not you, kid. You're too beautiful. Too young. Why don't you give Hollywood a whirl? You'd go great out there."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Why don't you give Hollywood a whirl? You'd go great out there." Myra heard the young man dimly, reaching for her third Scotch on the rocks. She had tried drinking, but it wasn't helping the dull ache of loss. She set the glass down, swinging on the bar stool to face him. He was a very dapper young man, a little pretentious, but pleasant and smiling.
"Why?" Myra could be blunt, direct. "There must be thousands like me, itching to get into movies or television."
The young man drew back, offended. "I was only making a suggestion. That sauce isn't going to kill any pain, if you've got a pain. Looking through the bottom of a glass just magnifies things."
Myra nodded and thrust the glass away. "I'm finding that out."
"A couple of friends and I are driving to the coast. Nice car, and there's room for you, if you want to come."
Myra shut her eyes, swaying on the stool. "Why not?" She drew a deep breath. "What's to lose when you've already lost it."
So she sold the big, king-sized bed and the "Escape Hatch" furniture in a lot, preferring not to see the apartment as she had known it with Johnny being dismantled, items going piece by piece.
She functioned automatically through her personal affairs and soon found herself seated in the back of an luxurious convertible with a dapper little man scarcely an inch and a half taller than her own scant five feet. In front were two young men who bickered amiably about the best route.
The dapper little man introduced himself. "I'm Barney. Barney Stewart. They'd never think of introducing us." And he twinkled gravely at her.
"I'm Myra " For a heart-stopping moment she forgot Johnny's name. "Myra Cole. Mrs. Johnny Cole."
"You don't look old enough to be 'Mrs.' anybody. Refreshingly young. And tragically sad."
"I'm a widow." There! It was said! Her first real acknowledgement of the fact that Johnny was gone, forever gone.
"I'm sorry. Accept my sympathy." And Barney sounded as if he meant it.
The first night they stopped at a wayside motel, and the young men came back with three keys, passing one to Barney and one to Myra. She was a little surprised. She had expected at least a suggestion she sleep with one of them, and she was happy to be relieved of an argument.
Lying nude in the big bed, Myra felt the growing need of Johnny, the return of intense desire. It built within her, stirred by memories of Johnny, of his great pecker ramming far up her, exploding into delirious excitement. She clamped her legs together, fighting the want of him, fighting against the horrid thought of accepting a substitute, until she could stand the crying needs of her body no longer.
She discarded the idea of the peignoirs. That had been for Johnny. And went naked to the connecting door, hesitating a long moment in frenzied debate before throwing it open.
Then she knew why she had a separate room. The two over-elegant young men had no need of her. They were wrapped in each other's arms, oblivious even of the fact that she stood in the doorway, her slim body nude, aching with desire.
She shut the door quickly, leaning against it, laughing hysterically. Two pansies! Absurd! She was traveling with two pansies who would have no interest in or need for her body. She went back to bed, shuddering with the relief of it, curiously calmed of her own needs. And slept. To dream of Johnny.
Barney must be one, too, she felt, though he kept eyeing her breasts and studying her slim legs, twinkling gravely at her when she caught him noticing.
"I'm an agent, my dear. Theatrical agent.
Flesh peddler. And you have delightful flesh. You're quite beautiful. Diminutive. Petite. Hollywood-likes them like that. But don't be disappointed if you don't make the grade. Thousands don't. Never see the inside of a studio. And they are equally beautiful. Your voice is charming but completely untrained. It could take months, years perhaps, to clear that sweet Southern softness from your voice, to give it depth and a sense of drama so essential in films."
Barney was brutally frank with her. "Because you are lovely, my dear. Breathtakingly lovely. And I adore beautiful women."
But he made no passes, letting her live in uneasy peace with memories, the needs and desires of her body sometimes almost overwhelming her. Twice on that trip she almost asked him to her room and put it off. If he were a pansy he might laugh at her, and right now Myra couldn't have stood having her great bodily needs laughed at. So she slept alone, aching with desire, desires Johnny had aroused and now could never satisfy.
Somewhere on the trip she told him about the ten thousand dollar insurance money, and his eyes glittered with interest. "There are ways that could buy you in and make you a fortune. Not nice ways, but very lucrative. Very."
As they approached Hollywood he told her.
"Art films. Adult art films. Which are neither adult nor art. But they make money. Fabulous money. For the amount invested. For ten thousand dollars you could make your own. I could get the releases. And the returns! Incredible. A hundred thousand. A quarter of a million."
Myra stared at him. "You mean fucking? In front of a camera?" It didn't horrify her. She had fucked for clubs, letting eight and ten men look hungrily on. And back in the cemetery days there had often been an interested audience. Now, with Johnny gone, it didn't seem important what happened to her body. Even the "Escape Hatch" was a dim memory. She took a deep breath. "I wouldn't mind."
So she came to the studio, a dingy, lofty side-street affair, shivering a little, a little excited, more than a little nervous, her body already beginning to react to the very idea of getting fucked, of having a shaft rammed up her.
The story was simple: "Honeymoon for Three," two men who took a girl on a screwing holiday at a beach cottage. The fucking scenes were to be shot on the studio set, the rest, showing her windblown dress molded against her delicious young body, were to be shot on the beach, at the cottage of one of Barney's friends.
The script called for her to enter with the two men, laughing. She couldn't quite bring on the laughter but her soft, provocative smile was more than even Barney, who wrote the script, could want.
The two men weren't bad. One fair, the other dark; perhaps just a shade too handsome. She didn't know it but that was why they hadn't made the grade in regular films that and a very small talent.
As she came swirling into the room, smiling, one of the men caught her, kissing her passionately or a reasonable facsimile. And began pawing at her dress. She slid away from him, undoing the dress herself, stepping out of it. The cameraman wanted another shot of that, from another angle. And she went through it again until finally she stood naked in the middle of the room, her body shivering with anticipation. The second young man, the fair one, came out of the kitchen, caught her from behind and bent her backward, kissing her thoroughly, caressing her breasts and running his hands down her body.
Her body, always treacherously responsive, went limp. The two young men carried her to the bed, laying her across it, letting her legs dangle, her head resting on the other side. The two men were talking to her, laughing. Not that the picture had sound but it would give the illusion of a gay, animated weekend and allow time for the men to undress and, most important for the film, give the camera time to scan Myra's slim, perfect body. For that scene alone men would pay and pay well.
Myra lay there, turning inward again, toward Mommie, explaining to her silently. "Ten thousand isn't really 'Escape Hatch' but fifty or a hundred thousand is." She didn't even ask Johnny's forgiveness. He had loved her and had wanted her body, knowing so well its tremendous potential. He would expect that to be used. Just once she whispered his name as her body ached with anticipation, her legs weak, her little cunt pulsing, her nipples erect and quivering.
The dark young man came at her slowly, between her legs, his pecker stiff, red, the purplish bulb quivering already with a drop of his juices. He was smiling as his hands reached for her breasts and he slid to his knees, rubbing one cheek along the inner side of her thigh. Familiar fires welled up in her and she humped her pelvis upward toward him. He buried his face between her legs, pressing his mouth against her cunt, his tongue seeking its intimacies. And Myra moaned, writhing, as heat built beneath her breast, within her stomach and waves of excitement swept up from her cunt and went down, quivering her legs.
His hands cupped her breasts, fingers teasing her nipples, grasping them between two fingers that chewed at them. One hand wandered over her stomach, down the creases between leg and stomach, teasing at her slit while his tongue moved inside, tickling her clitoris.
Then he straightened, still kneeling and aimed his pecker at her hole ready now more than ready with creamy juices flowing. Hot and ready. He moved his pelvis forward, pushing against the lips. Her body felt them opening, yielding to him, and then he was in, sliding his bulb inside and holding it there, barely quivering, just a slight motion that stirred hotter fires.
His hands still played with her breasts but he slid them away now, dropping them to hold her slim waist as he moved in, ramming his prick far up her excited little cunt.
Other hands grasped her breasts from above, and she looked up to see the fair one kneeling at her head, his pecker wavering before her face. "Take it, baby. Take it. Take all of it."
She shuddered and then slowly reached for the quivering shaft, guiding it to her mouth, and put it in, remembering Smathers and the oddly wonderful taste of him.
Her mouth filled with bulb and her throat suddenly ached for it to ram down her, stretching her throat, filling it and for the feel of his shaft sliding in and out. She stretched toward him and he thrust back, forcing his pecker well down her throat, moving it slightly, in and out, exciting her body to new frenzy, while the dark one pumped slowly at her cunt, setting raging fires within her.
Her body was answering wildly to two different sets of excitation, writhing, twisting, thrusting with her pelvis, working her mouth. Her body built to crescendo. Her breasts ached as the fair one played with her nipples, her throat closing spasmodically on his shaft.
She wasn't even aware of the camera looming over her, scanning her body, taking in the exciting movements, the ramming pricks of two men pumping into her. She had to draw back from the pecker in her mouth to gasp for air and then take it immediately back, her throat hungry for the salty, creamy juices.
Her throat knew, from the pulsing of his shaft, that the fair one would shoot off in her. And her pelvis pumped against the shaft of the dark one, wildly trying for a double come. And it was happening.
The fair one groaned, thrusting hard, ramming his pecker far down her throat, holding it as creamy juices spurted, flooding her throat. The dark one slammed his prick deep up her and she thrust with her pelvis to gain one last fraction just as he exploded.
Silent explosions rocked her body, lights flared behind her eyes as hot, creamy juices ran through her cunt. And in her throat the salty, ammoniac taste of male filled her. She licked at the fair one's retreating, deflated prick and felt the prick of the dark one sliding from her cunt. She breathed deep, shuddering, and sagged, her whole body going limp, her head rolling from side to side, whimpering softly.
The fair one folded forward beside her, one arm flung across her breasts. The dark one sat on the floor, resting his head against her pelvis, his body still quivering.
It was over, though shudders of excitement still ran through her body. She felt the dark one move but didn't raise her head to see why. The camera and lights moved in, tight on her still wet and open cunt, getting a picture to titillate thousands of men in private, darkened theatres across the country.
Without her knowing it, the camera moved away. She was barely conscious of movement, of lights going out.
From behind the camera a voice called out. "We need another take."
The dark one groaned. "Another take? You're nuts. This babe screws it out'of you. There ain't nothing left."
The voice laughed coarsely. "Okay, so you can't take what a pint-sized dame can dish out. Wrap it up, boys. We shoot the next scene when pantywaist here gets his strength back. Tomorrow, Barney?"
"At ten." And then Barney was beside her, his diminutive figure bent with sympathy over her. "Are you all right, Myra?" He held out a hand, helping her up, his twinkling eyes surveying her body. "God, Myra, you're beautiful. I knew you were beautiful, but I had no idea how beautiful until I saw you naked."
She sat up dazedly, smiling at him. "I'm all right, Barney. Just get me a wet towel. And take me home." Home was the beach cottage at Malibu that Barney had borrowed.
In the car going out, Barney stared straight ahead, letting Myra lay with her head back in the seat. "Myra, you don't have to go through with this. I'll pick up the tab and we'll forget it."
Myra sighed wearily. "No, I'm committed. I don't like it but I'll carry through."
"You know what the next scene is?"
Myra nodded. "Yes. Each of them screws me twice. First one, then the other. I won't mind, Barney. I've had men before. Many men." She laughed, tight and hard. "Many loves have I had and only one love." She sighed. "Oh, so brief a love."
The scene of the four fuckings didn't bother her, though her body responded wildly, answering first one and then the other of the young men. The scenes at the beach cottage were simple. Just outdoor shots, mostly of Myra, the wind molding her dress against that perfect little body. Then the picture was completed.
A few days later Barney came in, jubilant. "Right out of the can! Baby, we sold it! One screening and we sold it. Not a hundred thousand, but seventy-five. You're rich, baby. And will be richer. Now the next one and this crew will give a hundred grand for it. Maybe I can hold 'em for more. The next one is a gang fucking. This motorcycle gang grab this girl, see..."
It went well. Myra endured the gang fucking by withdrawing into her prayer to Mommie, into her dream of an "Escape Hatch" that now seemed attainable. And her body performed superbly, responding to man after man with excitement; so much so that the cameraman claimed she took the curl out of his hair and put it back three times. Which was an achievement, since he was bald.
They made three more, each selling at what, to Myra, were fabulous prices. Barney came out she had rented a small apartment by then, still unable to believe in large sums of money such as Barney talked in. He came out with the books and showed her. The "Escape Hatch" hoard was almost half a million.
Barney took a deep breath. "And I don't mind telling you, I've made as much. And I already had some, so I'm fixed. Well fixed. If you want to quit..."
"Oh, Barney!" She flung herself on him, giving him a big kiss and a hug that almost engulfed the little man. "A place in the country! Quiet. Peaceful. And no men.'
Barney extricated himself, twinkling gravely at her. "I told you about what I had, Myra, for a reason. I don't want to have you think I'm asking you because of your money. But will you marry me?"
"Marry you? Darling Barney, you haven't even made a pass at me. And after what you've seen in those awful pictures, you can't want me." She shook her head perplexedly. "I just never thought of it, Barney. You've never made a pass."
"Haven't you guessed why, Myra?" As she shook her head, he turned away, speaking over his shoulder, not quite daring to face her. "I'm impotent, Myra. I can't ever have a woman."
Myra laughed softly, and he turned a hurt, bewildered face toward her.
"I didn't think you'd laugh, Myra. I know I'm an absurd little man..."
"Barney, you're adorable. You're wonderful. And I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at me ... I've been seeking an 'Escape Hatch' all my life ... and you offer it to me with a companion, a wonderful, gay companion. Of course, I'll marry you. And we'll share the 'Escape Hatch.' Just you and I."
"Myra! Myra! Please! Do you mean it? Truly? I'd give the world just to be always with you, to be able just to see that exquisite perfection..."
"Barney!" She sat him in a chair and paced the floor. "I mean it. But we've got to be practical."
Barney's sweet, lighted face crumpled. "Of course, my dear..."
She took another turn around the room and smiled down at him. "Just where are we going to build this 'Escape Hatch'? "
Barney's face crumpled and he sagged in the chair. "Oh, God. I didn't dare believe it. I didn't dare believe it."
She came and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Dear Barney. Believe it. And get on that phone to a good real estate dealer. We're headed for our 'Escape Hatch.' "
Barney stood up, eyes twinkling as much with tears as with laughter. "Darling, I can at least kiss you. I'm man enough for that."
